The Thrill of " Tally-Ho ! >: 



gorse-covered bank into a sour-looking field, halts his 

 horse and shatters the stillness of a rain-drenched 

 countryside with a soul-stirring "Tally-Ho!" 



Who bothers about the rain ? Who cares about wet 

 knees and soaking elbows ? Who worries over forgotten 

 raincoats and resultant chills ? Who could feel cold 

 having heard that blood-firing war-cry ? There's the 

 horn ! Sharp, staccato, glorious notes. Hounds come 

 streaking from all parts of the mountain-side in answer 

 to its summons. Dashing headlong from the scattered 

 rocks through the purple-brown carpet of the heather; 

 on, downwards, flinging along with an utter disregard 

 for gorse-bush thorn pricks; jumping the low whin- 

 clumps, dashing through the taller growths. On, racing 

 on, to the horn they know so well. The Master sends 

 his horse full tilt along a rough pathway, his hoof-beats 

 adding a merry rattle to the sharp twang of his " Gone 

 Away " horn music. He is heading for that anaemic- 

 looking field where the Whipper-in saw Reynard breaking 

 covert and where that young member of the hunt staff 

 in his anxiety to get hounds on, seems determined on 

 breaking his own vocal chords. 



Riders jam down their hats, slippery reins are gathered 

 in a determined grip, restive horses are spoken to 

 soothingly, foot-followers race to better vantage-points. 

 With a bound, the Master is over a big bank and waits 

 beside his Whipper-in. The barren-looking field is no 

 longer uninviting. A wave of dappled fury comes 

 surging over its boundary wall. The invasion swings 



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