Bridle the horses and cut loose the hounds, sound the horn an let the mist settle on the fields. Set in motion the ancient game of quarry and hunter. Dash forth into the open field and through the forest. Hear the dogs howl as they find the scent of their prey. Run the race and let the horses work into a froth, with thundering hooves that shake the ground as to go to war. Sound the horn and pronounce the game is afoot. Feel the wet air as it wraps around you, in pursuit of your quarry. Now come close one to another in the fury of the chase. Through stream and across knoll, into the valley you ride, the hounds racing ahead in anticipation of blood. Onward they run only to be frustrated by a briar patch or hole into which the quarry has found save haven. Alas the fever pitch dies down, for the end is not truly for the death of a living thing, but the lust of the pursuit and the chance to hunt again another day such a wily foe as has evaded you this day.