AN EARLY MORNING RUN ON THE VELD 



IT was a glorious African winter's evening when I left 

 the dust and bustle of the Golden City (Johannesburg) 

 behind me and rode along Bezuidenhuit's valley for the 

 double purpose of paying a visit of inspection to the then 

 recently imported pack of English foxhounds and of 

 spending the night at the kennels on the Geldenhuis 

 Estate ; for, at the invitation of the Master, I had arranged 

 to act the part of volunteer whipper-in the next day, when 

 the hounds were to meet on the old coach road at a point 

 about midway between Johannesburg and Pretoria. 



I had ridden to within a mile or so of my destination, 

 when my heart was gladdened by a sound sweet as a peal 

 of church bells chiming across a wide river, now swelling, 

 now falling in volume, until softening and softening, 

 gradually lower and lower, the melody died away, and 

 death-like silence again reigned over that vast expanse 

 of rolling veld. It was the " singing " of the little pack 

 of English foxhounds, exiled seven thousand long miles 

 from their native shires. Only a true sportsman could 

 imagine what fond memories of Home that hound-music 

 brought back to me. For a time the bustle and excite- 

 ment of everyday life abroad will teach a man to forget 

 many things, but, if he be at heart a sportsman, the 

 " whimper " of a single hound even will awaken the 

 slumbering memory of many a good run enjoyed with 



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