Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



Break-neck speed is not the best recipe for the big 

 bank looming in front. It is an old acquaintance. A 

 head-dress of tangled briars surmounts its grim old 

 face. A face whose frowning sternness is but a warning 

 of the dangers lurking behind its mask. The Master 

 chooses a spot where the bank-top is clear of briars. 

 Steadily he approaches it. His horse, though fresh and 

 anxious, is well in hand : his stride is collected, he 

 props an instant, hooks at the bank with all fours, 

 changes feet and drops out of sight. The horse disap- 

 pears, the scarlet coat vanishes, and even the top of 

 the velvet cap succumbs to a fantastic conjuring trick. 

 Hoof-beats soon echo in a sunken lane. 



There is some interesting pandemonium in the lane. 

 Riders with young horses dismount, take the reins over 

 their animals' heads, add the thong of the hunting crop 

 to the reins and lead the youngsters over. Their arrival 

 in the narrow lane does not help traffic conditions, and 

 an aerial observer of the proceedings would be treated 

 to a scene of bedlam-like chaos where mounted riders 

 try to disentangle themselves from dismounted riders 

 and loose horses. 



The lane leads to a farmhouse, and after frightening 

 the chickens out of their wits and getting a smile and a 

 hand- wave of encouragement from the household, the 

 Master trots out through the opened gateway and 

 settles down to his task of overhauling hounds. 



The river lies in front. A sullen, swollen, meandering 

 gash of brown treachery. Hounds take it at a run ; but 

 splashes of spray tell the story of those that jumped 

 short : an appropriate warning to oncoming riders. 



