to finish the season . by Ralph Greaves . those familiar words will now have appeared on the fixture-card , and the last entry made in the hunting diary for 1960-61 - a season which will go down in history not only as the most open , but as the wettest since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary . even before the season started , the land was saturated ; and so it remained throughout , with never a chance of drying out , until the fantastically dry and sunny spell that set in at the beginning of March . fortunately this will obviate cuckoo corn for the farmer ; but as regards foxhunting , there have been days lately when one might as well have expected hounds to be able to run in June , for all the scent there has been . strangely enough , despite all the wet , the earlier part of the season was not as good scenting as might have been expected , scent being literally washed away . but from December onwards there came reports from every quarter of sport well above the ordinary , and with the drains full of water , more foxes killed above ground . stoppages from snow and frost have been practically nil . but the season has been marred in many countries by disastrous outbreaks of foot-and-mouth , which are always more frequent in a mild season . signs of wear . though always reluctant to leave off , Masters and hunt servants may sometimes regard the finish of the season with mixed feelings , especially when it peters out in a blaze of scentless sunshine . horses and hounds have had a hard time in going like porridge , and exceptionally long days , and even in the bigger establishments there are signs of wear-and-tear . horses , though still sound , may be running up a bit light , and there are probably quite a number of lame hounds , due to cuts from wire or flints . on chalky downlands these flints have become an increasing menace , the south and west Wilts having been particular sufferers in this respect . the plough has brought the flints to the surface , and they cut like razors , not only into hounds &apos; feet but horses &apos; heels . another source of trouble is pig-netting , in which hounds are liable to get hung up and pull their stifles . what with casualties , and bitches in hot kennel , a huntsman in a small establishment of up to 25 couple may sometimes have difficulty in drawing a sizeable pack for two days a week . but apart from these domestic problems the question of the prolongation of the season depends on agriculture . foxhunting , after all , is a trespass by courtesy and since the courtesy is on the part of the farmer , it is the latter &apos;s interests that finally decide the matter . those countries that have a bit of hill or downland are often able to continue operations after the vale is closed . the Berkeley , for instance , are usually invited to retire to the slopes of the Cotswolds for a bit of spring hunting . most moorland packs can also remain in session , taking advantage of which , that inveterate foxcatcher , Captain Ronnie Wallace , is accustomed to wind up his season by taking the Heythrop hounds on a visit to Exmoor , while in the Southdown country the killing of a brace or two of May foxes on their open downlands is almost traditional , though in the vale hounds have long ago shut up shop . a favourite dodge . one of the most insistent end-of-the-season problems is that of lambing ewes . however carefully the Master may arrange his draw , it is always at the back of his mind that hounds may run in their direction , and will have to be stopped . one of the favourite dodges in the repertoire of the hunted fox is to run through sheep foul . and , in fact , with ewes and lambs all over the place , it is sometimes difficult for the Master to make a day of it . damage , too , is a word that weighs heavily on the hearts of Master , field Master and Secretary . it is fair to say that damage to grassland - or at any rate permanent grass - in the earlier part of the season , even when as wet as this one , is unlikely to be particularly serious . it will all wash back with the next rain . but no farmer wants to see his fields cut up in February or March , especially if he has just rolled them . even on old pasture with plenty of bottom , the mark is there for the summer , and it will certainly put paid to any leys - and ley farming has made the problem more acute . had the wet weather continued , there is no doubt that most hunts would have had to stop a good deal earlier than usual . hounds would no doubt have continued to run as though tied to their fox , and we would have started worrying about the prospects for the point-to-point . but what a mark we should have made ! and the faster we galloped , especially downhill , the worse it would have been . even now , after three weeks of sun , there is , as I write , only a top crust on the clays , under which the land is like a glue pot . and the damage then will be worse than ever . nor would it take much rain to reduce it once more to the porridge stage . in Leicestershire . elsewhere , however , as in Leicester , for instance , the land really has dried out , and the arable was mostly in tilth by the middle of March . but only a few short weeks ago it was a different story . let &apos;s look back and remember &amp;hellip; . hounds are scudding over the grass like a covey of grouse before the wind . you &apos;ve got away on terms and the old horse is pulling a double handful ; you give him his head and let him stride on . what else would you do when hounds are running ? it &apos;s either go on or go home . the ground squelches under foot , but he can go through the dirt all day - and what a feel he does give you ! but by Gad , it is deep ! horses in front are throwing up clods of turf in your face , as they go in fetlock deep . better take him up to the front and have first cut at that fence before the others start bashing it . the old horse heaves himself out of the mud and jumps it cleanly . on you go , in the wake of the flying pack &amp;hellip; . well , the hunt has only started , and you &apos;ve only crossed the first field . go back the next day and walk round that farm after the hunt has been over it . what would you say if you were the farmer ? there is more owed to him than we foxhunters sometimes realise . that is the thought with which to finish the season . an easy-going spring . by Dr E A R Ennion . equinoxial tides &amp;hellip; . unexpected finds &amp;hellip; . tree-sparrows and rock-sparrows . the shore is settling down to its everyday ways again . we had , three-parts of the way through March , a series of exceptionally high spring tides , even for the equinox . scudding seas and flying sand , sheets of spray sweeping high over cliffs and across roads where I never remember having to drive through spray before , were the order of the day &amp;hellip; . bedlam outside as well as in , with curtains flapping and doors banging . the waders along the tideline hardly knew whether they were on their heads or on their heels , what with the driven spume , the blinding spray and both wind and water playing tricks and taking them at unexpected speeds and angles . co-ordination of muscle and eye . in the ordinary way a dunlin knows to a T how far a wave is going to ripple up a beach , how long he can wait before turning and running back before it to avoid , as it were , getting his knickers wet . a redshank knows exactly when to check his speed to alight at the right spot at the right moment to snatch a titbit sweeping out to sea again on the undertow . such instant co-ordination of muscle and eye is commonplace for them ; swift movements and decisions that , for us , would require the skill of a juggler , the practised fingers of a pianist . on it , indeed , depends their livelihood , for the prey they catch is less than a split second slower off the mark . so gusty winds and unexpected draughts , freakish ripples and drenching waves must be darned annoying while they last . and they lasted , off and on , for days . but now it &apos;s over . the waves , their fury spent , are plashing lazily on the beach as if they could n&apos;t get tough if they tried . the wind has dwindled to a gentle breeze . there are no white horses , though there is a thin white line wherever wave meets rock along the island shores and , beyond them , a slow heave along the line of the horizon which shows that , away out there , a fair swell must be running , still . like the deep breathing of an athlete resting after his exertions , it takes time for normal rhythm and speed to supervene . but in shallower waters near the shore there is only the gentlest rise and fall . and there are little groups of waders resting , preening , bathing , stretching wings and legs , and yawning - doing all the jobs there &apos;s been no time to do in the last few days . the dunlin and the oystercatchers seem especially content to laze and just enjoy the sunshine and the calm after the storm . turnstones , restless as ever , keep wandering about . no sooner does one of them run into the ripples of the burn that spreads across the beach , to bathe , than others tear across the sand to join him , regardless of the fact that most of them have bathed before , not once but ten times , within the last half-hour . they can n&apos;t need to - they are like those over-fussy women who must be forever cleaning , cleaning , cleaning when there is n&apos;t a speck of dirt about that a man can see . and redshanks , as ever at this time of year , too , are chasing each other about . it &apos;s the spring in their blood . no cock redshank worthy of his coral legs can bear to see another within twenty yards of him without running to drive the other fellow off . I &apos;ve known them keep this rival-chasing up for hours at a stretch when the chasee could n&apos;t , or would n&apos;t , get away : no wonder , when you handle them , redshanks are so surprisingly thin and scrawny . wagtails in the trap . what with one thing and another we have had little time or opportunity since we returned home to do much trapping , even in the garden : it is our leanest spring in this respect for ten busy years . but the other day , while I was digging a trench for some cuttings , my wife looked up and saw half a dozen pied wagtails fluttering in or around the Heligoland trap . it was just before dusk and , all unknown to us , this small party of them must have been using the willow bushes beside it for their roost . we slipped down and caught three : a beautiful silky-white and ebony cock and two hens , one adult and one a d&amp;eacute;butante . at least two more were flitting around overhead . we shall now know them if we meet them on the beach . the trap is kept out of action , in case a bird might find its way in and get imprisoned , but it is possible to set it again instantly , and now and then I can not for the life of me resist temptation . one such occasion happened a week or so ago when I noticed that the bushes round its mouth were teeming with sparrows . we have long since given up ringing them , i.e , house-sparrows . from well over 800 ringed , we had not had a single recovery from beyond a mile radius ! but there were starlings among the sparrows ( which provide many and often most interesting records ) and also , unless my eyes and ears were failing me , a good many tree-sparrows . 