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.

Then we race and tear up the slope; then the boy in the trap flaps the reins and away goes the mare out of sight too.
Dickon is long and rawboned, a powerful fellow, strong of limb, and twice my build; but he sips too often at the brown brandy, and after the first burst I can head him.

But he knows the hills and the route the hare will take, so that I have but to keep pace.

In five minutes as we cross a ridge we see the game again; the hare is circling back--she passes under us not fifty yards away, as we stand panting on the hill.
The youngest hound gains, and runs right over her; she doubles, the older hound picks up the running.