‘Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,’
I am so deeply grieved that you cannot hunt. I can sympathise. It is sixty years since I began hunting, and I know how you must miss it. Now you realise the truth of John Jorrocks. ‘For hunting is like the air we breathe, if we have it not, we die.’ But don’t do that. Ever yours, etc. etc.”
We have had many letters containing inquiries of a sort that taxed both memory and invention to find replies to them. Bewildering demands for explanations, philological, etymological, zoological, of such statements as “The Divil in the Wild Woods wouldn’t content him,” or Flurry Knox’s refusal to “be seen
AT BUNALUN. “GONE TO GROUND.”
A. C.
WAITING FOR THE TERRIERS.