Cautionary tale
Sir: Recent issues of your great magazine have made mention of foxes. Shortly after the war, I was staying at a country property in the outback in New South Wales, where foxes were coming down from the hills and doing to the newborn lambs what they did to the Duchess of Devonshire's chooks. This called for stern measures.
Some weeks later, on one of my frequent visits to the Old Dart, I was weekending at what could be called a minor stately home. My hostess, an old friend, told me that there was to be a dinner-dance, and that the big wheels of the county would be pre- sent. The featIvities had not been long under way when my hostess said, 'I want you to meet the MFH. That's the Master of Foxhounds — an important chap in these parts.'
`Any huntin' in Australia?' the MFH asked me. I explained there was a little in Victoria, but mostly drag. 'No foxes out there, I suppose,' said the MFH. 'Good God,' I replied, 'the place is thick with the bloody things. Only two weeks ago I was up country when we got eight in one night.' I don't follow you,' said the MFH. 'Well,' I explained, 'we gave them two free feeds of liver, and the third night we hit them.'
I noticed the MFH seemed to have gone darker in the face. 'You mean to tell me,' he roared, 'you poisoned eight foxes?' Then he muttered, 'I must be getting along,' turned on his heel and left me. During the evening, whenever I observed the MFH with a group, he appeared to be pointing at me and saying something about me to the listeners — something, as Jeeves might have observed to Bertie Wooster, not to my advantage.
I never mention foxes on my many visits to England. I have other cautionary tales for visiting compatriots from Down Under — specifically covering pheasant-shooting and salmon-fishing.
David McNicoll
The Bulletin, Sydney, Australia
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