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.