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paring chorus of yelps and cries. The fox- 

 hunters are out. Not garish gentlemen in 

 "pink and leathers," with huntsmen, whip- 

 pers-in, and all the rest. Instead, men of 

 the soil owners, tillers each with his 

 hounds at heel a couple, or two or three. 

 See them sweep up the dusk valley, where 

 each cross-road and farm-gate sends out a 

 new rider. It was reveille, indeed, that the 

 hunter's horn sounded under this waning 

 moon. 



What riders ! Such as they gave rise to 

 the fabled Centaurs. What if they know 

 never a trick of manege, of the schools, 

 where else shall you find such hand, such 

 seat, horse and rider so entirely, so harmo- 

 niously, at one ? It is a rhythm of motion, 

 wherein grace has wedded strength. Look 

 well at the black colt and his master. Mark 

 the fire, the spirit, of the beast his fine, up- 

 lifted head ; his arching neck, with its thin, 

 silky, tossing mane ; his clean, flat legs and 

 streaming tail, that the wind sweeps out as a 

 very pennon of night. The creature is not 

 bridle -wise. Less than a month back he 

 knew not bit or rein, or lash or steel. But 

 one rider has ever crossed his back the 

 lean young athlete there, who sits him so 

 light, so firm, so easily swaying, bends him 



