ume, the mare thought I wanted her to move on. So she tried to make a
standing jump of it. It was a failure. She struck it and we fell
together, my right leg being crushed by her weight falling on it on some
of the displaced stones. The leg was not broken, but the flesh and
tissues were all torn below the knee, and the bone pretty well lacerated.
I was taken to Middleton, the then home of the Murphys and the Coppingers
and many other good sportsmen, and, after having my injuries patched up,
went to hospital. The mare, I am happy to say, had hardly even a scratch
on her. She was the best bit of horseflesh I ever threw my legs across. I
sold her afterwards to a friend from Northumberland, who, having married
an Irish girl, used to come every year to put in a couple of months' hard
riding in Limerick. He bought her from me at the end of the season and
took her home to Northumberland. She did well in the summer, but, on the
opening day of their season, she fell down dead in the middle of their
first run. Poor old Kate.

My accident proved more severe than I anticipated, and I was sent home to
Scotland on sick leave. After two months my leg mended up and I returned
to Old Ireland in the early summer. Our company's annual training and the
landing and mounting of the two first "Woolwich infants"--fat, six-inch
muzzle loaders--at Carlisle Fort filled up the time till the autumn
months. As I was very keen on shooting and was given three weeks' leave,
I returned to Limerick, in the neighbourhood of which sport was of the
best. I never had anywhere in the world a better day's woodcock shooting
than the O'Grady family gave me in County Clare. Long narrow belts of
wood in an undulating country were full of the so-called best sporting
bird in the world. Hard to down; best to eat. Equally good with the
woodcock shooting in Clare was the wild-duck shooting in the quaking bogs
of County Limerick, and away in the loughs, westwards, towards the mouth
of the Shannon.

Before proceeding further, I have to make an admission. My readers will
have no doubt have discovered by this time that I am faithfully recording
what comes to my mind of the old days. If the incident I record tells
against me I am quite content to accept the blame. Why not? No one
really knows where the hand of fate is leading one. Thank God we know not
what to-morrow is going to bring forth. All pleasure and zest in life
would be gone if we only knew what to-morrow was goin