With the Bray Harriers 



THE country was growing more difficult, the fences 

 more trappy : Dublin and all its signs of civilization 

 was being left further behind as we thundered away 

 into the heart of a glorious countryside. Hounds were 

 a field ahead, going like fury. A horse crashed through 

 a hedge on my right, misjudged the ditch and toppled 

 over. There was no time to make enquiries, another 

 fence seemed rushing to meet me, and the Master's 

 grey was charging it. Five, six, seven were over it 

 and Hip ! Thank God, that's eight. This is some- 

 thing like a hunt ! 



I haven't an idea where I'm going. Landmarks 

 mean nothing to me. I'm a complete stranger to the 

 locality. But it's all glorious ! Wherever those hounds 

 go, I'm going. 



Now they've swung left-handed and are racing along 

 the brow of a hill, the sunlight dancing on their flashing 

 dapples. Over a high bank they pour in colourful 

 splashes of white, tan, black, and badgerpie. Up a 

 long field of emerald green they race, past a snug white- 

 washed farmstead. Cattle scamper in an adjoining 

 field, race to the mearing fence, and stand like a guard 

 of honour while the pack swing past in review. 



The cry grows weaker as hounds are brought to their 



75 



