64 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



swamps that lie to the east and north and west of 

 me, that catch up the cry of the foxhounds, that 

 blend it, mellow it, round it, and roll it, rising and 

 falling over the meadows in great globes of sound, 

 as pure and sweet as the pearly notes of the veery 

 rolling round their silver basin in the summer dusk. 

 What music it is when the pack breaks into the 

 open on the warm trail ! A chorus then of tongues 

 singing the ecstasy of pursuit ! My blood leaps ; the 

 natural primitive wild thing of muscle and nerve and 

 instinct within me slips its leash, and on past with 

 the pack I drive, the scent of the trail single and 

 sweet in my nostrils, a very fire in my blood, motion, 

 motion, motion in my bounding muscles, and in my 

 being a mighty music, spheric and immortal ! 



" The fair music that all creatures made 

 To their great Lord, whose love their motions swayed . . ." 



But what about the fox, loping wearily on ahead ? 

 What part has he in the chorus? No part, perhaps, 

 unless we grimly call him its conductor. But the 

 point is the chomis that it never ceases, the hounds 

 at this moment, not the fox, in the leading role. 



"But the chorus ceases for me," you say. "My 

 heart is with the poor fox." So is mine, and mine is 

 with the dogs too. No, don't say " Poor little fox ! " 

 For many a night I have bayed with the pack, and 

 as often of tener, I think I have loped and dodged 

 and doubled with the fox, pitting limb against limb, 

 lung against lung, wit against wit, and always escap- 



