Foxhunting juniors with Mr. Stewart’s Cheshire Foxhounds / Jim Graham photo
The children are home for the holidays now,
A gay little crowd and a sporting one too,
They go where the grown-ups go, careless of how
Their ponies get over, so long as they do.
Arrived at the meet they are wild to begin,
And can’t understand all the waste of good time
Spent drinking brown sherry or horrid sloe-gin,
And deem it a most unforgivable crime.
However, as soon as the first move is made,
All frowns disappear and excitement prevails,
And each is quite certain his place on parade
Is just in the rear of the hunt horses’ tails.
And, during the time the first covert is drawn,
As quiet as mice in their saddles they sit,
To catch the first whimper or note on the horn
Proclaiming that Reynard’s decided to quit.
Then, little legs thumping their fat ponies’ sides,
Away they go merrily over the grass,
Though no one out hunting more jealously rides,
For each is determined his friends to out-class.
Then grooms come along and respectfully say
It’s time to go home as the cars are in sight;
So, thoroughly happy and pleased with their day,
The kiddies reluctantly bid us ‘good-night.’
And all the way home they may chatter and boast
Of how they jumped this, or were there giving leads,
Yet, nevertheless, in their hearts uppermost
Is love, most sincere, for their brave little steeds.
From Somewhere in England by Captain Edric G. Roberts, Constable and Company, London, 1929
Posted December 18, 2017