lands you at Market Harboro' station, where a neat
brougham, drawn by a pair of handsome brown horses
(with no bearing reins), waits to convey you to Mr.
Edward Kennard's hunting box, which stands back
between two fields of ridge and furrow in the main
road from Kettering to Market Harboro'. A straight
avenue, bordered on either side by lime and fir trees,
breaks into a circular grass front, where the drive
divides, the right road leading to a substantial, comfortable-looking red-brick house, with sloping roof, tall
gable over the entrance-hall, and sides picturesquely
covered with ivy, whilst the left turns to the stables
(that essential part of a sporting establishment), which,
with the kitchen gardens and paddocks, are in the
In usual circumstances a fine vista of undulating
pasture, and extensive views of the happy hunting-
fields of Northamptonshire and Leicestershire, can be
seen, in which are several historical fox-coverts; but
now, in the snow-bound condition of the earth, everything is white, save for the line of dark intersecting
hedgerows, and the delicate tracery of leafless trees
standing in black silhouette against the sky. As the
afternoon advances, & grey haze creeps over the far-famed Harboro' Vale, shrouding alike "bullfinches " and "double-oxers," into which sinks a golden sun behind a bank of crimson and purple clouds.
But the carriage stops. The broad stone steps lead into the entrance hall, where, facing you, stands a black, long-haired, stuffed sloth bear, hugging the sticks and umbrellas, and an oak case, full of English game-birds. Glass doors open into the broad, lofty, central hall, giving outlet to numerous rooms, which
