Part 11

Give an account of the capture of the grizzly bear. Why did not Merrifield fire? Compare the weight of the bear with that of the average cow or horse. Tell of any bear hunt of which you know.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

Watchers of the Trail--Charles C. D. Roberts. Monarch, the Bear--Ernest Thompson Seton. Wild Animals I Have Known--Ernest Thompson Seton. African Game Trails--Theodore Roosevelt.

MIDWINTER

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and briar and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A muffled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And clustering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In [v]surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snow-flakes on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

When did this storm begin? Read lines which show this. Give reasons for your answer. What comparisons are used by the poet in describing the snowfall? Which comparison do you like best? What healing thought does the storm bring to the poet? Compare it with the same thought in _The First Snowfall_.

A GEORGIA FOX HUNT[177-*]

I

In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who, from one cause and another, were exempted from military service. Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its [v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that terrible time, that the main purpose of the association was to devise new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other congenial amusements. With the women--ah well! Heaven only knows how they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.

About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.

"Young man," he wrote, "they are coming. They are going to give us a [v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as discipline--plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven't hesitated to put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won't believe it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember the 15th. Be prepared."

I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hancock county the year before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the hospitality of the plantation home called "Bachelors' Hall."

If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the announcement in Tom's letter, apart from the agreeable change in the social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in "Bachelors' Hall." I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a favorite hound--Flora--whose care and training had cost me a great deal of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment. She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia the "Birdsong dog," in honor of the most successful breeder) and a Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see her put to the test.

It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's programme. Aunt Patience was a privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her remarks were ludicrously indignant.

"Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain't de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes on--'way off yander givin' way his vittles fo' he buy um at de sto'! How I know what Marse Tom want, an' tel I know, whar I gwineter git um? He better be home yer lookin' atter deze lazy niggers, stidder high-flyin' wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis plan'ash'n, hits more'n I knows un. En he'll go runnin' roun' wid dem harum-skarum gals twell I boun' he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer what he said he would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up deze days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss dersef' case dey wuzent borned men."

"Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as a pink and as fine as a fiddle."

"Law, chile! you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 'omen. I done know um fo' you wuz borned. W'en you see Miss Compton you see all de balance un um. Deze is new times. Marse Tom's mammy useter spin her fifteen cents o' wool a day--w'en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word."

Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench, and went her way--the good old soul--even then considering how she should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success. It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real "manufac terbacker," which was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.

The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests was one long to be remembered, not only in the [v]annals of the Rockville Hunting Club but in the annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally turned the heads of old men and young boys, and even succeeded in conquering the critics of her own sex. She was marvelously beautiful, and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams. It was easy to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know that every suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.

It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was at once the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom's guests, could be arranged, but finally everything was "[v]amicably adjusted," and the day appointed. The night before the hunt, the club and the Jasper county visitors assembled in Tom Tunison's parlor for a final discussion of the event.

"In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests an opportunity fully to test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided to pay our respects to 'Old Sandy'."

"And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy'?" queried Miss de Compton.

"He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He has been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that he is well-nigh [v]invincible. He is so well known that he has not been hunted, except by accident, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as he was two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get within hearing distance of him to-morrow morning."

"Do any of the ladies go with us?" asked Jack Herndon.

"I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to

## participate actively in the hunt.

"Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. Uncle Plato will sound 'Boots and Saddle' at four o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Four o'clock!" exclaimed the ladies in dismay.

"At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little gestures of mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for the boys.

My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old Sandy" was to be put through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the peculiarities of this famous fox--how often when training Flora I had taken her out and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges, how I had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew all his weak points.

II

Morning came, and with it Uncle Plato's bugle call. Aunt Patience was ready with a smoking hot breakfast, and everybody was in fine spirits. As the eager, happy crowd filed down the broad avenue that led to the hall, the fair de Compton, who had been delayed in mounting, rode by my side.

"You choose your escort well," I ventured to say.

"I have a weakness for children," she replied; "particularly for children who know what they are about. Plato has told me that if I desired to see all of the hunt without much trouble, to follow you. I am selfish, you perceive."

We rode over the red hills and under the russet trees until we came to "Old Sandy's" favorite haunt. Here a council of war was held, and it was decided that Tom and a portion of the hunters should skirt the fields, while another portion led by Miss de Compton and myself should enter and bid the fox good morning. Uncle Plato, who had been given the cue, followed me with the dogs, and in a few moments we were very near the

## particular spot where I hoped to find the venerable deceiver of dogs and

men. The hounds were already sallying hither and thither, anxious and evidently expectant.

Five minutes went by without a whimper from the pack. There was not a sound save the eager rustling of the dogs through the sedge and undergrowth. The ground was familiar to Flora, and I watched her with pride as with powerful strides she circled around. Suddenly she paused and flung her head in the air, making a beautiful picture where she stood poised, as if listening. My heart gave a great thump. It was a trick of hers, and I knew that "Old Sandy" had been around within the past twenty-four hours! With a rush, a bound, and an eager cry, my favorite came toward us, and the next moment "Old Sandy," who had been lying almost at our horses' feet, was up and away with Flora right at his heels. A wild hope seized me that my favorite would run into the shy veteran before he could get out of the field. But no! One of the Jasper county hunters, rendered momentarily insane by excitement, endeavored to ride the fox down with his horse, and in another moment Sir Reynard was over the fence and into the woodland beyond, followed by the hounds. They made a splendid but [v]ineffectual burst of speed, for when "Old Sandy" found himself upon the blackjack hills he was foot-loose. The morning, however, was fine--just damp enough to leave the scent of the fox hanging breast high in the air, whether he shaped his course over lowlands or highlands.

[Illustration: The Beginning of the Fox Hunt]

In the midst of all the confusion that had ensued, Miss de Compton remained cool, serene, and apparently indifferent, but I observed a glow upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes, as Tom Tunison, riding his gallant gray and heading the hunters, easily and gracefully took a couple of fences when the hounds veered to the left.

"Our Jasper county friend has saved 'Old Sandy,' Miss de Compton," I said, "but he has given us an opportunity of witnessing some very fine sport. The fox is so badly frightened that he may endeavor in the beginning to outfoot the dogs, but in the end he will return to his range, and then I hope to show you what a cunning old customer he is. If Flora doesn't fail us at the critical moment, you will have the honor of wearing his brush on your saddle."

"Youth is always confident," replied Miss de Compton.

"In this instance, however, I have the advantage of knowing both hound and fox. Flora has a few weaknesses, but I think she understands what is expected of her to-day."

Thus bantering and chaffing each other, we turned our horses' heads in a direction [v]oblique to that taken by the other hunters, who, with the exception of Tom Tunison and Jack Herndon, now well up with the dogs, were struggling along as best they could. For a half mile or more we cantered down a lane, then turned into a stubble field, and made for a hill crowned and skirted by a growth of blackjack, through which an occasional pine had broken, as it seemed, in a vain but noble effort to touch the sky. Once upon the summit of the hills, we had a majestic view upon all sides. The fresh morning breezes blew crisp and cool and bracing, but were not uncomfortable after the exercise we had taken; and as the clouds that had muffled up the east dispersed themselves or were dissolved, the generous sun spread layer upon layer of golden light upon hill and valley and forest and stream.

Away to the left we could hear the hounds, and the music of their voices, toyed with by the playful wind, rolled itself into melodious little echoes that broke pleasantly upon the ear, now loud, now faint, now far and now near. The first burst of speed, which had been terrific, had settled down into a steady run, but I knew by the sound that the pace was still tremendous, and I imagined I could hear the silvery tongue of Flora as she led the eager pack. The cries of the hounds, however, grew fainter and fainter, until presently they were lost in the distance.

"He is making a straight shoot for the Turner [v]old fields, two miles away," I remarked, by way of explanation.

"And pray, why are we here?" Miss de Compton asked.

"To be in at the death. (The fair de Compton smiled [v]sarcastically.) In the Turner old fields the fox will make his grand double, gain upon the dogs, head for yonder hill, and come down the ravine upon our right. At the fence here, within plain view, he will attempt a trick that has heretofore always been successful, and which has given him a reputation as a trained fox. I depend upon the intelligence of Flora to see through 'Old Sandy's' [v]strategy, but if she hesitates a moment, we must set her right."

I spoke with the confidence of one having experience, and Miss de Compton smiled and was content. We had little time for further conversation, for in a few minutes I observed a dark shadow emerge from the undergrowth on the opposite hill and slip quickly across the open space of fallow land. It crossed the ravine that intersected the valley, stole quietly through the stubble to the fence, and there paused a moment, as if hesitating. In a low voice I called Miss de Compton's attention to the figure, but she refused to believe that it was the same fox we had aroused thirty minutes before. Howbeit, it was the [v]veritable "Old Sandy" himself. I should have known him among a thousand foxes. He was not in as fine feather as when, at the start, he had swung his brush across Flora's nose--the pace had told on him--but he still moved with an air of confidence.

Then and there Miss de Compton beheld a display of fox tactics shrewd enough to excite the admiration of the most indifferent--a display of cunning that seemed to be something higher than instinct.

"Old Sandy" paused only a moment. With a bound he gained the top of the fence, stopped to pull something from one of his fore feet--probably a cockle bur--and then carefully balancing himself, proceeded to walk the fence. By this time, the music of the dogs was again heard in the distance, but "Old Sandy" took his time. One--two--three--seven--ten--twenty panels of the fence were cleared. Pausing, he again subjected his fore feet to examination, and licked them carefully. Then he proceeded on his journey along the fence until he was at least one hundred yards from where he left the ground. Here he paused for the first time, gathered himself together, leaped through the air, and rushed away. As he did so, the full note of the pack burst upon our ears as the hounds reached the brow of the hill from the lowlands on the other side.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Miss de Compton; "that fox ought to go free. I shall beg Mr. Tunison--"

But before she finished her sentence the dogs came into view, and I could hardly restrain a shout of triumph as I saw Flora running easily and unerringly far to the front. Behind her, led by Captain--and so close together that, as Uncle Plato afterward remarked, "You mout kivver de whole caboodle wid a hoss-blanket"--were the remainder of the Tunison kennel, while the Jasper county hounds were strung out behind in wild but heroic confusion. I felt strongly tempted to give the view-halloo, and push "Old Sandy" to the wall at once, but I knew that the fair de Compton would regard the exploit with severe [v]reprobation forever after. Across the ravine and to the fence the dogs came, their voices, as they got nearer, crashing through the silence like a chorus of demons.

Now was the critical moment. If Flora should fail me--!

Several of the older dogs topped the rails, and scattered through the undergrowth. Flora came over with them, made a small circle, with her sensitive nose to the damp earth, and then went rushing down the fence. Past the point where "Old Sandy" took his flying leap she ran, turned suddenly to the left, and came swooping back in a wide circle. I had barely time to warn Miss de Compton that she must prepare to do a little rapid riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of delight that thrilled me through and through, picked up the blazing [v]drag, and away we went with a scream and a shout. I felt in my very bones that "Old Sandy" was doomed. I had never seen Flora so prompt and eager; I had never observed the scent to be better. Everything was auspicious.

We went like the wind. Miss de Compton rode well, and the long stretches of stubble land through which the chase led were unbroken by ditch or fence. The pace of the hounds was simply terrific, and I knew that no fox on earth could long stand up before the white demon that led the hunt with such splendor.

Five--ten--fifteen minutes we rushed at the heels of the rearmost dogs, until, suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent was lost! Flora ran about in wide circles, followed by the greater portion of the dogs. To the left, to the right they went. At that moment, chancing to look back, I caught a glimpse of "Old Sandy," broken down and bedraggled, making his way toward a clump of briars. He had played his last [v]trump and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he had dropped in his tracks and literally allowed them to run over him. I rode at him with a shout; there was a short, sharp race, and in a few moments [v]_La Mort_ was sounded over the famous fox on the horn that the Jasper county boys did not win.

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

This gives a good picture of a fox hunt in the South in the long ago. Tell what you like best about it. Who is telling the story? Was he young or old? How do you know? What opinion do you form of the "fair de Compton"? See if you can get an old man, perhaps a negro, to tell you of a fox hunt he has seen.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

In Ole Virginia--Thomas Nelson Page. Old Creole Days--George W. Cable. Swallow Barn--John P. Kennedy. The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains--Charles Egbert Craddock.

FOOTNOTE:

[177-*] From the _Atlanta Constitution_.

RAIN AND WIND

I hear the hoofs of horses Galloping over the hill, Galloping on and galloping on, When all the night is shrill With wind and rain that beats the pane-- And my soul with awe is still.

For every dripping window Their headlong rush makes bound, Galloping up and galloping by, Then back again and around, Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs, And the draughty cellars sound.

And then I hear black horsemen Hallooing in the night; Hallooing and hallooing, They ride o'er vale and height, And the branches snap and the shutters clap With the fury of their flight.