

AT HOME 351 



was a high-bred gentleman, never brawled, and was a 

 dauntless fighter. Besides the family, his especial friend, 

 playfellow, and teacher was colored Charles, the foot- 

 man at Washington. Skip, the little black-and-tan ter- 

 rier that I brought back from the Colorado bear hunt, 

 changed at once into a real little-boy's dog. He never 

 lets his small master out of his sight, and rides on every 

 horse that will let him by preference on Algonquin the 

 sheltie, whose nerves are of iron. 



The first night possum hunt in which I ever took part 

 was at Quantico, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, 

 some twenty miles below Washington. It was a number 

 of years ago, and several of us were guests of a loved 

 friend, Hallett Phillips, since dead. Although no hunter, 

 Phillips was devoted to outdoor life. I think it was at 

 this time that Rudyard Kipling had sent him the manu- 

 script of " The Feet of the Young Men," which he read 

 aloud to us. 



Quantico is an island, a quaint, delightful place, with 

 a club-house. We started immediately after dark, going 

 across to the mainland, accompanied by a dozen hounds, 

 with three or four negroes to manage them and serve as 

 axemen. Each member of the party carried a torch, 

 as without one it was impossible to go at any speed 

 through the woods. The dogs, of course, have to be spe- 

 cially trained not to follow either fox or rabbit. It was 

 dawn before we got back, wet, muddy, and weary, carry- 

 ing eleven possums. All night long we rambled through 

 the woods and across the fields, the dogs working about 

 us as we followed in single file. After a while some dog 



