Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



And don't go like hell's bells into the wall or this mare 

 may think its a brush-through hedge and there'll be 

 an inquest. 



Are you ready ? Right-o ! Off we pop ! Bet you 

 the crown you won from me at Fairyhouse that I lick 

 you ? Done. Fire away, but I warn you if you lead 

 me into the first fence at this speed we'll both go home 

 in a hearse ! Steady him, man ! Steady him, I tell 

 you. Steady, steady, Hup ! Over nicely. The sight 

 of the ditch sobered him a little. The next fence is 

 the same. Now we're out on the straight proper. 

 There's a fly fence here, the only brush-through in 

 Punchestown. We jump these fences on our second 

 circuit and by the way, next time I'm coming along 

 here I'll be five lengths, and shillings, the better of you. 



Aren't the empty stands desolate and lonely-looking ? 

 As though they yearned for the pageantry of flashing 

 silk, scarlet-clad hunt stewards and the tattoo of thun- 

 dering hooves. 



Next fence is an up-bank. Let your grey have his 

 head. There's a ditch in front. But that will only 

 make him stand back properly from his bank. Grand 

 work. Next jump is a drop. Nothing to indicate a 

 fence at all : this field simply ends, a wide deep ditch 

 yawns, and the next field appears eight or ten feet below 

 us. The simplest fence imaginable to a hunting horse, 

 but one that can cause a tremendous amount of grief 

 to young, impetuous steeplechasers. It's simple enough 

 when you're over it. Aye, but in a mad onrush, with 

 horses fighting for their heads, it's not quite so safe. 

 Some of them never see it and do a somersault; others 



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