Dickon taps the dashboard as the mare at last tops the hill, and away
she speeds along the level plateau for the Downs. Two greyhounds are
with us; two more have gone on under charge of a boy. Skirting the hills
a mile or two, we presently leave the road and drive over the turf:
there is no track, but Dickon knows his way. The rendezvous is a small
fir plantation, the young trees in which are but shoulder-high. Below is
a plain entirely surrounded by the hills, and partly green with root
crops: more than one flock of sheep is down there, and two teams
ploughing the stubble. Neither the ploughmen nor the shepherds take the
least heed of us, except to watch for the sport. The spare couple are
fastened in the trap; the boy jumps up and takes the reins. Dickon puts
the slip on the couple that are to run first, and we begin to range.
Just at the foot of the hill the grass is tall and grey; there, too, are
the dead dry stalks of many plants that cultivation has driven from the
ploughed fields and that find a refuge at the edge. A hare starts from
the very verge and makes up the Downs. Dickon slips the hounds, and a
faint halloo comes from the shepherds and the ploughmen. It is a
beautiful sight to see the hounds bound over the sward; the sinewy back
bends like a bow, but a bow that, instead of an arrow, shoots itself;
the deep chests drink the air. Is there any moment so joyful in life as
the second when the chase begins? As we gaze, before we even step
forward, the hare is over the ridge and out of sight.
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