Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



When I wrote the little poem, portion of which I 

 have quoted above, I tried to recapture some of the 

 quieter joys of Fox-hunting. Modern schools of thought 

 exhort people to look to the future for everything. 

 While there may be a vast amount of truth in such 

 gospel, nevertheless, an occasional glance backwards is 

 refreshing. The future, always so uncertain, despite 

 our most cheerful optimism, has one great drawback : 

 it has no memories. And memories, cherished memo- 

 ries, are a priceless possession. 



One's daily annoyances soon vanish on an evening 

 spent at the fireside with one's memories. While the 

 March winds bite angrily at the gables and the flames 

 dance merrily from the logs on the hearth, one can 

 re-ride the hunts of the past. 



How nervous the big grey was at the beginning of 

 the season. He simply would not tolerate hounds ! 

 And then when they whimpered in the big wood, 

 crashed into full-cry and raced screaming across a green 

 hillside, he thundered to their call like a seasoned 

 campaigner. That was the last day that the red ribbon 

 of warning was tied to his tail. It was no longer neces- 

 sary. His heels, thereafter, never objected to the 

 proximity of hounds or strange horses. His terrors 

 were ended. He had begun to love the game. So 

 much so that now he dances with excitement if I toot 

 the horn when going down the yard. 



Then I remember the trouble I had with young 

 " Furious." He had been a truculent and recalcitrant 

 puppy. He had been reluctant to enter to his work, 

 had been quite heedless to coaxings or commands, and 



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