joo The Amateur Poacher 



in the trap ; the boy jumps up and takes the reins. 

 Dickon puts the sHp on the couple that are to run 

 first, and we begin to range. 



Just at the foot of the hill the grass is tall and 

 grey ; there, too, are the dead dry stalks of many 

 plants that cultivation has driven from the ploughed 

 fields and that find a refuge at the edge. A hare 

 starts from the very verge and makes up the Downs. 

 Dickon slips the hounds, and a faint halloo comes 

 from the shepherds and the ploughmen. It is a 

 beautiful sight to see the hounds bound over the 

 •sward ; the sinewy back bends like a bow, but a bow 

 that, instead of an arrow, shoots itself; the deep 

 chests drink the air. Is there any moment so joyful 

 in life as the second when the chase begins ? As we 

 gaze, before we even step forward, the hare is over 

 the ridge and out of sight. Then we race and tear 

 up the slope ; then the boy in the trap flaps the reins 

 and away goes the mare out of sight too. 



Dickon is long and rawboned, a powerful fellow, 

 strong of limb, and twice my build ; but he sips too 

 often at the brown brandy, and after the first burst 

 I can head him. But he knows the hills and the 

 route the hare will take, so that I have but to keep 

 pace. In five minutes as we cross a ridge we see the 

 game again ; the hare is circling back — she passes 



