New Year's Day is generally a bright, bitter, sunshiny
day, with starry ice, and a most decided anti-hunting feeling about
it--light, airy, ringy, anything but cheery for hunting.
Thus it was in Sir Harry Scattercash's county. Having smoked and drunk the
old year out, the captains and company retired to their couches without
thinking about hunting. Mr. Sponge, indeed, was about tired of asking when
the hounds would be going out. It was otherwise, however, with the rising
generation, who were up betimes, and began pouring in upon Nonsuch House in
every species of garb, on every description of steed, by every line and
avenue of approach.
'Halloo! what's up now?' exclaimed Lady Scattercash, as she caught view of
the first batch rounding the corner to the front of the house.
'Who have we here?' asked Miss Glitters, as a ponderous, parti-coloured
clown, on a great, curly-coated cart-horse, brought up the rear.
'Early callers,' observed Captain Seedeybuck, eating away complacently.
'Friends of Mr. Sponge's, most likely,' suggested Captain Quod.
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