HOW POMP SAVED OUR CHRISTMAS 
THE NO ’COUNT YELLOW HOUND WHICH STEATS INTO CAMP TURNS OUT 
TO HAVE A NOSE AFTER ALL AND TAKES HIS PLACE AMONG THE IMMORTALS 
By EDWARD RUSSELL WILBUR 
H e wandered up to the door one day, 
and with a grunt of half apology 
and satisfaction dropped down. He 
had a sort of “I’ve come to stay and to 
leave you never more expression. Yellow, 
gaunt and ungainly, he was a sorr}' speci- 
men of a hound, and but for the fact that 
there was no place to bid him begone to, 
hg surely would have gotten the “right 
about.’’ We made him acquainted with a 
pan of cornmeal bread, which disappeared 
with a gulp and a half sigh at the quan- 
tity. 
“Henry,” said I, “what is it, and what 
are we going to do with it?” “Well, ’ 
said Henry, “it’s a dog. and a ‘no ’count’ 
one at that; but let him stay and we’ll 
use him to catch hogs.” So we christened 
him Pomp, and let him stay. 
At this time Henry Carter and myself 
were living on a ciaim in Turnbull Ham- 
mock, Florida. . We had put up quite a 
comfortable cabin and had trapped and 
hunted with varying success all winter. 
-A.bout a week before Christmas we 
made all preparations for an extended 
tour up country after otters, and we had 
decided to visit Bull Island, a place much 
talked of as a wonderful game country 
and but little visited, as it was decidedly 
difficult of access. 
The day before we started Henry took 
Pomp down to Titusville, where w’e went 
for provisions, and gave him away, for he 
had proved himself decidedly worthless 
as a hunting hound, and did not appear 
to know a deer track from a ’possum’s. 
How well I remember the morning we 
started. Henry mounted on a little rat- 
tailed scrub pony of great endurance, his 
pommel hung with otter traps, frying 
pans, a Dutch oven and other jangling 
camp fixings, while tied on at his back 
was a sack of oats and blankets. I rode 
a gray pony of greater size, whose saddle 
was decorated with traps, bags of pro- 
visions and other necessaries. 
And all was made merry by the mouth- 
ings of our hounds. We prided ourselves 
on our dogs: Bragg, Sherman and Troop, 
cold trail deer hounds wuth the Birdsong 
strain strong in their pedigree, and whose 
music was joy to a hunter's soul. 
We rode straight across through the 
pine woods to Aurantia Station, where we 
arranged to have another sack of oats left 
for us by the train from Sanford. From 
Aurantia Station we rode to 'Turkey 
A sure enough Christmas diinner. 
Hammock and here we stopped for our 
noonday rest. The ride thus far had been 
through half-submerged pine woods and 
grass ponds, and the horses were already 
pretty tired, so we made good long stop, 
making coffee and enjoying several pipe- 
fuls before starting. However, we at last 
got under way, and, after another two 
hours’ ride through the worst sort of saw 
palmetto, we made camp for the night on 
the edge of a little hammock through 
which ran a sweet water branch. We 
gave the horses a good, generous feed of 
cats, put up our mosquito bars, cut a good 
supply of wood and made everything 
ready for the night. 
I proposed to Henry that we take a look 
around the hammock for turkey and deer 
signs, but after an hour’s walk we didn’t 
find anything at all interesting, so re- 
turned, built up a fire and made a pone 
of bread and some coffee After dinner we 
lit our pipes and somehow got talking 
about Christmas and what a great day it 
was for a good dinner, and I remember 
Henry’s remark: “We’ll have a big buck 
for our Christmas dinner up on Bull 
Island,” and then he crawled under his 
bar, and with a good-night left me sitting 
by the fire. 
H enry carter was one of the best 
fellows in the world, a Georgian by 
birth and an enthusiastic sports- 
man, and our idea was, if the ground 
looked promising, to make a permanent 
camp up in this island country and trap 
it thoroughly through the winter. It was 
a glorious night, and as I sat by the fire 
I wondered if we were going to have good 
luck and if there were big bucks up there, 
and I got a little sleepy and nodded and — 
what was that? The full notes of a hound 
on the trail — coming nearer — ^“Henry,” I 
called, “get out of that, here cornea a 
hound running — perhaps there’s a deer in 
front of him” — and we ran out, guns in 
hands, ready for the fray, just as that 
mean, no ’count, yellow hound Pomp ran 
out into the moonlight and opened his 
mouth in one long howl of welcome. But 
he didn’t get it — Henry was mad at being 
waked up by that “low-born hound,” and 
our other dogs all met him with hair re- 
versed and a series of threatening growls. 
Still Pomp didn’t mind, he crept up to the 
fire and fell asleep as one who has faith- 
fully attained his end. 
Next morning found us on the road 
again, and at night we made our fire on 
Cements Copyrighted 1919, by Forest and Stream Fublishing Cot 
