Up the last hill the tireless pony bore him, and in the low December sun their shadow fell longly across the hardwood ridge and into the valley . . . Above him, the pines . . . Behind him the earth rolled away ridge on ridge blue as woodsmoke, on into a sky like thin congealed blood. He turned in his saddle and stared unwinking into the bloody west against which the sun spread like a crimson egg broken upon the ultimate hills . . . He rode on. On either hand were hills: the one darkling like a bronze bastion, upon the other the final rays of the sun lay redly. The road followed the valley. . . . Presently before him lay a glad--an old field, sedge grown, its plow scars long healed over . . . (FD: 353, 355) THIS SAID OFTEN AT MacCALLUMS, "ragged, skeletoned fields" (FD: 377); "ragged, fallow fields and woods edges" (FD: 384) BUT ALSO SOUNDS OF HUNTING DOGS "echoed among the hills"; "among the dark hills"