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the primrose bunches were brightening in the woods.
Not many people spoke to me, so I was able to enjoy
hacking from one covert to another and acquiring an
appetite for my tea at the "Blue Anchor". And
after that it was pleasant to be riding home in the
latening twilight; to hear the "chink-chink" of
thrushes against the looming leafless woods and the
afterglow of sunset; and to know that winter was at
an end. ^ Perhaps the old horse felt it, too, for he had
settled into ^ the rhythm of an easy striding walk
instead of his customary joggle.

I can see the pair of us clearly enough; myself,
with my brow-pinching bowler hat tilted on to the
back of my head, staring, with the ignorant face of a
callow young man, at the dusky landscape and its
glimmering wet fields. And Harkaway with his three
white socks caked with mud, his "goose-rump", and
his little ears cocked well forward. I can hear the
creak of the saddle and the clop and clink of hoofs
as we cross the bridge over the brook by Dundell
Farm; there is a light burning in the farmhouse
window,, and the evening star glitters above a broken
drift of half-luminous cloud. "Only three miles
more, old man," I say, slipping to the ground to walk
alongside him for a while.

It is with a sigh that I remember simple moments
such as those, when I understood so little of the deep-
ening sadness of life, aud only the strangeness of the
spring was knocking at my heart,


I WAS now eager to find out all I could about riding
and hunting, and it was with this object in view
that I made up my mind to go to the Ringwell Hunt