September 15, 1939
For my seventh birthday, I was led by my father—Alexander Mackay-Smith—to a next-door meet, at dawn, at Guilford. My attention was everywhere, not focused. The science, art, customs, and language of foxhunting were not known to me. Dogs started barking (hounds opened) in the woods (covert), and swung right-handed. Everyone’s eyes and ears except mine were on the sounds in front of us. What to my wandering eyes should appear but a fox off to the right, headed north along the fence row.
