They are the authentic
gods, high and clean; they're above desecration; the more you assail
them the more you are theirs. . . . Now there's always a kind of
lust, a kind of taint, about big-game hunting. No harm to a man if
he's in full health--but beastliness, and menagerie smell, if he's
not."
"Mountains!" scoffs he.
"You needn't despise them," said I. "They're apt to be heavenly,
just before Easter, with the snow on 'em; and Mickledore or Gable or
the Pillar from Ennerdale will easily afford you forty-four ways of
breaking your neck. . . . If you're good and can do a little trick I
have in mind on Scawfell I'll reward you by bringing you home past a
farm where they keep a couple of savage sheep-dogs. For a good
conduct prize, I have a friend up there--a farming clergyman--who
will teach you words of cheer by introducing you to a bull that can't
pass the Board of Trade test because he's like Lady Macbeth's hand--
however you babble to him in a green field he makes the green one
red. But these shall be special treats, you understand, held in
reserve.
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