040 
FOREST AND STREAM 
December, 191 f 
tlie e(5ge of the Blue Cyprus, across which 
lay our jouruey's eud. We diiiu't dare 
;acl;[i- iJie pacsage at uiglit, as it was 
dark wheu reached the edge, 
and iliwiigh the chance of a good dry 
camp looked auythiug but inviting, we at 
last found dry ground enough around an 
old pine to sleep and make a fire on. 
The next day we made the attempt at 
the Cyprus swamp, and finally rode out 
on to a good-sized pine island. But, oh, 
the vexations that lurked among those 
cypress tress! I remember once seeing 
Henry wedged in between two .trees, his 
knees tangled up in the trap chains, one 
hand clutching the bag of oats which was 
just slipping off, and that restive steed of 
his receiving in fanciful word pictures a 
complete history of himself and ancestors. 
Well, we found a beautiful place to camp, 
high and dry, and soon had a "lean-to” 
tip, wood cut and blankets spread, and in 
the afternoon of our arrival put out most 
of our otter traps. Never had we found 
so many signs, and on the morning of the 
following day we put five big dog otter 
skins on our stretchers. Christmas was 
two days away. That day we jumped a 
deer and our hoimds ran him out of hear- 
ing and did not come back — all but 
Pomp, he stuck to our horses’ heels. Next 
day, in the afternoon, the hounds re- 
turned, starved, lame and miserable. No 
more hunt in them. That night we 
supped, as usual, on a pone of cornbread 
and fried bacon. Henry wanted to know 
it I knew when Christmas was, and I 
told him yes, but we didn’t mention din- 
ner. We had fourteen otter skins 
stretched, and that made us feel pretty 
good, but you can’t eat otter, and we 
needed meat for the dogs, and we could 
not afford to feed them cornmeal bread; 
if we did we’d have to go back soon for 
more provisions. But up to Christmas 
morning we hadn’t killed a thing for 
meat, not a deer could we start — not 
even a quail could we find — not a coon 
put in an appearance. 
We didn’t say much on Christmas eve 
about dinner, the big buck, or anything 
else calculated to arouse the appetite. It 
was a forlorn outlook. ^ 
N ext morning I wished Henry, A 
Merry Christmas, and we both 
threw what few scraps there were 
left from breakfast to the “good dogs,’' 
abusing Pomp for coming along. As 
usual, Henry saddled up and started on 
the rounds of his traps. I started out 
with Pomp at my heels to get meat for 
dinner. Really I didn’t^ know what to do 
or which way to turn, the country seemed 
deserted, not a sign of life. Usually 
quail could be found, but we hadn’t seen 
a bird this trip. Riding listlessly along 
I took the direction of a small hammock 
where I had seen some turkey scratches 
a few days before, the visions of past 
Christmas gobblers urging me on. For 
the first time that morning I noticed now 
that Pomp was running ahead of the 
horse, and really acted as though trying 
to pick up some cold trail. He appeared 
full of business, nose close to the ground, 
Blov/ly working along, and once I heard 
him grunt his peculiar note of satisfac- 
tion. 1 became quite uiterested, for it 
might bo a ’coon and that would be some- 
tbiug. 1 said nothing, but followed 
slowly on, as he picked out the trail 
across a small grass pond, but just as I 
rode out on the other side there stared 
me in the face, fresh on the soft sand, the 
biggest buck track I had ever seen. To 
say 1 was interested would be drawing 
it mild. My heart put in an extra thump, 
and the whole earth looked more invit- 
ing, more like Christmas Day. 
But I can’t quicken your pulse with 
cold pen and ink. You need the actual 
experience, the sight of that “sorry 
hound” following each capricious wind- 
ing of the big deer, as he had fed through 
the night before. We followed the trail 
at least two miles to a small clump of 
palmetto trees^ and here I felt the end 
would come. Pomp was quickening 
his pace, anid once or twice he had 
voiced his mind in a short exultant 
note, and I could see that he wms 
sure of jumping his game. Hastily dis- 
mounting I threw the bridle over the 
horse’s head, and holding it on my arm, 
faced the trees. Pomp was out of sight, 
but I heard once or twice his “voice so 
sweet,” and then the quick- sharp, hair- 
raising, incessant notes of heavenly mu- 
sic, and I knew the deer had jumped. 
"With a rush he came out of the thicket, 
his head like a brush heap bouncing high 
at every jump like an India-rubber baP,. 
Holcliug well on his glisteriug shoulder. 
1 saw at the rejjort the flag come clown, 
and on the next jump he stopped turn tug 
his head from side to side, until Pomp's 
urgent music started him on. Jumping 
on the pony I sat ready for a ride to head 
him off, but there was no need. Trotting 
slowly, but majestically the big buck 
came straight to where I stood, and when 
within ten feet of the pony, staggered, 
fell and died. Pomp got to him about as 
soon as I did, and we both made merry 
over him; that no ’count hound coming 
in for his share, wondering, I suppose, at 
the new; treatment he received. 
W ELL, we got the buck to camp — 
Pomp and I — and woke Henry up. 
He was a changed man, the smile 
froze on his face and stayed there all 
Christmas Day. We let no grass grow 
under our feet. Dinner was soon under 
way, and we sat down to the following 
menu: Fried backstraps of venison, roast 
ribs of venison; a beautiful pone of white 
bread, black coffee and hominy. And 
Pomp sat at dinner with us — to the ex- 
clusion of all other dogs. After a sooth- 
ing pipe, we felt at peace with all the 
world. Strange, but we were never out 
of meat again, and Pomp became our 
pride — but he never jumped a deer that 
I did not think of the old buck at Bull 
Island, and how he saved our Christmas. 
Hfi cam&^oul; of ths thicket Kith & rush. 
