Still, I wish it were easier to ride through. Stiff are
those Scotchmen, and close and stout they stand by each other, and
claw at you as you twist through them, the biggest aiming at your
head, or even worse, at your knees; while the middle-sized slip their
brushes between your thigh and the saddle, and the little babies
tickle your horse's stomach, or twine about his fore-feet. Whish--
whish; we are enveloped in what seems an atmosphere of scrubbing-
brushes. Fain would I shut my eyes: but dare not, or I shall ride
against a tree. Whish--whish; alas for the horse which cannot wind
and turn like a hare! Plunge--stagger. What is this? A broad line
of ruts; perhaps some Celtic track-way, two thousand years old, now
matted over with firs; dangerous enough out on the open moor, when
only masked by a line of higher and darker heath: but doubly
dangerous now when masked by dark undergrowth. You must find your
own way here, mare. I will positively have nothing to do with it. I
disclaim all responsibility. There are the reins on your neck; do
what you will, only do something--and if you can, get forward, and
not back.
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