WITH HORSE AND HOUND 177 



of the little pack of English foxhounds exiled seven 

 thousand long miles from their native shires ; music I 

 had not heard since I left the old country six years 

 before. 



A true sportsman only can imagine what fond 

 memories of home that " hound music " brought back to 

 me. For a time the bustle and excitement of everyday 

 life abroad will teach a man to forget, but if he be at 

 heart a sportsman, the whimper of even a single hound 

 will awaken the slumbering memory of many a good run 

 enjoyed with the dappled beauties in the dear old 

 country at home, in which, mounted on some favourite 

 and well-tried hunter, he held his own ; or perchance 

 his thoughts will hark back to that day at covert-side, 

 ah ! so many years ago, when a certain pair of bright 

 eyes looked into his own so fondly, and — but hold ! the 

 rest of the story is sacred. 



How well I remember a pathetic little incident I 

 witnessed one morning while hunting with the Johannes- 

 burg hounds. Hounds were drawing a big blue gum 

 plantation, and I had been told off to view away any 

 buck that might happen to break at the far end of the 

 covert. There was but one other follower waiting with 

 me, a ragged, unkempt old fellow, mounted on a rough 

 Basuto pony, whom I had often noticed loafing about 

 the Johannesburg horse market. A challenge from 

 old " Guardsman " was taken up by the full chorus of 

 the pack, and the plantation was filled with glorious 

 music. Suddenly the sound of deep, choking sobs, as 



M 



