Or the twisted eglantine.
…
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn.”
“I hate this meet,” observed Tom Holt, as we arrived at four cross ways close to the market town nearest our kennel. “I hate this meet worse than any we have in the country.”
“It’s not a pleasant one, certainly,” replied the huntsman.
“Pleasant?” repeated Tom. “In the first place there’s a nasty, close, woodland country with banks as high as churches. Then we have a pack of riff-raff counter skippers to over-ride hounds, halloo, head the fox, and play the devil. And as if this was not enough for one blessed day’s misery the Squire himself generally finds fault all day long with everybody and everything, when the fixture’s at these four cross ways.”
“We had better christen them the cross purposes then,” returned Will Sykes.
“I don’t mean to say,” continued Tom, without noticing the huntsman’s remark, “but he may have—heaven knows!—lots of causes to put him out of temper; still it’s rather hard to feel oneself suffering for the faults of others.”
“It is not an unusual circumstance, though,” said Will Sykes. “I have often heard of similar instances unconnected with hounds and hunting.”