Peace, perfect peace, comes with the setting sun.
The evening meal is ready. Grudgingly we leave the glamour of the hour. As we cross the grass, a voice says, “I am glad you joined us. It was pleasant.”
And as I stop to fondle Cerberus at the door I think I hear—I am not sure—the same voice saying, in a soft aside, “So, blessed be the cow.”
BLESSED BE THE HORSE
BLESSED BE THE HORSE
I live in a hunting-country. Every autumn our stone walls show tiny red banners marking the run, and the talk is much of horse.
I do not hunt, myself: my interest in the sport is purely academic. But of one thing I am sure—from an æsthetic standpoint there is no sport like it.
On occasions the run passes within sight of my abode, and sometimes it begins or ends within a stone’s throw of my outdoor bedroom. Those are the rare mornings. No need to watch the clock. You lie secure and warm, half sleeping, half awake, when slowly you hear far off that magic sound of beating hoofs—not the sharp rattle of steel on harsh macadam, but the low beat of distant hoofs on good firm earth. There is no sound like it. You catch a suggestion of it sometimes when you ride alone, and horse and rider share the glory of a run across some open meadow before you turn for the long, cool walk homeward with loose rein and lowered head. But to hear it in its perfection scores of hoofs must beat in unison, and it must begin far off and come on toward you with growing intensity.