Across Country with Greyhounds n 



is in the grip of ice and snow ; but here the air is soft 

 on the cheek, the carol of countless birds fills the air, 

 and drowsy butterflies, yellow and white, are flitting 

 about the fields harbingers of spring. On one side 

 the wall of the Sierras stands menacing and grim, cut by 

 many canons, rich in deep greens, that like rivers wind 

 skyward. Near at hand the mountains are grey and 

 green in patches ; but as they reach away toward San 

 Antonio they become blue painted with ineffable tints. 

 Ahead the San Rafael Hills rise in velvet mounds, with 

 radiant lights and shades, telling of rippling oats and 

 barley ; like great billows they are tumbling on and on 

 to the distant lowlands. To the south but turn the eye, 

 and the green slope of the Sierras is seen reaching the 

 distant sea ; a fantasie in colour ; squares of green and 

 yellow, blocks of vivid green, mounds of undulating 

 emerald, and beyond the line of silver surf and the blue 

 sea with its caps of islands. A fairer land, a fairer 

 hunting day you will rarely find under this Christmas 

 sun. 



Another hare is started and the hunt is again in full 

 run, sweeping up to the foot of the mountains, down 

 into vineyards, where often several jacks are started ; 

 but the hounds concentrate their attention on one, and 

 the finish comes up near the entrance to the cafton Las 

 Flores, where the drags, coaches, and carriages have met. 

 Lunch is laid under the trees in some adjacent grove, 

 and the incidents and events of the hunt are again dis- 

 cussed and good dogs are rewarded. Such a hunt well 



