The poor horses are so dressed up that, if they could see themselves, they would not know if they were toy rabbits or Chinese pagodas. Over the horse is a huge net, which not only covers him from head to tail, but protects those in the sleigh from the snow flying in their faces. I should think that this net would be excellent in summer to keep the flies off; it does certainly suggest mosquito-netted beds and summer heat. Over the net is an arrangement which looks like a brass lyre, adorned with innumerable brass bells, which jingle and tinkle as we trot along, and make noise enough to awake all the echoes in the forest. On each side of the horse's head hang long, white, horse-hair tails. What did we look like as we proceeded on our way? A procession of eight sleighs, combining a _ranz des vaches_, a summer bed, and an antiquary shop! Arrived at the rendezvous, Count Westphal placed his guests by different trees. The best place, of course, fell to the Duke, and I had the honor to stand behind him and his gun. I hoped that neither would go off! The Duke is very near-sighted and wears double-barreled spectacles, which have windows on the sides, so that he can look around the corner without turning his head. Every one was requested to be perfectly quiet, otherwise there would be disaster all along the line. I could keep quiet very well, _for a time_, but the back view of a man crowned with a Tyrolean hat, and terminating in a monstrous pair of overshoes lined with straw, lost its interest after a while, and I began to look at the scenery. It must be lovely here in the summer. The valley, where a little brook meandered gracefully through the meadow (now ice and snow), bordered on both sides by high pine woods, must then be covered with flowers and fresh green grass, and full of light and shadow. His Highness and I were under a splendid oak, and there we stood waiting for something to happen. The Duke, the oak, and I were silence personified. A dead branch would crack, or the trunks of smaller and ignorant pines would knock together, and the Duke would look around the corner and say "Chut!" in a low voice, thinking I was playing a tattoo on the tree. "Now the beaters are on the scent!" he said. After this I hardly dared to breathe. "They have to drive the boar with the wind," he whispered. "I thought they did it with sticks," I answered in a low tone. To this remark he did not pay the slightest attention. Between a sneeze and a cough--we were rapidly catching our deaths--he said, under his breath, "If they smell us they go away."