COUNTY TIPPERARY 295 



like ourselves, had flashed beyond the farmhouse, cut straight 

 across country to the head, with a dash and instinct that 

 belong supremely to a foxhound. At his heels I found 

 myself riding a steeplechase with such professors as Mr. 

 J. Phelan and Mr. Croom, the former finished horseman 

 eventually winning by half-a-dozen lengths ? Did I get 

 there ? Yes, I may reply, with Vanity and my own spurs, 

 Vanity being the winner of last spring's Point-to-Point. 

 Thankful indeed was I for the generous thought that had 

 put me on her, where the banks loom large and the dykes 

 are gorse-covered, bramble-hidden, and deep ; and when 

 as now hounds, with a full field's start, ran with their 

 heads level and their necks outstretched. For a mile we 

 could make no impression upon the grey will-o'-the-wisp 

 in front ; but in a mile and a half we had jumped the brook 

 that, with its deep, gorse-fringed banks meanders the vale, 

 and in a minute more we were at last taking the pull that 

 hounds seldom fail to allow when you are really riding on 

 terms. The same fox as last winter, I have already dared 

 to surmise. Did he not cross the vale, and twice the 

 brook, almost by the same smeuses, and certainly at the 

 identical spots at the river (as they denominate such a 

 stream in Ireland) ? At twenty minutes we nearly rode 

 over an old woman, whom our fox had encountered only 

 a moment before. But this was just beneath Drangan 

 Gorse ; and in a very few minutes more hounds were 

 working their fox round the little covert, while riders 

 were only too gladly turning their horses' heads to the 

 light breeze, and looking back upon the fair expanse they 

 had just traversed. Quickly their fox was driven forth 

 into the open, and quickly hounds had him by the brush, 

 as he swarmed the third bank beyond the covert. (Forty- 

 five minutes from start to finish.) An immense fat old 

 fox ; his condition killed him, and never again will he beat 

 hounds from Ballylennan. 



In the sharp scurry from Parson's Hill there was 

 repetition of history again, even with the brief limit of 

 my Tipperary experience. Again in the darkening after- 

 noon we drew the tiny patch of gorse on the hilltop, and 

 again did a big yellow fox jump forth before hounds. A 



