Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



Saint Stephen's Day. The presence of about eighty 

 horses at the Meet confirmed, at first, my worst fore- 

 bodings for the fate of the hounds. When hounds were 

 laid-on, however, and went screaming away on a breast- 

 high scent, there didn't seem to be the least likelihood 

 of anyone getting near enough to them to do any over- 

 riding. 



Unlike fox-hounds leaving covert in the wake of their 

 quarry, they did not get the few moments' law that is 

 customary in order to enable them to settle down 

 properly to the line. No, these hounds went away in a 

 flash, gave plenty of tongue and, so far as the horsemen 

 were concerned, it was a question of ride hell for leather 

 and the devil take the hindmost. 



To a lover of fox-hunting, however, there was just 

 one thing missing. Perhaps to most people it is a small 

 item. Perhaps I am far too observant. Perhaps oh, 

 well perhaps I shouldn't mention it at all really, but I 

 just can't help it. It was the huntsman's voice, or to 

 be more correct, it was the lack of the huntsman's 

 voice. There was no " Tally-Ho ! " There was no 

 " Gone Away ! " I always feel that the voice of a 

 huntsman encouraging his hounds in cover adds consi- 

 derably to the pleasant atmosphere of tense anticipation, 

 and when he or his whipper-in rips the silence of the 

 countryside with a soul-stirring " Gone Away ! " my 

 heart feels about ten years younger. 



With drag-hounds, since there is no quarry, I suppose 



' Tally-Ho ! " and " Gone Away ! " might be ridiculous, 



but at the same time I felt that had I been hunting 



these hounds and seen them strike their drag with such 



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