No horse could
live among our hills, so we hunt on foot, and as the pace is good, and
the work hard, nobody who starts with the hounds is likely to be in at
the death, except the huntsmen. We are all mad for the sport, and off we
go, over the hills and far away, picking up a fresh field as we go. The
ploughman leaves his plough, and the shepherd leaves his flock, and the
farmer leaves his thrashing, to follow us; in every field we cross we
get fresh blood, while those who join us at the start fall off by
degrees. Well, it happened one day late in October, when there were long
ridges of snow on Helvellyn, and patches of white on Fairfield, Mistress
Mary here must needs take her bamboo staff and start for the Striding
Edge. It was just the day upon which she might have met her death easily
on that perilous point, but happily something occurred to divert her
juvenile fancy, for scarcely had she got to the bottom of Dolly Waggon
Pike--you know Dolly----'
'Intimately,' said Hammond, with a nod.
'Scarcely had she neared the base of Dolly Waggon when she heard the
huntsman's horn and the hounds at full cry, streaming along towards
Dunmail Raise.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175