by some of his friends round Newton to pitch his tent
elsewhere,--because of his love of that sport. "You'll get a bit of
land just as cheap in the shires," Morris had said to him. "And, if
I were you, I wouldn't go among a set of fellows who don't think of
anything in the world except partridges." Mr. Morris, who was a very
good fellow in his way, devoted a considerable portion of his mental
and physical energies to the birth, rearing, education, preservation,
and subsequent use of the fox,--thinking that in so doing he employed
himself nobly as a country gentleman; but he thoroughly despised a
county in which partridges were worshipped.

"They do preserve foxes," pleaded Ralph.

"One man does, and the next don't. You ought to know what that means.
It's the most heart-breaking kind of thing in the world. I'd sooner
be without foxes altogether, and ride to a drag;--I would indeed."
This assertion Mr. Morris made in a sadly solemn tone, such as men
use when they speak of some adversity which fate and fortune may be
preparing for them. "I'd a deal rather die than bear it," says the
melancholy friend; or,--"I'd much sooner put up with a crust in a
corner." "I'd rather ride to a drag;--I would indeed," said Mr.
Morris, with a shake of the head, and a low sigh. As for life without
riding to hounds at all, Mr. Morris did not for a moment suppose that
his friend contemplated such an existence.

But Ralph had made up his mind that, in going out into the world to
do something, foxes should not be his first object. He had to seek
a home certainly, but more important than his home was the work to
which he should give himself; and, as he had once said, he knew
nothing useful that he could do except till the land. So he went
down into Norfolk among the intermittent fox preservers, and took
Beamingham Hall.

Almost every place in Norfolk is a "ham," and almost every house is
a hall. There was a parish of Beamingham, four miles from Swaffham,
lying between Tillham, Soham, Reepham, and Grindham. It's down in
all the maps. It's as flat as a pancake; it has a church with a
magnificent square tower, and a new chancel; there is a resident
parson, and there are four or five farmers in it; it is under the
plough throughout, and is famous for its turnips; half the parish
belongs to a big lord, who lives in the county, and who does preserve
foxes, but not with all his heart; two other farms are owned by the
yeomen who farm them,--men who