The proper career of a fox-hound, from his birth to his death, might be described thus: I would have him bred from parents in the prime of life, that have themselves not only all the chief points of fox-hound symmetry and substance, but the tried qualities of pace, nose, and tongue; and sent to a farm walk where a hound is loved and cared for, where new milk is liberally given to the little lodger, and liberty to play, gallop and hunt at his own sweet will is allowed. We all know what mischief the fox-hound puppy, like the human puppy, is capable of; and many of us have had expensive, if entertaining, experiences of his youthful manners. We have seen our turkey hens, our peacocks, or our poultry the victims of his sporting proclivities. We have seen our tablecloths, curtains, and doormats worried and tattered in a manner prophetic of the style in which the miscreant, when he grows into a hound, will treat poor Reynard; we have wrung our hands while he drew the flower-garden; and yet, while we have soundly rated him, we have laughed over these domestic tragedies. I love to see a wild puppy; I like to see him with a leveret in his mouth after he has tow-rowed through the pheasant covert; for I know that all his hunting and worrying instincts can be controlled when he is finally enlisted in the ranks, but can never be put into him unless they are there to begin with. Were my pup treated as I would have him treated, he should neither be rounded nor branded. The former is all but useless, while the tattooing of the inside of the ear with the initial letter of the pack and the litter number, is a more humane and simpler, as well as a more complete and lasting mark than that made with the branding-iron.
When my pup arrives, I would wish to be quite clear about his name, so that he may not have to relearn it when he goes back to the kennels. This summer I saw a pup walked by a neighbour of mine, who answered while at walk to the name of “Ree-Torrick,” and when he was “sent in” had, no doubt, to discover, through much rating, that his name was “Rhetoric.” On the other hand, I knew a pup called “Vagrant,” which was always called after he was entered “Vagerrant”; so, after all, we may agree with Peter Beckford’s huntsman, who evidently considered that as long as a hound answered to his name, it made no difference what he was called, for being asked the name of a young hound, he said it was “Lyman.” “Lyman?” said his master. “Why, James, what does Lyman mean?” “Lord, sir!” replied James; “what does anything mean?”
But now my pup has grown into a young hound, and has, with the help of a good constitution, a warm lodging, and a generous diet, withstood the distemper. Then the day comes when he must leave the shelter of his home, and the caressing care of those who have watched over his puppyhood, and go to school. As with the schoolboy, so with young Wrangler; he will find compensation in the company of his many companions for the routine and monotony of kennel life.
Wrangler enters the kennels, receiving very much the same treatment, and being as thoroughly inspected, as any “new boy” ever was. For a time his stern droops, and he feels lost and cowed; but after standing a certain amount of rough play, he shows his mettle, asserts himself, and holds his own amongst the new arrivals. The strange, prisonlike impression of his new quarters wears off; he begins to appreciate the cleanliness and order that guarantee all that is necessary for health and comfort; but many a time he hears his name, and often he feels the whip, before his wild nature is brought to bend to the discipline of the kennel. The summer months are at last over; Wrangler has learned to go in couples; then to pass through the sheep without thinking of mutton; and though in his heart he dearly loves the scent of a hare, he has had the lesson “ware hare” writ so distinctly on his back that there is no fear of his forgetting it. And now our hero makes his début as a fox-hound, and is blooded. The very first day he is out, curiosity and desire to see what is doing tempt him into the covert. He is all excitement as the old hounds speak, he follows hard, and quickly learns to stoop to the new scent. The season slips by, and Wrangler has taken his place in the van. He has learned to love a scent, and he is keen in the struggle to find and proclaim it, and when the primrose and “stinking violets” announce that hunting days are over, he can show a few goodly scars around his youthful nose. But see him the next season, as the horses go kennel fadge to the meet, slipping along with both ends up; look at his waving stern and impatient eye during the vexing delay before a move is made; mark him as he races to the covert and bustles through the whins; hark, as with his full and musical voice he gives the delightful news that a fox is found; watch him as he flies to the view-halloo, tops the fence, shoots right and left like a sky-rocket, till he has the line, and then bless him as he races away with his head up and stern down. “Yonder he goes,” but the pack need never a word. The loud cry sinks to that modified chorus that proclaims that it is real business, and there is Wrangler driving ahead in the first bunch. Over the grass they race, through and over the fence in the fallow, down the furrow Wrangler leads them, throwing now and again a full, confident note. Away they stream, and if in the excitement of the hot pursuit he flashes over the scent for a moment, one swift fling and he has it again. The field is growing thinner as the miles of grass and plough are covered, and the best pack in England would begin to tail! But the game is over. They run from scent to view, Wrangler’s bristles are up, and you
may swear it’s who-hoop,
For he’ll dash at his fox like a hawk in her stoop,
And he carries the head marching home to his soup.
And many and oftentimes will Wrangler make a run, till he, too, has, like every dog, had his day. The Master’s heart is steeled, he gives the order (who knows with what regret?), and another hound takes his place with the flying black, white, and tan!