Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



When hounds went home how quiet the great woods 

 were ! Even the blackbirds had grown silent; their 

 joyous matins, that turned to notes of warning with the 

 advent of hounds, are ended. The clamouring wood- 

 pigeons have long ago departed to search for breakfast 

 in more peaceful surroundings. A tiny rabbit-cub 

 ventures forth to investigate altered outdoor conditions; 

 soon he is joined by a second venturesome brother and 

 they indulge in a whisker-stroking duet. A horse-chestnut 

 rustles through the upper branches, bounds off a lower 

 arm and splits open, launching its mahogany-coloured 

 seed on its new life. Following its passing, but less 

 noisily and more delicately, falls a lonely leaf. It bids 

 good-bye to its still green companions, silently, 

 stealthily almost; as though it wished to refrain from 

 reminding them that their days of greenness are drawing 

 to a close, and when whirled away in the angry growl 

 of winter their descent may not be so graceful as that 

 of their forerunner. 



Alone in the big woods at early morning one cannot 

 help thinking how inexplicable are the ways of nature : 

 man and the beasts in her fields wear additional protec- 

 tion against the biting cold of winter, whereas her trees 

 discard their foliage and accept her lowered temperatures 

 with courageous indifference. 



Out beyond the woods the wool-pack clouds, pre- 

 cursors of further showers, hurry fretfully across the 

 sky and vanish into hiding behind the brow of Mullagh- 

 meen Mountain. Across the rugged mountain face sun 

 rays sweep hurriedly, changing the landscape shadings 

 as swiftly as fairies changing their minds. A creamery 



