“We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,And mark the musical confusionOf hounds, and echo in conjunction.”
“We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,And mark the musical confusionOf hounds, and echo in conjunction.”
“We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds, and echo in conjunction.”
Will Sykes was designed by nature for a huntsman. With a short stature and wiry frame, he possessed activity, indomitable courage, patience, and judgment. His voice, too, seemed to come from his heart, as he cheered with lusty lungs; and his strong grey eyes encompassed a whole parish, when he threw them forward for a view. Good humour sat upon his lip, and there was a great secret in his possession, of being capable of pleasing everybody without any apparent effort. Proud—perhaps a little vain—was our Will of his exterior; but then there might be sufficient cause; for although his short-croppedhair was grizzled and frosted by time, and a few wrinkles—albeit the joint effects of laughter and age—were stamped on his ruddy cheeks, few could boast of a larger circle of admirers. Will could never pass through a village, in pink and boots, but old women and young—but more especially the young—and mothers and maids flocked to their cottage doors and windows to exchange nods and friendly greetings with him. Ladies, too, of the first degree acknowledged his polite lift of the cap with friendly smiles, and, at convenient seasons, inquired after the health of Mrs. Sykes, and took quite an interest in sundry other of his domesticities and household economy. And was the huntsman’s better half—the plump, the prim, the comely Mrs. Sykes—jealous of these attentions? By no means. That excellent and discriminating person considered that the favour in which Will was held by the gentle and simple might be ascribed to her tactics and general measures of expediency; and popularity, she had cogent reasons for supposing, had greatly to do with the liberal capping so invariably bestowed upon the huntsman, whenever his right andtitle to the gratuity accrued. Worthy indeed is the care to be recorded with which the worthy dame bleached and starched the cravat, folded and tied without a crease, around Will’s neck. The white cords, too, stained as they have been in many a run, with the mud flying in showers over them, are spotless, and without a speck to note the wear and tear of bygone seasons. His tops also bore evidence of a division of Mrs. Sykes’s accomplishments. Scratched and rubbed, it is true, they were; but no erasible mark was permitted to remain. His spurs, too, glittered again; and in short, “no baron or squire, or knight of the shire,” had greater attention paid to his toilet than had our huntsman.
“Personal appearance,” observed Mrs. Sykes to Will, one evening, sitting in a cozy corner of his parlour, in a dreamy, winking, blinking state, lulled by the influence of a blazing yule log—“personal appearance,” repeated she, somewhat louder, “is necessary for personal respect; and unless we look as if we respected ourselves, it’s unreasonable to suppose that other people will go for to respect us. We must best know,” continued she, “our own in’ards; and if we show, byour out’ards, that they’re all gammon and bacon, rest assured they won’t pass as thebestof chitlins.”
And was it for this, then—this worldly object—that Mrs. Sykes might be seen on every succeeding Sunday, volume in hand, walking with stately and measured tread along the path leading to the gray-mossed and ivy-twined church? Was it for this that the ribbed silk dress and most treasured bonnet were donned on the seventh day, when the likelihood was great of many eyes beholding them? Was it for this that, from the bright buckle in her shoe to the topmost ribbon stuck jauntily to flutter in the breeze, Mrs. Sykes evinced such elaborate taste and dainty care? Mrs. Sykes, like countless hosts of her betters, would have been justly indignant had such prying interrogatories been put to her for solution, however blandly they might have been effected; and as there is no confession on her part, and no justifiable ground for speculation in the replies, they must remain unanswered to the end of time.
Tom Holt, the first whipper-in, and consequently second in command, was a very differentgenus homoto our huntsman. Asmay already have been learned from his expressed opinions and sentiments, he possessed strange quirks and notions, and, to use his own graphic description of his imaginary pedigree, might have been “a cross between a bull-dog and a flat iron.” Much nice sophism might be used to support the poetical origin of Tom Holt; but if volumes were written to define his allegory more clearly, the end could not be more satisfactorily arrived at than by briefly saying, “it can far more easily be conceived than described.” Tom was a reflective man; he could not see an infant in its mother’s arms without the endeavour to picture to his vivid imagination how it would look when blear-eyed with age. A piece of thistle-down, whirling here and there, now catching in a bramble, and then skimming along in its varied, uncertain course, would make him think of “cause and effect” for an hour. A dew-drop, a feather in the air, a film of gossamer, often set Tom Holt “a-thinking” for the livelong day. He was a dreamer, and had more strange fantasies, with eyes wide and staring open, than a thousand such will-o’-the wisps fanned by the fairies’ midwife, QueenMab. And yet Tom Holt, although his face was pale and thin, and his dark hazel eyes always bore a serious look, enjoyed right heartily his duties, and all thereunto pertaining. He studied the attributes and affections of the animals with which he had to deal, and took little less delight in the cunning and subtle tricks of the crafty fox than he did in the sagacity of his darling hounds hunting him. Like many enthusiasts, however, Tom went very strange lengths upon occasions; and it was generally reported in a wide ring in the country, that he asserted, when “much wrought,” at the Duck and Gridiron, upon a memorable occasion, “that a spider might teach a weaver more in one hour, than he could learn in a seven years’ apprenticeship.” Be this as it may, there is no doubt whatever that, upon Tom’s recovering consciousness from a stunning fall, causing the blood to flow from his nose profusely, he remarked, brushing a few of the sanguinary drops from the tip of it, that, “he did not see why they shouldn’t be blue instead of red.” This is an ascertained and acknowledged fact, and, without further detail of his oddities and eccentricities, Tom Holt must be left, like thecork against the tide, to work his own way.
It appears indispensable—stale as the necessity may prove—to introduce the persons spoken of previously to relating the scenes and incidents in which they may assist. The second whip, Ned Adams, therefore, must not be permitted to escape notice altogether, like one of immaterial consequence and account; and although slight will be the sketch of his virtues, vices, and tendencies, still, to render that which is justly due is but to yield the very bare bones of common honesty. As with the greater number of second whippers-in, Ned was a connexion of the huntsman, and had the right—needlessly, be it said, on the maternal side—to call him “uncle,” Ned’s uncle embraced divers opportune occasions to impress upon his nephew’s mind the onerous duty and essential service which may be performed by a whipper-in if he will onlykeep in his place. “But,” observed the huntsman, “most of you hot-blooded young ’uns are so eager to get for’ard, that ye forget the first principles of what you ought to do, and instead of keeping behind, to bring on the tail hounds, hang me if you don’t jam to the sterns of the leading ones.”
“It’s more than mortal patience can endure,” replied Ned, by way of justification, “to stick in the rear on some occasions.”
“But your duty, Ned,” seriously rejoined Will Sykes, “won’t bear excuse. It’s as much your place to be behind hounds as it is mine to be with them. In my judgment,” continued he, “there are but these couple of proper causes for a whip to be seen for’ard:—when hounds are to be stopped, and when ordered to clap to an open earth or hold a fox in covert, if not on such terms that we can run him.”
“But you seldom give me the chance of doing the last,” returned his nephew.
“And the less the better,” added Will Sykes. “It’s too much like mobbing a fox to please me; but still there are occasions, as in lifting hounds, to justify us in so doing. If the scent be cold and the fox a long way ahead, so that hounds can’t hunt, we must, in order to have any chance, get them nearer to him, and then it is that a whip may get for’ard to the point and head him in.”
“But this only applies to a fresh fox, I suppose?” said Ned Adams.
“To be sure,” responded his uncle,“unless, indeed, he’s a dying one: for then, as he can show no more sport, the sooner he is killed the better. I’m one of the last men living,” continued the huntsman, emphatically, “to kill a fox by either lifting hounds or any other means, except by a fair find—a fair rattle from scent to view, and pulling him down when he can’t run any farther. But it isn’t every day that we can have such cream of sport; and for any one to say that it’s unjustifiable to lift or assist hounds to run when they can’t hunt, or that we should never hold a fox in covert, is to acknowledge himself to be too tame a hand for a killer of foxes.”
“Nobody will accuse you of being that,” rejoined his nephew, laughing, “if they count the noses on the kennel-door at the end of each season.”
“I hope not,” returned the huntsman, seriously. “I hope,” continued he, “that when Will Sykes’s tally comes to be reckoned up and squared, those noses will go in the scales with his morals, and make ’em kick the beam.”
It has been said that Will Sykes possessed a wide circle of admirers; and therefore to bequite silent upon the matter respecting his nephew, would be an act approaching injustice; for, although the number was more choice, and—to be strictly correct—comprised no old women whatever, yet there is no question but every pretty, young, and unmarried one within the wide range of Ned’s jaunts and wanderings might be fairly registered among them. And no wonder; for Ned was spruce and handsome, and had soft looks, and yet softer words, for those with whom he wished to be in favour. His jest and laugh, too, were free and hearty; and where-ever he went, “Welcome” awaited him.
The short sketches of those in immediate authority would still be incomplete if Old Mark the Feeder was allowed to escape observation. Whether he possessed a surname is a subject known only to himself; for nobody ever heard him spoken of, or to, but as “Old Mark.” From infancy he had been employed in the kennel, and owed his want of promotion to a nervous inability to become a horseman. No exertions on his own part, or those of others, could render him anything like competent to ride to hounds; and the result was that, after a long and patient trial to obtainthis necessary accomplishment for a whipper-in, Mark was compelled to abandon the design, and to fall back on his former position. After this, no second attempt was made; and so years and years rolled on, and at length discovered the failure of a whipper-in in Old Mark the feeder. As may be supposed from his long experience, no one knew more about us than he did; and the moment his practised eye fell on a hound, he could instantly tell a defective point, let it be never so trifling. Proud and enthusiastic in his calling, the courts and lodging-houses were always clean, dry, and wholesome; and, late or early, the old man never allowed the most insignificant part of his duties to pass unfinished. The feet of each were carefully examined after returning home, and if foot-sore, washed with bran, warm water, and vinegar. A warm bath, too was also in readiness, and plenty of clean straw to roll in for the purpose of drying.
Little can be said of Mark’s outward man; for his back was crooked—perchance from continually bending over the troughs and copper—and his legs were lean and long, like a daddy-long-legs; but one of the bestattributes of human nature sat reflected in his mild, open, honest face; and that was gentle kindness of heart. Oh! if the world was more thickly populated with “Old Marks,” how many hearts and hides would cease to throb with anguish!
“In the barn the tenant-cock,Close to partlet, perched on high,Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock),Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.”
“In the barn the tenant-cock,Close to partlet, perched on high,Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock),Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.”
“In the barn the tenant-cock,
Close to partlet, perched on high,
Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock),
Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.”
With a yawn, a stretch, and a shake, Trimbush completed his toilet one misty morning, just as a neighbouring cock had thrice thrown his chivalrous challenge on the breeze, and invited me, with a crack of his stern across my muzzle, to follow his early example of industry.
“Come,” said he, “it’s time to be awake and stirring. How do ye fare?”
“Hearty and hungry,” replied I, reluctantly arousing myself from a dream of enjoyment.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “You’ll have to wait, then,” continued he,“till sunset for a meal, unless you earn a share for yourself.”
“How so?” inquired I.
“This will be the first meet o’ the season, and your first day of regular work. Mind,” said Trimbush, admonishingly, as he showed a long row of very white and strong teeth, “to let me see that you have profited by my lessons and the experience you’ve had in cub-hunting, or your jacket may be well shaken when least expected.”
“You needn’t begin to threaten,” rejoined I, somewhat indignantly, “without any cause. A rate’s well enough,” I continued, “when a fault is committed; but there’s no occasion to meet it half-way.”
“True,” returned Trimbush, “quite true; and your remark only proves that a young head may sometimes correct an old tongue, despite what may be said to the contrary. One of the greatest faults with all whippers-in,” resumed he, “is the rating us in anticipation of our doing wrong; or, after committing it, before soaking in the double-thong; whereas, they should wait until the cause is given, and then—after blistering us with the flax—proceed to lecture upon theimpropriety of the conduct. It’s quite remarkable what effect a sound drubbing has upon the memory.”
“I shall not forget the first I received,” observed I.
“But you’ll never repeat that riot,” significantly returned Trimbush. “It was a christening not to slip through the memory as if it had no knots tied in it.”
“But then,” added I, “in coming across the slot of deer, the scent was so sweet and grateful that I couldn’t refrain from carrying a head.”
“Well,” said Trimbush, “like luxuries of other descriptions, you paid for the enjoyment.”
“And dear as the cost was,” replied I, “it’s very doubtful whether I might not be inclined to have another flutter at the same feather.”
“What! swallow a hackle of the dog that bit ye?” rejoined my friend.
“It’s a common case, I’ve heard, with our betters,” returned I.
“Right again,” added my companion. “Fire puts out fire.”
“I suppose,” observed I, “that you’vefelt, before now, an inclination to repeat an error, convinced as ye may have been of its impropriety.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Trimbush, drawing in the breath between his teeth with a hissing sound; “that I have. We are as clannish as Scotsmen, and support each other through thick and thin, in the same mortar-an’-brick fashion. If one of us is a marked and confirmed rebel, he seldom repeats his fault without lots of company to back him. The season before last, a hound was sent here from the north country, and as sulky and ill-tempered a brute as was ever seen in a kennel. We all hated him; and yet, strange as it may appear, upon Ned Adams attempting to drive him from the lodging-house one morning, in consequence of his refusal to come when called, he flew at him, and, fastening upon his shoulder, was instantly joined by half the hounds in the court.”
“I can’t understand that,” replied I.
“The cause lies in our blood and bone,” rejoined my friend. “The impulse with us,” continued he, “is paramount—to follow the leader however wrong he may be in his example.”
“And what was the finish of this attack on Ned Adams?” inquired I.
“But for his lusty lungs for help,” replied Trimbush, “it might have gone hard with him. However, Will Sykes, Tom Holt, and Old Mark quickly made their appearance, and put an end to the fray with little difficulty. As for our new companion, we never saw him afterwards.”
“He was sent away, I suppose?” remarked I.
“Yes,” returned Trimbush, “to dance in the air with a hempen cord round his throttle.”
“And no wonder, either,” added I, “for such an offence.”
“Breaking up a whipper-in is certainly no joke,” said my companion. “But there was one picked as clean as ivory once, without any unpleasant interruption to the spread.”
“Gracious powers!” ejaculated I, “what do you mean?”
“Simply what I have said,” replied Trimbush, licking his jaws with a peculiar relish, and coolly adding, “I had a hand in the supper.”
“You?” I exclaimed.
“Listen,” returned the old hound, checking my impetuosity, “and you shall hear. I was not bred in this kennel, but came from the west at the end of my first season. It so happened that about the middle of this season, and when all of us were full of fire and devilry, our regular whipper-in died, and his place became filled by a perfect stranger to us. His cottage being within a short distance, he could hear any quarrel or disturbance, and was ready to quell it at a moment’s notice. Trifles light as air, I’ve heard, will frequently cause the most vital consequences; and such was the case that I am alluding to. A ray of the moon, streaming through a chink in the door of our lodging-house, occasioned a hound of the name of Restless to bay it. This broke the sleep of all; and in a few minutes a regular fight began, each running a-muck and attacking friend and foe with equal want of consideration. In order to quell the row, the whipper-in made his appearance amongst us, as he quitted his bed, undressed; but scarcely had he lifted the latch of the entrance, when—not recognising his voice or his person—he was seized by the throat; and, before the morning light, there was nothing leftbut a cleanly picked skeleton.”
“I’m not surprised at his death, under the circumstances,” rejoined I; “but to eat him!”
“In my opinion,” added Trimbush, “that was the most innocent part of the affair.”
“And how,” said I, curious to learn further particulars, “how did he taste?”
“Take my word for it,” replied the old hound, in a tone and manner conveying much conviction of the correctness of the assertion, “take my word for it,” repeated he, “that with a little broth, daintier food could not be eaten.”
“Who was the first to discover the remains?”
“Our feeder,” returned he.
“And what did he say?”
“Well!” added Trimbush, scratching an ear with his off hind foot, as if tickled with the reminiscence which the question created, “I should observe, in the first place,” continued he, “that Harry Bolton, our feeder, was one of the coolest fellows that ever boiled a copper of kit, and never known to exhibit the slightest astonishment at anything. Whenever he read an astounding piece ofnews in theCounty Chronicle—natural phenomenon, accident, or offence, or anything sufficient to cause the generality of his neighbours’ hair to stand on end was related to him—his short unchanging observation was, ‘Shouldn’t wonder!’ However, thought I, the ice of your surprise will be broken at last.”
“And was it?” inquired I.
“You shall hear,” resumed Trimbush. “When Harry came to the kennel, as was his wont just at break o’ day, and his eyes fell on the white bones of the unfortunate whipper-in spread upon the ground, he continued puffing a short black pipe, constantly between his lips, for a few seconds in silence, and then taking it from them with a slow deliberate movement, ejaculated, ‘Shouldn’t wonder! D—n me if they an’t hashed the whip.’”
“And was that all he said?” I asked.
“Every word,” returned my companion.
At this moment Will Sykes arrived mounted, accompanied by the two whippers-in; and to his order, Mark threw back the door of the court upon its hinges, and out we rushed with a chorus of merry tongues ringing for our freedom, and the joy that we knew to be in store for us.
“Unkennelling hounds,” remarked Trimbush, as we trotted along the road, side by side, “is one great illustrative fact of the difference between high-bred and low-bred animals. A puddle-blooded mongrel, or one of low caste, licks and fondles only the hand that gives himfood; but we, and all possessing similar tendencies, love him and those who show and give ussport. See the difference with which we hail our feeder’s appearance, and that of our huntsman. We have affection for both; but there is no comparison between either the kind or strength of the feeling.”
“We may like Will, too, all the better,” I observed, “on account of his not flogging us.”
“A huntsman should never use the thong,” replied my companion. “It should be his study to be on such terms of friendship and good-will with his pack, that each hound is ready to fly to his voice like a bird to her nest; and among the varied tempers and dispositions which he has to deal with, this is impossible if he unites with his office the duties of whip.”
“I always feel inclined to head just theother way when I hear Ned Adams,” observed I.
“To be sure,” returned Trimbush. “The thrashed hound fears the whip; and getting away to his cry of ‘for’ard’ is as essential as obeying the huntsman’s horn; but the feelings for the two are far from being akin.”
We now turned a sharp angle in the lane, down which we were gently trotting: and on a large open piece of waste ground—the coarse grass, patches of thistles and rushes, being cropped by a few donkeys and a flock of desolate-looking geese—my eyes first saw the assembled members of “our hunt.”
Deny it who will—it is a heart-stirring, gladsome, inspiring,Englishsight, to witness a country gentleman and popular master in the field. There are his friends and neighbours, his tenants and yeomen, stout and true, his servants and dependents, met together for a noble amusement, and one which unites them in the bond of goodly fellowship. It has been well observed, “What is a gentleman without his recreations?” and, to alter the query slightly, it might be said, “What is acountrygentleman unless he be asportsman?” Like a fish out of water, a bull in achina shop, a bear in a tea-garden, or anything else strangely awkward and much out of his element.
There they were, in showy red and Lincoln green, in leather, cords, and kersey drabs; white tops, brown, and black; hats, caps, and thatch; some mounted and some afoot. From the high-mettled hunter with his shot-silk and glistening coat, to the rough and shaggy tailor’s pony; in short, all sizes, shapes, colours, and conditions, might be seen congregated, expectant, and prepared for our arrival.
“Here they are!” shouted an urchin, perched on the topmost limb of a tree. “Here they are!” repeated he, hallooing to the stretch of his lungs; and then a whooping crew of his fellows took up the cry, making the welkin echo with their din.
“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Will Sykes, touching the peak of his cap; and during a short delay, waiting the arrival of the Squire, he proceeded to point out the young hounds, making me an especial object of notice.
“What’s his pedigwee?” lisped a pale-faced gentleman in spectacles, famous forriding hard along roads and over nothing but hounds at check.
“By Osbaldeston’s Furrier out of Crafty, sir,” replied the huntsman.
“By Fuwier out of Quafty!” repeated the interrogator.
“Yes,” rejoined Will; “and I’m much mistaken if he doesn’t equal the celebrity of his father.”
“What do you call him?” further inquired he of the ghostly countenance.
“Ringwood, sir,” returned the huntsman.
“Wingwood, eh?” added the questioner.
“That’s one of the sort,” said Trimbush to me, “I was mentioning some time ago. He comes out just to show himself and have an excuse for wearing a red coat; but as for taking any interest in either the sport or us, he fears the one and knows nothing of the other. A man, from age, or other causes, may be unable to ride straight and live with us, and yet take as much pleasure in joining the meet, nicking in, and pottering on to the end of a run, as those who are in the first flight from the find to the finish; but I am certain, from what I have seen, that if a man is so naturally timid as to be afraid to ride tohounds, he can never be—in the sense of the word—a foxhunter.”
“And who is he?” I asked, pointing to a thick-set and jolly-looking man in a green coat, and occupied in the act of taking up the girths of his saddle.
“A very different description of sportsman,” replied Trimbush; “that’s farmer Stockdale, a tenant of the Squire’s, who has forgotten more about hounds and hunting than the majority of men ever learn. You see,” he continued, “that he’s making a careful examination of his horse, and the few alterations necessary, whilst there is plenty of time; as none but the greenhorns leave them to the last moment. I remember a man, upon one occasion, tightening a curb-chain at the moment we unkennelled our fox; and such were the impatient plunges of his horse, that he could not mount him again in time to get away with us, and he never saw an inch of the run—long and gallant as it proved.”
My attention being turned to a young man superbly mounted, and dressed with the most scrupulous care, I inquired of my companion if he was one of the timid school.
“No,” rejoined Trimbush; “thathe isnot. From the delicate look of his boots, breeches and gloves, one might feel disposed to imagine that he was not in the habit of dirtying them; but so far from that being the case, he is not only the boldest but the best rider in the hunt—for the two do not always go together. It used to be thought,” continued he, “by men of the old school, that a white top was the certain mark of a he-haw, know-nothing, gal-drawing, watering-place snob; but I have no hesitation in saying that the white tops of the present day could show the dark and mahogany ones their heels without the slightest difficulty, or more than ordinary exertion.”
“You think, then, that men ride bolder and better now?” I remarked.
“Without a doubt of it,” replied Trimbush. “The stamp of horse—thorough-bred and up to the mark in condition—the pace we go, and the modern style ofracinga fox down, require both bolder and better riding than in the days when they found him at cock-crow and killed him at noon. Not only is courage indispensable to be near the ‘sinking one,’ but hands, head, and heels must be exercised with the best of judgment. I grin,”continued he, “to see a first-flight man, after a fifteen minutes’ burst, blown to a stand-still; while farmer Stockdale gives him the go-by with his goose-rumped, short-legged, long-necked nag, just in the wind.”
“And does that often take place?” I inquired.
“Very frequently,” replied my companion. “Head and hands will beat heels all the world over.”
At this moment the Squire came trotting briskly up on his hack; and as he rode through the throng, hats were lifted and salutations exchanged. Our master, be it remembered, although an old English gentleman, was not a gentleman of the old school. He neither swore the roundest oaths, nor horsewhipped those whom he dared or could afford to pay; he boasted not of the number of bottles it took to make him oblivious of sublunary matters, or laughed only at the practical joke and coarsest jest. His object was not to be the oracle of grooms and stable-boys, or the subject of discussion in the village tap-room. With an affable bearing, he possessed a kind and generous disposition, and a heart more ready to befriend the deserving and destitute thanto check the imposter and depraved. His house was one wherein hospitality reigned the seasons round; and it mattered not who were the guests, a hearty welcome awaited each and all. In the pursuit, too, of his favourite sport, he never permitted an injury to pass unrecompensed, although careful that no false application should succeed. Not a gate nor a bar was broken, a head of poultry lostsuspiciously, or the most trifling damage done, but what, instantly and liberally, amends were made. Sternly discountenancing all unfair riding over wheat, young grass, and layers, he was regarded by the farmers as a friend to their interests; and so far from objecting to a fixture in their neighbourhood, they were glad when it came to their turn. By proper and simple judicious means the end is always attainable; and if those masters of hounds who complain of a dearth of foxes, and opposition to their sport, would but take a memorandum out of the note-book of “our Squire,” many a blank day might be rendered as fruitful as the vine “clustering with a thousand rings.”
“HEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELS.”
“HEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELS.”
“For easy the lesson of the youthful trainWhen instinct prompts, and when example guides.”
“For easy the lesson of the youthful trainWhen instinct prompts, and when example guides.”
“For easy the lesson of the youthful train
When instinct prompts, and when example guides.”
“I hope I’m to my time,” said the Squire, pulling out his watch. “Yes,” continued he, glancing at the dial, “to a minute.”
Immediately after the Squire’s arrival, we were thrown into the cover, and, when about the middle of it, I saw Trimbush feather his stern, and before I could reach him he threw his tongue, and, as he did so, Will Sykes gave a cheer which Echo took pleasure to repeat.
“Hark to Trimbush! Hark to Trimbush! Have at him! Whoop!”
We clustered to him, and, poking my nose to the ground, I drew in a scent which madeevery hackle on my body stiffen with delight. Up went my head, and forth I sent some music that came from my very heart.
“See that puppy,” said the Squire. “How he loves it.”
“Have at him, Ringwood,” hallooed the huntsman, rising in his stirrups. “Have at him, good hound!” and then, turning to the Squire, I heard him remark, “He’s a perfect wonder, sir.”
“Yes,” was the reply, “he’s the most promising I have ever seen.”
We now got to our fox in a body, and crashed him through the cover. Full swing we flew, and, as we swept out of the furze, I was astonished to lose the scent which we had carried so strong up to the corner of the brake, and flung myself here and there to pick it up again. Most of us were sorely puzzled for a few seconds, when Trimbush, after stooping his nose to the ground for some distance, down wind and up, along the verge of the cover, said to me, “The artful dodger’s slipped back, and shot into the brake again.”
“Tally-ho! tally-ho! Gone away,” hallooed a voice from the farthest end of the cover.
“I told you so,” said Trimbush. “We were too close to him, and he headed back to make the distance greater at the burst.”
I now sniffed the scent again, and, thinking I was showing off, made as much noise as I possibly could.
“Keep your tongue still,” snapped Trimbush. “Like most puppies, two-legged and four, if they possess a good voice, they seldom exhibit equal good sense in using it.”
Twing, twing, twang, twa—a—ng, went Will Sykes’s horn, as he jammed his horse through bush and briar.
“For’ard, for’ard,” shouted Tom Holt. “Get to him, hounds, get to him.”
“Come along,” said Trimbush. “Stick to me.”
“What a clean, fine, lengthy fellow he is!” I heard some one remark. “His point’s Picton Brake.”
“Yes,” replied another. “His brush must be two feet: and what a snowy tag to it!”
“Indeed!” observed Trimbush. “Then we’ll give it such a dusting as to change its colour pretty quickly.”
A bunch of old hounds flew out of cover with us, and, taking up the scent, away werattled in a body, as close as a swarm of bees.
“They won’t over-ride us to-day,” remarked I.
“Not if the scent lasts as good as it is,” replied Trimbush; “but that’s doubtful.”
For fifteen minutes we burst him along as hard as we could split. The day was fine and warm, and, sinking the wind, the pace began to tell most terribly upon some of us young ones.
“I feel very choky,” said I, doing my best to keep my place.
“Hold on,” returned Trimbush. “He must have crossed the Kulm stream, and there we shall get a cooling plunge.”
In a handful of seconds we neared the water, and dashed into it with as much delight as a flock of thirsty ducks.
“Now,” said Trimbush, “you’ll be able to reach the brake, where, I’d bet my stern to a buck rabbit’s scut, he’ll hang as long as he can and dare.”
“Why so?” inquired I.
“Why so!” repeated Trimbush, rather contemptuously. “Because he must know by this time that he can’t outrun us. The scent’stoo good, and we got away with him on such terms that nothing but reaching a strong earth, or changing to a fresh fox, can save him.”
“We must try to keep to our hunted one,” said I, thinking it was exhibiting some wisdom.
“Try!” repeated my friend; “of course we shall try. We always do; but it’s sometimes impossible to distinguish the difference between the scent of our hunted fox and a fresh one. It’s easy enough, when a fox is viewed, to know, because it can be seen whether he’s been shoved along at the expense of his bellows and toilet; but our noses can’t be depended upon.”
As Trimbush said, upon gaining the brake we found the fox hanging in it; and, although very hot, we gave him such a towelling, that, so far from improving his condition, he had better have taken to his pads and faced the open. I saw him a dozen times in cover, and his red rag hung from his open jaws, and his brush dragged along the ground. We pressed him up and down across the rides at a killing pace, and although there was no bullying by holding him in cover, and every opportunitygiven him to quit it, he still stuck to his quarters.
“You shall either run or die,” said Trimbush, going through the cover like a bullet.
A clear, musical “Tally-ho” now echoed far and wide.
“Gone away at last, eh?” observed my friend, and, throwing up his head, he rushed to the halloo.
“Hold hard!” roared the Squire, as one, too eager, rode nearly over me as I leaped from the cover. “You almost killed, sir,” continued he, “the best of my young entry, and perhaps the most valuable puppy I ever bred.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; but my horse pulls so, that——”
“Then he is not fit to ride to hounds, sir,” hastily rejoined the Squire.
Being high on our mettle, we flashed forward, after just touching the scent on a dry-lying fallow, thinking that we had struck on his line; but Trimbush, and a few of the old hounds, soon found that they were wrong, and, throwing up their heads, came to a check.
“Let them alone,” said the Squire, as WillSykes indicated a disposition to make a hasty cast down wind. “Let them alone,” repeated he.
“He’s certain to be making for the belt of covers on the ridge, sir,” replied Will, “and the ploughs are so dry that it is impossible for hounds to carry it over them.”
“Let them alone,” quietly rejoined the Squire. “Let them alone.”
“When allowed to make our own casts, which we always should at first,” remarked Trimbush, poking his nose to the ground, “we try down wind first, because that’s the way foxes constantly run. It’s time enough to cast up when we’ve made good the cast down. Humph!” continued he, as if puzzled, “I begin to think Will’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” inquired I.
“I don’t fancy he’s pointed for the covers on the ridge,” returned Trimbush; “let’s see whether he hasn’t headed back,” continued he.
We now tried up wind, and, sure enough, hit it off again under a hedgerow.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “He’s a sinking one, and has turned to die.”
We now rattled on full swing over acommon, and on climbing a steep hill I saw a magpie darting to the ground and then rising high in the air to swoop again.
“What’s that chattering pie doing?” inquired I, directing Trimbush’s attention to the bird.
“Mobbing him,” replied he. “The magpie, jay and crow love to mob a sinking fox. Keep your eye forward; it will soon be from scent to view.”
“Are those covers strong?” I asked, seeing that we were making for a long line of trees.
“Little more than spinnies,” replied my friend. “He can’t hang in them a minute.”
We drove him through these little covers without let, check, or stop; and at the last, out he flew in view of all of us. We rushed at him like greyhounds from the slips; but, with a desperate effort to save his life, he managed to dash round the corner of a barn, and, as we turned, I saw him slipping along on the top of a thick square-topped hawthorn fence, and, springing upon the trunk of a tree covered with ivy, disappear. None of the others saw this artful dodge; but all flashed forward, and were bewildered at not eitherviewing or being able to hit him off. Trimbush flung himself here and there in a perfect fury, and would not pay the smallest attention to what I had to say.
“Put your nose down and work,” said he passionately, “don’t talk to me.”
“But I tell you——”
“Pshaw!” interrupted Trimbush. “What’s your head in the air for?”
“Because thefoxis in the air,” replied I.
“What do you mean?” asked he, seeing that I was serious.
I then told him that which I had seen, and inquired what I should do.
“Hold your tongue,” returned the artful old rogue; “it shows a wise head, I’ve heard. Leave the matter to me.”
In order to monopolize the whole of the credit to himself, Trimbush galloped to the tree and dashed at it, in the attempt to climb the knarled and knotted trunk.
“What’s that hound about?” said the Squire, looking greatly astonished.
I now saw that Trimbush would get all the praise of discovering our fox’s hiding place, and felt greatly vexed with myself that I had not gone at once to the tree and thrown mytongue. The rest now clustered round the leader, who, managing to stick and cling to the ivy, got some dozen feet from the ground.
“He’s gone to tree, sir,” said Will Sykes, exultingly, as he threw himself from the saddle.
“That he has,” returned the Squire, scarcely knowing which to be—more astonished or pleased.
To the infinite surprise of the field, who came dropping up one by one, they saw the huntsman drag a fox by the brush from a hollow in the tree, and catching him by the neck to prevent the visitation of his grinders, hold him up over his head with a halloo that might wake the dead.
“Who-whoop, who-whoop!” cried Tom Holt.
“Who-whoop, who-who-whoop!” hallooed Ned Adams, in his good and choice voice, which always had the effect of working us into a frenzy.
“He’d give us a run now,” lisped a young gentleman in pink, “if he was turned down and had a little law given him.”
I could have bitten his head off.