78 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 
grow silent, and move faster. The horn is sounded more 
boldly, and the howls accompany it in a gathering cadence. 
Now the scene has burst upon us through an opening of the 
trees !—There they are! Negroes of all degrees, size and 
age, and of dogs— 
“Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, 
Hound or spaniel, brack or lym, 
Or bobtail tike, or trundle tail.” 
All are there, in one conglomerate of active, noisy confusion. 
When indications of the hurried approach of our company are 
perceived, a great accession to the hubbub is consequential. 
Old Sambo sounds a shriller note upon his horn, the dogs 
rise from independent howls to a simultaneous yell, and along 
with all the young half-naked darkies rush to meet us. The 
women come to the doors with their blazing lamps lifted above 
their heads, that they may get a look at the “young masters,” 
aad we, shouting with excitement, and blinded by the light, 
plunge stumbling through the meeting current of dogs and 
young negroes, into the midst of the gathering party. Here 
we are suddenly arrested by a sort of awe as we find ourselves 
in the presence of old Sambo. The young dogs leap upon 
us with their dirty fore-paws, but we merely push aside their 
caresses, for old Sambo and his old dog Bose are the two 
centres of our admiration and interest. 
Old Sambo is the “Mighty Hunter before’—the moon! 
of all that region. He is seamed and scarred with the pitti- 
less siege uf sixty winters! Upon all matters appertaining 
to such hunts, his word is “daw,” while the “tongue” of his 
favorite and ancient friend Bose is recognized as “gospel.” 
In our young imaginations, the two are respectfully identified. 
Old Sambo, with his blanket “ roundabout’’—his cow’s-horn 
trumpet slung about his shoulders by a tow string—his bare 
head, with its greyish fleece of wool—the broad grin of com- 
placency, showing his yet sound white teeth—and rolling the 
