THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 9 



It is a different kind of music when the pack 

 breaks into the open on the warm trail: a chorus 

 then of individual 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 it 

 drives, the scent of the trail single and sweet in its 

 nostrils, a very fire in its blood, motion, motion, 

 motion in its bounding muscles, and in its being 

 a mighty music, spheric and immortal, a carol, 

 chant and psean, nature's " unjarred chime," 



The fair music that all creatures made 

 To their great Lord, whose love their motions swayed 

 In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 

 In first obedience, and their state of good. 



But what about the fox and his share in this 

 gloria? It is a solemn music to him, certainly, 

 loping wearily on ahead ; but what part has he in 

 the chorus? No part, perhaps, unless we grimly 

 call him its conductor. But the point is the cho- 

 rus, that it never ceases, the hounds at this mo- 

 ment, 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. Many a night I have bayed 



