68 



THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



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off. Now and then they may end tragically. A fox 

 eannot reckon on the hunter with a gun. He is rac- 

 ing against the pack of hounds. But, mortal finish 

 or no, the spirit of the chase is neither rage nor ter- 

 ror, but the excitement of a matched game, the' 

 ecstasy of pursuit for the hound, the passion of es- 

 cape for the fox, without fury or fear except for 

 the instant at the start and at the finish when it 

 is a finish. 



This is the spirit of the chase of the race, more 

 truly ; for it is always a race, where the stake is not 

 life and death, but rather the joy of winning. The 

 hound cares as little for his own life as for the life 

 of the fox he is hunting. It is the race, instead, that 

 he loves ; it is the moments of crowded, complete, su- 

 preme existence for him " glory " we call it when 

 men run it off together. Death, and the fear of death, 

 the animals can neither understand nor feel. Only 

 enemies exist in the world out of doors, only hounds, 

 foxes, hawks they, and their scents, their sounds 

 and shadows ; and not fear, but readiness only. The 

 level of wild life, of the soul of all nature, is a great 

 serenity. It is seldom lowered, but often raised to a 

 higher level, intenser, faster, more exultant. 



The serrate pines on my horizon are not the 

 pickets of a great pen. My fields and swamps and 

 ponds are not one wide battle-field, as if the only 

 work of my wild neighbors were bloody war, and 

 the whole of their existence a reign of terror. This 



