HISTORY OF THE KILDARE HUNT 



through which the bitches are feathering grace- 

 fully, while a preluding note or two, gradually 

 swelling into a jubilant chorus tell us to harden 

 our hearts, tighten our girths, and make ready 

 for a start. There goes a little grey rover this time, 

 probably a vixen, right in front of us and over a 

 deep vale of grass half drained by three or four 

 brooklets. It is a fair start, for the field has hitherto 

 waited patiently on the top of the hill, and won't 

 wait another second. Some diverge to the left 

 to escape the deep going, following some crafty 

 pilot; others have now as they always have, no 

 beacon save hounds. One of the men I spoke of in 

 a grey shooting coat has got a good hundred yards 

 start. Mr P. La Touche is racing after him, the 

 hounds half a field to the left. Ten severe minutes 

 more and they are all streaming upwards towards 

 a knoll crowned by a small grove and well lined. 

 This is Kilteel, a famous fox haunt. Our fox tries it, 

 but it is no haven now, though it has smoothed her 

 draggled fur and cleaned her dainty pads. On to 

 Johnstown Kennedy fast as you can clap your 

 hands, but a cur dog turns her en route leftwards, 

 and once more we go over a portion of the water- 

 poached vale. The banks are fair, but the ditches 

 are wide; hunters are dropping hind legs and sad- 

 dles are emptying fast. To the right, wheel. There 

 is Bishopscourt gorse again, but a kind hand has 

 opened the earth, and our fox is safe. Well, for ' a 

 fair forty minutes we've run and we've raced.' 

 Que voulez vous de plus? Jam satis. A good motto." 



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