Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 5

began to believe that there was something shameful or
disgraceful in my desire to skate. So I left secretly for Sicily. Here I can
enjoy passive entertainment without being unpleasantly chilled.
Well, a few days ago I received from Frederick a letter, from which the
following is a quotation: "The final thaw has now occurred and the
season is ended. It has been one of the most successful on record. The
full programme was carried out to the letter; I wish you had been here
for the last Fancy Dress. My ski were really fit and I was looking
forward to some great days on the snow. I think I made a bit of a hit too,
playing Lord Twinkles in The Gay Life."
The ski will no doubt miss Frederick's affectionate attention; he was
very fond of them.
Yesterday, by the purest accident I came across Claudia, like myself
enjoying the warmth and sunshine.
"Oh, you've been to Freidegg; how lovely! I went to Kestaag this year
and was very glad to leave. Nothing to do in the evening but sit round a
fire. All day the hotel was like a wilderness and outside nothing but a
lot of men falling about in the snow. They were too tired to do anything
during the evening. It was horrid. Next time I shall be more careful and
choose a nice bright place like Freidegg."
Next time I too shall be more careful.
* * * * *

[Illustration: "ANOTHER BLOW FOR THE COALITION."
Sombre Reveller. "IS THIS PADDINGTON?"
Porter. "PADDINGTON? NO! IT'S MERSTHAM. WHY, YOU AIN'T
EVEN ON THE RIGHT RAILWAY. THIS IS SOUTH-EASTERN
AND CHATHAM."
Reveller. "THERE Y'ARE, Y'SEE. THAT'S WHAT COMES OF
GOV'MENT CONTROL OF RAILWAYS."]
* * * * *
HOUND-FOXES.
It was really Isabel's idea. But it must be admitted that the Foxes took it
up with remarkable promptitude. How it reached them is uncertain, but
maybe the little bird that nests outside her nursery window knows more
than we do.
The idea owed its inception to my attempt at explaining the pink-coated
horsemen depicted on an old Christmas card. I did my best, right up to
and including the "worry," in which Isabel joined with enthusiasm.
Then she went to bed.
But not to sleep. As I passed by the open door I heard a small excited
voice expounding to a lymphatic dolly the whole mystery of
fox-hunting:--
"And there was a wood, and there was a smell. And all the peoploos on
'normous huge high horses. And nen all the hound-foxes runned after
the smell and eated it all up."
A fortnight later, taking a short cut through the Squire's coverts, I sat
down to enjoy the glory of woodland springtime. "There was a wood
and there was a smell." There certainly was; in fact I was all but sitting
upon an earth.
All this is credible enough. Now I hope you will believe the rest of the

story.
A dirty sheet of paper lay near Reynard's front doorstep. Idly curious, I
picked it up. Strange paper, a form of print that I had never seen before;
marked too with dirty pads.
It was a newspaper of sorts. Prominent notices adjured the reader to
"Write to John Fox about it." The leading article was headed
"AN APPEAL."
"Foxes of Britain!" it began; "opposed though we have always been to
revolutionary politics, a clear line is indicated to us out of the throes of
the Re-birth. The old feudal relations between Foxes and Men have had
their day. The England that has been the paradise of the wealthy, of the
pink-coated, of the doubly second-horsed, must become that of the
oppressed, the hunted, the hand-to-mouth liver. In a word, we have had
enough of Fox-Hounds; henceforth we will have Hound-Foxes."
Then the policy was outlined. Foxes could not hunt hounds--no; but
they could lead them a dog's life. They had been in the past too sporting;
thought too little of their own safety, too much of the pleasure of the
Hunt and of the reputation of its country.
Henceforth the League of Hound-Foxes would dispense justice to the
oppressors. No more forty-minute bursts over the best line in the
country; no more grass and easy fences; no more favourable crossing
points at the Whissendine Brook; no more rhapsodies in The Field over
"a game and gallant fox."
A Hound-Fox would be game, but not gallant. He would carry with him
a large-scale specially-marked map, showing where bullfinches were
unstormable; where the only gaps harboured on the far side a slimy
ditch; where woods were rideless; where wire was unmarked; where
railways lured to destruction--over and through each and every point
would the Hound-Fox entice the cursing Hunt.
As for the Hounds, they feared no obstacles, but they