PACKS I HAVE HUNTED WITH 48 



feather-weight owner up were hard to beat in any 

 country. I rode the grey one in Tipperary and 

 he flew a Tipperary double. He felt as powerful as 

 a fourteen-stone hunter. Knocktopper is a lovely 

 old place, part of it once a church with the old 

 east window of the abbey still in the ball-room 

 there. 



I believe there is supposed to be a superstition 

 that some monks prophesied that if they ever 

 danced in the ball-room a death should occur 

 among the revellers, and I have heard that twice 

 it was fulfilled, but I think they have danced it 

 to death now. Mrs. Crofton, who was killed out 

 hunting just after I left, was a great friend of mine 

 in Kilkenny, a plucky woman who loved her hunt. 



Kilkenny was the cheeriest of places, always 

 something going on and the best of sport. The 

 country is split up now. 



We had a very curious hunt once from a gorse 

 near Gowran. Two couple of hounds slipped out 

 of covert right on top of their fox and with them 

 slipped two men, whom it happened were deadly 

 enemies and had not spoken for fifteen years. 



The Master put the body of the pack on, using 

 all the language he had breath for. Hounds 

 fairly flew over a particularly open piece of country 

 fenced by low stone walls, so that you could see 

 for a mile and a half ahead. We could see the fox 

 barely half a field in front of the two couple, who 

 were racing, practically in view, then the two 



