There is nothing more salubrious to the body or more edifying to the sprit than participating in this blood sport: hacking through pre-dawn fog, attentive to the whisperings of the forrest, pierced only by the woofing of your anxious but enthusiastic mount, drawn to the meet by tounging hounds, toasting the Master of Hounds with a stirrup cup, working the cast in growing tension, "gone away," "Ware-hole," "Give way at the fence," "Hold hard!" "Gone to ground?" "No, full Cry." Then,"reverse field!" And finally, "going home."
By God, no man can ride to hounds but once and remain an athiest or a liberal.
