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It isn't the
fresh air or the biting wind that sends the blood tingling,
but the long hollow call of the handler, and the still
breathless hush of the gallery watching the handsome dog hold
his point as the birds fly.
It's the galloping up and the motionless dog, and the pride of
the fellow when he's taken back. It is the fellowship of the
fields. It is the beauty of the winter hills.
It is a
race without betting.
These are hunters who do not kill.
They are the finders who do not keep.
And the losers who do not weep.
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