FOREST AND STREAM 
The Chasing of Old One-Ear 
A Red Fox Story in which the Brush was Not Taken 
By S. C. Newsome. 
It was in the winter of 1911 that I first made 
the acquaintance of 01 ’ One-Ear. My fellow ad¬ 
venturer, Uncle Arris Browne, and I had fol¬ 
lowed our hounds about ten miles across the Har- 
peth Hills seeking a shot at the big red fox 
they were chasing. The “Red” eluded us, how¬ 
ever, and after a glorious run took refuge in 
Sam’s Cave, an inaccessible cave overlooking 
the Harpeth River, which had gotten its name 
from an old slave who once had hidden there 
from his master. 
As soon as the fox was “holed” I proposed to 
Uncle Arris to ride around by Breadtrey Hollow 
on our way home as I had heard rumors of an 
enormous “Red” having been seen there several 
times in the past few months. He was willing, 
so accordingly we “blew” the hounds in and after 
a few miles stirring trot arrived at the edge of 
Breadtrey, a long and deep hollow, winding for 
miles through the hills. We left the road and 
plunged into the hollow following the dogs 
which had gone ahead. In a few minutes the 
deep bass notes of Rover, my prize Kentucky 
hound, broke the silence of the forest, to be 
joined a moment later by the shrill tones of ol’ 
Queen, the favorite dog of Uncle Arris. In a 
short while the entire pack of eight dogs were in 
full cry down the hollow and we were pushing 
our horses to the uttermost to keep them in sight. 
The woods were remarkably free from under¬ 
growth, and our greatest care was to avoid being 
swept from the saddle by the Jow-hanging 
boughs. 
There is no sport under the sun which will stir 
the blood to such heights of exhilaration as will 
a thundering gallop after the hounds, up hill and 
down hill, across country and through the woods, 
the muffled thud of the horses hoofs mingled 
with the staccato notes of the pack and the mel¬ 
low tones of the hunters’ horn stirring both 
hounds and horses to greater exertions. After 
twenty minutes of this headlong gait we were 
brought to a sudden halt by a barbed wire fence. 
Herein we found two of the young dogs cruelly 
cut by the barbs and howling piteously. We dis¬ 
entangled them and they went ahead after the 
pack now far in the lead. Following the fence 
for a couple of miles we found a gate and spur¬ 
red ahead, but were unable to locate the pack. 
We rode on until we reached the road again and 
here Uncle Arris said we should wait as he 
thought the fox would turn and bring the pack 
back that way. Sure enough, in about ten min¬ 
utes we heard the voice of Rover faint in the 
distance, but growing stronger all the time, and 
soon the cries of the pack were rapidly nearing 
us. “Watch out,” suddenly cried my companion, 
“He will pass here in a minute.” 
And directly here he came, an enormous red, 
almost big as a wolf, covering the ground in 
long easy leaps, the dogs plunging along two 
hundred yards in the rear. One ear was cropped 
close to his head, a result probably of some 
youthful adventure, giving him a dare-devil ex¬ 
pression. Sir Reynard approached to within 
twenty yards of us before he discerned our pres¬ 
ence. I threw my Lefever twelve to my shoul¬ 
der and covered him as he swerved and made off 
down the hill toward the river, but through some 
instinct of sympathy or of pity, or perhaps it 
was gratitude for his noble run, I didn’t pull the 
trigger and in a moment he was out of sight. 
“Confound you,” howled my friend, “Why 
didn’t you drop him. That’s the biggest red I 
ever saw and you let him run right over your 
neck and never pull a trigger. Damn it, why 
didn’t you say you weren’t going to shoot,, etc., 
etc.” I turned a passive mien (whatever that is), 
to his ravings and finally mollified him by sug¬ 
gesting that we could have a whole winter’s sport 
of the big ’un before bagging him. 
Meanwhile the hounds pursued the strong- 
hearted fox through the river bottoms and back 
again to Breadtrey, circling all around the hol¬ 
low in excited chorus. For three hours we rode 
up and down the ridge above Breadtrey never 
out of hearing of the hounds for one minute. 
Presently Old One-Ear seemingly tired of the 
chase, for he took a sudden turn up the brow of 
the hill about a quarter of a mile to our right 
and passed over into MacDaniel’s Hollow, fully 
the equal to Breadtrey in extent but covered with 
a thick underbrush, which hindered the hounds 
considerably. By this time it was late in the 
afternoon and the shadows of dusk were gather¬ 
ing down by the silvery course of the river. We 
were both thoroughly weary, so I was glad when 
Uncle Arris put his horn to his lips and called 
the dogs in with several long-drawn notes. On 
the way in we agreed not to kill the one-eared 
fox but to save him for our most exciting chases. 
“Why he must have run fifty miles around the 
hollow alone,” voiced my companion, “Not count¬ 
ing the trip they took out of hearing.” 
“The dogs did pretty well, too,” I agreed, 
looking back to where they trotted jaded in the 
rear- And so we waxed eloquent concerning our 
dogs and their exploits, and presently came to 
the house. Uncle Arris dismounted and dined 
with me before riding on to his home, and I tell 
you, a strong whiskey punch, followed by a cup 
of strong coffee and a substantial dinner of coun¬ 
try ham, eggs, potatoes and corn bread put new 
life into our veins, as it will for any man. 
After dinner we filled our pipes and discussed 
the chase of the morning. Uncle finally said he 
was glad that I hadn’t killed the fox when I had 
the opportunity and apologized for his rough lan¬ 
guage of the morning, as I knew all along he 
would. 
It was nearly dark when he rode off, and the 
silver disc of the January moon glimmered pale¬ 
ly above the Harpeth Ridge. The last thing 
Uncle Arris said as he rode away was this: 
“Don’t tell Morton and Travis about that fox, 
Sam, until we have had another chase or two 
by ourselves.” 
Morton and Travis were our deadliest rivals 
in the pursuit of the gay Reynard, and we often 
disputed the merits of our respective packs. In 
a day or so, the ground grew soft under the in¬ 
fluence of a warm mist from the south and we 
again journeyed to Breadtrey in search of Old 
One-Ear. We found him too and -had, But that’s 
another story, as R. Kipling would say. 
753 
STYLE AND OTHER FIELD POINTS. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
Editor, Forest and Stream : 
With your consent I here ask the opinions 
of your readers upon certain matters concern¬ 
ing field dogs, pointers and -setters, and I am 
quite sure that I am not alone in feeling an 
interest in the telling, discussing, or questioning 
of ideas thereupon. In the first place, what is 
style? I am not acquainted with field trials nor 
the winners of such, but yet I have a sort of 
a notion -that I have an idea concerning style. 
I have seen many paintings, a great many fine 
engravings and drawings also, of ‘dogs in the 
field, and I have seen quite a number of finely 
bred and finely trained dogs at work, and have 
owned a few myself. As I generally carry a 
gun I may be permitted to say that with ex¬ 
tremely few exceptions none of these seem to 
me to come up to the standard. Style is lots. A 
lover of the beautiful he must be to appreciate 
it, and the more ardent the lover the keener 
the appreciation. No dog of mine should be 
devoid of a certain style of motion and posi¬ 
tion when on point; I value it more highly than 
perfect staunchness; yet I believe that a really 
stylish dog is a rare dog. 
As far as pictures go, as much as I have seen, 
Mr. Tracy’s painting of the famous Roderigo 
(with Paul Gladstone) comes the nearest to a 
fine position on point. Now, my idea of what 
style should be comes from the fact that I 
once owned a dog. And now I 'hear the gentle 
reader commence to climb on to me in the 
usual way. “Oh, yes, he had a dog that was 
stylish; perfection! grand! went ahead of any¬ 
thing he ever saw, and all that.” Well, then, the 
gentle reader has hit it. I won’t disclaim. 
That’s the very -wording to suit the -case, and if 
he will know still more he will open the book, 
Mr. Editor, “Training vs. Breaking” and turn 
to the sketch of old dog Trim and then to the 
description of that noble animal when on point, 
and the reader may know just what my dog was 
as to style, in better wording than I could put 
it. My dog was a Laverack setter, son of the 
famous Thunder, a fine nosed, fine ranging, in¬ 
telligent fellow, staunch to a fault, unutterably 
handsome in coat and figure, clear black and 
white and belton, and so wonderfully graceful 
in the field, so perfect in motion and the power 
to get himself in shape when on point, that 
—well, I never have nor never expect to see 
his equal. But he was spoiled on dead birds, 
he wouldn’t retrieve nor point dead, nor notice 
aught but life and activity, so he lacked per¬ 
fection after all, poor fellow. But had I the 
touch of the fabled Midas, I would have his 
memory perpetuated in solid gold, carved as 
he stood on point, though even then I could 
not see the breezy wave of his long coat, nor the 
glance of his deep brown eyes. 
But I have roaded long enough and must lo¬ 
cate, and come to the point in s'aying that I do 
