THE FIELD FROM THE ARCHIVES

EING an American, there is a telephone at my bedside, and I was awakened on the first morning of the New Year by the ringing of the bell. The familiar voice of Holland, my huntsman, came over the wire: “Good morning, sir. Happy New Year. Is it brown breeches or white, this morning, sir? It’s raining hard up here.” I looked out of the window across the flooded water meadows where the River Frome had overflowed its banks, and saw the rain coming down in sheets against the dark background of the hills. “Brown, Reg, I guess,” I answered, and went off to sleep again. And I was right, for three hours later, when hounds met