A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 123 



pecially appealed to us, lemon custard meringue. Mrs. 

 Carle and I ate a whole pie between us, and it was n't a 

 small one either, and thereby hangs the tale. 



After finishing off the lemon custard, standing around, 

 smoking and talking, the fox was finally auctioned off by 

 the local auctioneer, and over ^275 realized for the Red 

 Cross. 



Then, after a few more delays, etc., the fox was taken 

 across the road and dropped. He was a good strong fellow 

 and, pointing his mask towards West Chester, disappeared 

 over the hill, evidently making for his home earth, on the 

 McFadden Farm along the Brandywine. An old white 

 bitch was put on the line in a few minutes to keep the fox 

 moving, the bitch going off in grand style with much 

 tongue, and followed by about twenty of the impatient 

 field, who by their impatience spoiled a good run for the 

 rest of us. 



After ten minutes more, the barn doors were thrown open 

 and out poured, three deep, the greatest collection of hounds 

 I ever expect to see, sixty-two and one-half couples, of all 

 shapes, sizes, and kinds, from all the neighboring packs, 

 namely: Boot Hunt, Hickman Hunt, Stewarts, Sam Kirk's 

 West Chester, Whitelands, and Button's hounds. When 

 they picked up the line, and even before, they let out a 

 roar that could have been heard ten miles across country; 

 every "dog" was "doing his bit" to the best of his ability. 

 They fairly flew up over the hill, followed, and preceded 

 and flanked by a yelling mob of horsemen, that left in 

 their wake a stream of broken girths, stirrup-leathers, 

 and sprawling farmers. I galloped by three, biting Mother 

 Earth, in the space of one field. The fields were a bit soft, 

 but good falling, and the going rather deep; also a trifle 

 crowded was the one gap in the first fence! 



