Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



against the very heavens, a scarlet-clad rider sits motion- 

 less on his horse : the Whipper-in on outpost duty. 



Hounds are working up through the hazels : the 

 Master is with them, chatting to them playfully, praising 

 them, encouraging them. A one-sided conversation 

 undoubtedly, but its effects are so obvious, one cannot 

 help thinking that a word of kindness, even to God's 

 dumb creatures, is rarely effort wasted. A hare appears 

 with startling suddenness, flits along a sheep track and 

 vanishes in its windings. A newly-entered puppy, 

 fascinated by the bobbing scut, throws his tongue, gives 

 chase, stops, then slinks away ashamedly as the Master 

 rates him angrily for his breach of foxhound etiquette. 



Hounds are now up in the gorse. A few couple have 

 even reached the heather. The Master turns right- 

 handed, across the face of the mountain, hounds above, 

 about, and below him, executing an intelligent combing 

 movement and giving this big fox-sanctuary a perfect 

 draw. Suddenly the Whipper-in on top lifts his cap in 

 the air, but yet there is not a sound from him. The 

 Master halts his horse, stands in his stirrups, watching 

 intently. The cap moves in a right-handed arc. Two 

 or three hounds feather keenly; none of them speak, 

 scent is apparently somewhat stale : possibly the line left 

 by a fox going into covert earlier in the morning. The 

 quarry must have jumped up a long way in front of 

 hounds, warned no doubt by the thoughtless note of the 

 hare-hunting puppy, for the Whipper-in leaves his post, 

 gallops, trots and slithers down a sheep track, pops over 

 a low stone wall; on, down again, scrambles across a 



34 



