218 STRAY-AWAYS 



A waft of hounds' voices, sweeter at that moment 

 than the songs of Paradise, came down the wind to 

 the httle striving company. 



" Oh, get on ! get on ! " says the girl on the cob, 

 madly. 



On the top of the mountain, a place that can best 

 be likened to the carapace of a turtle, they caught the 

 pack, checked for a moment, in the great wind that 

 ever hurls over these high places. Mikey-Dan and a 

 few of the elect were there also, watching with wary, 

 narrowed eyes the opposite face of the nearest of the 

 surrounding hills, whose rise and swell ceases only in 

 that far-shining ocean which had suddenly leaped into 

 view. The riders, arriving one by one, breathless, 

 but happy again, received their praises proudly. 



" Ye proved good ! ye did, faith ! And the horses 

 too ! It's a tough chase, but they'll have him yet ! " 



And with the words the hounds hit it once more, 

 and were away bver the shoulder of the hill through 

 the heather, with a breast-high scent, and with a 

 cry more tuneable than lark in any right-thinking 

 shepherd's ear. 



It was downhill this time, and the going was better. 

 This side of the mountain had in some by-gone time 

 been fenced, and a succession of stone walls of every 

 type imparted an element of pleasing uncertainty. 

 High single walls of lace-like open-work that toppled 

 at a touch ; wide banks of small stones on which the 

 horses changed feet with a crashing rattle ; upright 

 spikes of rock with slanting spikes between, the inter- 

 stices crammed with small stones ; the southern Irish 

 farmer plays tricks with his material with an infinite 

 variation, and the southern Irisli horses jump his 

 achievements with an infinite zest. It is hard to 

 define wherein lies the peculiar delight of a hunt in the 

 hills. In description it is the difficulties that fill the 



