i 74 FOX-HUNTING 



can see no spot where a glint of daylight shows 

 weakness, but you remember your old creed that 

 every fence has a feasible place. Then, as you 

 approach nearer, the spot is all at once revealed, 

 where the thorn is replaced by a weakly growth of 

 alder. Sitting down in the saddle and getting plenty 

 of pace on, you ride manfully at it. The rush 

 lands you on top of the bank, and crash through 

 the fence. Then for the fraction of a second you 

 seem to hang on the edge of a bottomless gulf, 

 but your horse's Irish education comes to his aid, 

 as with a slide and a spring he lands safely into 

 the next field. It matters not that your face is 

 bleeding, your ears stinging, and your coat torn, 

 for you are with hounds once more and therefore 

 happy. 



The soil now changes and becomes more of a 

 sandy nature, which has an effect on scent, and the 

 pace slackens a trifle ; but there are worse things 

 to be seen ahead, and you fear the result. A 

 couple of fields of old seeds and one of growing 

 turnips carry a fair scent, but beyond them are 

 two big bare fields, reeking with the smell of 

 dung and of decaying turnips. On the right-hand 

 a huge flock of sheep are folded and the shepherd 



