Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



Behind there is a thunder of hooves as the first flight 

 sit down to ride. In front there is a chorus of ecstasy 

 as the hounds settle down to their line. Onwards they 

 drive, packing beautifully. Racing away into the very 

 heart of Ireland's glorious countryside. Pouring over 

 the sombre greyness of her meandering walls, boring 

 through the winter tangle of her leafless hedges, flashing 

 past the cheerful whitewash of her cosy farmsteads. 



Hold hard, everybody, please ! Bill turn hounds to 

 me quickly. That collie coursed the fox. Lew over, 

 lads, try over ! Good old Dairymaid. Hold hard, 

 please, till hounds are on. Come on, Bill. Dairymaid's 

 a genius ! 



Two miles has knocked the nonsense out of most of 

 the horses. Startled cattle scamper to a corner, wheel 

 around, and form a guard of honour while hounds swing 

 past. 



Walls and banks, banks and hedges; soon they give 

 place to the dull sullenness of treacherous bog drains. 

 Crumbling footholds take toll of those squelching be- 

 hind. Bill is in trouble at the black sallys. Ginger Dick 

 dissolves our partnership at a mearing drain, but he 

 scrambles out the easier when relieved of my weight. 

 On again, squelching along a sodden bog-pass. Turf- 

 savers call out that the fox is " only a few perches in 

 front an' dead beat." Few can accurately estimate the 

 condition of a running fox except an experienced judge; 

 and the ambling type is invariably the most difficult to 

 bring to hand. 



Sheep foil the scent; when hounds are almost snatch- 

 ing victory. Dairymaid strives fruitlessly. Old Resolute 



