r In Fletcher’s placid pig orchard, on last Saturday,

In Fletcher’s placid pig orchard, on last Saturday, November 16, a I sight was seen about noon, of , which you’ve never envisaged the

[ Wild, Man, Wild! And it

happened after the Hunt was . supposed to be over. Mr. Edwin I Bruce, strolling along his home ; route 620, glimpsed a fast gray shadow streak under the I orchard’s red gate across the road into the silo field. Immediately his ears were assaulted by the full cry of a pack of hounds led by one wild, primitive voice. Crashing down on him from the orchard above were 10 or 12 white and lemon-spotted hounds, noses skimming the terrain, ears flying. Competing for lead position, galloped a mounted figure, his long nose dilating, his bright eyes showing their whites, his teeth flashing as he emitted rebel yells.

Mr. Bruce, a gentle man, stood aghast. Boars, sows and some 50 piglets squealed for dear life and splashed in every direction. Horse and hounds knocked over tin feeders, rushed over tangled rail panels, clattered onto slippery blacktop and streamed into the silo field toward Thornton River and the fox.

Transfixed for several moments, Mr. Bruce resumed his ; measured walk to Sperryville. A quarter mile down the road, he was brought to another abrupt halt. Pouring into Henry Jackson’s yard was a reenactment of the whole show: first fox, then pack in full cry, vainly trying to run clear of foaming horse and rider. In spite of the hunter’s obsessed expression, he was recognizable this time around as Fearless Bill Fannon of Castleton, a recent convert to foxhunting. Bill was aware of nothing but the chase, not even the four followers he had picked up on the track: Huntsman and three Whippers-In. Natalie and Michael Marsh and young Charlie Brown. (Elzy’s son).

Off they all careened up the mountain pasture and into the woods, where they were lost to Mr. Bruce’s eyes and ears as he continued his Saturday afternoon walk down the valley to