A Gunless Partridge Hunt. 
To the traveling sportsman the old adage 
about necessity being the mother of invention 
must come frequently to mind when he notes 
the many ingenious ways to which hunters of 
the various countries have recourse to secure 
game. No doubt that most of these methods 
were originally evolved by men whose wits had 
been sharpened by want of food, though later 
sportsmen adopted them. 
A long-promised and often postponed visit to 
some French relatives took me to the neighbor¬ 
hood of Epernay, Chalons-sur-Marne, late one 
summer, for a stay of two or three weeks in one 
of the old chateaux, now converted into a de¬ 
lightful country home. And before I left the 
hospitable roof I had become thoroughly con¬ 
vinced that although it pleases us to criticise 
freely, and often not very charitably, the lives 
of our gallic friends, we really know little or 
nothing as a class of that charming set that 
Paris calls conservative. Old fashioned in some 
ways, and affecting the elaborate courtesy of a 
period long passed, they are thoroughly up-to- 
date, well educated, and although of simple 
tastes, able to own their “hotel’’ in the capital 
and a chateau, or large estate, in the country. 
I was hanging half out of the compartment 
window when the train steamed into the little 
station that I had been told was nearest my des¬ 
tination, and so caught sight from afar of a 
distinguished looking individual in velveteen 
shooting togs and wide soft hat who walked the 
platform. He sprang forward with a cry of 
recognition when he saw me. 
“I would have known you anywhere,” said a 
voice I remembered well. “Your American 
habit of not wearing either moustache or beard 
makes it easy to recognize the features.” I in¬ 
stead looked in vain in the manly and hirsute 
face before me for the semblance of the boy 
cousin I had gone to school with, and the broad 
shoulders and solid frame hardly reminded me 
of the youth whose extreme thinness had won 
him the name of “manche a balais” (broom 
handle) in those days. But the voice was un¬ 
mistakable. 
The chateau is known to tourists. It is, in 
fact, one of the show places of the section. Its 
history is closely woven with that of the French 
monarchy, and as I found out very soon, thrill- 
ingly interesting. 
The old marquise, a beautiful and wonderfully 
bright woman of eighty-four, was at the time 
correcting the manuscript of her “Memoires” 
which bridge a period close on to a century, and 
she graciously allowed me to read them. As a 
preface she gave the history of the family and 
the castle from their foundation. 
The latter dates back to the fourteenth cen¬ 
tury and was then a formidable stronghold, but 
various additions and necessary repairs have 
since greatly modified its character. The moat 
no longer encircles its walls with protective em¬ 
brace ; it has been partly filled and gravel walks 
meander through it. The port-cullis has gone 
altogether, and only the two well preserved 
flanking towers still remain to bring witness to 
the belligerency of former days. One of these 
is now used as a chapel and the other as an 
aviary. “Sic transit gloria mundi.” 
The surroundings of the castle were laid out 
by Maitre Lenotre, the famous landscape gar¬ 
dener of the days of Louis XIV., who is re¬ 
sponsible for many of the most beautiful gar¬ 
dens in France. In front is a lovely terrace laid 
out as a formal garden, with flower beds, stunt¬ 
ed trees, plant-bearing vases, statues and pretty 
paths. This they call a “jardin anglais.” In the 
rear is a circular “esplanade” from which radi¬ 
ate, like the spokes of a huge wheel, five mag¬ 
nificent avenues bordered by stately oaks. These 
lead through the estate which consists of forest, 
marshland and sparsely cultivated fields. A ten 
minute drive from the chateau takes one into 
open country, and there is shooting of every 
kind almost to the doors. 
We had passed the kennel on our way in, so 
I was rather surprised to see nearly a dozen 
good-looking greyhounds come tearing toward 
the carriage as we approached the house, and 
they were so noisy in their exhibitions of joy 
that knowing the undemonstrative nature of the 
breed, I commented upon it. 
“It is hunting stock,” said my cousin, looking 
affectionately at the leaping pack, “and hunting 
seems to develop their intelligence and their 
fondness for their master. They are my pets. 
I use them on partridge.” 
“On partridge!” I exclaimed astounded. 
“Why, I had no idea that you could get a grey¬ 
hound with enough scent to shoot birds over.” 
“You can’t. But I said hunt, not shoot. I 
take pointers with me to find the birds and grey¬ 
hounds to get them. It is an old pastime of 
this part of the world, and we breed our hounds 
expressly for it. But you shall see for your¬ 
self in a day or two.” 
On the terrace the family awaited us and I 
was soon made to feel that relationship is con¬ 
sidered rather more than a mere accident in 
that set. I was welcomed as a long lost brother 
and son. And during lunch, which was served 
in the open air, I learned for the first time what 
an art the “making of conversation” can become. 
The hostess led, flitting from subject to subject, 
drawing everyone in and touching in a bright, 
charming way on art, literature, sport and the 
topics of the day. It was really surprising to 
see the familiarity with all subjects shown by 
all. Two hours sped by unnoticed in that de¬ 
lightful exchange of ideas and witticisms. 
The life at the chateau I found to be lazy 
and pleasant. One was never disturbed in the 
morning. Breakfast was served to each in their 
respective rooms, and while one was left at 
liberty to do as one pleased, no effort was made 
to entertain. Lunch marked the meeting time. 
After one took a siesta or sat around until the 
September sun had traveled well toward the 
horizon, then driving, riding, tennis, croquet, 
boating or visits to neighbors were indulged in. 
Dinner was partaken of at 6:30 on the terrace 
whenever weather permitted, and then music and 
conversation, calls, or an occasional trip to some 
“fete champetre” brought one to bedtime. 
I had enjoyed three days of this kind of life 
when a heavy rainfall gave us the necessary con¬ 
ditions for a partridge hunt. 
“We’ll go out to-morrow,” said my cousin. 
“The scent should be good after this rain, and 
the ground sufficiently soft and springy to suit 
the horses. The keeper tells me there are plenty 
of birds on the plains and we ought to have a 
good day.” 
“Does it mean an early start?” I asked. 
“No,” he said; '“the September dew is very 
heavy around here, and when the dogs breathe 
it in they seem to lose all sense of scent. We 
will wait until about 9 o’clock; by then the sun 
will have burned it off.” 
The next was a beautiful day, bright, warm 
and with just sufficient breeze to make the air 
keen. We set out shortly after eight, the marquis 
on a sixteen-hand thoroughbred that would have 
graced a race course, myself on an Irish hunter 
that had less speed, but was steadier and much 
more reliable over timber. My cousin was just 
reckless enough to enjoy the feeling of a will¬ 
ful, uncertain mount under him. 
The keeper and half a dozen attendants await¬ 
ed us at the entrance to the fields. Six grey¬ 
hounds and two pointers were in leash. 
The country extended in a great, flat, scarcely 
undulating plain, as far as eye could see. A 
few ditches, an occasional stone wall and not a 
few timber fences gave promise of hard riding. 
It was ideal hunting territory. 
We dismounted for a close inspection of sad¬ 
dle and bridle when we reached the keeper, an 
old habit we had acquired as boys when about 
to ride across country, then my cousin told one 
of the attendants to loosen “Pouf,” a clean¬ 
muscled little English pointer who went off at 
a long gallop, and instructing the men to pro¬ 
ceed to a spot about one mile away, we started 
after Pouf. The keeper, with two greyhounds 
in leash, followed close on. 
The dog was quartering some ferns at a fast 
gait, body outstretched, nose high to the breeze, 
when he came to a sudden halt, bent almost 
double and crouched immovable in that awkard 
position. The marquis turned in his saddle. 
“Walk up slowly, Jean,” he said quietly to 
the keeper, “and be ready to slip the collars.” 
Then to the pointer: “Go on, Pouf, flush.” 
At the word the dog plunged eagerly forward 
and then fell to a “down” as a young but full- 
grown partridge rose noisily before him. A 
second later the two greyhounds had sprung 
ahead and we drove spurs into the horses, fall¬ 
ing in with the chase. Right and left flushed 
the remainder of the startled covey with a great 
beating of wings, but the hounds paid no atten¬ 
tion. They had marked their bird and followed 
it at a mad pace, their long, lithe bodies eating 
up the ground in wonderful strides, their glar¬ 
ing eyes fixed hard on their quarry. And we 
followed as fast as we could, the horses seemingly 
as eager as their riders to lose none of the sport. 
