off with his pack to the stroke of the clock, at half-past seven, attended by a large field of sportsmen and women, of whom the latter are quite as keen and knowing as the men, and can often give the master the requisite information at the right moment. Some two miles down stream, as the river runs, does the master walk before going to the water. Slowly and carefully does he then bring it up, taking great care to touch all the back carriers, trunks, and hatchways up to Stratford Bridge, but no sign of a trail, and fortunately too, as the water is quite unworkable, deep as a tank, and heavy. On crossing the road, a short distance above the bridge, it was clear, by the manner of the hounds, that an otter had been down the river near about, and it was not long before one hound opened, then another, and another, till such a chorus of hound music greets our ears, setting us all on the go. One touch of the master's horn, one ringing cheer, and a fine musical cheer it is too, for few, after all, are the men that really know how to cheer hounds, and how they did score to cry. A beautiful cry indeed has this mixed pack; the deep chump-tongued and light-tongued foxhounds harmonising most beautifully with the deep note of the otter hound. As the trail gets hotter, hounds literally race at it, carrying such a head that we have to scramble along best pace we can over the great carriers in the meadows to live with them, the pace quickly finding out the arm-chair division and those short of condition. It is grand to watch the foxhounds as they drive ahead, and the otter hounds spread and try all the likely places of former acquaintance, and score to cry in turn. On they drive, making the valley ring again with their grand crash of music. Quickly we pass house and homestead, each one proffering kindly hospitality, which we could not spare a moment to partake of, for most hospitable are the good Wiltshire people, and to tarry meant being left behind. Forward they still drive along, the trail growing hotter and hotter every mile. Past the picturesque old Heale House, one of the hiding places of King Charles, past Mr. Duke's beautiful Elizabethan house at Lake, on for some two miles further to Normington hatches, where hounds were stopped, for within a quarter of a mile should we have been in the midst of the great sedge beds of Amesbury Manor, flourishing on the rather muddy banks of the deep dank river at this point. Not a shallow of any sort or description for some several miles; an utterly hopeless position for master and hounds. A magnificent trail of eight miles. A hunt that only needed a kill to make it a red-letter day of the highest order. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Newall, of Wilsford House, most kindly put us up, and entertained us until the Saturday, the next hunting day, Mr. Sidford, of Lake, one of the best sportsmen living, kennelling the hounds and providing for them most kindly. Before finishing the account of this day, I feel that I ought to say a word as to the admirable and thoughtful way in which Mr. Arthur Newall had gone round before-hand and made all necessary arrangements for the day's hunting, seeing all the occupiers personally, and obtaining their kind co-operation. It is much to be wished that others, more or less in office, would take a leaf out of Mr. Arthur Newall's book, and not take for granted things that ought to be seen to personally. There is not the slightest fear of not meeting with hearty co-operation, if owners and occupiers are only approached in the right manner, and the right spirit. August 8th. Met at Amesbury Bridge, morning bright and fine, with a warm westerly wind. Very soon after going to water hounds got a stroke, and for some distance a very weak trail, so much so that the master quite thought that our otter was behind us. Going on for some two miles up stream, with little or no variation of scent, to Bulford, the master spied him down stream. But to return was out of the question, as we should have been beset with the difficulties of the sedge beds and heavy water of Amesbury. So up stream was the order, and try for another, for I must tell you that there is always a good show of otters on these rivers. They are "not taken care of," as a keeper once told a huntsman of note he did by the foxes on a certain estate, but are allowed to take care of themselves, which is generally the better method. Drawing on up stream hounds get another stroke, but the scent is very catching till we get nearly to Bridgewater, where matters seemed to improve, and hounds begin to run the trail more like business, until reaching the fishing bridge just below Syroncott, with one grand crash of music they lay hold of the trail, and drive along, as if the otter had been lying out sunning himself, right straight into the withy beds above. Very soon hounds make it too hot for him, and he takes to the water, and for two hours do these good hounds keep him continuously on the move, sometimes by water and by land, until at last fairly worn out he died on the land, a fine dog otter, 18 pounds. Another otter had been disturbed and seen, so the master went a bit higher up and very soon got on to him, but he was a faint-hearted customer, and came to hand pretty easily after forty minutes. A small otter of 12 pounds, August 10th. Netheravon, a lowering, drizzling morning, after a night of heavy rains, wind south-west, water heavy and thick in consequence of the heavy rain of the night. Did not get a stroke until near Compton, very faint and weak, and hounds could only just hang on to it. Carrying it on to Upavon hounds worked close to the bridge. A bitch with cubs laid down a month old. Unfortunately old Gaylad got hold of one cub and cracked him up, but the bitch and other cub were saved. An unfortunate day. We are much indebted to Mr. Wakeley for his kindness in entertaining us and kennelling the hounds. It seemed that he could not do enough for everyone, and all comers, in the way of luncheon on the Monday. The hounds were kennelled at the Antelope Inn, Upavon, and Mr. and Mrs. Alexander had a most sumptuous lunch provided to which they most kindly invited everyone. Both Mr. and Mrs. Alexander are very kind, and are never so happy as when an opportunity arises of ministering to the needs and necessities of the hunters, either by way of bed or board. August 12th. Upavon, a fine bright morning, wind south-west. The river in a flood from heavy thunderstorms, perfectly hopeless, but Mr. Tracy, nothing daunted, threw off, and a long dragging blank day was the result. On the Wednesday we changed our quarters, and took up our abode at Mr. Whitis' comfortable little hostlery, the Bell Inn at Wylye, and right well he did us. I can strongly recommend the house to anyone fishing on the river. August 14th. Wishford Bridge, a glorious morning, wind high, west. At the wish of the fishing keepers, Mr. Tracy walked down the road to Wilton Station about two miles before going to water. No trail, but the unmistakable signs of an otter having been thereabouts recently. Working on up stream we did little or nothing till we got to Langford, the scene of our great hunt of last year. There we found, funny enough, without having worked up to him by a trail, no doubt owing to his having come down stream and lain up in a withy bed, from whence he was speedily ejected. He was a game otter and for two long hours did he do his level best to evade his ruthless pursuers, but the hounds were not to be denied and finally taking to the land they killed him. A fine hunt of two hours in very heavy water, a bitch otter about 20 lbs. We are much indebted to Mr. Collins and the other members of the Fishing Club on this excellent trout stream, for their kindness in always having otters for us to hunt. As usual our kind and obliging friend the miller at Langford Mill, ministered to our appetite and thirst, which was great at the time, our inclination being to drink cider out of stable buckets instead of tumblers, so hot was the day. August 17th. Wylye, a fine morning, but cold and threatening. Wind westerly, a very large field of some eighty ladies and gentlemen, and a heterogeneous collection of multi alii, who ran about aimlessly hollowing for no rhyme or reason, making new hay of the whole show. It was not until the Riot Act had been read that they would be wheeled into line, in some shape. Mr. Tracy went down as far as Bathampton and brought it up before him. Getting a stroke about half a mile above Wylye bridge they settled to the trail, and beautifully they took it all up the meadows. Such a cry, every hound throwing his tongue, oh!! it was beautiful. On they drive right into Messrs. Parray's Cleave at Fisherton, a natural home for otters, where the worthy proprietors permit them to take care of themselves. How the valley did ring again with this grand crash of hound music. Pushing their otter off, he boldly headed up stream to seal his own doom, as after a most exciting hunt of one hour, he died gallantly, as he was crossing one of the big bend to regain the stream, and doubtless go down from whence he came. Hounds catch a view, as an hard bitten old Tyke, cap in hand, who learned in the days of his youth, that one look back is often worth forty forward, gives them a lusty cheer, and this game otter yields up his life in the open. A fine dog otter 18 lbs. After a short rest, drawing on up stream, hounds get another stroke, a very hot one, driving along on the trail literally raving at him, up to his holt in the river's bank, by Mr. Tom Harding's withy bed near Cadford Station. The game little Oar speedily ejects him and he takes to the water deep and heavy. An awfully strong place, almost unworkable, the undergrowth being so thick that hounds would hardly force their way through it. After a tremendous hunt of three hours and a half Mr. Tracy was able to kill his otter, much is he indebted to his field for the patient and untiring look-out they kept at all the different places, which was most important, and so one more fine dog otter of 24 lbs. yields up his life to this killing pack. I can only say that other masters will have to look sharp this round to excel Mr. Tracy in sport drawn or the number of otters accounted for. Mr. Whitick most kindly gave us a most excellent luncheon, to which we all did ample justice after our fine day's sport; for I must tell you the otter hunter's breakfast is for the most part a very light meal, partaken of |