As we left the yard, Mr. Nield's man asked if he would
take the dogs. He replied in the negative; but I suppose he must have
referred to the greyhounds only, for we were certainly accompanied on
the present occasion by _eleven_ dogs of various sorts and sizes,
those left behind being shut up and kept without food, in anticipation
of the stag-hunt to-morrow. We rode over the race-course, where the
horses are trained, and on to the partridge ground. The larger kind of
these birds are extremely stupid, and are easily ridden down by a
horseman, or caught in a noose. They rise three times, and after the
third flight they are so exhausted and terrified that it is easy to
dismount and catch them with the hand, as they lie panting on the long
grass. Partridge-hunting is considered good sport. It is necessary to
keep your eye constantly fixed upon the bird, and to watch where he
settles, and then to gallop to the spot as hard as possible, leaving
your horse to look after himself amid the long grass; and this
manoeuvre has to be repeated until at last the unfortunate bird is
overtaken and caught.
As we were riding along, the dogs found and killed a bizcacha, in a
bank. Just as Mr. Elliott had pulled it out, and had laid it, dead, in
the field, its little companion owl arrived, and appeared to be in the
most dreadful state of mind.
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