A Fox-Hunter's Paradise 



Yet, something of this indefinable spirit seems to 

 hover in some mysterious way in the mighty silences 

 that surround a big woodland : silences that are soon 

 disturbed by the crackle of twigs, as hounds push 

 onwards in search of their quarry. A blackbird's noisy 

 proclamation informs the wood-inhabitants of the advent 

 of these dappled invaders. The cheery voice of the 

 huntsman echoes from the very heart of the wood as 

 he encourages his charges. 



On the outskirts, horses champ their bits impatiently. 

 Forelegs paw the ground, as though their highly-strung 

 owners are convinced that making mud-pies is the only 

 obvious outlet for equine energy, while awaiting the 

 head-freedom that Tally-ho will bring. A well-bred 

 youngster, with the red ribbon of warning tied on his. 

 tail, is prancing about restively as though the ground 

 was red-hot underfoot. 



A hound whimpers : timorously almost. His next 

 note is more confident. Another whimper; one can 

 sense he is running. Soon he shatters the silence in 

 real earnest with a deep-throated note of conviction. 

 The huntsman's voice cheers encouragement to his 

 charges : " Hark to Rallywood ! Hark to him, my 

 beauties ! " The quiet snap of twigs gives place to a 

 determined onslaught as hounds crash through the 

 undergrowth, hurrying to Rallywood's assistance. The 

 horn twangs merrily. As though in answer to its sum- 

 mons, a second hound speaks, a third, a fourth; soon 

 the whole pack crash into an ecstasy of music. 



Horses lose all interest in making mud-pies as they 

 listen, with cocked ears, to the happenings in the wood. 



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