THE MORNING START 209 



left by the kennel-doors to pack those spoils of the 

 day you mean to barter for dinners in future seasons ; 

 the rippling lake, toned by the distance into a glassy 

 mirror ; the thread of silver stream meandering 

 through the purple heather ; the fleecy patches where 

 the sheep fleck the valley and dot the hillsides ; the 

 sunlight falling full on the wrinkled chest of the 

 opposite mountain, with the morning clouds fluttering 

 in tatters from its crest and flanks. Higher still, and 

 you look over intervening ridges into distant glens, 

 down giant vistas into a remote jumble of forest, flood, 

 and fell. You are high enough, in all conscience, now ; 

 up in the zone of grey stone and barren turf ; and, 

 indeed, you have to dip sharp again down the other 

 water-shed before you draw a long sigh of grati- 

 tude and anticipation by your starting-point. Finis 

 coronat opus. At last the end, or rather the beginning 

 of the end, crowns the work. The dogs know it well 

 old Don and Carlo, at least, who are led forward to 

 the front. As for the young ones, they must yelp 

 down their disappointment as they may, confine them- 

 selves to the simple role of spectators, and make the 

 most, for the present, of the aggravating pleasures of 

 hope. 



The couples are slipped by the side of a mountain 

 brook, where the brown water breaks round the mighty 

 boulders that have tumbled into it ; where the rush of 

 the floods has mined the banks at each rapid turn that 

 follows the sharp bend of the mountains, and where the 

 rank heather droops its purple fringe over a succession 



