The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, and hung on the greensward in an endless succession of glistening gems. The mist floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong enough to waft the wet spider’s film meshed on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves of the night had held their orgies, and the fairy’s light—the glowworm’s lamp—still shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride, veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours. Drooping flowers raised their petals, and folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and happy birds heralded her coming, and all things of the day welcomed her.
At daybreak we were on our road to Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will Sykes, the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the assistant whippers-in. I could not suppress the delight I felt in going to cover; and, instead of the homesick and sullen feeling which I had had for a length of time, I was ready to jump out of my skin with spirits.
“Pray, keep quiet!” said Trimbush, in a reproving tone, as I galloped to his side, and laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation to a romp. “Pray, keep quiet!” repeated he; “you can’t be too steady in going to cover. Nurse your strength,” he continued, “until it’s wanted.”
“I could race for thirty miles this morning, without a check!” replied I, boastfully.
“Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Trimbush; “that’s the way with you young-uns—all brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to hard running, where are ye in a brace of shakes? Somewhat in this form,” continued he, hanging down his head, with outstretched tongue and drooping stern.
I laughed heartily at Trimbush’s acting a fagged and beaten hound; and, although I had not seen one at the time, I subsequently learned that it was a very faithful representation.
“One would think, from that puppy’s gambolsome larking,” observed the huntsman, pointing to me, “that he knows what he’s going about.”
“Perhaps he do,” sagely returned Tom Holt.
“How the devil should he?” rejoined Will Sykes. “Isn’t this his first day’s cub-hunting?”
“Yes,” added the first whip. “But don’t you think them dumb animals have a language of their own? I’m blest if they don’t almost talk to us sometimes.”