TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 8i 



Yakimo himself rode a spidery grey mare, which led 

 the string of laden creatures, or rather a Httle bell 

 played Pied Piper to them. 



Yakimo was far from being the muleteer to whom 

 grand opera has accustomed us. You know the dash- 

 ing, handsome, picturesque figure, with the spotless 

 shirt, crimson knickerbockers, and the cross-gartering 

 from knee to foot, and the whip which cracks to the 

 rhythm of his lilting song ? 



Crick ! Crack ! We gallop along 

 Crick ! Crack ! We gallop away ! 



Operatic muleteers always sing that. Our mules 

 didn't gallop along or away. They travelled at snail's 

 pace. And Yakimo had but a feeble imitation of the 

 rousing refrain peculiar to his kind. It came from the 

 depths of him somewhere, like the deep notes of a 

 drum. Sometimes it sounded like the moan of a 

 person in grievous trouble, and other times it seemed 

 to epitomize the aftermath of a lobster supper. 



Oh, mule ! Oh, mule ! 



By its very sameness it palled after a few minutes, 

 for, unlike our home anthems in which the same num- 

 ber of words, back-pedalled upon, juggled with, turned 

 this way and that, suffice to keep a choir occupied for 

 quite a long time, the tunc never varied. It went on 

 and on, interminably. 



We had bought ourselves a bourka apiece — such 



G 



