With the Bray Harriers 



river were wide agape with frustration and disappoint- 

 ment. 



The going was now uphill, towards that lovely white 

 homestead. A few dozen horses were still on their feet. 

 They were blowing a bit now, after their tussle with the 

 river. Their necks were beginning to lather. Their 

 riders were spattered with mud-splashes from flying 

 hooves. A girl's lovely young face was streaming 

 blood .... who could blame any whitethorn hedge for 

 trying to kiss her ? 



Her cravat was becoming crimson, but she was 

 carrying on ! Yet one so frequently hears doleful 

 noodles of quasi-philosophers bemoaning that this 

 generation is becoming soft ! If some of these 

 pessimistic fossils rode out with the Bray Harriers and 

 saw this frail-looking wisp of youthful femininity charging 

 the towering single-bank that is in front, they might 

 reconsider their opinions. 



Hounds are driving ahead relentlessly, climbing 

 steadily, leading us up to a stone-wall country. They 

 are skirting a pine wood on the sky-line. Passing the 

 wood, they suddenly swing right-hand, flash across a 

 wall and vanish into the very horizon. 



Somehow, with their passing although they are but 

 a few fields away there seems a strange emptiness : 

 as though they had suddenly stolen some of the virility 

 and pageantry from a gloriously-beautiful countryside. 



77 



