THE PICTURESQUE SPORT.
“Resounds the glad hollo,
The pack scents the prey;
Man and horse follow,
Away, hark away!
Away, never fearing,
Ne’er slacken your pace--
What music so cheering
As that of the chase.”
It is dawn. The cool black darkness pales to tender gray. Singeth not
the ballad-monger--
“A southerlie wind, a clouded skye
Doe proclaime it huntynge morning?”
Now the long notes of mellow-winded horns come strongly up-wind,
undervoiced with a whimpering chorus from the hounds. The fox-hunters
are out. What a picture! Eleven blue-grass beauties, all roundnesses
and curves, mounted upon eleven Kentucky horses. An equal number of
cavaliers put in, made a fair and gallant sight. The company willingly
recognized as their chief, the new arrival and visitor, whose noble
head and clear-cut features were really quite imposing. Cherokee
started out as his companion, and she occupied, with sufficient
majesty, her place of triumph. She was upon “Sylvan,” a splendid
lead-white horse, who was the pride and pet of her care. What a
horse--what a rider! Where could you find such hand, seat, horse,
rider--so entirely, so harmoniously, at one? It is a rhythm of motion,
wherein grace has wedded strength. Mark the fire, the spirit of the
beast; his noble lift of head, arching neck, with its silky, flowing
mane; his clean flat leg, his streaming tail of silver shining. How he
loves his mistress who sits him so light, so firm, so easily swaying;
she bends him to her will by master-strength; yet pats and soothes
as she might a frightened child. Sweetness and strength! that is all
the magic. The rein is a channel through which intelligence goes most
subtly. Good Sylvan knows and loves his rider--feels her vividly to the
core of his quick sense; will serve her unquestioning to the limit of
his speed and stay.
The hunters have started in a south-easterly direction, the
musical-winding of horns, wreathing like a thread of gold, through the
heart of the town.
Listen! they are now at the creek ford; hear the splash and beat of
hoofs. The dogs ahead, are running in leaping circles through field
and wood. A whimpering challenge comes sharply from the left; nobody
heeds it--it is only the puppy, out for a first run, as yet scarce
knowing the scent he seeks. Most likely he is trailing a rabbit--but
no; a bell-like note echoes him. Trumpet, king of the pack, cries loud
and free--all the rest break out in thrilling jangle, and set all the
valley a-ring. Up, up, it swells, truly a jocund noise, under these low
pale clouds, this watery moon, this reddening east. They are headed up
wind, the cool air goes back heavy-freighted with the wild dog-music.
Hoof-beats sound sharply through it. Sylvan is close behind the leading
hound. What sharp, exultant shrilling comes out from the followers’
throats. All the hunt is whooping, yelling, as it streams through dusk
of dawn. Up, then down, they go; along a gentle slope from whose sparse
flints the hoofs strike fire. A fair world smiles up from either hand,
but they have no eye, no thought for it. The thrilling, breathless
motion wraps them away from other senses; they are drunken with “wine
o’ the morning.” Truly, it is the breath of life they draw, in this
rush through the dew-fresh air.
Note the leader now, urging his mare; what feet are hers--small,
firm, unerring. Her skimming gallop is as the flight of a bird--her
leap a veritable soar. See! the fox has doubled; now the full cry
rings down-wind. See the dogs tumbling, writhing over that crooked
fence. They had been running always on view--heads up, tails down--so
close upon their quarry there was no need to lay nose to the tainted
herbage that he had crossed. They caught the scent hot in the air. All
the hunters knew it when they heard the last wild burst of furious
dog-music. So hearing, they sat straighter in the saddle, gave the
good beasts the spur; a little while and they would be “in at the
death;” the next field, certainly the next hill-side, must bring it.
So they crash, pell-mell, over the low roadside fence, as the hounds
top the high one bounding the pasture land. But now Trumpet stops
short, flings his nose to wind, and sets up a whimpering cry--he has
lost the trail. The fox has either dodged back under the horses’ feet,
or hidden so snug that the dogs have over-run him. Look at the true
creatures, panting with lolling tongues, as they run crying about
the field, dazed out of all weariness by this astounding check. A
minute--two--three--still the trail is lost. There is babble of yelps
and shouting, each master calling loudly to his most trusted hound.
The leader’s horse champs on the bit, frets lightly against the rein.
Sylvan, too, prances gaily under check. This ringing run has but
well breathed him--the noise of it has set his fine blood afire. Soon
a horn breaks faintly out, is instantly from lip, and all the field
is in motion. The fox is cunning, but Trumpet is cunninger. He has
followed the fence a hundred yards, picked up the trail where the sly
thing leaped to earth after running along the rails, and is after
it, calling, with deepest notes, to man and beast to follow and save
the honors of the field. How straight he goes; his fellows streaming
after can do no more than yelp, as with great leaping bounds they
devour the grassy space. Nearer, nearer he comes to the dark, sweated,
hunted thing that seems a mere shadow on the ground in front of him,
so straight, so skimming is his steady flight toward the bluff beyond;
his den is there. To it he strains, yet never shall he gain. Almost
Trumpet is upon the prize; his hot breath overruns it; it darts aside,
doubles--but all in vain. Quickly, cruelly, his jaws close upon it. The
leading horseman, Robert, snatches it away, and blows a long blast of
his horn. Trumpet stands aquiver with delight, and leaps up for a pat
of the hand, while Robert flings the dead fox at his feet before the
eyes of all the field.