1878—79.] FOX-HUNTING IN THE SNOW. 269 



FOX-HUNTING IN THE SNOW. 



Frost and snow, notwithstanding, Ave have had more than 

 one good day's sport in the week that is past — sport, too, that 

 we coidd really see, and even ride to ! Sir Bache Cunard has 

 been hunting regularly, and gaining no mean triumphs in his 

 Ijattle with the elements — as you shall see. 



On all the uppermost level of High Leicestershire the snow 

 lies thick; and, having settled there before the frost could 

 touch the gTound, now keeps the surface warm and almost 

 soft. It is only here and there, where the snow has been 

 blown aside, that the turf refuses to yield ; and these are the 

 spots to be avoided. Elsewhere horses' feet sink deep enough, 

 galloping is fair and feasible, and jumping possible. The 

 existence of a ditch can only be guessed at ; and of the where- 

 abouts of a hole there is no sign. But it is safer to chance a 

 snowdrift than to hazard the glassy surface of bare ground. 



Of Wednesday (January 29th) I can give my own impressions.. 

 A postcard said twelve at Keythorpe ; and thither we accord- 

 ingly sallied, on a dull cheerless morning, with the east wind 

 driving a blinding sleet in our faces, till eyes shed painful tears 

 and ever}' feature tingled and ached. The sky was leaden 

 almost to blackness ; the broad gi*een fields of which we make 

 our boast were now a bleak white desert, crossed and cut with 

 tliin black lines, as far as the sight could reach tlirough the clear 

 cold atmosphere. The Coplow alone stood out — like a black 

 edition of the Holy Mountain of Japan — a landmark for all 

 Leicestershire. Horses cm-led their backs, shook their heads 

 and snorted, as they breathed the fresh crisp air ; and gam- 

 bolled on the ice-covered road till it seemed as if not even 

 frost-shoes could save a fall. Lideed, the first half-mile from 

 stables is, at any rate to my timorous mind, the most terrify- 

 ing portion of a day's hunting in the frost. Clattering along 

 the wheel-beaten track, sliding round icy corners, it w:is hard 

 to believe that sane men were going a-hunting. But we 



