194 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



country in the vale, where, racing from scent to view, 

 they pulled him down handsomely, after ten or twelve 

 final minutes — half-an-hour in all — throughout which they 

 had, as it were, been glued to his brush. 



I ought to have written all this on Tuesday night. 

 Possibly my details might then have been fuller, my 

 comments more incisive, and my facts more clearly put, 

 as when action has hardly been broken off or the flame 

 of excitement had time to die. But I claim the right not 

 only to be occasionally drowsy and gratefully tired after 

 a day's hunting (in this instance a very hot-and-cold day, 

 after a week's abstinence), but to be allowed now and again 

 the supreme luxury of " brooding " over the evening cigar. 

 Readily do we all brood on our misfortunes, " dipping 

 our souls in the nethermost hell " of mental torture. 

 (And this we have to do whether we like it or not, when 

 no recent scene, no recent joy is present to exorcise the 

 demon of sorrow.) But we don't give half enough time 

 to ruminating upon lately experienced delight, of which 

 there are many moments — aye, many hours and days, 

 surely — in every man and woman's life. We " chew the 

 cud of bitterness " and " brood our sorrows on a throne," 

 but we seldom sit down alone to recall enjoyment in which 

 we have just revelled. The taste goes out of our mouth, 

 we sleep off the memory, the occasion is forgotten ; and 

 the sensations of the moment can no more be conjured 

 up afterwards than our household skeletons can be kept 

 locked in their cupboards. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 



MIGRATION IN THE FROST 



Ireland, January 1893. — A fourth week of frost having 

 opened with a heavy snowstorm and a northerly wind, I 

 could submit to fate no longer ; but, casting a pair of 

 " black jacks," my own spurs, and a quire of foolscap into 

 my kit-bag, turned my back upon Arctic England — awaking 

 next morning in green Hibernia, as it were out of an evil 

 dream. 



