Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



hurrying home along white, deserted roadways. The 

 muffled tap of hoof-beats was one's only company, for 

 on the thickening white carpet the hound-pads fell as 

 softly as the snowflakes themselves. Then there were 

 evenings when the swirling rain attacked persistently in 

 merciless gusts until elbows and knees were numb and 

 sodden. Motorists drove past in cosy comfort, their 

 lights throwing grotesque shadows on the dapples of the 

 waddling pack. With their passing, one headed out 

 once more, half-blinded, into the silent darkness. The 

 soft patter-pat of the hounds sounded more audible 

 than ever. They hugged the horse's legs, packing 

 closely to me, as though they were afraid of the gloom. 

 And then the twinkling lights appeared. One could 

 sense a brightening vigour in hounds and horse, for 

 those lights were the lights of home. 



And now the Season is ended ! No longer may we 

 look forward to the thrill of to-morrow's hunt; but at 

 least we can enjoy the memories of yesterday's. 



128 



