Drag-Hunting with the South Co. Dublin Harriers 



unerring accuracy and with such terrific gusto, and 

 heard their opening whimper change into a crashing 

 crescendo, I would have rent the elements with an 

 honest-to-goodness hunting cheer. That game little pack 

 deserved it. 



I had been hitherto rather scornful of the fences. I 

 imagined the course would have been laid over a suc- 

 cession of bushed-up gaps, small drains, insignificant 

 banks and a sprinkling of rather childish obstacles. 

 We hadn't gone three fields until I met a double bank 

 that made me feel that through some unaccountable 

 nightmare I had arrived in Punchestown. 



A few fields further on hounds bored through a 

 scowling black hedge that looked as impenetrable as 

 the walls of Mountjoy Jail. How the drag-man rode 

 through the exact spot where hounds were scrambling 

 puzzled me greatly for a moment. A wren might 

 manage it, but a horseman ! Well, I have my own 

 opinion. There are tricks in every trade, and the drag- 

 man is welcome to his. He was leading us a merry 

 dance, and my heart warmed to his ingenuity. 



I rode along this thorny monstrosity until I saw a 

 spot where daylight showed through. I sent my horse 

 at it, shielded my eyes, closed them, and prayed that I 

 wouldn't end up the guest of honour in a procession to 

 Glasnevin Cemetery. My horse evidently disliked the 

 stately pace associated with cemeteries, for he landed 

 me safe, though ivy-begarlanded, on the headland of a 

 turnip field. 



The huntsman's grey horse and a black cob, with the 

 red ribbon of danger on his tail, were going magnificently 



67 



