MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

Some pages of this work have been moved from the original sequence to enable the contents to continue without interruption. The page numbering remains unaltered.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. Hammerton

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each
complete in itself, the cream of our national humour,
contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship
and the leading wits of the age to "Punch",
from its beginning in 1841 to the present day.

DISILLUSIONED

Awful predicament of young Fitz-Brown, who, having undertaken to see a young lady safely home after a day with the Seaborough Harriers, has lost his way, and has climbed up what he takes to be a sign-post.

MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD

AS PICTURED BY JOHN LEECH, CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY,

RANDOLPH CALDECOTT, L. RAVEN-HILL, G. D. ARMOUR,

G. H. JALLAND, ARTHUR HOPKINS, REGINALD CLEAVER,

CECIL ALDIN, TOM BROWNE, W. L. HODGSON AND OTHERS

WITH 173 ILLUSTRATIONS
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo. 192 pages
fully illustrated
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN

EDITOR'S NOTE

From his earliest days Mr. Punch has been an enthusiast for the Hunting Field. But in this he has only been the faithful recorder of the manners of his countrymen, as there is no sport more redolent of "Merrie England" than that of the Horse and Hound. At no time in Mr. Punch's history has he been without an artist who has specialised in the humours of the hunt. First it was the inimitable Leech, some of whose drawings find a place in the present collection, and then the mantle of the sporting artist would seem to have descended to feminine shoulders, as Miss Bowers (Mrs. Bowers-Edwards) wore it for some ten years after 1866. That lady is also represented in the present work, at pages 49 and 111. Later came Mr. G. H. Jalland, many of whose drawings we have chosen for inclusion here. Perhaps the most popular of his hunting jokes was that of the Frenchman exclaiming, "Stop ze chasse! I tomble, I faloff! Stop ze fox!!!" (see page 141). To-day, of course, it is Mr. G. D. Armour whose pencil is devoted chiefly to illustrating the humorous side of hunting; but now, as formerly, most of the eminent artists whose work lies usually in other fields, delight at times to find a subject associated with the hunt. Thus we are able to present examples of Mr. Cecil Aldin and Mr. Raven-Hill in sportive mood, while such celebrities of the past as Randolph Caldecott and Phil May are here drawn upon for the enriching of this, the first book of hunting humour compiled from the abundant chronicles of Mr. Punch.

'ARRY OUT WITH THE 'OUNDS

MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD

THE HUNTING SEASON

(By Jorrocks Junior)

The season for hunting I see has begun,

So adieu for a time to my rod and my gun;

And ho! for the fox, be he wild or in bag,

As I follow the chase on my high-mettled nag.

I call him high-mettled, but still I must state,

He hasn't a habit I always did hate,

He doesn't walk sideways, like some "gees" you meet,

Who go slantindicularly down the street.

He's steady and well broken in, for, of course,

I can't risk my life on an unbroken horse;

You might tie a torpedo or two on behind,

And though they exploded that horse wouldn't mind

My strong point is costume, and oft I confess

I've admired my get-up in a sportsmanlike dress;

Though, but for the finish their lustre confers,

I would much rather be, I declare, without spurs.

They look very well as to cover you ride,

But I can't keep the things from the animal's side;

And the mildest of "gees," I am telling no fibs,

Will resent having liberties ta'en with his ribs.

Then hie to the cover, the dogs are all there,

And the horn of the hunter is heard on the air;

I've a horn of my own, which in secret I stow,

For, oddly enough, they don't like me to blow.

We'll go round by that gate, my good sir, if you please,

I'm one of your sportsmen who rides at his ease;

And I don't care to trouble my courser to jump,

For whenever he does I fall off in a lump.

Then haste to the meet! The Old Berkeley shall find,

If I don't go precisely as fast as the wind,

If they'll give my Bucephalus time to take breath,

We shall both of us, sometimes, be in at the death!

"WEATHER PERMITTING,"—MR. PUNCH DRIVES TO THE FIRST MEET.

A LION IN THE PATH?

Oh dear no! Merely the "first open day" after a long frost, and a tom-tit has been inconsiderate enough to fly suddenly out of the fence on the way to covert!

TRIALS OF A NOVICE

Unsympathetic Bystander. "Taking 'im back to 'is cab, guv'nor?"

HOW THE LAST RUN OF THE WOPSHIRE HOUNDS WAS SPOILT.

PROVERBS FOR THE TIMID HUNTSMAN

Dressing

There's no toe without a corn.

If the boot pinches—bear it.

Breakfast

A snack in time, saves nine.

Faint hunger never conquered tough beef-steak.

Mounting

You can't make a hunter out of a hired hack.

The nearer the ground the safer the seat.

In the Field

Take care of the hounds, but the fence may take care of itself.

Too many brooks spoil the sport.

One pair of spurs may bring a horse to the water, but twenty will not make him jump.

It is the howl that shows the funk.

Fools break rails for wise men to go over.

Snobs and their saddles are soon parted.

At Luncheon

A flask in the hand is worth a cask in the vault.

Cut your sandwiches according to your stomach.

Coming Home

The nearer the home, the harder the seat.

Bed-time

It's a heavy sleep that has no turning.

REALLY PLEASANT!

Six miles from home, horse dead lame, awfully tender feet, and horribly tight boots.

"Now, if I jump it, I shall certainly fall off; and if I dismount to open it, I shall never get on again."

This is Jones, who thought to slip down by the rail early in the morning, and have a gallop with the fox hounds. On looking out of window, he finds it is a clear frosty morning. He sees a small boy sliding—actually sliding on the pavement opposite!! and—doesn't he hate that boy—and doesn't he say it is a beastly climate!!

NEW SPORTING DICTIONARY OF FAMILIAR LATIN PHRASES.

(1) Labour omnia vincit. (Labour overcomes everything.)

(2) Ars est celare artem. "Après vous, mademoiselle!"

(3) Exeunt Omnes. (They all go off.)]

A Genuine Sportswoman

Mrs. Shodditon (to Captain Forrard, on a cub-hunting morning.) "I do hope you'll have good sport, and find plenty of foxes."

Captain Forrard. "Hope so. By the way, how is that beautiful collie of yours that I admired so much?"

Mrs. Shodditon. "Oh! Fanny! poor dear! Our keeper shot it by mistake for a fox!"

Short-sighted Party (thrown earlier, after weary tramp, thinks he sees mount on ploughed upland, and approaches bush coaxingly.) "Whoa, my beauty! Steady, my gal, steady then," &c.

Same Short-sighted Party arrived at thornbush, discovers error, and reflects—"Five miles from station, perhaps ten—fifty miles from town, missed express, missed dinner, lost mount, wet through, getting dusk, and, by the way, where am I?"

[Left reflecting.

Gorgeous Stranger. "I say, Huntsman, would you mind blowing your horn two or three times? I want my fellow, who has my flask, to know where we are, don't you know!"

DIARY OF THE MODERN HUNT SECRETARY

"Capping all non-subscribers is pretty generally resorted to, this season, not only in the shires, but also with provincial packs."—Daily Press.]

Monday.—Splendid gallop after non-subscriber. Spotted the quarry on good-looking chestnut, whilst we were drawing big covert. Edged my horse over in his direction, but non-subscriber very wary—think he must have known my face as "collector of tolls." Retired again to far side of spinney and disguised myself in pair of false whiskers, which I always keep for these occasions. Craftily sidled up, and finally got within speaking distance, under cover of the whiskers, which effectually masked my battery. "Beg pardon, sir," I began, lifting my hat, "but I don't think I have the pleasure of knowing your name as a subscri——" But he was off like a shot. Went away over a nice line of country, all grass, and a good sound take-off to most of the fences. Non-subscriber had got away with about a three lengths lead of me, and that interval was fairly maintained for the first mile and a half of the race. Then, felt most annoyed to see that my quarry somewhat gained on me as we left the pasture land and went across a holding piece of plough. Over a stiff post and rails, and on again, across some light fallow, towards a big dry ditch. The hunted one put his horse resolutely at it—must say he rode very straight, but what won't men do to avoid "parting?"—horse jumped short and disappeared from view together with his rider. Next moment I had also come a cropper at ditch, and rolled down on top of my prey. "Excuse me," I said, taking out my pocket-book and struggling to my knees in six inches of mud, "but when you rather abruptly started away from covertside, I was just about to remark that I did not think you were a subscriber, and that I should have much pleasure in taking the customary 'cap'—thank you." And he paid up quite meekly. We agreed, as we rode back together, in the direction in which we imagined hounds to be, that even if they had got away with a good fox, the field would not be likely to have had so smart a gallop as he and I had already enjoyed. Lost my day's hunting, of course.

Thursday.—Got away after another non-subscriber, led him over four fields, after which he ran me out of sight. Lost my day's hunting again, but was highly commended by M.F.H. for my zeal.

Saturday.—M.F.H. pointed out five non-subscribers, and I at once started off to "cap" them. Lost another day with hounds—shall send in my resignation.

Gent (who has just executed a double somersault and is somewhat dazed.) "Now where the dickens has that horse gone to?"

ON EXMOOR

Gent (very excited after his first gallop with staghounds.) "Hi, mister, don't let the dogs maul 'im, and I'll take the 'aunch at a bob a pound!"

COOKED ACCOUNTS

Extract from old Fitzbadly's letter to a friend, describing a run in the Midlands:—"I was well forward at the brook, but lost my hat, and had to dismount."

"Hup—yer beast!"

"Hup!!—yer brute!"

"Hup!!!—yer infernal, confounded —— Hover!!!"

And "Hover" it was!

SOMETHING LIKE A NOSE.

Whip (after galloping half a mile to a holloa.) "Where did you see him?"

Yokel. "Can't zay as 'ow I 'zactly zeed 'un, but I think I smelled 'un!"

Second Horseman No. 1. "Ulloah, Danny, what are you lookin' for?"

Second Horseman No. 2. "Perkisites. Guv'nor's just been over 'ere. 'E jumps so much 'igher than 'is 'orse, there's always some small change or summat to be picked up!"

THE NEW NIMROD

[Mr. Pat O'Brien, M.P., was first in at the death on one occasion with the Meath Hounds on his bicycle, and was presented with the brush.]

Air—"The Hunting Day"

"What a fine hunting day"—

'Tis an old-fashioned lay

That I'll change to an up-to-date pome;

Old stagers may swear

That the pace isn't fair,

But they're left far behind us at home!

See cyclists and bikes on their way,

And scorchers their prowess display;

Let us join the glad throng

That goes wheeling along,

And we'll all go a-hunting to-day!

New Nimrods exclaim,

"Timber-topping" is tame,

And "bull-finches" simply child's play;

And they don't care a jot

For a gallop or trot,

Though they will go a-hunting to-day.

There's a fox made of clockwork, they say

They'll wind him and get him away;

He runs with a rush

On rails with his brush,

So we must go and chase him to-day.

We've abolished the sounds

Of the horn and the hounds—

'Tis the bicycle squeaker that squeals

And the pack has been stuffed,

Or sent to old Cruft,

Now the huntsmen have taken to wheels!

Hairy country no more we essay,

Five bars, too, no longer dismay,

For we stick to the roads

In the latest of modes,

So we'll bike after Reynard to-day!

THE LANGUAGE OF SPORT.

"Where the——! What the——!! Who the——!!! Why the——!!!!"

COMFORTING, VERY!

Sportsman (who has mounted friend on bolting mare) shouts. "You're all right, old chap! She's never been known to refuse water, and swims like a fish!"

Old Stubbles (having pounded the swells.) "Aw—haw——! laugh away, but who be the roight side o' the fence, masters?"

CUB HUNTING

1. "Ah, my boys," said Percy Johnson, "give me a good old hurry and scurry—Heigh O! gee whoa!—over the downs and through the brushwood after the cubs. So, early in the morning as you like. What can be more exhilarating?"

2. So, in happy anticipation of the morrow's meet, he retired.

3. Later, at 4 a.m., the butler came to rouse him. "Sir!" A pause. "Sir, th' 'osses be very nigh ready!" Uncertain voice from within—"Eh? good-night! Remember to call me early in the morning!"

4. Snoring resumed in infinitum. Still, Percy looked rather sheepish later on, when the others pretended they had missed him on the road, and inquired whether he had found the morning as exhilarating as he had expected.

MY LITTLE BROWN MARE

(A Song for the commencement of the Hunting Season)

She's rather too lean but her head's a large size,

And she hasn't the average number of eyes;

Her hind legs are not what you'd call a good pair,

And she's broken both knees, has my little brown mare.

You can find some amusement in counting each rib,

And she bites when she's hungry like mad at her crib;

When viewed from behind she seems all on the square,

She's quite a Freemason—my little brown mare.

Her paces are rather too fast, I suppose,

For she often comes down on her fine Roman nose,

And the way she takes fences makes hunting men stare,

For she backs through the gaps does my little brown mare.

She has curbs on her hocks and no hair on her knees;

She has splints and has spavins wherever you please?

Her neck, like a vulture's, is horribly bare,

But still she's a beauty, my little brown mare.

She owns an aversion to windmills and ricks,

When passing a waggon she lies down and kicks;

And the clothes of her groom she'll persistently tear—

But still she's no vice has my little brown mare.

When turned down to grass she oft strays out of bounds;

She always was famous for snapping at hounds;

And even the baby has learnt to beware

The too playful bite of my little brown mare.

She prances like mad and she jumps like a flea,

And her waltz to a brass band is something to see:

No circus had ever a horse, I declare,

That could go through the hoops like my little brown mare.

I mount her but seldom—in fact, to be plain,

Like the Frenchman, when hunting I "do not remain:"

Since I've only one neck it would hardly be fair

To risk it in riding my little brown mare!