To Finish the Season 



barely condescended to run with the pack. He never 

 bothered stooping to the scent and seemed as though 

 it didn't interest him whether hounds were chasing a 

 fox or an aeroplane. The aeroplane seemed the more 

 likely, judging by his head carriage. One day, last 

 October, I had him under observation on the mountains 

 and had decided to cast him as useless, when a venerable 

 Aughlion fox met him on a cattle-track; then it was the 

 fox's turn to think about aeroplanes or some equally 

 speedy mode of escape. 



Aye, but there are quieter memories that are worth 

 retaining. Memories of the hush of evening in the 

 mountain solitudes. How lovely it was to ride home 

 alone down the squelching dome of Aughlion ! Miles 

 away to the left the last rays of the sun splashed the 

 Loughcrew Hills with tints of burnished copper. The 

 hazels on the shaded slopes of Mullaghmeen were a 

 deep purple. Out in front, the Moat of Granard was 

 flung in clear-cut silhouette against the distant horizon, 

 while Lough Sheelin reflected the last lights of a passing 

 day. Far away, to the right, the sun was sinking behind 

 the long shoulder of the Ballyconnell Mountains, leaving 

 a vast stretch of countryside to snuggle peacefully into 

 the creeping shadows of night. 



But there were other evenings, too. Evenings of 

 biting frost, swirling snowstorms, or soughing rain. 

 Evenings when every yard of frozen road was treacherous 

 as polished steel; when one led one's horse along the 

 water- cutting, blowing hot breath into cupped hands 

 that had, hours ago, grown insensible to the cold. There 

 were evenings when a sudden snowstorm sent one 



127 



