put up with a large amount of damage to crops and fences, as well as
loss of poultry and ground game, and yet preserve the foxes for a sport
in which they do not themselves take part.

When conversing with me on the subject of preserving foxes, old Mr.
Peregrine would wax quite enthusiastic "You should put a barley rick in
the Conygers, and thatch it, and there would always be a fox." he would
remark. All this I hold to be distinctly creditable. For what is there
to prevent a farmer from pursuing a selfish policy and warning the whole
hunt off his land?

The village parson is quite a character. You do not often see the like
nowadays. An excellent man in every way, and having his duty at heart,
he is one of the few Tories of the old school that are left to us.
Ruling his parish with a rod of iron, he is loved and respected by most
of his flock. In the Parish Council, at the Board of Guardians, his word
is law. He seldom goes away from the village save for his annual
holiday, yet he knows all that is going on in the great metropolis, and
will tell you the latest bit of gossip from Belgravia. He has a good
property of his own in Somersetshire, but to his credit let it be said
that his affections are entirely centred in the little Cotswold village,
which he has ruled for a quarter of a century.

"Full loth were him to curse for his tithes,
But rather would be given out of doubt
Unto his poore parishens about
Of his off'ring, and eke of his substance.
He could in little thing have suffisance.
Wide was his parish and houses far asunder,
But he ne left not for no rain nor thunder