A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 63 



The roads were rough and we bumped along, cussing 

 and discussing various things, but cheered up consider- 

 ably on reaching the old inn at Marshallton, for it was a 

 lovely scene. Horses galore, and all the foxhunting frater- 

 nity for miles around saying "how-de-do," and sizing up 

 the two packs of hounds; Thompson, of the Brandy wine, 

 putting down nineteen couples, and Roberts, of the Pick- 

 ering, fifteen couples. 



I don't know that country well enough to describe a run 

 in it; but a fox was viewed away from Mine Hill at eleven- 

 ten, hounds making a couple of big circles through the 

 McFadden Farms, crossing the Brandywine River at 

 Straw's Bridge, and being continually right in front of 

 hounds, who were kept to their noses all the time, gave us a 

 good hunting run of two hours, finally bringing us back to 

 Marshallton, just as it commenced to rain and sleet and 

 blow a gale. 



Further hunting was out of the question, and Mr. 

 Mather's hospitable house, a six-mile ride against the 

 rain and sleet, with one's fingers nearly frozen in sopping 

 string gloves; your knees decidedly on the damp side, 

 and your flask empty, and so was the other fellow's, and 

 not a hotel on the way. But Mr. Mather corrected all 

 these minor details once Brandywine Meadows Farm was 

 reached, and even if your boots did come off with a 

 squelching kind of gurgle, like a cork being pulled out of a 

 bottle, you really liked it and would n't have had it differ- 

 ent for anything. Stewed chicken breasts with rice, and 

 anything one may fancy that comes out of a bottle, com- 

 bined with a big fire and congenial friends — well, it's 

 hard to beat, that's all. 



John Valentine, Nelson Buckley, and a farmer's bov 

 were the only casualties of the day, and "Buck" was the 



