CHAPTER XX
THE BRUMBY HUNT
"Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er,
All the lowlands are filling with sound;
For swiftly we gain where the mobs of the plain
Like a tempest are tearing the ground!
And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard,
Over gulches and mountain-tops grey,
Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet
Will die with the echoes away."
HENRY KENDALL.
"How many are coming to the hunt to-morrow, dad?"
"About a score all told, my son. That is," continued the speaker somewhat inconsequently, "if they a' turn up."
"Gills coming, ain't they?"
"Yes; the old man, son, and ane o' the stockmen'll be here this evening, so as to be ready for the early stairt the morn's morn. That reminds me, I've no telt your mother. They'll be here aboot supper-time."
"Captain White coming, I s'pose?"
"If he's above ground. We'd best coont 'em up. Get a bit o' paper, Saundy, and pit doon the names. Then we'll ken for sure."
"Ready, father."