184 SPORTING REMINISCENCES 



ridin' him from Fynes/ and I never to touch 

 macadam till I near the town." 



* Fynes ' is only eight and twenty mile from 

 Limerick, with, amongst other obstacles, a creek 

 from the Shannon, a tidal river, and a collection 

 of unjumpable bog trenches. It was a fine state- 

 ment. Someone would buy the leggy, useless 

 beast, fatten him up, and show him littered to his 

 hocks to some guileless youth as a fine stamp of 

 Irish hunter. 



Rings of dejected hairy beasts began to con- 

 gregate near the public-houses, there is little sale 

 nowadays of the 'twenty pounders.' Good- 

 looking, loose-limbed two and three year olds 

 pace wearily by, the best hunters are not out in 

 the fair but standing in the yards. Something 

 worth looking at walks up, compact, powerful, 

 well bred. 



" Trot him down " — He roars sibilant ly. 



Another, a lashing big mare. " How much ? " 

 " A hundred and fifty." A look, the mare has 

 curbs and sidebones. 



" Hi, Mister, I'd take less. Thim is two cuts she 

 got on her hindmost legs agin a bar, and thim in 

 front, that's ploughin', no less. I'd take a bit off, 

 sir." He knows he will be lucky to get twenty-live 

 for the mare. The ploughing is not altogether 

 wrong as horses get enlargements resembling side- 

 bones from going so close in the plough, and 

 stepping on the sides of their own feet at the turns. 



* Foynes. 



