HUNTING WITH HOUNDS. 161 



One of the pleasantest days I ever passed 

 in the saddle was after Mr. Wadsworth's 

 hounds. I was staying with him at the time, 

 in company with my friend Senator Cabot 

 Lodge, of Boston. The meet was about 

 twelve miles distant from the house. It was 

 only a small field of some twenty-five riders, 

 but there was not one who did not mean 

 going. I was mounted on a young horse, a 

 powerful, big-boned black, a great jumper, 

 though perhaps a trifle hot-headed. Lodge 

 was on a fine bay, which could both run and 

 jump. There were two or three other New 

 Yorkers and Bostonians present, several men 

 who had come up from Buffalo for the run, a 

 couple of retired army officers, a number of 

 farmers from the neighborhood ; and finally 

 several members of a noted local family of 

 hard riders, who formed a class by themselves, 

 all having taken naturally to every variety 

 of horsemanship from earliest infancy. 



It was a thoroughly democratic assemblage ; 

 every one was there for sport, and nobody 

 cared an ounce how he or anybody else was 

 dressed. Slouch hats, brown coats, corduroy 

 breeches, and leggings, or boots, were the 

 order of the day. We cast off in a thick 

 wood. The dogs struck a trail almost imme- 

 diately and were off with clamorous yelping, 

 while the hunt thundered after them like a 

 herd of buffaloes. We went headlong down 

 the hill-side into and across a brook. Here 

 the trail led straight up a sheer bank. Most 

 of the riders struck off to the left for an easier 

 ii 



