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204 THE BEST OF THE FUN j 



very unwillingly been called upon to court such a catas- j 



trophe. Let me not, however, lose the opportunity of | 



saying that in Tipperary the consequences need not often | 



be nearly as severe upon your enjoyment of the sport as | 



in Meath. In the latter you may be buried till the fox is j 



killed, or the deer is taken. In the former you shake ( 



yourself, pick up the pieces, have another try, and go on 

 again. I am speaking of Tipperary proper, and of Wed- • 



nesday morning in particular. Its afternoon was " bushy," j 



and Thursday was different altogether. I now only recall j 



the fair open banks, a level valley, wet grass fields, and I 



Mr. Burke and his leading couples abreast, driving their 

 fox to the hill of Kilnockin, above the town of Fethard, 

 where Reynard was headed, blown, and pulled down ten j 



minutes later. Oh, it zvas hot ? As a migrate from chilly j 



England I had not been fairly warm for a month. But 

 there was better fun yet to come. ^ 



The great covert of Ballyluski was our next point — ! 



as, indeed, it essayed to be all Thursday, though, from ! 



excess of sport on the way, on neither day did we reach ' 



it. An amusing process is the going from covert to | 



covert in Ireland — especially, perhaps, in Tipperary, > 



where it is often done at a gallop, with never a gate by 

 the way. You may thus, without a fox before you, fre- 

 quently find yourself committed to as much jumping as 

 in many countries (the Midlands of England, for instance) 

 might be forced upon you in a day's hunting. 



A Gallop from the Parsons should be my heading — 

 the covert a snug hillside patch, with a road beneath it, 

 and by no means dissimilar to our angiilus ridens of the 

 Quorn. The prickly furze of an Irish covert is far more 

 trying to hounds, far more favourable to a fox, than the 

 gorse or briars of the sister Isle. In this instance hounds 

 were all round the green thorny nest in which Reynard 

 was harboured, when Mr. Darby Scully, standing in the 

 road, saw him jump from their midst. The leading hound 

 chased him over the hilltop with not a dozen yards 

 between them : the whole bevy of ladies streamed forth 

 in close attendance — and the men of Tipperary set forth 

 to ride. A closely fenced "bushy" country faced them. 



