March, 1922 
105 
and a wish that I might enjoy the best 
of sport. 
One morning- soon afterward with dogs 
at heel and a fair bag of grouse I 
dropped down onto the road at the Poor 
Farm gate. The Colonel was seated on 
the porch settee, and I noticed at once 
that something was amiss in the old 
man’s greeting. “Yes, sah! Stonewall 
is gone. Last night about moonrise 
I heard an unusual disturbance about 
the hen-house. Thinking something was 
wrong I stepped to the door and there, 
sah, clearly outlined in the moonlight 
was the largest red fox I ever saw with 
Stonewall in his jaws. Just one glimpse 
I got and like a shadow he slipped 
through the barway and was gone down 
the hill toward the swamp yonder. All 
that were left are these,” and the Colonel 
took from his breast coat pocket a few 
brilliant hackle and tail feathers from the 
departed Stonewall. “Do you know, 
sah, I’ve lost my last friend and if only I 
could be in at the death of that murderer 
of ‘his, I’d feel that Stonewall in some 
way would be better satisfied. You know 
he would have much preferred the cold 
steel, sah, than the jaws of that Red Out- 
law.” 
“Colonel,” said I — “I have an extra 
gun and some shells loaded for fox and 
tomorrow I’ll bring them down to you, 
for this red-handed murderer may make 
a return visit to your hen roost and it 
would be well to be prepared.” 
As promised the gun was duly left with 
the old man and graced a corner of the 
kitchen with the shells on a near by shelf 
ready to hand. 
NE morning in early 
November, with the 
w’hite frost just stiffening 
the grass pastures and 
festooning the brushy 
side hills and the sun just 
climbing the far side of 
Mt. Tom, I turned the 
hounds loose in the valley 
swamp below the Poor 
Farm and without loss of 
time dr undue trailing, 
Frank, my big Walker 
hound, jumped a red fox 
and with Sport and Lassie 
carried him away across 
onto Pinnacle Mountain 
and out of hearing. 
It was a wonderful 
morning — the air clear 
and the white frost lying- 
moist over leaves in the 
woods and grass lands in 
the meadows and 
marshes. The hounds 
never faltered and the old 
fox had the run of his 
life until the sun came out 
warm and dried up the 
footing, when the hounds were soon 
picking out an uncertain trail and the 
race was over. 
On my -vyay home the Colonel met me 
and we talked of the music and the 
merits of hounds in general. “Do you 
know, sah, I believe the scoundrel that 
made the race today was none other than 
the midnight assassin of old Stonewall. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
I should know him, sah, if ever I saw 
him again for his mask, sah, was in- 
tensely black and I believe he wears the 
mask of an outlaw. Yes, sah, I should 
know him again.” 
The days that followed were red letter 
days to me — the grouse were plentiful 
while the woodcock flight that year was 
one long to be remembered. Every day 
was one golden pilgrimage of the hills 
and swales. Early morning found the 
bird dogs and me afoot and the sun dip- 
ping low threw its lavender shadows up 
and down the western hills as we ken- 
neled the dogs and racked the guns. 
Some of my birds found their way to 
the Poor Earm table. The Colonel every 
time affecting high indignation at the 
waste of “such provender, sah, on this 
‘cold blooded trash.’ ” 
One night as I was returning from a 
last visit to the kennel yard, I felt the 
soft caress of “winter’s feathers that 
trickle down from the sky;” reminders 
that the gray goose has made its flight 
and that the season of the white silence 
is due to fall. 
jWT ORNING found the earth just whit- 
ened, the scars of the hillsides, the 
green of the meadows, were just snowed 
under — light as swan’s down the white 
mantle spread a course for the hounds. 
Dogs in leash, we passed the Poor Farm 
in the gray of the coming day and I 
called to the Colonel, asking him to join 
us, but with his courteous wish for a 
successful day, he begged to be excused 
and I, in parting, called to him to be on 
the lookout as he might yet get a glimpse 
of the “black masked outlaw.” 
Down into the swamp, across by Hem- 
lock Hollow and we cast off the dogs; 
here, there, and across they scurried, 
looking for a trail ; down one side of the 
brook, up the other and out onto the 
mountain side and back again. 
Lassie was just coming down, picking 
hcr way from ledge to ledge, when I saw 
her stop still, poke her nose into the soft 
snow and raise her beautiful head, peal- 
ing forth thanks to the Gods of the 
Chase that yet there was one fox to run. 
It wasn’t long before she was up and 
aw’ay and the other hounds, harking to 
her, picked up the fresh trail that led 
into the thickest of the hemlocks border- 
ing the ravine down into the swamp. 
The telltale tracks in the soft snow were 
barely an hour old and- I knew that it 
was the home trail of some red rascal 
who, after his prowl of the night hours, 
was now hunting a warm nest for his 
daytime siesta, as the morning light is 
the home call of his kind. 
The racket those hounds made in the 
thick parts of the swamp surely would 
have quickened the pulse of an Egyptian 
mummy. It was but a question of min- 
utes before they routed His Highness 
from his mossy bed, and I just got a 
glimpse of him as he scurried across an 
open field on his way to the hillside and 
the timber. The dogs didn’t give him 
time to shake off his dreams for reality ; 
he was to run the race of his life and he 
meant to put as much country between 
him and those music makers as he could, 
and there, perchance, to plan some cun- 
ning twist that would set him free. That 
it was the same old fox I had no doubt, 
and when he had led the hounds to the 
top of the ridge and out of hearing, I 
feared it was the last of them for the 
day. 
I climbed the hill, and in the shelter 
of a rail fence corner looked back down 
into the valley as I hark- 
ened with all my soul for 
the hounds. The sun grad- 
ually gained control of 
the day — cleared the shad- 
ows out of the cold 
swamps, stole up under 
the timber shelter and 
softened the snow. It 
would be hut a short time 
when the trail would be 
lost again. I was about to 
give the morning’s chase 
up as a forlorn hope when 
the rumble of Sport’s 
voice came faintly across 
from the hillside and then 
Lassie’s shrill treble and 
the long intoning of 
Frank’s cry — a jangle of 
tongues and echoes so 1 
knew the hounds were 
driving hard and the fo.x 
had turned. The old ras- 
cal I believed would cross 
the valley and make his 
run on the opposite ridges 
— but where ? 
I was about to decide 
on a harwa\- lower down 
toward the swamp when 
a nimble shadow slipped 
across an opening in the meadow pas- 
ture, followed the stone wall and then 
started directly for the dairy herd now 
just drifting to water back of the Poor 
Farm barns. The hounds were driving 
in full cry behind him and I knew that 
the cunning brain of the fox was plan- 
ning to lose his trail in the cattle herd. 
{Continued on page 124) 
At the end of the long trail 
