A January Frost 



hounds run on for an hour, and it is enjoyable 



enough — a good wide ring nearly back to where 



the fox was found. They swing round before 



entering the covert, and take nearly the same 



lines as before for a field or two. That is a 



good place into the lane, exactly where we 



jumped it an hour earlier ; but as the horse 



reaches the crown of the road, he makes a big 



slip, and we realise that it is freezing hard. 



Still hounds run on, and there is a chance of 



killing, so perseverance is the order of the day, 



and we do very well indeed on the grass. But 



the plough is getting harder and harder ; the fox 



is gradually getting more and more in front, and 



the huntsman begins to worry about hounds' 



feet ; so orders are given to call them off — not a 



very difficult thing to do, for scent has been 



failing of late ; and then it is realised all at once 



how hard a frost it is. The stars as they come 



out glitter viciously, and every now and again 



the horse gives an ugly slide. Indeed, that 



ride home has a very strong resemblance to 



skating, and our tingling finger-tips make the 



lights from our home doubly welcome. But 



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