EARLY MORNING ON THE VELD 107 



the dappled beauties in the dear old country at home ; 

 or, perchance, his thoughts will hark back to that day 

 at covert-side — ah ! so many years ago — when a certain 

 pair of bright eyes looked into his own so fondly, and — . 

 But hold ! The rest of the story is sacred. 



How well does the writer remember a pathetic little 

 incident he witnessed one morning when out with the 

 Johannesburg hounds. Hounds were dra\\dng a big 

 blue gum plantation, and I had been " told off " to view 

 away any buck which might happen to break at the far 

 end of the covert . There was but one other man anywhere 

 near me, a ragged unkempt old fellow, mounted on a 

 rough Basuto pony, whom I had often noticed loafing 

 about the Johannesburg horse market and on the Turffon- 

 tein race-course. Hounds had not been in covert long 

 when a whimper was taken up by the full chorus of the 

 pack, and the plantation was filled with glorious music. 

 Suddenly the sound of deep sobs as of one in dire distress 

 reached my ears, and turning in the saddle I saw the old 

 loafer with head bowed down upon his pony's neck, 

 sobbing as though heart-broken. I rode towards him, 

 but with a gesture he signed me not to approach nearer 

 and brokenly exclaimed, " Don't take any notice of me, 



sir, I'm a d d weak old fool, but the cry of those hounds 



reminded me of the old home I left twenty-five years 

 ago, and which I shall never see again." 



Would the most eloquent sermon ever preached from 

 the pulpit have touched the one soft chord of that tough, 

 world-beaten old heart as did the cry of that little pack 

 of exiled foxhounds? I think not. 



But enough of this babbling, and now that the singing 

 of the hounds has died away, I send my pony along at a 



