Hunting the Lynx 35 



creased, and we forgot our troubles in the cheering, 

 tremulous music, the rolling, deep-throated sounds 

 O-Q-o-o-0-0 that have a direct appeal to the man who 

 is susceptible to such influences. It is a language, this 

 baying, a language of tones and inflections, and any 

 lover of foxhounds will translate it for you. There is a 

 cry of anticipation, another when a light scent is picked 

 up, another when it deepens, still another when the 

 game is near, and when it is sighted and who can mis- 

 take that splendid booming tone that tells the hunt that 

 the game is treed ! Then when a lynx makes the mad 

 jump and the hounds miss it and are running, how easily 

 understood by the rider far away ! 



All these variants in the language of the hunt were 

 heard by us, and as the pace grew fiercer, the cries 

 wilder, we closed in and swung into a field and at full 

 speed ran at a mammoth pile of brush, reined up amid 

 a cloud of dust, and swung ourselves from the saddle, 

 to confront ministers of grace defend us! a huge pig 

 with a large and interesting family. She did not even 

 rise ; she merely grunted, while our eyes wandered over 

 the astonished pack and conjured up wild schemes of 

 revenge. 



It must not be thought that the hounds were useless ; 

 quite the contrary, they were not exercised sufficiently 

 and literally went wild when we took them out. No bet- 

 ter dogs ever took the trail of a fox or wildcat, but 

 when not worked they insisted upon divers diversions, 

 and they had them at our expense. It was uncertain 



