Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



A brown shadow slips away at the upper corner, stops 

 a moment, takes bearings, makes a decision, and acts 

 upon it instantly. He glides deliberately past the 

 whipper-in, who stands motionless on outpost duty. 

 This is no startled, timorous cub who would scuttle- 

 back to cover at the sight of a horseman. He is an old 

 campaigner, a firm believer in making a good decision 

 and sticking to it. He is an old hill-fox who, many 

 times before, has found safety in his far-off mountain 

 refuge and is determined to pay it another visit. 



The whipper-in waits, immobile as a piece of statuary, 

 until this venerable customer is well on his way. When 

 he is satisfied that he has given sufficient law he stands 

 erect in his stirrups, cups his hands like a megaphone 

 and electrifies the countryside with a rousing Tally-Ho ! 



That soul-stirring war-cry is like the voice of Hunting 

 Ireland challenging all and sundry to tackle the endless 

 variety of her fences, the fences of a fox-hunter's 

 paradise, and life holds no more glorious exhilaration 

 than when one thunders forward to accept that challenge. 



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