The sun rose bright on the next morning, and half an hour before the
appointed time, Tim entered my bed-chamber, with a cup of mocha, and the
intelligence that "Measter had been oop this hour and better, and did na
like to be kept waiting!"--so up I jumped, and scarcely had got through
the business of rigging myself, before the rattle of wheels announced
the arrival of the wagon.
And a model was that shooting wagon--a long, light-bodied box, with a
low rail--a high seat and dash in front, and a low servant's seat
behind, with lots of room for four men and as many dogs, with guns and
luggage, and all appliances to boot, enough to last a month, stowed away
out of sight, and out of reach of weather. The nags, both nearly
thorough-bred, fifteen two inches high, stout, clean-limbed, active
animals--the off-side horse a gray, almost snow-white--the near, a dark
chestnut, nearly black--with square docks setting admirably off their
beautiful round quarters, high crests, small blood-like heads, and long
thin manes--spoke volumes for Tim's stable science; for though their
ribs were slightly visible, their muscles were well filled, and hard as
granite. Their coats glanced in the sunshine--the white's like statuary
marble; the chestnut's like high polished copper--in short the whole
turn-out was perfect.
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