EVERY hound having at length sniffed and snuffed, and sniffed and
snuffed, to satiety, Solomon now essays to assist them by casting
round the flat of smoke-infected ground. He makes the ‘head good
first, which manouvre hitting off the scent, he is hailed and
applauded as a conqueror. Never was such a huntsman as Solomon!
First harrier huntsman in England! Worth any money is a huntsman!
The again clamorous pack bustle up the sheep-path, at such a pace
as sends the leaders hurrying far beyond the scent. Then the rear
rush to the front, and a general spread of bewildered, benighted,
confusion ensues.
“Where _has_ she got to?” is the question.
“Doubled!” mutters the disappointed Major, reining in his steed.
“Squatted!” exclaims Mr. Rintoul, who always sported an opinion.
“Hold hard!” cries Mr. Trail, though they were all at a
standstill; but then he wished to let them know he was there.
The leading hounds retrace their steps, and again essay to carry
the scent forward. The second effort is attended with the same
result as the first. They cannot get it beyond the double.
“Cunning animal!” mutters the Major, eyeing their endeavours.
“Far more hunt with a hare nor a fox,” now observes Mr. Bonnet,
raising his white hat to cool his bald head.
“Far!” replies Mr. Faulder, thinking he must be off.
“If it weren’t for the red coats there wouldn’t be so many
fox-hunters,” chuckles old Duffield, who dearly loves roast hare.
Solomon is puzzled; but as he doesn’t profess to be wiser than
the hounds, he just lets them try to make it out for themselves.
If they can’t wind her, he can’t: so the old sage sits like a
statue.
At length the majority give her up.
And now Springer and Pitfall, and two or three other pedestrians
who have been attracted from their work by the music of the
hounds, and have been enjoying the panorama of the chase with
their pipes from the summit of an inside hill, descend to see if
they can either prick her or pole her.
Down go their heads as if they were looking for a pin.—The
hounds, however, have obliterated all traces of her, and they
soon have recourse to their staves.
_Bang, bang, bang_, they beat the gorse and broom and juniper
bushes with vigorous sincerity. Crack, flop, crack, go the field
in aid of their endeavours. Solomon leans with his hounds to the
left, which is lucky for puss, for though she withstood the
downward blow of Springer’s pole on her bush, a well-directed
side thrust sends her flying out in a state of the greatest
excitement. What an outburst of joy the sight of her occasioned!
Hounds, horses, riders, all seemed to participate in the common
enthusiasm! How they whooped, and halloo’d and shouted! enough to
frighten the poor thing out of her wits. Billy and the field have
a grand view of her, for she darts first to the right, then to
the left, then off the right and again to the left, ere she tucks
her long legs under her and strides up Kleeope hill at a pace
that looks quite unapproachable. Faulder alone remains where he
is, muttering “fresh har” as she goes.
The Major and all the rest of the field hug their horses and tear
along in a state of joyous excitement, for they see her life is
theirs. They keep the low ground and jump with the hounds at the
bridlegate between Greenlaw sheep-walks and Hindhope cairn just
as Lovely hits the scent off over the boundary wall, and the rest
of the pack endorse her note. They are now on fresh ground, which
greatly aids the efforts of the hounds, who push on with a head
that the Major thinks ought to procure them a compliment from
Billy. Our friend, however, keeps all his compliments for the
ladies, not being aware that there is anything remarkable in the
performance, which he now begins to wish at an end. He has ridden
as long as he likes, quite as much as Mr. Spavin, or any of the
London livery stable-keepers, would let him have for
half-a-guinea. Indeed he wishes he mayn’t have got more than is
good for him.
The Major meanwhile, all energy and enthusiasm, rides gallantly
forward, for though he is no great hand among the enclosures, he
makes a good fight in the hills, especially when, as now, he
knows every yard of the country. Many’s the towl he’s had over
it, though to look at his excited face one would think this was
his first hunt. He’ll now “bet half-a-crown they kill her!” He’ll
“bet a guinea they kill her!” He’ll “bet a fi-pun note they kill
her!” He’ll “bet half the national debt they kill her!” as
Dainty, and Lovely, and Bustler, after dwelling and hesitating
over some rushy ground, at length proclaim the scent beyond.
Away they all sweep like the careering wind. On follow the field
in glorious excitement. A flock of black-faced sheep next foil
the ground—sheep as wild, if not wilder, than the animal the
hounds are pursuing. We often think, when we see these
strong-scented animals scouring the country, that a good beast of
chase has been overlooked for the stag. Why shouldn’t an old wiry
black-faced tup, with his wild sparkling eyes and spiral horns,
afford as good a run as a home-fed deer? Start the tup in his own
rough region, and we will be bound to say he will give the hounds
and their followers a scramble. The Major now denounces the
flying flock—“Oh, those nasty muttons!” exclaims he, “bags of
bone rather, for they won’t be meat these five years. Wonder how
any sane people can cultivate such animals.”
The hounds hunt well through the difficulty, or the Major would
have been more savage still. On they go, yapping and towling, and
howling as before, the Major’s confidence in a kill increasing at
every stride.
The terror-striking shouts that greeted poor puss’s exit from the
bush, have had the effect as well of driving her out of her
country as of pressing her beyond her strength; and she has no
sooner succeeded in placing what she hopes is a comfortable
distance between herself and her pursuers, than she again has
recourse to those tricks with which nature has so plentifully
endowed her. Sinking the hill she makes for the little enclosed
allotments below, and electing a bare fallow—bare, except in the
matter of whicken grass—she steals quietly in, and commences her
performances on the least verdant part of it.
First she described a small circle, then she sprung into the
middle of it and squatted. Next she jumped up and bounded out in
a different direction to the one by which she had entered. She
then ran about twenty yards up a furrow, retracing her steps
backwards, and giving a roll near where she started from. Then
she took three bounding springs to the left, which landed her on
the hard headland, and creeping along the side of the wall she
finally popped through the water-hole, and squeezed into an
incredibly small space between the kerbstone and the gate-post.
There she lay with her head to the air, panting and heaving, and
listening for her dread pursuers coming. O what agony was hers!
Presently the gallant band came howling and towling over the
hill, in all the gay delirium of a hunt without leaps—the Major
with difficulty restraining their ardour as he pointed out the
brilliance of the performance to Billy—“Most splendid running!
most capital hunting! most superb pack!” with a sly “_pish_” and
“_shaw_” at foxhounds in general, and Sir Mosey’s in particular.
The Major hadn’t got over the Bo-peep business, and never would.
The pack now reached the scene of Puss’s frolics, and the music
very soon descended from a towering tenour to an insignificant
whimper, which at length died out altogether. Soloman and Bulldog
were again fixtures, Solomon as usual with his hand up beckoning
silence. He knew how weak the scent must be, and how important it
was to keep quiet at such a critical period; and let the hounds
hit her off if they could.
Puss had certainly given them a Gordian knot to unravel, and not
all the hallooing and encouragement in the world could drive them
much beyond the magic circle she had described. Whenever the hunt
seemed likely to be re-established, it invariably resulted in a
return to the place from whence they started. They couldn’t get
forward with it at all, and poked about, and tested the same
ground over and over again.
It was a regular period or full stop.
“Very rum,” observed Caleb Rennison, looking first at his
three-year-old, then at his watch, thinking that it was about
pudding-time.
“She’s surely a witch,” said Mr. Wotherspoon, taking a prolonged
pinch of snuff.
“‘We’ll roast her for one at all events,” laughed Mr. Trail, the
auctioneer, still hoping to get her.
“First catch your hare, says Mrs. Somebody,” responded Captain
Nabley, eyeing the sorely puzzled pack.
“O ketch her! we’re sure to ketch her,” observed Mr. Nettlefold,
chucking up his chin and dismounting.
“Not so clear about that,” muttered Mr. Rintoul, as Lovely, and
Bustler, and Lilter, again returned to repeat the search.
“If those hounds can’t own her, there are no hounds in England
can,” asserted the Major, anxious to save the credit of his pack
before the—he feared—too critical stranger.
At this depressing moment, again come the infantry, and commence
the same system of peering and poking that marked their descent
on the former occasion.
And now poor puss being again a little recruited, steals out of
her hiding-place, and crosses quietly along the outside of the
wall to where a flock of those best friends to a hunted hare,
some newly-smeared, white-faced sheep, were quietly nibbling at
the halfgrass, half-heather, of the little moor-edge farm of
Mossheugh-law, whose stone-roofed buildings, washed by a clear
mountain stream, and sheltered by a clump of venerable Scotch
firs, stand on a bright green patch, a sort of oasis in the
desert. The sheep hardly deign to notice the hare, far different
to the consternation bold Reynard carries into their camp, when
they go circling round like a squadron of dragoons, drawing
boldly up to charge when the danger’s past. So poor, weary, foot
sore, fur-matted puss, goes hobbling and limping up to the
farm-buildings as if to seek protection from man against his
brother man.
Now it so happened that Mrs. Kidwell, the half-farmer,
half-shepherd’s pretty wife, was in the fold-yard, washing her
churn, along with her little chubby-faced Jessey, who was equally
busy with her Mamma munching away at a very long slice of
plentifully-buttered and sugar’d bread; and Mamma chancing to
look up from the churn to see how her darling progressed, saw
puss halting at the threshold, as if waiting to be asked in.
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“It’s that mad old Major and his dogs!” exclaimed Mrs. Kidwell,
catching up the child lest its red petticoat might scare away the
visitor, and popping into the dairy, she saw the hare, after a
little demur, hobble into the cow-house. Having seen her well in,
Mrs. Kidwell emerged from her hiding-place, and locking the door,
she put the key in her pocket, and resumed her occupation with
her churn. Presently the familiar melody—the yow, yow, yap, yap,
yow, yow of the hounds broke upon her ear, increasing in strength
as she listened, making her feel glad she was at hand to befriend
the poor hare.
The hunt was indeed revived. The hounds, one and all, having
declared their inability to make any thing more of it.
Solomon had set off on one of his cruises, which resulted in the
yeomen prickers and he meeting at the gate, where the hare had
squatted, when Lovely gave tongue, just as Springer, with his
eyes well down, exclaimed, “_here she’s!_” Bustler, and Bracelet,
and Twister, and Chaunter, confirmed Lovely’s opinion, and away
they went with the feeble scent peculiar to the sinking animal.
Their difficulties are further increased by the sheep, it
requiring Solomon’s oft-raised hand to prevent the hounds being
hurried over the line—as it is, the hunt was conducted on the
silent system for some little distance. The pace rather improved
after they got clear of the smear and foil of the muttons, and
the Major pulled up his gills, felt his tie, and cocked his hat
jauntily, as the hounds pointed for the pretty farm-house, the
Major thinking to show off to advantage before Mrs. Kidwell. They
presently carried the scent up to the still open gates of the
fold-yard. Lovely now proclaims where puss has paused. Things
look very critical.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Kidwell,” exclaimed the gallant Major,
addressing her; “pray how long have you been at the churn?”
“O, this twenty minutes or more, Major,” replied Mrs. Kidwell,
gaily.
“You haven’t got the hare in it, have you?” asked he.
“Not that I know of; but you can look if you like,” replied Mrs.
Kidwell, colouring slightly.
“Why, no; we’ll take your word for it,” rejoined the Major
gallantly. “Must be on, Solomon; must be on,” said he—nodding his
huntsman to proceed.
Solomon is doubtful, but “master being master,” Solomon holds his
hounds on past the stable, round the lambing-sheds and stackyard,
to the front of the little three windows and a doored farm-house,
without eliciting a whimper, no, not even from a babbler.
Just at this moment a passing cloud discharged a gentle shower
over the scene, and when Solomon returned to pursue his inquiries
in the fold-yard, the last vestige of scent had been effectually
obliterated.
Mrs. Kidwell now stood watching the inquisitive proceedings if
the party, searching now the hen-house, now the pigstye, now the
ash-hole; and when Solomon tried the cow-house door, she observed
carelessly: “Ah, that’s locked;” and he passed on to examine the
straw-shed adjoining. All places were overhauled and scrutinized.
At length, even Captain Nabley’s detective genius failed in
suggesting where puss could be.
“Where did you see her last?” asked Mrs. Kidwell, with
well-feigned ignorance.
“Why, we’ve not seen her for some time; but the hounds hunted her
up to your very gate,” replied the Major.
“Deary me, how strange! and you’ve made nothin’ of her since?”
observed she.
“Nothin’,” assented the Major, reluctantly.
“Very odd,” observed Mr. Catcheside, who was anxious for a kill.
“Never saw nothin’ like it,” asserted Mr. Rintoul, looking again
into the pigstye.
“She must have doubled back,” suggested Mr. Nettlefold.
“Should have met her if she had,” observed old Duffield.
“She must be somewhere hereabouts,” observes Mr. Trail,
dismounting, and stamping about on foot among the half-trodden
straw of the fold-yard.
No puss there.
“Hard upon the hounds,” observes Mr. Wotherspoon, replenishing
his nose with a good charge of snuff.
“_Cruel_, indeed,” assented the Major, who never gave them more
than entrails.
“Never saw a hare better hunted!” exclaimed Captain Nabley,
lighting a cigar.
“Nor I,” assented fat Mr. Nettleford, mopping his brow.
“How long was it?” asked Mr. Rintoul.
“An hour and five minutes,” replied the Major, looking at his
watch (five-and-forty minutes in reality).
“V-a-a-ry good running,” elaborates old dandy Wortherspoon. “I
see by the _Post_, that——”
“Well, I s’pose we must give her up,” interrupted the Major, who
didn’t want to have the contents of his own second-hand copy
forestalled.
“Pity to leave her,” observes Mr. Trail, returning to his horse.
“What can you do?” asked the Major, adding, “it’s no use sitting
here.”
“None,” assents Captain Nabley, blowing a cloud.
At a nod from the Major, Solomon now collects his hounds, and
passing through the scattered group, observes with a sort of
Wellingtonian touch of his cap, in reply to their condolence,
“Yes, sir, but it takes a _slee_ chap, sir, to kill a moor-edge
hare, sir!”
So the poor Major was foiled of his fur, and when the cows came
lowing down from the fell to be milked, kind Mrs. Kidwell opened
the door and out popped puss, as fresh and lively as ever; making
for her old haunts, where she was again to be found at the end of
a week.