This letter from Dan to his older brother is typed on the back of Grandpa’s 3-page letter.
Daniel Beck Guion
ye El pueblito de Trumbull
Que tal. chico,
Tenga una amiga en Valencia qui escribe a mi de quando en quando. En la ultima carta yo le dije a me ella que si usted _ra a Valencia se puede visitarla. Ella se llama Carol Ravell. Su direccion esta Auto Mundial, Valencia. Es muy amiga mia. Le encontre a ella en el vapor Santa Paula en Julio.
On Thanksgiving Day, while nuestro padre busied himself en la cochina, Ced, Barbie (Plumb, Dan’s girlfriend), Jean (Mortensen, Dick’s girlfriend), Don Whitney y yo set out in your Packard for Greenfield Hill.Every Thanksgiving Day the Fairfield Country Hounds dress up in their round just bowlers and mount their most stalwart steeds for a bit of tally-ho before dinner. I have enclosed some actual photographs of the affair clipped from the Sunday Post.
They started from the Green, led by the hounds who, I am told, were pursuing a real fox. We dashed from road to road in a perpetual attempt to intercept the hunt as it wandered from hill to veil in pursuit of the elusive animal. It was quite a colorful affair. All the officials were in red coats. The rest wore Derby hats, held on by black silk ribbons clipped to the back of the brim.
In an excess of spirit we set off on a rough dirt road and were rather surprised when the front spring (not the one which I had noticed earlier!) was completely severed. We could go forward, but not in reverse. We parked in the road while we made a last attempt to locate the horseman before starting for home. I became conscious of a desire to perform a natural process (liquid), and, to avoid the embarrassment of pardoning myself from the two gals present, I wandered absently I head on the old dirt road as if I were looking for the horses ….. A sort of (“see a man about a horse”) proposition with more truth than usual. As my crank-case drained I became aware of a pattering of pause approaching along the road, but I could not see until it flashed interview from behind the convenient privet hedge that I was (and I swear this is the truth, so help me, and I have witnesses) the Fox! it was going like the much-expressed hammers of hell, only more so. It glanced neither to the right or left. There was no sign of pursuit, but that Fox was laying down its feet in the most purposeful manner possible, and it was heading straight toward the Packard!
I started running after it, yelling to the rest of the gang who were standing near the car, “Here comes the Fox! Here comes the Fox!”, and just before Reynard reached the car, he caught sight of them, for he swerved suddenly, cleared the low stone wall which bordered the road in a single bound, then sped across the field out of sight.
Two Horsemen, cantering slowly along the road from the direction from which the fox had come, evidently on their way home from the hunt, passed us, and I said, “We have a broken spring, and we just saw the fox go by!”
“Oh, yea?” one of the man replied, and I suddenly realized that my story might receive the same treatment everywhere. But all the gang saw clearly that it was a genuine fox, and, although he did not tarry (the fox, I mean) long enough to tell us whether or not he was THE fox, or merely a casual chicken killer from the surrounding countryside, we were satisfied that, since we had come to see a Fox-Hunt, we had not come in vain.
The spring replacement cost $17.49.
Tomorrow I will be posting a letter from Aunt Betty Duryee, with some information regarding the Duryee ancestors and her account of Thanksgiving.