but with a spring like a frightened deer she
rose to the jump. For one supreme moment Dinny Johnny thought she had
cleared it, but at the next her hind legs had caught in the branch, and
with a jerk that sent her rider flying over her head, she fell in a heap
on the road. Fortunately for Mr. Denny, he was a proficient in the art
of falling, and though his hands were cut, and blood was streaming down
his face, he was able to struggle up, and run on towards the cry of the
hounds. There was still time; panting and dizzy, and half-blinded with
his own blood, he knew that there was still time, and he laboured on,
heedless of everything but the hounds. A high wall divided the covert
from the lane, and he could see the gate that was the sole entrance to
the wood on this side standing open. It was an iron gate, very high,
with close upright iron bars and Chantress was racing him to get there
first, Chantress, with all the pack at her heels.

* * * * *

Dinny Johnny won. It was a very close thing between him and Chantress,
and that good hound's valuable nose came near being caught as the gates
clanged together, but Dinny Johnny was in first. Then he flung himself
at the pack, whipping, slashing, and swearing like a madman, as indeed
he was for the moment. He had often whipped for Mr. O'Grady, and the
hounds knew him, but without the solid abetting of the wall and the
gate, he would have had but a poor chance. As it was, he whipped them
back into the field up which they had run, and as he did so, "Owld Sta'"
came puffing up the hill, with about a dozen of the field hard at his
heels.

"Poison!" gasped Dinny Johnny, falling down at full length on the grass,
"the wood's poisoned!"

When they went back to look for "Matchbox" she was still lying in the
bohireen. Her bridle had vanished, and so had the pursuing countrymen.
Mary O'Grady's saddle was broken, and could never be used again, and no
more could "Matchbox," because she had broken her neck.

And so the hounds, whom she had saved, subsequently ate her; but one of
her little hoofs commemorates her name, and as Mr. Denny, with its
assistance, lights his after-dinner pipe, he often heaves an appropriate
sigh, and remarks: "Well, Mary, we'll never get the like of that pony
again".

"AS I WAS GOING TO BANDON FAIR"

The first glimpse was worthy the best traditions of an Irish horse-fair.
The train moved slowly across a bridge; beneath i