FOXES IN THE BIG SWAMP. 



'/RANK]. IN. 



An account of a fox hunt I had in Feb- 

 ruary last, in Jersey, may interest some of 

 your readers. While the fox is not big 

 "game, he will usually keep one guessing for 

 an hour or so before his brush can be car- 

 ried home. For one who enjoys the music 

 made by a pack of hounds, there is no bet- 

 ter game to produce that sound. 



The country where we hunted is about 15 

 miles from Woodbury, near a place called 

 " Brooklyn," better known as the " head of 

 Egg Harbor river." It is a district 2 or 3 

 miles across and 35 long, made up of 

 swamp, scrub-oak, and meadow, cut by 

 small streams. 



We were up before daylight, and after 

 breakfast started to drive to the swamp, 

 picking up the other members of the party 

 on the way. It was cold, and the little 

 Japanese " hand-stoves " in our pockets 

 were useful. As we drove along, stopping 

 here and there, with a yell to bring out 

 some one to join us, the gradually length- 

 ening line of wagons and buggies soon 

 looked like a funeral train. 



We arrived at the swamp with 12 wagons, 

 containing nearly 30 men, with 24 dogs, of a 

 general assortment. There were fox-hounds, 

 dachshunds, terriers, spaniels, and " just 

 dogs." We were to hunt on foot. The air 

 being frosty, there was no trouble about the 

 scent lying well. It was not long before 

 some of the younger dogs were off in full 

 cry, but we soon found they were following 

 the scent of other dogs that had been chas- 

 ing rabbits. Then the young dogs struck 

 their own back trail and followed their own 

 scent; a proceeding looked on with great 

 disdain by the older dogs. They were able 

 to tell almost instantly whether the trail was 

 fresh, if it belonged to a fox, and whether 

 it was a forward trail. To the dog Major 

 was usually left the decision as to the value 

 of a scent. 



We got on a good trail about 11 o'clock. 

 There was a general scramble to follow the 

 hounds, first up, then down, then back, mile 

 after mile, the cry growing louder and 

 louder as the chase came near us; then 

 gradually dying away, as it left us. 



At last, the dogs were evidently working 

 up on the fox and tiring him, for there was 

 a distinct change of tone in the cry. It be- 

 came louder, more rapid and excited, and we 

 were all on the jump to be the first to catch 

 a glimpse of him, when suddenly the whole 

 picture of the hunt burst into view. 



The sleek-looking gray fox came first, on 

 a swift lope, with the dogs strung out at his 

 tail. Their tongues were hanging out, some 

 of them fairly staggering, from the pace 

 they had kept up; but full of grit, with wind 



enough to not only run, but to give tongue 

 also. A son of Major was at the fox's tail, 

 with Major second. As we looked, the old 

 dog fairly leaped over the younger one's 

 back and seized the fox by the neck. 



The nearest man ran in and grabbed the 

 fox, and then had a mauvais quart' d'heure, 

 as the French say, fighting down the ex- 

 cited dogs, as they struggled and leaped at 

 the fox, to get a bite and to smell the scent 

 they had been following so vigorously. 



The training and instinct of the older 

 hounds, Major especially, is shown by the 

 fact of their never being deceived by an old 

 scent. Nor would Major follow the trail of 

 a fox after it had been killed. 



Another scent was found almost imme- 

 diately, and the sport continued. Holes, or 

 " earths " have never been found in this 

 swamp, which makes it an especially fine 

 hunting-ground. Many fox hunts else- 

 where have come to an inglorious end ow- 

 ing to " our friend of the brush " taking to 

 earth at the critical moment. The foxes of 

 this swamp, apparently, have cleaned out all 

 other animals; for, except an occasional 

 rabbit, there is no other living thing, not 

 even a bird, to make interfering trails. 



The second fox was shot by one of the 

 hunters after a short, exciting chase. Then 

 came a rest, to eat lunch, and to look after 

 the horses. Of course, every one was in 

 good humor. A fire was lighted and all 

 crowded around. Then jokes, old and new, 

 were bandied, and tales of wonderful feats 

 performed by each man's dog, were told, 

 some of them facts, some of the Munchau- 

 sen order. The whole picture once seen 

 was not soon forgotten. The crackling, 

 roaring fire, the circle of rough-looking 

 men, with the dogs playing, snapping, and 

 fighting for a warm place by the grateful 

 heat, as someone suggested, looked like a 

 cross between a sheriff's posse, and a Cuban 

 expedition. 



We started again, with some grumbling 

 about wet feet and heavy guns, but with no 

 signs of backing out. As I had on hip boots 

 of rubber, and my weapon was a 22 repeat- 

 ing rifle, I was not among the growlers, 

 and could walk through the streams, crack- 

 ing the thin ice, with impunity, while the 

 others had to look for a pole to cross on. 



Another trail was soon found, and the 

 chase began again as though we had never 

 before seen a fox: all troubles and tired 

 feelings were forgotten in a moment. This 

 time the fox gave us a long run, finally get- 

 ting away, for darkness came on, and we 

 gave it up. The dogs held on as long as 

 they could, only stopping when, as the 

 chase came near us, their masters called 



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