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“Nice ‘oss that,” now observed the Major casually, nodding towards Nap.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, looking him over.
“That’s the o-o-oss I showed you in the stable.”
“Is it?” observed Billy, who didn’t recognize him.
“Ought to be at M-m-melton, that oss,” observed the Major.
“Why isn’t he?” asked Billy, in the innocence of his heart.
“Don’t know,” replied the Major carelessly, with a toss of his head; “don’t know. The fact is, I’m idle—no one to send with him—too old to go myself—haryers keep me at home—year too short to do all one has to do—see what a length he is—ord bless us he’d go over Ashby p-p-pastures like a comet.”
Billy had now got his eyes well fixed upon the horse, which the Major seeing held his peace, for he was a capital seller, and had the great gift of knowing when he had said enough. He was not the man to try and bore a person into buying, or spoil his market by telling a youngster that the horse would go in harness, or by not asking enough. So with Solomon still to and froing with his little legs, the horse still lively and gay, the hounds still frisking and playing, the party proceeded through the fertility-diminishing country, until the small fields with live fences gradually gave way to larger, drabber enclosures with stone walls, and Broadstruther hill with its heath-burnt summit and quarry broken side at length announces their approach to the moors. The moors! Who does not feel his heart expand and his spirit glow as he comes upon the vast ocean-like space of moorland country? Leaving the strife, the cares, the contentions of a narrow, elbow-jostling world for the grand enjoyment of pure unrestricted freedom! The green streak of fertile soil, how sweet it looks, lit up by the fitful gleam of a cloud-obscured sun, the distant sky-touching cairn, how tempting to reach through the many intricacies of mountain ground—so easy to look at, so difficult to travel. The ink rises gaily in our pen at the thought, and pressing on, we cross the rough, picturesque, stone bridge over the translucent stream, so unlike the polished, chiseled structures of town art, where nothing is thought good that is not expensive; and now, shaking off the last enclosure, we reach the sandy road below the watcher’s hill-ensconced hut, and so wind round into the panorama of the hills within.
“Ah! there we are!” exclaimed the Major, now pointing out the myrtle-green gentlemen with their white cords, moving their steeds to and fro upon the bright sward below the grey rocks of Cushetlaw hill.