The Wheatland at Weston. 55 



■enjoyable but for a steadily increasing snowstorm, which 

 dogged his onward track until, by the time Monkhopton 

 w^as reached, it became quite deep. Wisdom, in her 

 mood of caution, whispered '' Turn back ; " while 

 desperate hope against hope said " Go on the meet at 

 all events." So to the meet B. went, only to find there 

 four footmen ; so the friend who had picked him up on 

 the road suggested an adjournment to Oxenbold Farm- 

 house, just to shake off the snow before turning home- 

 wards. Corvedale is noted for its hospitality, and here, 

 unexpectedly, was found in the owner another friend. 

 Mince pies and grog soon thawed us, and just as we 

 were thinking that the storm seemed to be breaking, 

 there came a cry of ** The hounds, the hounds," and sure 

 •enough there they were, in full cry in the wood at the 

 ■back of the house. To horse we scrambled, dashing 

 through the snow, almost afoot deep, like maniacs. Never 

 did hounds make such music in such a wilderness of snow. 

 "We plunge after them through deep, muddy rides hidden 

 by the snow, regardless of consequences. Now they are 

 away at the top — how can we follow ? Thank our lucky 

 star they turn back. No fox can travel in such deep 

 soft snow as this. He only just reaches the covert 

 before them, and again the grand chorus rings and 

 re-echoes in every corner, as we stand and listen. At 

 last it ceases. They have caught him — almost. He has 

 crept under an old stubb, and hidden himself for a few 

 minutes only to be dragged out after five minutes of 

 determined scratching. Here is an opportunity of looking 

 over the hounds — having a chat with the master and one 

 or two old friends. We are only fifteen in all, and three 

 of them ladies — simple mad men and women to hunt on 

 such a day. "■ Bless you, we were out on Tuesday, had 

 a good run, killed one fox, and ran the other to ground 

 on foot," said the master. On the principle, I suppose, 

 of carpe diem this is all right, but running after foxhounds 

 is a game I never aspired to. *' Old Mr. Turnbull had it 

 all to himself on his cob," replied some one. I was 

 J)leased with the hounds. There yet remains a decided 

 bit of tan about them, the pride of the country, by which 

 old Baker used to swear. Their tongue is deep and 



