DEVON AND SOMERSET. 345 



gorse and rolling stones. The hills are already- 

 crowned with lines of mounted figures, the deep 

 mouthed older hounds follow fast on the heels 

 of their speedier kennel mates that lead the van, 

 the great stag bounds with a sigh and a splash 

 from his grateful rest, steals nimbly aw^ay to t^e 

 lower end of Hareknaps, and so strides over the 

 sheep walks and the stunted gorse into Holford 

 Combe. Up it he goes with a bold heart, but a 

 heaving flank. All the world seems to be watching 

 him to-day, and every hill top has its eager human 

 beings, all agog to spy his movements. Up the 

 stony stream bed he gallops with steady strength, 

 and betw^een the overhanging banks finds presently 

 a pool that no human eye can mark. Another 

 splash and another delicious roll, a gulping hasty 

 drink and away he goes, for again he hears them 

 coming. All up the stream bed, in and out by the 

 green sw^ard patches, and then right up the bridle 

 path that follows the winding course of the trickling 

 stream, till the top is nearly reached. Here a 

 little side combe, hot and glowing in the afternoon 

 sun leads him in the direction he would go, and he 

 trots up its fold, startling the pony brood mares and 

 their foals by his panting breath, and as he gains 

 the summit turns and looks round with hot and 

 angry eye on the unwonted aspect of his native 

 hill. The erstwhile peaceful valley he has left 

 behind now rings with melody, which to him is 

 no melody at all, and on every side, as far 



