THE OLD PACK 21 



from walking up the bed, makes an obstacle which 

 causes us to rejoice that we are on an Irish one. 

 By giving him his own way we get over and tackle 

 the *' bank " the other side of the valley, perhaps 

 four hundred feet high, and really nearly as steep 

 as the proverbial " side of a house." Up and up we 

 struggle, hounds getting away from us at each step. 

 Fortunately the fences are full of gaps or else pro- 

 vided with handy gates, for who could jump at this 

 angle ? At last our sobbing steeds top the hill, but 

 hounds are gone. The where is hardly doubtful, 

 for a furlong on begins a wood, one of the many 

 with which the country is dotted. They must be 

 there, we argue, and spur our sobbing nags into a 

 canter. As we progress they catch their wind by 

 degrees. 



E/ight ! the old oaks shake with the melody with 

 which the pack are driving their fox through the 

 woodland. Let us hope they haven't changed. We 

 are able to save our horses as they work their way 

 along parallel with the ride we are on, and still 

 we get to the far end first. " Whoa, fool, vot are 

 ye champing the bit for ? " to quote Mr Jorrocks. 

 Yes ; there he goes, and looks fresh enough, too. 

 But it is a hunted fox for all that. We rein back 

 a yard or two to get room to shove at the wattled 

 stile at the end of the ride, and as we get over 

 Will comes round the other side of the wood. 

 " Away, away, away ! " 



For the next ten minutes or so the country is 

 really delightful. There is a good deal of grass, 

 and the plough rides light. The fences are easy, 

 with gaps for those who like to go and look for 

 them ; and even when here and there we get a big 



