62 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hoimd 



the same direction or the opposite. How Nelson is ever to man- 

 age the hounds alone in that little dingey and get them ashore 

 with their combined eagerness and impatience was what we 

 were tliinking of when his cheery wliistle sounded down among 

 the willows in the low land along the lake. 



Tliis told us he was ready to liberate the hounds and an 

 answering "Toot! toot!" from Uncle Abner's horn followed. 

 Instantly all the wood folks stopped to hsten and a stillness 

 settled over the forest that you could feel. Oh ! those dreadful 

 delightful moments, when every nerve in your body is listening, 

 doubting, hoping as well as your ears for the challenging 

 note of a hound. You know they are driving at their work with 

 all their pent up energy and force. Still, what a contrast is 

 the commotion in your mind to the stillness of this mighty 

 forest. Think? — no, you cannot think. All your nerve and 

 brain force is waiting to serve and think when the supreme 

 moment comes. 



Was it a wliimper or a jay? Yes, it was a whimper and 

 a challenge. For this relief much thanks, your mind seems 

 clearer now. Then you recall it was the voice of a young hound 

 and remember a youngster is in the party and is probably 

 chasing a chipmunk up a tree. It must have been a false alarm 

 because notliing more comes of it. Presently the business of 

 the day goes on again among all the families of the wood. 



What if a fox should come along now and you should miss 

 him? This kind of fox hunting was entirely new to the writer. 

 All that Uncle Abner had vouchsafed to say by way of putting 

 him right was, "Now all you have got to do is to stand still in 

 your tracks and don't let a fox slip past you." Isn't it about 

 time a hound gave tongue? The writer began to relax liis 

 vigilance and think, when — but he is ashamed to confess it — 

 a fox ran right past him. At first sight he was not ten yards 

 away. Bang ! ! the leaves flew up from the ground at the end of 

 Mr. Revnard's brush. Bang! a cleaner miss never was made. 



