A FOXHUNT IN THE SOUTHERN HILLS 213 



in the larks' throats, and dancing in the wind that 

 set the catkins on the willows tossing like little green 

 lambs' tails. The furze-bushes were heaped with gold, 

 and drenched with a scent as of apricots ; the grass 

 of the tiny pasture fields was green as the most trans- 

 lucent jade (which has a hue incomparably fairer and 

 sweeter than an emerald can show). At the end of a 

 long valley of bog the mountains were azure and 

 mauve ; the nearer hills went through wallflower 

 tones of bronze and brown to orange, where the dead 

 bracken held the sunlight, or palest topaz, in the 

 sedge that spread upwards from the low ground into 

 the ravines through which the streams ran down to 

 the bogs. Along the wall of the schoolhouse yard went 

 a dazzling frieze of children's faces ; lovely faces, 

 some of them, with the wonderful hair and eyes, and 

 the glowing cheeks, that are bred of the soft breezes 

 of these southern hills. Nothing save the clattering 

 twdtter of a flock of starlings could compare with the 

 sound that ceaselessly proceeded from the frieze ; 

 only the children themselves could sever a syllable 

 from that torrent of swift speech. The schoolmaster, 

 a tall and portly person, with a moustache like the 

 mane of a chestnut horse, was one of the leading 

 sportsmen, and had indeed indited the mellifluous 

 letter that had invited the Hunt to the hills. In 

 scarcely less mellifluous terms he now explained the 

 " most probable resort of the foxes," and having 

 rounded his last period, he delivered the visitors into 

 the hands of one whom he described as " a competent 

 local Sisserone." The Sisserone, a black-bearded 

 farmer, stout and middle-aged, yet of tireless activity, 

 affably accepted the Hunt as a composite godchild, 

 and took on sole responsibility with alacrity. 



"We'll bate the bog below," he announced, "and 

 if the game isn't there we'll make for the mountain ! " 



