Now, it is a queer thing will be pleasing a young man on the first
night of spring. The wandering foot itches, and the mind and body
are keen to follow. There is that inside a young man that makes the
hunting dog rise from the hearth on a moonlit night: "Begor! it's
myself'll take a turn through the fields on the chance of a bit of
coursing. A weasel, maybe, or an otter, would be out the night.
Or a hare itself. Ay, there would be sport for you! The hare
running hell-for-leather, and me after him over brake and dell.
Ay! Ay! Ay! A good hunt's a jewel! I'll take a stretch along
the road."
Or there is in him what does be troubling the birds, and they on
tropic islands. "Tweet-tweet," they grumble. "A grand place this
surely, and very comfortable for the winter. The palm-trees are
green, but I'd rather have the green of young grass. And the sea,
you ken, it becomes monotonous. Do you remember the peaches of
Champagne, wife, and the cherry-trees of Antrim? Do you remember
the farmer who was such a bad shot, and his wife with the red
petticoat? I'm feeling fine and strong in the wings, AVOURNEEN.
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