An
experiment so crucial as that to which we were submitted does not occur
once in fifty years.
But enough of serious matters. Let us go out and forget them in a run
with Sir Pryse's harriers, along the breezy gorse-covered downs of the
Gogerddan estate. We take the train which arrives just after we have
risen from dinner, and land at the upland village of Langfihangel. It is
a Saturday afternoon, the 21st of October, the day is clear and sunny,
and several ladies are of the party. A few hundred yards from the
station we met the hounds, and Sir Pryse's man who hunts them. The owner
is not with them, but (by his good leave) yonder tall, lithe fellow, the
best runner in the school, acts as Master of Hounds. He promises us good
sport, having heard from the huntsman of a hare which is "waiting for
us." As they prepare to cast off, the non-effectives separate from the
runners, and climb a round-topped hill which commands the country. The
fields are spread like a map under us; nothing on the face of the country
escapes our eyes. The hare that was "waiting for us" has grown tired of
it, and left the rendezvous, but another is soon started, and a stout
one.
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