Weird, indeed, were the h 2 1/2 hours of

Weird, indeed, were the h 2 1/2 hours of foxhunting that ensued. Hounds were cast into a sea of fog that enveloped the bottom lands along Devils Run. The sterns of the streaming hounds disappeared into Limbo. Horses too long idle because of the excessively White Christmas, danced, galloped, and plunged after them. We entered a phantasmagoric world of foxhunting. As if by magic the unseen hounds immediately started an unseen fox, and set the fog shivering with a brilliant Baskerville chorus. After a ringing, romping two-minute period, during which horses and riders rose up and then evaporated momentarily like equestrian statues kneedeep in a London mist, all went silent. The mysterious fox faded out of scenting; hounds drifted along the steaming branch bank, dim grey silhouettes of hunters stood as if transfixed at different levels in the milky white mist. Gradually the figures began to move aimlessly over the scene, like so many Don Quixotes in Hell, the fox was gone, the hounds were gone, even the terrain seemed annihilated. To break the spell, Ollie Dodson'8 huntsman's horn gathered the hounds for a cast in the world of the Jane Brown Woods. Here we spent an uneventful buy enjoyable two hours of listening and hoping, whooping and chatting. Our host, Oliver, on his, fine big grey David, , then shepherded the mud- I bespattered field completely