Across Country with Greyhounds 15 



and the tree girdler has every opportunity to escape, 

 as where horses are in trouble he flies over the ground 

 like a bird and often lives to run another day. 



The hunt breakfast ends, the well-rested horses and 

 hounds walk slowly down the valley again, on the look- 

 out for game, the carriages and drags following, stop- 

 ping here and there to see the exciting runs ; and late 

 in the afternoon, perhaps, the hunt winds down the long 

 sweeping mesa, headed for home, that may be ten miles 

 away, if the run has led them down to the Baldwin 

 wash, or it may be but a mile ; but no matter where, 

 the weary riders have the panorama of the hills as in- 

 spiration. As the sun sinks behind the western peaks 

 of the Coast Range, a splendid transformation scene is 

 staged on slope and mesa. The tips of the Sierras are 

 wreathed with light, and out from each cafton and gulch 

 dark shadows creep, encroaching slowly on the fields of 

 yellow and gold. Slowly the hills take on a roseate 

 hue that grows in intensity and splendour as the sun 

 drops into the sea. Deeper it becomes ; now crimson, 

 then scarlet, a gorgeous drapery that slowly fades and 

 melts into purple until the entire range, except where 

 the snow-caps of San Antonio are bathed in the fiery 

 glow, is invested with the deep panoply of night. 



From down the valley, filtering through the wind- 

 breaks of eucalpytus trees, comes softly on the wind 

 the flute-like tremulo of the horn the adios of the 

 huntsman and his hounds. 



