528 
“Good Hunting 
yy 
ered waistcoats, poke bonnets, mob caps. 
Under the stout hewn rafters are hand- 
made chests and home-made casks, gath- 
ering dust. In dark corners lie candle- 
moulds, spoon-moulds, and quaint cush- 
ioned saddles — all waiting patiently. . . . 
As in other old houses diamond scratch- 
ings may be found on some of the old 
wrinkled window-panes. Now, the gen- 
eral had two beautiful daughters, who 
were asked in marriage, so the family tra- 
dition runs, by two swains who later in the 
course of human events became Presi- 
dents of these United States, but, if I may 
quote one of his great-great-granddaugh- 
ters, the humorous annalist of the present 
generation, “Unmindful of the laments of 
collateral posterity the daughters rejected 
them for the superior charms of an army 
surgeon and a gallant colonel.” Perhaps 
it was one of these belles who, either be- 
fore or after her great decision, felt im- 
pelled to express her views of the world 
upon the window of her boudoir — “ Life is 
a blank.” Whatever may have been the 
cause, the results were curious, for the dia- 
mond slipped upon the glass, the “1” in 
“blank” became an “e” and the “k” de- 
clined to become at all. So “Life is a 
bean” remains to this day the message the 
fascinating lady left to collateral posterity 
and to its numerous house-parties; thus 
showing that even in the good old times 
of soft sighs and subtle swoonings, of lace 
frills and silver snuff-boxes, ironic reality 
had a mischievous trick of touching high 
romance with low comedy. 
Out in the shadowed garden, recently 
restored, is the same path once trod by 
this ennuied lady’s dainty slipper when 
she ventured forth to gather what were 
then called “posies.” Down the lane are 
the same oaks beneath which the beaux 
and belles of those days strolled and 
courted. Young people stroll there still 
at times ; only now they wear linen or duck 
dresses, and knickerbockers or flannels. 
And it is highly improbable that their dia- 
logue is adorned with such long and com- 
plicated compliments as in those days. 
Otherwise it is not so vastly different, I 
fancy — more stately then, less artificial 
now. 
Meanwhile, in any case, the oaks them- 
selves have grown more stately than ever, 
and the garden path once merely bordered 
with box is now completely canopied by it 
from end to end. . . . So, after all, there 
are advantages in belonging to the present 
generation even for purposes of romance 
and picturesqueness. Older generations 
cannot enjoy the tone of time which they 
create for those who follow after. The 
glamour of their day did not exist for 
them. A dull, prosaic age they doubtless 
considered it (witness “Life is a bean”) 
until, peradventure, they took a certain 
never-to-be-forgotten stroll down the lane 
or through the box. Then it did not mat- 
ter. For there are older things than oaks, 
and more beautiful than gardens. 
IV 
My first expedition to this entrancing 
spot had the added delight of a memo- 
rable surprise. Though I had occasion 
later to learn how much he loved it, my 
shooting pal had told me nothing about 
his country home except to say that it was 
“an old farm-house — pretty plain,” and 
to hope that I would not mind! Now, 
even in those youthful days old houses 
were a passion with me, and so, at the end 
of our long, cold drive by night past an In- 
dian reservation and through what seemed 
an interminable forest, when I found what 
kind of “an old farm-house” it was, it was 
love at first sight for me. Here were 
broad fireplaces built before the nation 
was founded, with full-length logs blaz- 
ing cheerily in them ; bewildering passage- 
ways with unexpected steps leading up 
into one room, down into another; whim- 
sical doors with latches which would not 
stay latched; antique furniture which had 
not come from shops; grandfather clocks 
placed there by grandfathers; and an 
ancient gun-room with long fowling-pieces 
left there by previous generations of 
sportsmen — almost everything, in fact, 
orthodox old houses ought to have, ex- 
cept, to be truthful at the risk of seem- 
ing to be carping, there were no ghosts. 
Clinging to it all, from cellar to garret, 
was that wondrous, that delicious odor of 
antiquity, so suggestive of life and its 
changes, so eloquent of death which does 
not change. 
As it happened, good shooting in good 
company over good dogs, combined with 
bachelor hall in an old country-house, 
