FOX HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND. 



425 



transplanted to the soil of Massachusetts, 

 where he has since conscientiously lived up 

 to the exacting title of "Bizness," for that 

 is what he is, to-day, to-morrow and all the 

 time. 



The end of the first season of our co- 

 partnership saw only 4 fresh mounds in 

 my fox cemetery and four handsome pelts 

 in my gun-room. We had experienced poor 

 hunting weather, office work had kept me 

 indoors to a great extent, and mutual un- 

 derstanding of dog and hunter was just 

 commencing. The rapidity with which this 

 hound familiarized himself with new con- 

 ditions was remarkable. In half a dozen 

 hunts he displayed a resourcefulness and 

 aptitude for his work which made me re- 

 gard my purchase with great satisfaction. 

 He certainly could deliver the goods. 



I was not wholly surprised, the following 

 spring, to receive a handsome offer from 

 his former owner who had become discon- 

 solate, regretted the bargain and sought to 

 recover the services of so valuable a serv- 

 ant. I had to refuse all inducements, how- 

 ever, in the belief that such a dog was rare- 

 ly to be found or purchased, and time has 

 justified my conclusion. 



The season of 1930 was an exceptional 

 one in many ways, resulting not only in the 

 taking of an unprecedented number of 

 foxes, but furnishing sensational runs, 

 amusing incidents and story-telling material 

 enough to last our evening gatherings 

 for years to come. 



Out of this mass of pleasant reminis- 

 cences I will select one which well illus- 

 trates the ups and downs of fox hunting, 

 one which throws in high relief the fas- 

 cinating uncertainties that give the sport its 

 charm. 



Preliminary runs for the dog on moonlit 

 nights in September and long jaunts for his 

 master had conditioned both for the exact- 

 ing work ahead. With keen anticipation we 

 awaited the dawn of October 1, which here 

 marks the commencement of the tacitly 

 understood open season on foxes. Game 

 was plentiful and the first day's inspiring 

 events included the death of 2 dog foxes to 

 the 3 guns of our party. But a bare-ground 

 hunt lacks much of the pleasure incident to 

 snow-covered hills and we miss the long, 

 hard drives which make our nerves tingle 

 with excitement. We waited impatiently 

 for the first light fall of snow. 



One afternoon the opportunity unex- 

 pectedly presented itself for a short hunt. 

 My impatience at the non-appearance of the 

 snow led me quickly to get Biz and the 

 gun and hike several miles from town to a 

 territory unexamined as to the season's 

 prospects. 



We struck in at some birches in the rear 

 of an old farm house and in 20 minutes had 

 & fox going, He leisurely tflade a few in- 



troductory swings about a neighboring 

 hillock, worked a bit of swamp and, as 

 things began to get serious, laced it out 

 about 2 miles in a Northerly direction. I 

 was kept on the keen jump the whole after- 

 noon trying to get ahead of or intercept 

 him in one of his numerous loops, but twi- 

 light found both Biz and me by the railroad 

 trying to unravel as complete and utter a 

 loss as ever balked hunter or puzzled dog. 

 I finally had to call everything off and start 

 for home in the dusk, discomfited. 



I had not long to wait before there ap- 

 peared the first real herald of winter in a 

 nipping cold day which left the ground 

 firm and hard, followed, after a slight rise 

 in temperature, by 2 inches of snow. The 

 storm stopped at noon and we had oppor- 

 tunity as though made to order. The next 

 morning found my mare taking us out 

 along the whitened highway at daybreak. I 

 rejoiced at a day which left so little to be 

 desired. I wanted all the encouragement 

 that favorable conditions could bestow, for 

 I well knew we were against no novice at 

 the game. 



There were old scores to settle, and I 

 preferred to have victory or defeat rest 

 solely upon our own endeavor. 



As I stabled the mare at the barn and 

 the old farmer came out to inquire the ob- 

 ject of our quest, he regaled us with in- 

 teresting anecdotes of Reynard's depreda- 

 tions, warmly expressing the hope that our 

 attempts would result fatally for the fox. 



"He ain't no use at all, that fox ain't,*' he 

 declared, " 'thout it's to make folks worry. 

 Th' boys can't trap 'im an' they can't shoot 

 'im. He knows more'n eny on 'em, but he 

 can't put it to no good use. I do sartinly 

 hope you'll fetch 'im." 



With the evident good will of the com- 

 munity to strengthen our determination, we 

 headed for a bit of lowland where I hoped 

 to start Reynard from a mousing expedition. 

 I slipped the eager hound at the entrance 

 of the brush and hurried toward the hill, 

 which I conjectured would be his first ob- 

 jective point if started. I had hardly reached 

 the hillside when a burst of music from the 

 dog warned me the fox was afoot, with a 

 hot trail behind him. He upset my calcu- 

 lations at the start by lighting out to the 

 South, keeping to gullies and ravines, never 

 dallying an instant. Perhaps he had recol- 

 lections of the tired feet my hound had 

 caused him earlier in the season. At any 

 rate, he attended strictly to business, and 

 Bizness was evidently attending strictly to 

 him, if one could judge from the deep, 

 staccato yelps which came back, fainter and 

 fainter, through the intervening distance. 

 It was a rattling drive and I made a dogged 

 attempt to get into it. 



After a hard tramp of several miles I 

 found the dog in trouble in a large, rocky 



