82 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 
after another the young dogs come panting back to us, and 
fall lazily into our wake. ‘“ Hang coon hunts in general !— 
this is no joke; all cry and no wool!” 
Hark! a deep-mouthed, distant bay! The sound is electri. 
cal; our impatience and fatigue are gone! All ears and 
eyes, we crowd around old Sambo. The oracle attitudinizes. 
He leans forward with one ear turned towards the earth in 
the direction of the sound. Breathlessly we gaze upon him. 
Hark! another bay; another; then several join in. The old 
man has been unconsciously soliloquizing from the first sound. 
“Golly, dat’s nigger Trim!” in an under tone; “he know 
de coon!’ Next sound. “Dat’s a pup; shaw!” Pause. 
‘“‘Dat’s a pup, agin! Qh, niggers, no coon dar!” 
Lifting his outspread hand, which he brings down with a 
loud slap upon his thigh; “Yah! yah! dat’s ole Music; look 
out, niggers!” Then, as a hoarse, low bay comes booming 
to us through a pause, he bounds into the air with the caperish 
agility of a colt, and breaks out in ecstasy, “Whoop! whoop! 
dat’s de ole dog; go my Bose!” Then striking hurriedly 
through the brush in the direction of the sounds, we only hear 
from him again, 
“Yah! yah! yah! dat’s a coon, niggers! Bose dar!” 
And away we rush as fast as we can scramble through the 
underbrush of the thick wood. The loud burst of the whole 
pack opening together, drowns even the noise of our progress. 
The cry of a full pack is maddening music to the hunter. 
Fatigue is forgotten, and obstacles are nothing. On we go; 
yelling in chorus with the dogs. Our direction is towards the 
swamp, and they are fast: hurrying to its fastnesses. But 
what do we care! Briars and logs; the brush of dead trees; 
plunges half leg deep into the watery mire of boggy places 
are alike disregarded. The game is up! Hurrah! hurrah! 
we must be in at the death! So we scurry, led by the mad- 
dening chorus— 
«‘__ while the babbling echo mocks the hounds.” 
