Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



It was probably too early for their evening frolics. 

 From my position I commanded an excellent view of 

 the playground on the inside of the opposite rampart. 

 The wind was in my favour, the light was still good, 

 so making myself comfortable behind a sheltering 

 blackthorn, I made a close-up examination of their 

 haunt with field-glasses. 



Inside the fort the ground was as bare as a badly- 

 worn tennis court. Here and there were patches of 

 brown earth, with not a blade of grass showing. These 

 were connected by well-worn paths through the less- 

 worn grass. One path ran directly towards me to a 

 small brown mound in the centre of the fort. After a 

 careful examination of the evidence of partly-consumed 

 meals and their discarded offal, I came to the conclusion 

 that the vixen must order her poultry in dozens. The 

 ground was littered with wings, feathers and legs. They 

 were not all the produce of the farmyard, either; the 

 feet of a moor-hen were unmistakable, and I was 

 delighted to see the wings of rascally magpies. 



Soon a sharp-snouted brown head, with ears erect, 

 poked suddenly through an opening in the undergrowth 

 that rimmed the outer edge of the opposite rampart. 

 It glanced to left and right, waited listening, then glided 

 out on to the well-worn playground. Soon another 

 brown shape appeared; then a third, then a fourth, but 

 no sign of the vixen. When they satisfied themselves 

 that there was no likelihood of their evening being 

 interrupted they began to enjoy themselves. They 

 chased one another up and down the well-worn paths, 

 out and back to the brown mound in the centre of the 



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