"The house at Raven Hill is a huge affair of the Revolutionary period, with numerous modern additions, which fail entirely to harmonize with the quaint architecture of the original. The stables and servants' quarters give the place the appearance of quite a settlement--a survival of slavery days one sees here and there in the South. "We were shown to a suite of sunny rooms in the east wing which had been especially prepared for us, and soon made ourselves thoroughly at home. From this agreeable vantage-ground we set out upon many pleasant expeditions into the countryside, returned the visits of our neighbors, and attended the chapel at the Crossways in truly rural style. Nothing amused us as much, though, as the negro servants. To them Elizabeth was 'Honey,' and I, 'Marse Livingstone'; and over at the quarters the little darkies gave rare exhibitions of dancing for our benefit, while solemn, gray-haired Uncle Ashby picked a greasy banjo. The men sang in nasal, but not unmelodious tones, weird, crooning songs, with occasionally an up-to-date composition which found its way, no doubt, from nearby Richmond. I shall never forget those happy evenings at Raven Hill; and in my dreams I often see and hear the negroes as they danced and sang in the moonlight. "There were some good horses in the stables, and we did not spare them. Our cross-country dashes were most exciting, and the total absence of fences in the region gave us an apparently limitless expanse over which to wander. And that reminds me of a never-to-be-forgotten fox hunt which was attended by riders from all over that section of the country. Half a dozen foxes were corralled at the 'round-up,' and I could not help thinking how tame our alleged 'chases' at home appeared by the contrast. "One day while roaming about the lower portion of the Raven Hill estate we stumbled quite by accident into Dark Forest, vaguely hinted at by the negroes as a place to be avoided. This Dark Forest is a large tract of scrub oak, birch and holly, with dense undergrowths of briar; the haunt of innumerable small birds that dart in and out, chirping faintly. In its depressed portions the 'forest' has degenerated into a marsh through which a sluggish stream wends it way to the distant river. Slimy reptiles bask in the warm sun and glide lazily over the black, oozy soil. At intervals the stillness is broken by the splash of a gigantic bullfrog returning to his favorite pool. This acrobatic feat is usually accompanied by a deep-throated cry of satisfaction, not unlike the twanging of an ill-tuned guitar. On the edges of the marsh mud-covered terrapins drag themselves through the weeds and disappear with surprising swiftness when they see an intruder.