FOX-HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND 27 



And now, away ! across the frosty fields toward 

 yonder low hill which we dignify with the name of 

 mountain. No song-birds now welcome the com- 

 ing day; almost the only sound which breaks the 

 gray serenity is the clamor of a flock of crows in 

 the distant woods, announcing their awakening to 

 another day of southward journeying, or the chal- 

 lenge of a cock in a far-off farmyard. As you 

 hurry across the home pasture, the cows stop 

 chewing the cud, to stare curiously at hounds and 

 hunters, and then arise, sighing and stretching, 

 from their couches on the dry knolls. A flock of 

 sheep start from their huddled repose and scurry 

 away, halting at a little distance to snort and 

 stamp at the rude disturbers of their early medi- 

 tations. Almost the only signs of life are these 

 and the upward-crawling smoke of kitchen chim- 

 neys, where sluggards are just making their first 

 preparations for breakfast. Yours has been eaten 

 this half-hour. 



The old dog plods along, with serious and busi- 

 ness-like air, disdaining and repelling all attempts 

 of his younger companion to beguile him into any 

 unseemly gambols; but when you cross the fence 

 which bounds the pasture lying along the foot of 

 the hill, where the rank grass, mixed with last 

 year's growth, is ankle-deep, and where grass 

 and innumerable stumps and logs afford harbor 

 for colonies of field mice, you find "there is life 



