Whatever may be said or sung to the contrary, hunting on Dartmoor is dangerous work. There are no hedges there, only walls, and these walls are set up round what are locally termed "takes," or enclosures, and are made of the granite stones found lying about in the take; they are not put together with mortar, but are loosely built up one stone on another, and the wind blows through the interstices. More nasty accidents would happen over these walls, were it not that the moor turf is spongy and boggy, so that when a man is thrown he is lightly received. Concerning this Bellever week there exists a song-- "Bellever week is the bravest week Of fifty-two in the year. 'Tis one to tweak a teetotaller's beak, And to make a Methody swear. We leave our troubles and toils behind, Forget if we've got gray hair-- A parcel of boys, all frolic and noise, Bidding begone dull care. Bellever week is the bravest, &c. There's never a run so brimming with fun, Nor a pastime that may compare, For master or horse, o'er heather and gorse, As hunting a Dartmoor hare. Though sure of a stogg to the girths in a bog, Or a turn up of heels at a wall, Yet never a jot of damage was got By a flounder there, or a fall. Bellever week, &c. There's nowhere a puss deserving a cuss For running as on the moor. In Bellever week the harriers speak As they never spoke before. The Saracen's Head is full as an egg, And every farm and cot. The jolliest set together are met In the out and out jolliest spot. Bellever week, &c. Nowhere else does a joke such laughter provoke, Or a tale so hearty a roar, Or a song that is sung with stentorian lung, More certain of an _encore_! When Bellever week returns again, My wife--let her storm and sneer; If not tucked into bed with a stone at my head, By Ginger!--I _will_ be there. Bellever week, &c." How full life is of coincidences! We are always encountering and wondering at them. To some the coincidences that we know to be true seem incredible. Here is one.