
another; “ours are all here, unless,” he 
added reflectively, “it is ‘the Stranger.’ ” 
“Let us see about that,” said another, 
and a little tattoo was tooted on a horn 
that brought the whole band up in a 
caper wagging tails and flapping ears, 
and they were called off by name— 
Trump and Trooper, Bell and Bugler, 
Rush and Ringwood, Comet and Fly, 
Game and Gypsy, and all the gang pres- 
ent, impatient, and eager, except “the 
Stranger,” on whom no one spent a 
thought. . 
By this time the running hound, to 
whom we had been listening had de- 
seribed a circle on the bench of the 
mountain above us and was now coming 
straight as a railroad right down on 
us. It was a splendid voice that came 
rolling down the slopes. Sweet as a 
flute, clear as a clarion, bold as a bugle, 
and steady as a church bell, it poured 
its symphonous tide like a rolling river, 
through the wide spreading valley, in- 
undating the sleeping earth with its 
mighty volume of mellow music. 
At a signal each of us gathered as 
many hounds as we could hold onto 
and we started a runner to the cross- 
ing to see the chase and who was the 
chaser, etc. In a jiffy we heard the 
hoofs of the bald-faced pony clattering 
back, and as he came he yelled out: 
“Turn ’em loose; turn ’em loose, every 
one, for I’ll be blankety blank blanked 
if it ain’t the ‘old beater’ himself, and 
‘the Stranger’s’ hotfoot right in his 
wake, lickety brindle, and making him 
hump for his life, not 50 yards behind 
him.” In less time that it takes to tell it 
the entire pack, released, was thunder- 
ing on the trail. We knew exactly where 
the chase would lead and how he would 
swing a circuit of some 7 miles in cir- 
cumference, and just where he would 
cross the stream that drained the val- 
ley, and the precise spot where he would 
jump the road on his way back to the 
mountain. 
A SHARP gallop of 10 minutes 
brought us to the place. We halted 
to listen. For 20 minutes all was silent. 
Then a low, dim buzz of 
sound from the distant 
foothills of a parallel 
range of mountains that 
marked the eastern hori- 
zon came faintly sobbing 
on the night wind. Then 
it arose and freshened and 
died down and_ swelled 
forth as the pack topped 
the ridges and sank into 
the intervening valleys. 
Then, stronger and strong- 
er, it grew, and louder 
and louder it rose, into 
a well-sustained stream 
Page 5 
Ed. P. 2745. David Degrappenried, owner. 


pi ogi cae . 
ER I acne Sees Rn. 
Rex Dawson, by Hub Dawson and Backett. B. Stone, owner. Bred by 
J. L. Kanatzar 
of sound, melodious, magnificent, and 
mighty, without a halt or hitch, 
the loss of a note or the drop 
of a stitch, and coming straight as a 
rifle shot to the spot where we silently 
sat on our horses. “Well, the ‘old 
beater’ is doing the square thing to- 
night,’”’ muttered a low voice. “Hush,” 
said another, “here he comes.” A soft 
swish through the bushes, a low hah- 
hah-hah, a gray flash across the moon- 
lit road, a gray streak vanishing in 
the gloom of the woods, and we knew 
the fox had passed. And then came 
the pack; a forest of tails feathering 
the moonshine, a mottled mass of long- 
eared, sinuous rushing hounds, all in 
full cry, not a hundred yards in the 
rear, bellowing forth a cataract of 
music so thunderous as to rock the 
earth itself and shatter the acorns from 
the trees hard by. 
UT what was the matter with “the 
Stranger?” We could all see that 
he was leading by a good dozen lengths, 
but he was running mute, dumb as an 

J. L. Kanatzar 
Bred by 
oyster. Well, all old fox hunters know 
how that was. It often happens with a 
timid dog in a hostile pack. The poor 
fellow was just afraid of the other 
dogs; afraid that it might be wrong, 
and that they would resent it if he 
gave tongue; but, bless your heart, 
gentle reader, when we stood up in our 
stirrups and gave him the old yell and 
halloed, “Hurrah for ‘the Stranger’!” 
he came out most bravely, and thence 
to the end the music rang perfect. His 
vast voice rose above and dominated all. 
It filled every crack, and chink and 
crevice, and made the music sound as 
solid as a storm. He led the orchestra 
as he led the pack. 
But the “old beater” was not done 
yet. In fact, he thought that he had 
just fairly begun. He swept another 
shorter circle through the valley and 
yet another, still shorter. However, 
“the Stranger” was a new feature in 
the chase that he had not calculated on, 
for he set him a faster pace and “the 
Stranger” crowded him closer and 
closer all the time. He could find no 
leisure on his doubles in 
which to rest. If he halted 
a moment for a little 
breath, “the Stranger” 
would be right on to him 
the next, with all the pack 
at his heels. They lost 
no time now, with “the 
Stranger” leading, and 
the time we saw _ the 
“beater” cross the road on 
his way to the mountains 
his plume was on _ the 
drag; he looked worried, 
and his “hah-hah-hah” 
(Continued on page 54) 
