Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



In the forge, kind words and gentle hands soon make 

 him overcome his terror of the ringing hammer-strokes 

 and the spraying sparks. Old slippers that had saved 

 the front hooves from damage when galloping at grass, 

 are removed; the feet dressed and the new shoes fitted. 

 Hind legs are not so manageable, and resent the black- 

 smith's attention. Hind hooves have been allowed to 

 go bare-footed, as a precaution against the risk of horses 

 kicking at play when on the grass. Eventually, all 

 hooves are dressed, shoes fitted and finally driven on. 

 The blacksmith applies hoof-oil with a flourish, gives 

 a last critical look at his workmanship, intimates his 

 approval, and the horse is led away. 



The cobble-stones of the stable-yard, that has been 

 so empty and lonely-looking all summer, soon re-echo 

 the merry rattle of his well-shod hooves. The very 

 sound can transport one to a woodside in the greyness 

 of the dawn : a flash of scarlet by a dim hedgerow; 

 a doubtful whimper from a puppy, instant confirmation 

 from an old hound; sharp, glorious notes on a horn, 

 and the care-banishing, soul-stirring crash of tongues 

 heralding the birth of a new Hunting Season. 



174 



