“But, look! the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”
The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, and hung on the greensward in
an endless succession of glistening gems. The mist floated on a light
breeze, scarcely strong enough to waft the wet spider’s film meshed
on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. Mushrooms marked the rings
where the elves of the night had held their orgies, and the fairy’s
light--the glowworm’s lamp--still shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like
a bride, veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning broke, with a
smile, the slumbering hours. Drooping flowers raised their petals, and
folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and happy birds heralded her
coming, and all things of the day welcomed her.
At daybreak we were on our road to Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will
Sykes, the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the assistant whippers-in.
I could not suppress the delight I felt in going to cover; and, instead
of the homesick and sullen feeling which I had had for a length of
time, I was ready to jump out of my skin with spirits.
“Pray, keep quiet!” said Trimbush, in a reproving tone, as I galloped
to his side, and laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation
to a romp. “Pray, keep quiet!” repeated he; “you can’t be too steady in
going to cover. Nurse your strength,” he continued, “until it’s wanted.”
“I could race for thirty miles this morning, without a check!” replied
I, boastfully.
“Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Trimbush; “that’s the way with you
young-uns--all brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to hard
running, where are ye in a brace of shakes? Somewhat in this form,”
continued he, hanging down his head, with outstretched tongue and
drooping stern.
I laughed heartily at Trimbush’s acting a fagged and beaten hound; and,
although I had not seen one at the time, I subsequently learned that it
was a very faithful representation.
“One would think, from that puppy’s gambolsome larking,” observed the
huntsman, pointing to me, “that he knows what he’s going about.”
“Perhaps he do,” sagely returned Tom Holt.
“How the devil should he?” rejoined Will Sykes. “Isn’t this his first
day’s cub-hunting?”
“Yes,” added the first whip. “But don’t you think them dumb animals
have a language of their own? I’m blest if they don’t almost talk to us
sometimes.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Will Sykes. “You’re a pretty kind of a Christian,
Tom. I suppose, by-an’-bye, you’ll say they sing hymns.”
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” replied the imperturbable Tom Holt.
“At least,” continued he, “if they don’t, they’re a sight more sensible
than many of those that do.”
“Come, come,” said the huntsman, in a correcting tone; “try back, Tom.
We shall have stones fall from the clouds presently, if you go on in
that way.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” replied the whipper-in, as cool
as a cucumber. “When so many folk, both gentle an’ simple, are building
castles in the air, it’s nothing but reasonable that some o’ the stones
should tumble.”
“Ca-a-pital!” added Will Sykes admiringly. “I like a sharp and ready
tongue. But you don’t really mean to say, Tom, that you think hounds
have a way of speaking to one another?”
“Yes, I do,” replied the whipper-in; “and have no doubt of the fact.
They have the sense,” continued he, “to understand what we say _to_
them, and a great deal, in my opinion, of what we say _of_ them; and
it’s quite as natural, if not more so, that they should have a language
of their own, as it is for them to comprehend a foreign one.”
“Your notions are queer ones, Tom,” observed the huntsman. “And you’d
have me believe, I suppose, that Ringwood there has been _told_ what
he’s going to do?”
“Nothing more likely,” replied Tom Holt.
We were now on the verge of Wiverton Gorse--an extensive brake of some
forty acres of high but not thick furze, except in patches where it had
been lately cut.
“Don’t let a hound get away,” said the huntsman. “We’ll rattle the
covers well; but be sure and hold the hounds in.”
At this moment Bluecap and Dauntless made an attempt to sneak away;
and, before getting a rate from Ned Adams, found his double thong
cracking round their loins.
“That’s for not waiting orders,” observed Trimbush.
“Cover-hoik! cover-hoik!” hallooed the huntsman; “Elooin-hoik!” and
into the brake we crashed like a flash of lightning.
“That’s the dash of the old blood!” said the huntsman, as I rushed
through the gorse with the ambitious eagerness to find. “I’d bet a
season’s capping,” continued he, “that he takes as kindly to work as a
baby does to sucking.”
“You’d better keep by me,” observed Trimbush, “and learn a little of
your business, instead of tearing your eyes out in that blundering,
stupid manner. One would think, if you were not a greenhorn of a puppy,
that a dying fox stood before ye, instead of not having so much as
found one.”
But I was in no humour to be dictated to; and in spite of lacerating
the corners of my eyes, ears and stern, I flew right and left through
the furze, in the hope of being the first to challenge. In pressing
through a thick patch, I scented that which I instantly concluded must
be a fox; and, immediately afterwards catching a glimpse of something
spring across a ride, I threw up my head, and made the cover echo as I
dashed along the line. I was much surprised, however, that none of the
old hounds joined me, and that, with the exception of three or four
of the same age as myself, who merely gave tongue because I did, no
response or cheer was given to my efforts.
In a few seconds we found ourselves through the brake at the farthest
corner up wind, and in close proximity to the dreaded presence of Ned
Adams.
“War hare, puppy!” hallooed he, riding at me, and cracking his heavy
whip. “War hare! war hare! Hark back! hark back!”
Learning that I had committed an error, I was not slow to obey the
caution, by getting out of the reach of the thong; although, as I
afterwards discovered, there was no fear of being punished for a fault
until it had been repeated. Scarcely had I again turned into the brake,
when my friend Trimbush gave a deep-toned note, announcing that a fox
was afoot.
“Hoik to Trimbush!” hallooed the huntsman--“Hoik to Trimbush!” and, as
a bunch of hounds took up the cry, he added, “Hoik together, hoik!”
Galloping on the line where three or four couple of the knowing ones
were feathering their sterns and ringing their music, I for the first
time winded a fox. Anxious to distinguish myself, I at once began
making more din about it than all the old hounds put together.
“Don’t jingle your tongue as if you were currant-jelly hunting,” said
Trimbush, contemptuously, as I joined his side. “A workman,” continued
he, “never wastes his breath with too much whistling.”
Feeling that there was truth in his chiding, I changed my tone, and
gave tongue only when my friend did.
“That’s right,” remarked Trimbush, flattered at my observing his
dictate: “now you sound like business.”
“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes. “Yoo-oo-it, hoik!”
Hounds were now hunting in every direction of the cover; and it was
evident that several foxes were before them.
“The vixen and the whole litter are a-foot!” I overheard the first whip
say.
“Did you view her?” inquired Will Sykes.
“Yes!” was the reply; “and she’s gone away.”
“Then there’s a dog-fox behind,” rejoined the huntsman.
“I thought so,” quietly observed Trimbush, stooping his muzzle to the
ground, and drawing, with infinite gratification to his olfactory
nerves. “I thought so,” repeated he: “a vixen, except she’s barren,
never carries such a scent as that.”
“You know the difference, then?” returned I.
“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush; “as well as if I had helped to break her up.
And so will you in a couple of seasons.”
“But how?” asked I.
“By experience,” replied my companion; “and from the natural aversion
most animals have to destroy anything with or about to have young. But
come,” he continued, “this is no time for talking, although we shall
be stopped from getting away if they can get to our heads in time.
However, keep close to me, and I’ll try to get a bat by ourselves in
spite of ’em.”
“Who-whoop,” hallooed the huntsman.
“They’ve chopped a cub,” said Trimbush. “Now’s our time, if Ned Adams
doesn’t head him back.”
A succession of loud cracks from a whip followed; but no halloo was
given.
“He’s gone away,” remarked Trimbush, with glee; “and we’ll be on good
terms with him. Stick to me.”
Keeping close to my companion’s stern, I ran stride and stride with him
through the brake until we came to a corner of the cover where the fox
we were hunting broke away.
“Now then,” said Trimbush cheerily; “up with your head and down with
your stern. Come along, the scent’s a burning one.”
The instant that Trimbush was free of the cover, he laid himself upon
the line, and raced like a greyhound; I following in his wake. Hearing
the heavy stride of a horse in our rear, I turned my head to see who
was following.
“Take no notice,” said the old hound: “If Ned gets to our heads--and
he’ll prick blood for it, I’ll be sworn--the sport’s all over with us.”
“What the deuce does he want to stop us for?” inquired I.
“Pooh,” rejoined Trimbush. “Rattle on.”
The second whip came spurring on with the evident desire of reaching
us; but the faster he came, the faster we flew.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush; “we’ll give ye a sob for it.”
Along two open grass fields we led the whipper-in; and then, for more
than a mile, up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high banks.
“I haven’t carried a bit of scent since we left the turf,” observed I.
“Nor I either,” replied my companion.
“Then what’s the use of flashing on in this way?” I asked.
“You’ve no cunning in ye yet,” replied Trimbush, “or you wouldn’t ask
such a simple question. However, so much the better. Craft in the young
is unwholesome; while, if the old don’t possess some, they have lived
too long unprofitably. Now, we have no time to stop, and if we had we
could do nothing with the scent on this hard, dry road: but having
found our fox _up_ wind, and as he turned _down_ upon breaking cover, I
know that he will _not_ turn again. We have, therefore, but to make our
own cast good one way; and then, in the event of not being able to hit
it off, to try the other to be certain of getting on the line--unless,
indeed, he should chance to head short back, which not one fox out of a
hundred will do, unless it is to die.”
“But we shall have no chance of making a cast,” said I, “with Ned at
our sterns.”
“I know the point he’s making for,” returned my friend; “and if we once
get clear of this everlasting lane on to the scrubs, I’ll forgive Ned
if he stops us this time. I _do_ like,” continued he, “a run o’ this
kind. There’s a spice about anything stolen.”
Upon coming to a sudden turn in the road, Trimbush all but stood still
at seeing a flock of sheep in our way; who, upon our nearing them,
began scampering before us, and became wedged together like one solid
body.
“The devil!” exclaimed my companion, making an ineffectual effort
to reach the edge of the steep bank, and reeling almost over in the
attempt. “No matter,” continued he, as springing upon his feet, and
rushing forwards, he galloped along the backs of the scared flock; and,
following his example, we cleared the impediment, and found ourselves
on the right side of a great obstacle to our pursuer, Ned Adams.
“Now we’re all right,” said Trimbush, exultingly; “and we shall have it
to ourselves in spite of ’em.”
The long twisting and twining lane led on to an open heath or
sheep-walk, covered here and there with patches of broom, furze, and
dwarf blackberry bushes.
“We’ll first try down wind to the right,” said Trimbush; “for although
Will Sykes very often takes us just the other way, so as to make sure
the varmint hasn’t given us the artful dodge by slipping back on his
foil, it’s a bad cast except with a beaten fox, and generally widens
the distance between us and him. Always,” continued the old hound,
stooping his muzzle to the ground as he trotted cautiously along, “try
the way first you think he’s gone; and, having made that good, it’s
quite time enough to take the other.”
On coming to some sloping, moist ground, Trimbush stopped, and,
feathering for a moment, threw up his head and made the air ring with
melody as he hit off the scent again.
“We are all right,” said he, exultingly. “We’ll either kill or burst
him to earth.”
I could now wind the varmint with my head stretched in the air; and it
was as easy hunting as a bagman sprinkled with aniseed.
“There’s nothing like break-o’-day hunting,” observed my companion:
“the ground is cool and unstained; and there are no people about. Those
terrible enemies to our sport, shepherd’s dogs, too, are not often in
the way; and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be picked through at
noon removed.”
“But we are not thrown off generally at this hour, are we?” inquired I.
“Never,” replied my friend, “except at this season. In times gone
by,” continued he, “as I have heard tell, the meet used to be before
cock-crow; and often hounds would be waiting at the cover-side for
daylight. But fox-hunting, like most other things, has undergone a
great change; and instead of the old slow-and-sure system of occupying
minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now, taking the season
through, hours finding, and minutes killing.”
“Which afforded most sport, do you think?” inquired I.
“It’s difficult to say,” returned Trimbush. “Unless we go the pace,
men now consider that there is no sport whatever; but some years since,
the merits of a good hunting run had nothing to do with the time in
which it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold scent, stained
ground, and an unruly field--heading the fox, riding over us, and
hallooing at everything from a cow’s tail to a jackdaw--we frequently
pick through, and even hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but
seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our pains. If, however, the
scent is breast high--as it is this morning, or I couldn’t talk to
you--and we fly along without a check, for fifteen or twenty minutes,
with blood for the finish, then there is no end to the praise, and
we receive nothing but commendation and renown. Not that _I_ am an
advocate for slow hunting:--for the enjoyment of sport, there must
be a dash, spirit, and fire; and in creeping along at snail’s speed
there can be neither one nor the other. But what I wish our admirers
and critics to understand is, that a fast run by no means shows our
qualities, but a slow one may do so; and often that both our praise and
our censure are equally unmerited.”
“Still,” said I, beginning to pant for wind as we rattled up a steep
hill, with the scent improving, if possible, at every stride, “as
the old exploded system wanted that dash and spirit which, you say,
are indispensable for first-rate sport, there can be no doubt of the
present one being the most desirable.”
“On the whole I think so,” rejoined my companion; “but that may be,” he
continued, “from not being practically acquainted with any other. At
the same time, ‘honour to those to whom honour is due;’ and my belief
is that our ancestors, the line hunters, _hunted_ their fox as well, if
not better, than we who now _race_ him down.”
“Your judgment’s an impartial one,” returned I.
“Good or bad, better or worse,” resumed Trimbush, “it’s no use arguing
about the matter: ’tis the pace now that’s wanted, and will be had. If
we can’t hunt, we must race; and the moment we’re at fault you’ll hear
a dozen tongues holloa:--‘Lift ’em hard, Will. That’s your time o’ day.
Chink-wink ’em along!’”
“There’s no time given, then?” said I.
“Time!” repeated Trimbush with a sneer. “I’ll just give ye an instance
of what may be deemed a fair sample of the patience of sportsmen of
the age we live in. One day last season we had been running a merry
bat, for about twenty minutes, as hard as we could split, and leading
the field over enough yawners to satisfy the greatest glutton or
steeple-chase rider that ever crammed at a rasper. The fox was dying,
and, heading short on his foil up wind, brought us to a momentary
check. ‘Hold hard, gentlemen!’ hallooed Will Sykes; ‘pray hold hard!’
‘Consume me!’ exclaimed one who had been jamming his horse close to
our sterns; ‘what sport one might have, if it wasn’t for these d----d
hounds!’”
“A pretty kind of a foxhunter, truly!” I remarked.
“A faithful description of the majority, I can assure ye,” replied my
companion. “But I must not lose any more breath in talking to you,”
continued he; “I may feel the want of it.”
I had already done so, but was too proud to let the symptoms be visible
in any flagging on my part. Desirous as I was, however, to maintain the
pace we had been going for some minutes, and over part of an enclosed
country with strong fences, I began to feel my strength failing, and
the absurdity of my boast of endurance becoming manifested. I now, in
spite of every exertion, dropped in the rear; and although Trimbush
cheered me to hold on, I could not but think there was a chuckle
of triumph in his often-repeated query, “Why don’t you come along?
Recollect what you said about thirty miles without a check.” And then,
as if to mock me, the old hound increased his speed, and, upon reaching
a wide and level common, ran completely out of view, leaving me alone
in my glory.
For a short time I endeavoured to struggle forwards, but quickly losing
the line, and becoming bewildered and giddy from fatigue, I soon
staggered to a stand-still. Ignorant of my way home, and not knowing
what to do better, I gave tongue for assistance, and was heartily
glad to have my cry responded to by the loud barking of a shepherd’s
dog, whom I perceived with his master, in a valley at the foot of the
hill on which I stood. In a few seconds he came trotting up to me,
and mutual delight was experienced in finding that we were familiar
acquaintances, and had had many a game of fun together when I was at
walk at the home of my puppyhood, the hospitable farm-house.
“What, Ringwood, lad!” exclaimed the shepherd upon approaching me, and
patting my sides, “is it you? Zounds, but it is!” continued he. “I’d
know thee anywhere, skeleton though ye be.”
For that night I was housed in my old home, and the following day again
conducted to the kennel.
“I wouldn’t have lost him for the whole entry,” said Will Sykes,
receiving me with a warm welcome. “I can’t think,” continued he,
turning to the second whip, who, I thought, regarded me with rather a
savage expression, “how you let ’em get away.”
“I’ve told ye twenty times already,” replied Ned Adams, in a tone and
manner portraying his humour, “that the devil himself couldn’t get to
their heads. I did my best, and, like many o’ my betters, was beaten.”
“Well, well!” rejoined the huntsman with glee, “it’s the first time
that I ever heard of a whipper-in not being able to stop a puppy,
cub-hunting. Ha, ha, ha.”
“It was Trimbush, and not him,” returned the irate Ned.
“Oh!” added Will Sykes, “It was Trimbush, eh? It wasn’t worth while
then, I suppose, to get to the head of one without the other, and
yet, if I am told rightly, it would have been a difficult job to have
separated them.”
The second whip was evidently chafed at this bantering, and turned away
with a flushed cheek, and a tongue muttering anything but his prayers.
Upon entering the kennel again, all my companions came round me, and
each, in turn, licked my torn ears and eyes, and were as kind and
friendly as if I had been a brother to each.
“I am glad to see you back again,” observed Trimbush, raising himself
from a corner of the court, and stretching his limbs. “I began to think
some danger had befallen ye.”
“No thanks to you for having escaped it,” replied I, somewhat sharply.
“Oh!” rejoined the old hound, carelessly: “in a run it’s every hound
for himself, and a kick for the hindmost. There’s no consideration
then.”
“What did you do with the varmint?” inquired I, anxious to learn the
result of our hunt.
“Within five minutes of tailing you off,” replied he, “I ran him from
scent to view; and if he had not gone to ground, I’d have broken him
up without any sharers in the feast. As it was,” he continued, “he
was so hot and beaten that he couldn’t lie more than a few inches from
the mouth of the earth; and there we remained, with our red rags out,
panting and grinning at each other for hours. Now and then I had a
scratching dig for him; but finding that I could make no progress for
the roots, left at last reluctantly, and pointed for home, where I
arrived when the stars were twinkling.”
“Did you see Ned Adams upon your return?” I inquired.
“No,” replied Trimbush. “Mark, the feeder, was waiting for me, knowing
that I should be back in the course of the night, let the distance be
ever so great; and the good old fellow examined my feet and gave me a
good supper, without the least show of bad temper for having kept him
from bed.”
“The second whip would not have treated ye so,” I observed.
“Perhaps not,” returned he. “You mustn’t suppose, however, that Ned
bears any malice. He might feel vexed and chafed at not being able to
obey orders, but he always lets bygones be bygones.”
In the course of discussion relative to the events of our stolen run,
and during which the remainder of our companions formed a willing
auditory, I asked Trimbush how he discovered the difference between the
scent of a dog fox and that of a vixen.
“In the first place,” responded he, “it is never so strong; and when
she has either laid down her cubs, is about to do so, or has not left
off suckling, there is a peculiar odour with her which cannot be
mistaken. Now, most animals,” continued he, “as I observed yesterday,
have an aversion to kill those in any of the situations just described;
but I should have added, _when the purpose is to eat them_. For
instance, a stoat will not touch a rabbit when about to litter; but
a terrier would kill her in a moment. This is the reason that so few
birds are killed whose nests are on the ground. The weazel avoids the
partridge and lark whilst setting, and the fox passes the pheasant.”
“What!” exclaimed I. “Won’t a fox snap a pheasant from her nest?”
“Gamekeepers,” resumed Trimbush, “would tell you, ‘Always when an
opportunity presents itself;’ but I know better. A vixen, with a large
litter, and food scanty, will do so now and then, I don’t deny; but
what does she get? Skin, bone, and feathers--a most unsavoury morsel,
for which the cubs will scarcely care to fight. The mother knows this
well enough, and, unless driven to extremities, never takes any kind of
bird from her nest.”
“The farmer’s wife tells a different story,” I observed.
“The farmer’s wife, like the gamekeeper, is a sworn enemy to foxes,”
returned Trimbush, “and with equally groundless cause. If a single head
of poultry is missed, the robbery is always ascribed to a fox, and,
however devoid of foundation, never forgotten. The old trot dates her
subsequent life from the event, and begins her tale with, ‘About six
months after the fox took my duck,’ and so keeps the matter fresh and
vivid to the end of her days.”
“One would think you were a preserver instead of a killer of foxes,”
said I.
“Ay,” rejoined the speaker; “if it was not for preserving, we should
have no opportunities of killing.”