Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



noses in the brown of the ploughland. Now one feels 

 grateful for the generous white markings in the pack. 

 Like wisps of wind-blown thistledown they flash across 

 the rich brown earth. Heads are stooped to the ground 

 endeavouring to snatch every whiff of a scent that has 

 suddenly lost its potency on the ploughland. 



In front, to my right and left, and behind me, horses 

 are thundering along, striving to live in the same town- 

 land with that racing pack. 



A river yawns in front. I used to think drag hunts 

 steered clear of opportunities for rural aquatic displays. 

 But the Master and his Huntsman were over before I 

 had time to think of ferry-boats. On my right three 

 horses were charging the wide and slow-flowing stream. 

 Two got over, one went in. A louder splash sounded 

 on my left as the greedy river claimed two more victims. 

 " Here comes the makings of the quartette," I mut- 

 tered, as I tried to collect my horse and my courage 

 and send both together at that complacently sniggering 

 river. The nearer I got the more it seemed to leer at 

 me. It seemed positively smacking its lips in gleeful 

 anticipation as I raced at it. My horse seemed de- 

 termined that he at least wouldn't provide portion of 

 its hors d'oeuvre. For my part I hoped I wouldn't, 

 either. 



He charged gallantly, fumbled the take-off, dropped 

 his hind legs badly, and I landed with my arms round 

 his neck. He scrambled to a firmer footing on dry 

 ground, I scrambled to a firmer seat in the saddle, and 

 as I looked over my shoulder, the jaws of that scowling 



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