26 FOX-HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND 



one might suppose their lives were "fu' o' sari- 

 ousness." Perhaps (who knows?) this solemn cast 

 of visage comes of much pondering on the knavish 

 tricks of the wily fox, and of schemes for circum- 

 venting his many artifices. Their tails are not at 

 all inclined to be bushy, like those of the English 

 fox-hounds of the present day, but are almost as 

 slender and clean as the tail of the pointer. 



It is the early morning of one of the perfect days 

 of late October or early November. In 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 un- 

 stirred 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 yesterday, but are electrified with new 

 life by the sight of the guns. They career about, 

 sounding bugle-notes that wake the echoes for a 

 mile around. Reynard at the wood-edge, home- 

 ward 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. 



