The Marquis dc Cliaiitbrai/'.s Iloumh 'Miry 



of wine come forth in <rreat abuiulance from some mysterious 

 source and employ the hulies in giving- and the gentlemen in 

 receiving. 



The happiest man in all the crowd was one Yankee, as 

 you could easily tell by the expression of his face, as he started 

 for home with a boar's head and pelt from the Baron de Dor- 

 lodot, taken in the chase the day before, the foot of the stag 

 taken in the pond, from the JNIarquis de Cornulier, and the 

 head, pelt, and a foot of stag number one thousand nine hun- 

 dred and eight,* from the INIarquis de Chambray. These 

 tropliies were the next day put in pickle by a taxidermist in 

 London, and thus taken to America to be mounted. They now 

 grace the walls of a modest little home, where the owner re- 

 gards them as the most priceless trophies of his collection. 



As the writer looks back upon the many glorious days he 

 has spent wth horse and hound, guide and gun, yacht and 

 paddle, his only regret is that so few of his countrymen know 

 the meaning of it all. He feels that in comparison with most 

 men he has lived a hundred years. 



"Be it fair or foul, come rain or shine. 

 The joJ/s I have possessed in spite of fate are mine, 

 Not heaven itself o'er the past hath porcer. 

 What has been, has been, I have had my hour." 



The general idea in America seems to be that only the 

 wealthy can indulge in such sports. This is a mistaken notion 

 altogether, as the writer is a living example to the contrary. 

 The men who seem to get the most out of life are not the 



*Thc illustrious marquis celebrated the capture of his two thousandtli 

 stag in 1902. He was then over seventy years old and when the writer 

 last visited the Baron de Dorlodot, in 1903, had taken his two thousand 

 and twentv-second stafj. 



