The Changing Look Of Fox Hunting

The velvet cap of the staff outranks even the silk hat in the hunting field and a warning call of "Huntsman, please" peremptorily scatters horses and riders out of his way. There is no rational reason either why fox hunters should wear a tan rat-catcher coat during the cubbing (preformal) season, a black coat after the formal opening and a scarlet coat only after the Master invites them to do so. The only reason is binding custom, usage, legend and tradition. The men, women and children who like these things like fox hunting. A chance to get out into the country, ride a horse and watch hounds pit their brains and speed against an animal as primitive and cunning as the fox is a challenge, a thrill and a satisfaction which few can resist once they have been entered to the sport. A good hunt has all the elements of battle—danger, strategy, science, human endurance and death. And its greatest appeal is in its suspense. Even the Huntsman cannot tell where, when, or even whether the fox will pilot them across open country, through woodland, into thicket, along a fence or over it, or up against barbed wire. Because of the great difference in country, no two hunts are the same. Methods of hunting vary considerably according to local conditions. The style of hunting with Mr. Stewart's Cheshire Foxhounds, of Unionville, Pa., a larger, privately owned pack, differs vastly from the way the Meadow Brook hunts. The Meadow Brook hunt costs about $35,000 a year to operate, with fees of $400 for a single subscription and $500 for a family of two. A junior subscription costs $150 and the capping fee for a day's hunting is $15.

Early on any hunting day Huntsman Plumb can be found at the kennels looking over the hounds. As soon as they hear his voice they crowd forward with excitement and expectation. The Meadow Brook crossbreds are a pack of which any huntsman could be proud.

On this day, Huntsman Plumb decides to use twenty-and-a-half couple—15 couple of doghounds and five-and-a-half of bitches. Carefully he chooses them to make up a well-balanced pack. He used to ride to the Meet with hounds around him, but traffic conditions have become so bad that they must now be taken there in a van. By now Huntsman Plumb knows where the hazards lie and he tries to give a good day's sport without interruptions.

A DAY WITH HOUNDS

The Meet this morning is at 9 a.m. at Piping Rock on the horse-show grounds. By the time the Huntsman and hounds arrive the scene is one of great activity. Crammed along the side of the road are horse vans and automobiles—some still disgorging horses and riders arriving for the hunt. Everywhere there is movement and animated chatter as riders greet each other and prepare themselves. Grooms tack up the horses, sleek, huge hunters standing alert and impatient. On the outskirts the riders, already mounted, warm up their horses in preparation for the hard riding to come. Gradually the rest of the field mounts. Long-skirted ladies wearing silk hats mount sidesaddle; others in black hunting bowlers, black coat and eggnog-colored breeches sit astride their horses. Taper-legged young men make a last-minute check of girths and curb chains and move their mounts off at a walk. Here and there in the crowd is a scarlet coat—the traditional hunting "pink," so called after a London tailor who made the best. There are children out today too, six-year-olds and others of all ages. They stand together, tiny miniatures of their parents, all wearing the velvet cap (the only members of the field permitted to do so except the hunt staff) but expressing their individuality in their boots—some in quite irregular, but much-loved, cowboy boots. The children have been brought up in the hunting tradition, and their keenness is obvious.

Over to one side Huntsman Plumb and the Master, Mr. Hickox, discuss which coverts are to be drawn. Then it is time to move off. The horn sounds its long-drawn "Toooo-oot!" and Huntsman and hounds lead the way. The riders, Mr. Hickox at their head, follow after, strung out across the field, jogging at a trot towards the first covert.

As he rides, Huntsman Plumb takes a check on the wind. He is as conscious of it as a sailor, for he prefers to draw the covert up-wind. Should he reverse the procedure—with the fox winding the hounds first—Old Reynard would get away from covert early and be gone. This is a dry day, but the wind is gentle and Huntsman Plumb has his plan already formed.

First covert to be drawn today is a rhododendron thicket on Planting Fields Estate, and as the hounds reach it they fan out and cast themselves.

They crash into the undergrowth, ignoring the cat briar, their noses at work and sterns waving. Darting, pushing, weaving and jumping hounds scramble through bramble and bur, working all the way, necks bent low, inquisitive noses snuffing dry ground.

Suddenly an inexperienced hound—one of the young entry—runs riot after a rabbit. Whipper-in Billy Moffatt flies after the offender, shouting "Leave it.... Leave it" and his whip cracks out like a pistol shot. Back swings the misled hound to join the rest of the pack and on they sweep back and forth, spread out and forever pressing onward, working every inch of the ground. Scent is catchy this morning. But wait...Dauntless is speaking to it, her stern feathering. Huntsman Plumb watches her closely. He knows she's not apt to speak unless certain of it. Now Damon has joined her. A whimper...an unmistakable whimper. But Dauntless must be sure. Her nose draws another figure eight on the ground. Finally she owns the line and, lifting her head to the skies, she proclaims "fox" with a cry that sets every spine tingling and every hackle on end. All hounds rush to her, honoring it, and as one grand chorus their cry fills the woods as the pack and Huntsman stream away to the west.