Fox-Hunting in New England. 



87 



THE START. 



bugle-notes that wake the echoes for 



a mile around. Reynard at the wood- H 



edge, homeward bound from his mousing or 



poultry stealing, is warned that this is to be 



no holiday for him. Very likely the hounds are 



too eager for the hunt to eat their morning 



Johnny-cake ; if so, let them have their way, — 



they will gobble it ravenously enough to-night, if they 



have the chance. 



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 coming 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 challenge of a cock in a far-off farm-yard. 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 stretch- 

 ing, 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 meditations. 

 Almost the only signs of life are these, and the upward crawling 

 smoke of kitchen chimneys, 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 business-like air, dis- 

 daining and repelling all attempts of his younger companion to 



