Mrs. Fairbank and I are
mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's stables. We are quite
unworthy of that distinction; for we know nothing and care nothing about
hunting. On the other hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy
Spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us
on every side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a
check occurs--when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when the
bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from
the lips of exasperated sportsmen--we fail to take any further interest in
the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in the direction of a grassy
lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and
find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow
the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a
village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss
their heads, and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The
hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are
actually singing a French song--when in one moment our merriment comes to
an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a loose stone, and
stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first
attempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itself--a tendon is
strained; the horse is lame.
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