Dec. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
825 
The Foxhound 
By WALTER H. DEARING 
“ ‘Is it too late?’ 
“ ‘Well, they are scarcer than they were, un¬ 
less you know where to go. I call 40 pounds light 
for a maskinonge; fifty to seventy is about my 
figure. If you ain’t used to this kind of fishing, 
and go with me, you had better tie yourself in 
the boat. They are a powerful fish. You see that 
little island yonder? A maskinonge dragged me 
in this boat four times around that island one day, 
and just as I thought I was tiring him, out he 
jumped clean over the island, and I had to cut 
the line!’ ” * * * 
At Cape Vincent while black bass fishing with 
live bait, a woman angler struck a small fish, and 
when reeling it in felt the pull on the rod sudden¬ 
ly become heavier, the fish swimming away from 
the boat in spite of all she could do. Finally she 
succeeded in turning it, and after five minutes’ 
play saw, to her great surprise, the brown back 
and fins and tail of a maskinonge through the top 
of a wave some twenty feet from the boat. The 
woman had no gaff and no pistol. So the mas¬ 
kinonge soon pulled away. The bass was badly 
cut by its teeth and had been swallowed tail first. 
* * * 
Captain Charles H. Townsend, the chief clerk 
in the Chief Quartermaster’s office, Department 
of the Missouri, received by express a maskin¬ 
onge caught by his niece, Miss Georgia D. Town¬ 
send, at Lake Ripley, Wisconsin, while fishing 
through a hole in the ice. The fish weighed 29% 
pounds. While cleaning the fish the man engaged 
in the work remarked that it was the first fish he 
had ever seen or heard of that had a “tongue.” 
The “tongue*’ proved to be the tail of a large 
black bass, which had been swallowed by the big 
fish and which weighed 3 pounds 5 ounces. 
* * * 
Five members of one family were drowned 
in the Pigeon River Last September, the victims 
being William McCaffrey of Toronto, sales man¬ 
ager of the Canadian General Electric Company; 
his mother, his wife and two children. 
A fourteen-pound maskinonge, which had 
been hooked by McCaffrey, was responsible for 
the deaths of the family party. McCaffrey had 
come to Toronto with his family to spend a short 
holiday with his parents, and with his wife, 
mother and two children started out in a canoe 
down the Pidgeon River in quest of maskinonge. 
No member of the party was seen alive after the 
canoe put out down river. 
When the party did not return toward even¬ 
ing, Charles McCaffrey, father of the drowned 
man, became alarmed and organized a searching 
party. Seven miles down the river the canoe, 
floating bottom up, was found. Dragging opera¬ 
tions was begun immediately and soon the bodies 
off the five were recovered. 
Clutched in the hands of McCaffrey was a 
trolling line, and on the hook a fourteen-pound 
maskinonge. The big species of American pike 
was still alive and thrashed the water violently as 
he was drawn in. The coroner said there was no 
doubt, that the fish had struck the line of McCaf¬ 
frey and hooked himself, and that in the efforts 
of McCaffrey to get it into the boat the canoe 
was overturned and he and his family perished. 
* * * 
In the Niagara River with William Goss, 
guide, Miss Lillian Sullivan was trolling near 
Strawberry Island. Goss was rowing. Suddenly 
Miss Sullivan cried. 
“Stop rowing, Bill, I’m snagged,” and a sec¬ 
ond later: “Pull, Bill, pull! I’m not snagged; 
I have got a strike!” 
“Oh, quit your fooling,” said Bill. 
“No, Bill, no,” said Miss Sullivan, “I’m not 
fooling. I tell you, Bill, I have got a strike.” 
She did have a strike, and later landed the 
fish, with Goss’s assistance. It weighed 47% 
pounds. 
I F dogs were only capable of relating the varied 
scenes through which they had passed dur¬ 
ing the course of their existence, it is not 
improbable that the foxhound would carry off 
the palm when it came to furnishing the largest 
number of thrilling tales that had been figured in. 
Other dogs may have seen more of life, as 
we humans understand that word. The street 
mongrel could probably tell more of the strange 
vicissitudes through which men are sometimes 
compelled to pass; the Blemheim knows more of 
the luxuries of life; the fox terrier may have 
accompanied his master in more of his ramblings 
and seen more of human nature, but the fox¬ 
hound has surely experienced more excitement 
than any of his contemporaies, at least with few 
exceptions. 
Imagine the excitement he must have experi¬ 
enced when, upon a score of occasions, he has 
stood and waited with bated breath the release 
of the fox he was about to pursue over hill and 
dale, through the woods, and perhaps across some 
irate farmer’s field. Possibly he did not know 
how irate the irate farmer was at the time, but 
we are supposing that he did. Farmers’ fields 
are not so frequently galloped over by the fox¬ 
hound, and his red-coat followers, as they for¬ 
merly were, but such things have happened in 
days gone by, and there must have been a de¬ 
licious feeling of excitement in wondering whether 
the farmer was about to emerge from behind the 
woodshed and let fly a well-aimed fire from his 
grandfather’s shotgun, b’gosh! Not that the 
farmer is a bloodthirsty individual, far from it. 
But then he naturally resents having his rye field 
ruined, even though the improvement in the 
breed of foxhounds is being aided in the process, 
and not caring to shoot people, he would be far 
more likely to shoot the dogs. 
Having arrived at the further end of the 
field in safety through virtue of the farmer’s 
aim being bad, the hound continues on his jour¬ 
ney until he comes to a little strip of woods 
through which he and his companions go full 
tilt, with Reynard running ahead, and taking 
them by devious twists and turns, in and out 
among the trees, until suddenly, just when it 
seems likely that they will run him to earth, he 
resorts to one of his famous strategies, and es¬ 
capes. Or perhaps, they overtake him in the 
open, and then, well then there’s one less chicken 
thief in the world. 
These are only a few of the excitements of 
the chase in which the foxhound is the principal 
figure. There is the exciting rush; the climbing 
through, and jumping over rail fences, and many 
other situations too numerous to mention. And 
we take into consideration the number of times 
the average foxhound is compelled to go through 
these adventures, we are inclined to wonder how 
it is that he doesn’t suffer from recurring attacks 
of nervous prostration. But he doesn’t. He is 
about as hardy a specimen of dogdom as one 
could find in a day’s journey. 
If the careful study of scientific breed¬ 
ing, backed by the unlimited expenditure of un¬ 
told wealth, can produce a perfect dog for any 
particular line of work, then the foxhound should 
certainly be perfect. There is no estimating the 
vast sums of wealth that have been expended by 
sportsmen both in this country and in England 
to breed a dog that would reach the highest 
possible attainments in the sport of fox hunting. 
Poor Reynard, if he were mathematically in¬ 
clined, he might stay awake every night for the 
whole of his natural life, and still be unable to 
figure out the amount in dollars and cents that 
has been expended in striving to produce a pack 
of dogs capable of outmatching his cunning with 
their superior speed, scent, and powers of endur¬ 
ance, and running him to earth for the pleasure 
of their masters. Lucky for him that he is not 
given to figures or else he might become over¬ 
awed by the monetary value of his undying 
enemy, and give up in despair through sheer lack 
of confidence. In that case the fox hunting 
fraternity would probably be compelled to redou¬ 
ble the amount of money spent on the dogs, in 
order to improve the breed of foxes. As it is 
he escapes from his pursuers more often than 
not, so that in his case, at least, ignorance of the 
value of money may have been a blessing in dis¬ 
guise. 
But the fact that the animal often escapes 
can hardly be blamed on the foxhound. Given 
an equal chance over a fair stretch of country, 
and the little vagrant’s chances of getting away 
would be about equal to the chance the average 
individual would possess of ruling Mexico for 
ten years without a revolution. 
The foxhound could capture all the foxes in 
ihe country over a stretch of level ground and 
then get back in time for supper. But the fox 
always has the advantage of a good start, and 
this in combination with his never ending reper¬ 
toire of foxy stunts enables him to escape as 
often as he does. 
A good illustration of the dog’s speed was 
given at the famous speed trial run in England 
years .ago, when Blue Cap, the winning dog, 
covered the four miles, one furlong, and 132 
yards in a trifle over eight minutes. Sixty 
horses covered the distance in company with the 
dogs, but only twelve were able to keep pace 
with them. The renowned racehorse Flying Chil¬ 
ders ran the same distance about a half-minute 
faster than the time made at this trial. 
The wonderful endurance of the foxhound 
is proven at every meet that takes place. To 
begin with, the dogs are compelled to journey 
from their kennels to the meeting place before 
starting on their day’s work, and as a general 
rule the meets start at quite a distance from the 
kennels. After they reach the starting point they 
are usually subjected to considerable delay be¬ 
fore the hunt is started, and this is by no means 
to be overlooked in reckoning their powers of 
endurance, as their natural desire to get into 
the thick of the fray is quite a strain upon them. 
Despite all of these conditions, they invariably 
outrun the horses, usually leaving them a good 
distance behind in the day’s journey. When it 
is considered that the average horse that is used 
as a hunter is usually a half breed, or else has 
a strain of the thoroughbred in him, the merit 
of this performance can be easily seen. 
The foxhound is essentially a Collectivist. 
He has not been raised or trained with the object 
of developing a dog, but rather with the intention 
of developing one of a pack of dogs. His strong 
point is team work. And if he is incapable of 
team work, he ceases to be a foxhound and be¬ 
comes simply a misfit from the huntsman’s point 
of view. He must fit in with his pack in every 
way. If he is too fast he won’t do; and if he 
is too slow, he still won’t do. He must simply 
be a spoke that fits into the hub of the fox 
hunting wheel, and revolves around the center 
in perfect accord with the whole outfit. 
