ABSTRACT
THE sun was struggling with the dense white mist as I drew up the door of the tent at about halfpast seven. Here, down by the river, its rays had not yet penetrated, and the grass was still white with rime, but that hillside which faced east was bathed in sunshine. The air was keen, and the thickness of the ice on a bucket outside the door proved that the frost had been sharpish. I was glad to return to the genial warmth of the stove, which Duran had lighted half an hour before. By the time I had despatched my breakfast the sun had cleared off the mist, and I started off with one hound, Dinah, in leash. After crossing the bridge I was again in shadow, and felt glad enough of a thick kilt and shooting-coat. I struck off up the Razica valley, opposite my camp, and followed a hill path which kept on crossing and recrossing the meandering rivulet. Half a mile up I passed two exceptionally large Bogumilite tombs, on which, however, no sign of carving was visible. I did not meet a soul on my way, and after a little more than half an hour my path led into a dense
caved. As I crossed the stream for the eighth time, I passed a tumbledown mill to my left; few of these mountain streams but have one or two, to which the mountain villagers bring their corn many miles. Even the Lakat villagers come all the way to Glavaticevo for this purpose. This one, however, was deserted this morning. As we gradually ascended through the woodland Dinah got a whiff or two of last night's drag, probably that of a hare, and became less amenable to the leash. However, she had to restrain her eagerness a good bit yet. At the end of an hour's sharp walk, a convenient fallen tree invited repose, so, tying up the bitch, I sat down and filled a pipe. Before it was smoked out Dinah had become very restless, and finally broke out in a whine, by which she meant, "How much of this beautiful morning are we going to waste like this?" A beautiful morning it was, certainly, for there was not a cloud in the sky; nor was it cold, even down here in the glen, where the sun had not reached, and probably never did reach. Not much like the middle of November to-day. We continued our way, and where a little mountain torrent-now dry-had made a side valley, the dead leaves, elsewhere white with hoar frost, showed a black spot. A roebuck had been turning them over since the frost, as Dinah's waving stern testified. Very well, especially as it was at this very spot I had meant
to leave the track. I commenced the climb of the ridge between the main and side glens-a somewhat arduous one, and rendered no easier by the fact that the drag seemed pretty strong here, making the bitch decidedly troublesome to lead. However, up I went, and passed the covert limit to enter that of the pines. By this time I was warm enough, in spite of a cool wind from the southward, and was glad to unbutton my coat, and to pocket my neckhandkerchief. At last the climb was done, and I reached what German sportsmen call the wechsel. We have no word fo1' the regular, though often invisible, path four-footed game follows; ill albeit the fact of there being such a thing must have been known to old-time Englishmen, fo1' Horace alludes to it, and I dare say Xenophon too. (If they had only, in our schooldays, let us construe the hunting part of his works, I dare say I should have made more progress therewith than I ever did with those wearisome "Ten Thousand. ")
" Now go, Dinah, and see if you can find one of those brown-coated little gentlemen, lying where the covert is thickest, and peacefully working his little white lower jaw backwards and forwards
under his black velvety muzzle, till the provender collected during his morning's foraging is all duly disposed of. And, having found him, give him no peace till he crosses the ridge. Now, hie in."
