There comes from the park above the low, dull, rushing roar of hundreds of hoofs, that strike the sward together, and force by sheer weight the reluctant earth to resound.

The two old hands lead over the hedge, and the little company, slipping along below the wood, find themselves well on the track, far in front of the main body.

There is a block in the treacherous 'drive,' those who where foremost struggling to get back, and those behind struggling to come down.

The rest at last, learning the truth, are galloping round the outside, and taking it out of their horses before they get on the course at all.
It is a splendid burst, and the pace is terrible.

The farmers' powerful horses find it heavy going across the fresh ploughed furrows and the wet 'squishey' meadows, where the double mounds cannot be shirked.