“The gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and beneath
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.”
“I hate to see those violets a-peeping on the banks,” said old Mark to
the huntsman, one morning, “and always did.”
“Why so?” asked Will.
“Because they are a sure sign that hunting is drawing to a close,”
replied our feeder.
“Yes, yes,” rejoined Will Sykes. “True enough. When the speed-well
flowers begin to show,” continued he, “we may be certain that the
season’s almost at an end.”
“Shall we kill a May fox?” inquired Mark, for he always coupled the
_we_ in all relating to us and our doings.
“No,” replied Will. “The season’s too forward, and the Squire said
yesterday he would only hunt twice more.”
“That’s bad news,” observed Trimbush. “However,” said he, “the noses on
the kennel-door show that we have given a good account of our foxes.”
“The devil’s own is not there,” replied I. “How is that?”
“No,” rejoined the old hound. “His head was sent to be mounted as a
cup, I heard Tom tell Ned Adams, and it is always to be placed in the
middle of the table at the hunt-dinner.”
“I’m glad of that,” returned I.
“No doubt you are,” added Trimbush, “and so am I. It will be a lasting
record of a run that, if equalled, was never beaten.”
“What was the time, do you suppose?” inquired I.
“Not a minute less than five hours,” responded my companion.
“How proud the Squire and all of them were upon our return!” said I.
“Yes,” rejoined the old hound. “I thought we should be killed by
that which seldom forms the ground of coroners’ inquests--excessive
kindness.”
“Well!” exclaimed I, “since we have but two days remaining, we must
endeavour to wind up the season with a good finish.”
“To be sure,” returned Trimbush; “a brace more of noses must be added
to the account, at least.”
“How tired I shall be of kennel life throughout the long, hot summer,”
said I, with a whine at the thought.
“It is rather monotonous, I must say,” replied my companion.
“And then to be continually shut up,” rejoined I.
“Oh! but you’ll not be,” added he. “We are taken out always at
daybreak, when the air and ground are nice and cool, and have a gentle
trot for some eight or ten miles. Then a certain number, from three to
four couple, are allowed, in turns, to remain at large all day about
the kennel, or where we like, so long as we don’t get into mischief.”
“That’s very kind and considerate,” said I, “and contributes greatly
to our happiness.”
“And health, you might have added,” continued Trimbush. “Nothing is so
bad as close confinement for us, and, indeed, for all kinds of sporting
dogs. The more liberty we have, the better for our condition, spirit,
and general good. Trencher-fed hounds,” said he, “are remarkable for
the superiority they possess over their kennelled brethren, and the
only cause is from the freedom they enjoy.”
“What a pity it is,” said I, “that we can’t make our rulers comprehend
us as well as we understand them.”
“Their heads are so thick,” replied Trimbush, contemptuously. “A great
many are solid, like stones, all the way through, I’m sure.”
“Some act as if they were,” rejoined I.
“Act?” sneered the old hound. “Upon my soul I can’t think what nineteen
out of twenty were born for. Certainly not for fox-hunting; that’s
quite evident.”
“It’s a good thing,” I remarked, “that our master is not one of the
stone-heads.”
“Yes,” returned he, “we are fortunate in that respect, and in most
others. Will and Mark are as famous hound servants as ever entered
a kennel, and, as a good huntsman makes good hounds, so does a good
master make good servants.”
“There’s a wonderful deal in the management,” I observed.
“Everything,” replied Trimbush. “And, unless a master of foxhounds is
a thorough-going sportsman, and is acquainted with all the apparently
trifling details of his establishment, you may depend upon it that he’s
very much out of his place.”
“Your information concerning our liberty during the summer months,”
said I, “has reconciled me somewhat to the mortification of closing the
season.”
“We need not examine farther,” resumed Trimbush, “than the effect
produced upon birds, when caged, to learn the advantages of freedom.
The plumage of a wild bird is close, smooth, and bright; while that
of one in close confinement is dull and rough. There is strength and
energy in the one, too, which is never seen in the other.”
“The feather often shows which way the wind blows,” remarked I.
“As well as the national banner of England floating in the breeze,”
returned the old hound.
“I have heard,” I remarked, after a pause, “with the greatest pleasure,
all that you have said regarding us, and I do not think anything has
been advanced without sufficient reason being given. But what would you
say may be deemed a general rule for a huntsman to observe?”
“In the field?” asked Trimbush.
“Yes,” replied I.
“Study the wind,” returned he, “let hounds alone, and keep his eyes on
the line-hunters. On these important points,” he continued, “depends
all the success in hunting. But when I say let hounds alone, I mean
that they are to stand still just long enough for them to be sure that
the scent is not at the point they are trying. We then go cheerfully to
try another; but there is nothing so prejudicial as an imperfect, hasty
cast.”
“Nothing can be more obvious,” I replied; “and I wish, with all my
heart, that such a golden rule could be indelibly carved in the memory
of every one whom fate may decree to blow a horn to hounds.”
“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush, “if abided by, there would be but little
cause for grumbling about want of sport. We can generally do far
better without assistance than with it, and the more we receive, the
more helpless and artificial we become. I believe I told ye so a short
time since, and it is the case, not only with us, but with everybody,
two-footed and four, to look for support from those resources, which,
through times of difficulties, save labour and exertion, rather than
put our own shoulders to the collar. This is but natural, and the blame
rests more with those who are unwise enough to forget that we all have
our duty to perform, and in doing that of others they commit as great
an error as in neglecting their own; because, if not idle themselves,
they are the positive cause of neglect and idleness in their fellows.”
“Upon my honour,” returned I, “you talk like a philosopher.”
“Then a philosopher speaks but the simple truth,” added my companion,
“in very simple language.”
“You never hear,” said I, diving again more particularly into our
subject, “of men admitting that they had anything to do with losing
a fox, although they invariably claim a large share in the honour of
killing him.”
“You have noticed that, have you?” responded the old hound, laughing.
“No; it is always _they_ lost him, but _we_ killed him. Ha, ha, ha!”
“It ought to be just reversed,” rejoined I.
“There would be much greater truth in the assertion, when generally
applied,” returned Trimbush. “A fox is frequently lost through them,
and rare, indeed, is the occurrence when any act on their part may be
regarded as one of assistance in killing him.”
“I begin to have a great contempt for the ignorance of human beings,”
observed I.
“All of us do at the end of our first season,” replied my friend. “We
discover, by that time, what a set of know-nothings men are, and, if
worthy to be retained in the pack, take no notice whatever of their
cheers or rates; but merely avoid their horses’ feet, and get away from
them as far and as fast as we can.”