Part 29

So a day is fixed for a last shoot, and, making an early start, four old friends walk across the quiet fields towards the Big Wood. Two guns are placed forward, and two walk with the beaters. I am one of the former, and, left to myself, the mystery of the Big Wood gets into my bones, and I begin to dream dreams. The silence is absolute. Presently, a tinted cloud of long-tailed tits invade the bushes round me, eager to discover an atom of greenery, and, if they do, quite prepared—if I may be allowed a forlorn little joke—to nip it in the bud. They remind one of a troop of lesson-freed children raiding the strawberry beds, in the hope that some early fruit may happily be found, ripe enough, in their very liberal interpretation of the term, to eat. My covert is drawn blank, so the tits are off, with a scolding complaint, to try their luck elsewhere.... Two rabbits, unconscious of impending fate, chase each other far down the ride which stretches before me. Silence reigns once more. Then, long before I can hear the beaters, pat, pat, pat, come some halting footsteps over the carpet of leaves. It is a wary old cock pheasant, already on the alert, and by no means unconscious of trouble ahead. He looks inky black in the shadow. He runs forward a few yards, then stops to listen; on again to the right, but, not satisfied, bustles back. An excursion to the left, but scenting danger there, he is back again. Then, irresolute, he stands facing me in the sunlight, with his bright eyes and gorgeous coat of many colours. He has played this game many times, and so far his head has kept his life. With my back to a tree, I do not move an eyelid, but he sees me, or smells my pipe, and back for good and all he scuttles, head down, with the evident intention of executing a flank movement to the rear. There is a cry of “cock back,” in the direction in which my friend disappears, but no answering gun. I like to think that the wicked old rascal has once more out-manœuvred us, and saved his skin. As the beaters push on, all the guns become busy. The bunnies are hustled noisily forward, and in the comparatively open space are bowled over, or, bolting back, have a shade of odds in their favour, some of them, I am afraid, being “picked off the beaters’ toes.” Hens come whistling over, offering most tempting shots. B., on my left, crumples up a very high one, because, _he says_, she had a leg down. Beaters and the other guns now emerge, and the slain are laid out and counted. Twenty-five rabbits, two cocks, a hare, and B.’s hen. Old George eyes her and B. suspiciously, and, feeling her all over, mutters “_he_ didn’t see no leg down.” Nearly all the cocks have run on, but will be cornered presently. So the day wears on, monotonously delightful, one beat in the Big Wood being very much like another. But at lunch there seems to be some mystery in the air. Our host and old George are to be seen whispering together like conspirators; old George’s ribston pippin of a face screwed up into something as near a grin as it ever wears, while our host looks humorously perplexed. I notice afterwards that we leave out a certain beat, and call old George’s attention to the omission. “Never you mind Muster A., you go where you’re told,” is all I get for my pains. The old man still treats me as if I were about ten, the age at which he began to teach me to shoot. The mystery remained one until after dinner that night, when our host let the cat out of the bag, under solemn vows of secrecy. That beat was left out because in it lay a fine dog fox, shot through the head by the Master who was out with us, and who had shot at a rabbit in the thick undergrowth. Thus was the blood of many a bunny avenged, and poor “Charlie” met an inglorious end in the house of his friends. Old George, and no one else, happened to see the tragedy, and notwithstanding my protest that it was much too good a story to keep to ourselves, the Master knows nothing of the murder to this day.

As I have said, George and I are very old friends, but we are also very old antagonists. He is a great politician; a Radical of the Radicals, while of course with him I am a Tory of the Tories. To-day I manage to score off him; no easy matter at any time. He had picked up some early primroses in the wood, and put them into his button-hole, to keep for a certain young lady, a prime favourite of his, who, with our hostess, is to join us at lunch. Before he could give them to her I caught him by the sleeve, and, pointing to the flowers, cried:—

“Hullo, George, I’ve always said that you would see the error of your ways some day. So you’ve actually joined the League. Who captured you? Lady Mary?”

Now, Lady Mary is the energetic wife of our Conservative Member, and it is a matter of common knowledge that there is no love lost between her and George. First game of the rubber to me! But we were soon all square. In the afternoon, coming through a thick hazel copse, stooping and worming myself along, half blinded with the irritating blows from the whippy twigs, a five-pound note worked out of my waistcoat pocket, into which I had carelessly stuffed it. Old George, whom nothing escapes, picked it up, but said nothing. When the beat was over, and, before moving on again, guns and beaters were gathered round the game, he asked me, “Be you dropped hanything, Muster A.?”

“Not that I know of, George,” I replied. “Why?”

“’Cos I picked up this here, which I think come out of your pocket.”

“Yes, by jove, it’s mine,” I cried.

“I reckon they lie a bit thicker in Lunnon than down hereabout. When I seed it fust I thought it must be”—he paused for effect—“a luv-letter.”

As my aspirations in a certain quarter, not quite unconnected with the aforesaid young lady, were pretty well known, this sally was greeted with a loud guffaw at my expense, and the game was “one all.”

Later in the day he won the rubber. I was one of the forward guns in the last beat, and having placed my gun at safety against a tree was lighting my pipe, when, for the first time during the day, there was a cry of “woodcock forward,” and he flitted past me in his usual silent, ghostly fashion, quite close. I grabbed my gun, covered him, and pressed, then frantically pulled at the trigger. Long before I realised what was the matter, and had slipped up the safety-bolt, the cock had placed a thick tree between us, and my shot hummed harmlessly through Hampshire. I hoped against hope that I had not been detected. But as we gathered round I soon realised that I was lost.

“Did you see that there woodcock, Muster A.?” asked old George.

“Yes,” I replied with assumed carelessness. “I think I saw it: wide of me on the right.”

“Oh!” grunted the old man, “wide o’ you, was it? Where might you be a-standin’, then?”

“Oh, somewhere over there,” said I, waving my hand vaguely, and, trying desperately to create a diversion, added, “That was a high cock to wind up with, B., a regular clinker.”

“But,” persisted old George, “wasn’t you a-standin’ by that there hold hoak?”

“I believe I was, George,” I yawned, “somewhere there.... What did we get this beat?”

The old scoundrel walked off to my “hold hoak,” and picked up a cartridge. I was the only gun using a 16-bore.

“Bain’t this your cartridge?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, George,” I said.... “Shall we make tracks, it’s getting rather chilly.”

“Hout of range, was he,” said the imperturbable old chap. “Why, that there woodcock comed out by that there holly, and you could ha’ knocked ’un down with a stick.”

I ran up the white flag, and said humbly: “I was lighting a pipe, George, and was at safety.”

“I knowed that,” replied my tormentor, looking round in triumph, “_for I see’d yer_.”

* * * * *

The stars are shining frostily as we finish, and the full moon rides above the tree-tops, “like a rick a-fire.” Each beater gets a couple of rabbits and an extra shilling, as it’s the last day. Pipes are lit, and we walk home out of the Big Wood, more ghostly than ever in the moonlight, across the stubble and the plough, on to the open road. Bag: 28 pheasants, 7 hares, 120 rabbits, a couple of jays, and a rat.

A. H. B.

Breeds of British Salmon.

Having on a former occasion advanced some reasons for discrediting the theory that fish hatched from the ova of autumn-running salmon _must_ immigrate or run inland in autumn; and that, similarly, the progeny of spring salmon _must_ regularly return to the rivers in spring, in obedience to inherited proclivities, we may now be permitted to give additional reasons, not less weighty perhaps, for our disbelief. The gist of our previous argument in controverting the theory in question was that since the strength of the migration of grilse—and fish-culturists and competent observers have conclusively proved that grilse are the adolescents of spring and of autumn salmon alike—is always evident in summer, this fact alone completely knocks on the head every iota of what has been advanced to prove the existence of two different breeds of British salmon, each inheriting an instinct for ascending the rivers at a particular time, irrespective of age, sex, or condition. This theory of transmitted instinct to obey a seasonal duty may at first sight appear plausible enough to some, but those who give credence to it cannot, we fear, do so from ascertained facts. Why, for instance, as already remarked, the ascent of the grilse in summer should alone be sufficient to demolish such a theory, since, when making their first ascent, and while yet adolescents, they are not obeying, as is perfectly clear, an inherited instinct for ascending during what may be called the “parental ascending season.”

From personal observation and a mass of reliable data, we have the strongest reasons for believing that the spring salmon of the Scottish rivers—not the winter salmon, which, as a rule, are older and larger—are the most vigorous and active fish of all; that the grilse are the young of spring, summer, and autumn salmon alike, ascending at a time when the temperature of the fresh water suits them, for though scarcely less

## active, they are less vigorous and certainly more sensitive than the

spring salmon; and that the autumn salmon, generally, are fish that have already been inland as spawners, and from not going back to the sea till late in spring or early in summer, are therefore later in reascending the rivers than they were in ascending them on the previous occasion, not returning from the feeding grounds till autumn, when they are heavy with spawn, and consequently unable to remain long in the fresh water without injury to themselves.

Mr. J. A. Harvie-Brown, F.Z.S., foremost and most versatile of authorities upon the salmon, entirely agrees with what we have stated. “The spring fish,” he says, “are vigorous younger fish and reach highest up the rivers, and can stay longer in the fresh water without hurt to themselves. The autumn fish are older, larger fish: and many begin to go out of condition before they leave the brackish, as they are less able to stay long in the fresh.”

In his book on “The Salmon,” the late Mr. Russell, of the _Scotsman_, argues “that the facts are at the least equally compatible with, and indeed entirely suitable to, the theory that the fish coming up all the year are the adults of various ages, and that those rushing up in a body in summer are the young of the same species. What are those clean salmon that run up the rivers in late winter or early spring? Where have they been in the preceding months? What do they want now? They cannot be wanting to spawn, for there is no spawning for at least six months to come. They cannot have spawned early in the preceding or rather present spawning season, gone down, recovered, and returned, for numerous experiments show that the period of return is about three months, and it is only about three months since the earliest fish had begun to spawn in the rivers which these are now ascending. They must have passed the autumn or earlier winter in the sea. Then they must have passed the winter without breeding.”

Briefly put, the views we hold concerning the whole matter (as regards long-seasoned rivers) are: That the early running salmon are fish that have not spawned in the immediately preceding season (the great majority, which are small fish, females preponderating, have passed their girlshood in the sea); that the late spring and early summer salmon, for the most part, are fish that have not been gravid in the preceding spawning season; that the salmon appearing later in the summer, say from June, represent the first-descended of the previous season’s spawners returning again to the rivers; that the grilse that arrive inshore in summer seeking the fresh water are the breeding portion of the stock of grilse for the year, as proved by their ova and milt, and that the autumn salmon, the great majority of which are large fish, are those that spawned latest in the previous season, or, as kelts, were exceptionally late in getting back to the sea.

What we have stated and emphasised above is expressly intended to show how untenable is the theory that spring and autumn salmon (or, as we should call them, if we are to speak accurately, spring-run and autumn-run salmon) are distinct and separate breeds.

We now come to give other strong reasons for discrediting the notion, theory or hypothesis, that there are different breeds of salmon in the Scottish rivers. Accordingly it is advisable to be specific, necessary to select certain rivers and state the facts. Our choice is the Don and the North Esk. Now as regards these rivers, what are the facts? First, that early every year thousands of salmon are netted at their mouths and in their tideways, and many thousands more above their tideways; second, that owing to the severe river netting _plus_ the fixed obstructions which no fish can pass as long as the water has a low temperature, not a score, perhaps not half-a-dozen, pairs of so-called “spring fish” survive, and eventually reach the upper strath or glen sections. These are strictly facts, facts that cannot be disputed, facts that the Fishery Board for Scotland may conveniently verify. Now we should like to ask, is it at all likely that the many thousands of salmon that are netted in these rivers in spring are _exclusively_ the progeny of three, six, or even a dozen pairs of spring-run salmon? We answer that it is not likely. We go farther and say it is impossible. But some one will query: Are there not in ten spawning salmon more thousands of potential salmon than the thousands that are caught annually in spring by the rods and nets conjointly? Quite true—say fifty thousand in a dozen fish of 8 or 9 lb. each (a good average weight in spring). But then the crucial question must be asked? What percentage, reckoning all the risks from frost, drought, spates, and so forth, hatches out? And what proportion, considering the scarcity of their food at recurrent periods, and all the perils and all the enemies to which they are exposed during the years of their growth in sea and river, survives to reach the adult stage? Let us suppose that 5 per cent. of the whole hatched ova—and this is a liberal estimate—advances through all the stages—parr, smolt, and grilse—till the adult fish is reached. On this calculation the mature progeny, resulting from a dozen pairs of spring salmon, would number two thousand five hundred.

No, we cannot accept the theory that spring salmon are a different breed from autumn salmon; nor can we agree with the dictum that they are to be preferred for hatchery purposes. No fish-culturist who has devoted himself with eminent success to the breeding of salmon, would ever dream of preferring the spawn of fish that have been ten or eleven months in the fresh water, to the spawn of fish that have been in the rivers only two. Numerous experiments have proved that of the ova of spring salmon about 75, and of the ova of autumn salmon about 95 per cent. is the average that hatches out and reaches the parr stage; and that as a

## particularly high percentage, 98 is more common in the latter than 78 in

the former case. How, then, can it be contended that spring salmon are to be preferred for their ova? In conclusion, the whole argument may be clinched in a single sentence thus: If from twelve pairs of spring salmon, the maximum number of “escapes” in Don and North Esk annually, there survive to reach maturity a progeny of two thousand five hundred, are we not warranted in assuming that the grand result from the ova of the many thousands of fine large fish that ascend these rivers in autumn and early winter would be millions on millions of salmon, or more than the pools could comfortably hold? Enough! Enough! Informed opinion is against the theory of different breeds of British salmon with different inherited migratory instincts.

W. MURDOCH.

[Illustration:

VANGUARD RUNNING A FOX TO GROUND.

(_From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain,” by permission of the publishers._) [_From a picture at Birdsall._ ]

The Foxhounds of Great Britain.[5]

A REVIEW.

History has been lavish in a casual sort of way with hounds and hunting during the last century. “Nimrod” in early days initiated descriptions of our most fashionable and best countries, as well as their denizens, and did a leading part to bring sporting literature into popularity; yet he was in no sense a hound man—he loved the horse and his rider, and was, _par excellence_, their historian. “Cecil,” who followed him, was, on the contrary, a hound man, his happiness lay in the kennel, and in his descriptions of the countries through which he toured, his pen ever hung on the treasures of the kennel, and its management in breeding. “Druid,” in his unique and gossiping way, gathered his facts and hound-lore from fireside chats with huntsmen—the best of his day. To him sketches of hunting countries mattered little; he simply delighted his readers with fragmentary touches, so pithy and telling, of men and hounds, and their manners, which, however, added little to the general history of hounds or hunting throughout the country. It has been left to Sir Humphrey de Trafford in this twentieth century to initiate the idea, and carry it out, of gathering together all the threads of bygone days, and weld them together in a comprehensive form, showing what our foxhounds throughout the United Kingdom are at the present time—their early history, their main features, their chief supporters, and their hound-lore. To bring all this into the compass of one volume was no easy matter, where so many interesting facts had to be garnered into a given space, and that by those best versed in their subject; yet the task has been accomplished in a way which I venture to think its readers will appreciate as eminently practical and useful.

Whether you take this historical sporting book as a whole, or in the light of individual packs and their countries, you cannot fail to be struck by the landmark that it is for us to-day. Here we find one hundred and ninety-nine English packs of foxhounds in England and Wales (and I have failed to discover one that is missing), twenty-four packs in Ireland, and eleven in Scotland; and it needs little research to see how they have one and all grown and flourished through good and bad times, fighting and encompassing difficulties, spreading, subdividing, increasing in numbers and in importance, ever onwards, until it can hardly be said that there is a square mile of country outside large towns or manufacturing centres where the foxhound is not honoured and welcomed. This is veritably a proud thing to say in the year 1906, yet it brooks no denial. It will surprise many readers to find with what authenticity some of our great packs can carry back their history to bygone centuries. Of these the Berkeley bears the palm, for did not a Lord of Berkeley so far back as the fourteenth century establish a metropolitan pack with kennels at Charing Cross? His descendants had so fostered and spread their hunting that in 1770 the then Lord Berkeley held all the country from London to Berkeley Castle, in Gloucestershire, a distance of 124 miles, with kennels at Cranford, Gerrard’s Cross in Bucks, Nettlebed in Oxon, and at Berkeley Castle. Thus arose the old Berkeley Hunt, which became a separate country in the year 1800, only to be since sub-divided into an east and west pack. The Berkeley also annexed at one time nearly the whole of Gloucestershire, and founded the Cotswold when they built kennels at Cheltenham. The noted Harry Ayris was huntsman at Berkeley from 1826 to 1857.

[Illustration:

SIXTH VISCOUNT GALWAY IN 1875, WITH HIS FAVOURITE HOUNDS, BRIDESMAID AND RUBY.

(_From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain and Ireland,” by permission of the publishers._) ]

The Belvoir also claim a very old heritage, viz., from the reign of James the First, and the first Duke of Rutland hunted about the year 1650. The Bramham Moor pack was instituted in the reign of Queen Anne, and will ever be associated with the family of Lane Fox. The Burstow owe their origin to Sir Thomas Mostyn, who migrated from North Wales. The Burton will always be coupled with the name of Lord Henry Bentinck. The Badsworth claims 1730 as its date of origin, while the Badminton commenced its unbroken reign of ducal mastership and signal success in 1762, including as it then did the present Heythrop country and nearly all Wiltshire. The long service of their huntsmen has always been phenomenal. Philip Payne served as huntsman under four dukes, and Will Long, who succeeded, served as whip under him for seventeen seasons; and now Will Dale is continuing the _rôle_, in succession to Charles Hamblin, although as huntsmen themselves the last three Dukes of Beaufort have had no compeers.

The Bedale is inseparably associated with Lord Darlington and the dukedom of Cleveland; while the Old Berkshire country is, curiously enough, indebted to the Church for its early history; the Rev. John Loder being its founder in 1760, only to be succeeded by his son-in-law, Mr. Symonds, another clergyman, in 1850. This would seem to be a fitting history for a pack kennelled so near Oxford University; but indeed, as I have had occasion to mention in a former article in your Magazine, foxhunting owes much to its patronage by the Church from time immemorial, and surely this is not its most inglorious tradition.