She is of the mountain breed, as are many in this country; they
could not otherwise have held out so long before the pursuit of such
runners, to say nothing of the hounds. The "tally-ho" comes cheerly up
to us from the valley through the crisp October air, and we see puss
scudding along up the hedgerow, the hounds and the foremost runners in
the next field, the rest thinning out and straggling behind them. Among
these we recognise with glee a friend or two, who years ago were in the
first flight of every Uppingham paper-chase (_si nunc foret illa
uventus_), labouring across a turnip-field, or held by the leg in a gorse-
cover. A check gives them a chance of coming up again with huntsman and
master. We won't spoil the chance by halloing where the hare went,
though, from our vantage-ground, we can view her throughout. Our friends
have just got in line with the leaders, and are finding their breath
again for a second burst, when the scent is recovered; the chase sweeps
up the ridge, and over it out of our sight, away, perhaps, towards the
moorland spurs of Plinlimmon.
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