86 



Fox-Hunting in New England. 



It is the early morning of one of the perfect days of late October or 

 early November. I n the soft gray light of the growing day, the herbage 

 of the pastures and the aftermath of the meadows are pearly with frost 

 which is thick and white on boards and fence-rails. The air is chill 



but unstirred 

 by the lightest 

 breeze, and if 

 the day keeps 

 the promise of 

 the morning it 

 will be quite 

 warm enough 

 for comfortable 

 tramping when 

 the sun is fairly 

 up. The hounds, 

 called from their 

 straw, come 

 yawning and 

 limping forth, 

 stiff from the 

 chase of yester- 

 day, but are elec- 

 trified with new 

 life by the sight 

 of the guns. 

 They career 

 about, sounding 



CALLING THE DOGS. 



