The Glories of Cub- Hunting 



IT takes a deal of courage and rather an amount of 

 mental effort for anyone living in an easy-going part of 

 the country to deliberately set an alarm-clock to ring 

 at 5.30 a.m. My reason for having committed just such 

 an indiscretion was that I was going Cub-hunting in 

 the morning. 



After a light and hurried breakfast I donned a rain- 

 coat, groped my way in the dim half-light to the stables, 

 helped to complete the saddling-up and jogged off alone. 



How lovely it was to be alone with the dawn ; hearing 

 the hoof-beats ringing their challenge to a drowsy world, 

 feeling the rhythmic swing of a good young horse; 

 seeing the mists rolling along the gorse-covered dome of 

 Aughlion Mountain, while the glistening hedges still 

 retained frail-looking wisps of gleaming gossamer. 

 Morning ! No wonder poetic rhapsodies have been 

 woven around that word ! Although this one was not 

 quite the ideal, the light smur of rain was positively 

 companionable when one seemed to be the only human 

 being abroad to feel it sponge one's face. 



Five miles pass quickly when Nature has so much 

 to show and when one is, apparently, her solitary 

 audience. Soon, my horse became restive, cocking his 



