Foxes on the Eastern Shore

I CANNOT refrain from saying a word on the subject of fox hunting since seeing our Jersey friend having such nice fun in this the most rational of all amusements. When he hears the hounds even an old plug will break from his stall and go fox hunting, while not one has ever been known to go quail or duck shooting of his own will.

Our country, the Eastern Shore, presents perhaps the best advantages for this sport of any to be found. The country is as level as a billiard table; there are no rocks, nor any difficult streams to ford, while the red fox is plentiful and can always be raised if one gets out by 6 or 8 A. M.

Caged foxes afford but poor sport. They seem to get stiff from confinement, which is, however, due more to their efforts while in captivity to escape than it is to being cramped. I have never known a caged fox to hold on longer than three hours and cover more than thirty miles, while in a large majority of cases if the dogs are fleet the chase amounts to no more than a rabbit hunt.

Fox hunting to me is equally interesting whether I study the habits of the fox in evading his pursuers or the sagacity of the dogs in settling highly important questions as to which way reynard has gone. And then the music in worth to me far excels that of Ole Bull and Blind Tom. In fact, everything connected with fox hunting is good matter-of-fact common sense.

To determine on a cold trail which way the fox has gone is a thing that can only be done by a thoroughbred, well-trained hound, and the man is yet to be born who can satisfactorily tell how the hound does it. I recall one hunt in Upshur's Neck, and it was on this occasion that I became so deeply interested in animal sagacity. It was a cold, bleak morning, and already past 6 when we reached Matchapungo Creek shore, where the trail was sure to be found. We had twenty dogs, among which was Ames's dog Ruler. On reaching the usual place of striking the trail, Ruler was seen to raise his bristles, almost burying his nose in the half frozen sand.

"There is a trail," said Ames, but Ruler had not yet made the fact known. When he finally opened the other dogs were attracted, but not one could touch it; not even a whine came from a single one of them. Here the huntsman had opportunity of selecting the best dog to breed from for nose, a very important matter. The whole party were present, sitting on their horses watching the dog's actions.

The creek shore runs north and south. The dog would go north 100yds. perhaps from where we stood, then south, passing us the same distance; doing this half a dozen times perhaps, and occasionally opening. Not another dog gave utterance yet to a whine. Finally the old fellow had made his prognosis, and slowly sauntered down the creek shore, occasionally opening. Leaving the bleak sand, which the fox had done many hours before, no doubt, Ruler entered a skirt of pine where Turlington's bitch Fury began crying, and on down four or five miles they raised the fox, and caught him in five or six hours. Now this instinct -- for it is certainly not an acquirement -- is a fit study for learned men, and is an interesting part of the sport.

The fox's habit of retracking himself is a very interesting part of the hunt. This is an admixture of instinct and sagacity. The fox has never acquired the knowledge possessed by the rabbit of making a circle and running in the rear of the dogs; still the fox has his tricks. On the occasion of a certain hunt I did not get off. The boys, however, raised a fox, and knowing pretty well where I could get to get a sight of the chase, I walked through a woods road half a mile, and after waiting a short time heard the fox breaking brush. Soon it came in view, crossed the road, entered a piece of very open timber, and going 200yds. or so, stopped, turned and to a line retraced his track, coming to where I could get a full view of him; he leaped to the windward of his track and passed on out of my sight. Of course he did not see me.

The dogs soon came up. Having run but about a couple of hours, they were on nettles and drove right on until they reached the end of the track, where the fox had turned. Here they scattered in every direction, and would have lost the day's sport but for old Dick. He was a powerful black and tan, with the best of an English bull dog, and ears that would have half-soled a pair of No. 10 plantation brogans in ante-bellum times. For us this sight was a feast. Old Dick was some half mile behind the pack. He had traveled; he was not there for a frolic; he was there to do his work well. I remained motionless. Dick came up, not trailing to leeward, as dogs generally do, but right down on the very footstep of the fox. He passed on, followed the trail out to where the fox had turned -- I pledge my word that he did not go 5ft. beyond -- turned and trailed back to where the fox had left his track, and just so far beyond as seemed necessary to detect that something was going on wrong, made a close circuit, picked up the trail and drew the dogs together. The result of his work was a good day's sport and a dead fox.

T. G. ELLIOTT.

KELLER, Va., Jan. 7.