The Changing Look Of Fox Hunting

Now the blood begins to tingle. This is it. Cigarettes are quickly thrown away, hats are pushed nearer to the tops of ears and horses like their riders catch the excitement of the moment. Then they are off, breaking away at a full gallop eager to get up near the front at the beginning, riders leaning forward, some standing in the irons, their coattails streaming. Now is the time to swallow hard, gather your horse under you and take off.... Behind the charging mass come the children, well to the rear but bravely going flat out as fast as tiny pony legs can carry them. At the tail end a lumbering, shaggy round ball of a black pony called Angus snorts along under 8-year-old Stewart Maloney. For too long Angus has been pastured with cattle and he thinks he is a cow. He's never jumped a big fence yet, but maybe this will be the day he catches on at last.

Up front the going is fast and breathless. Horses begin to sweat and lather and as fence and fallen tree rise up out of the onrushing ground, hearts jump up into mouths as dry as sand. Now the riders begin to show. Up and over sail the horses, their jumping a thing of beauty. Terrifyingly, out of nowhere something high and formidable looms up before a rider. Too late to pull up...just time to grab a firm hold of the mane. The horse puts in a short one, pops up and over, and lands going away. Surprised, the rider comes down on the other side, both stirrups lost, hugging the beast's warm neck and praying quietly. The hands which have never left the horse's neck press down hard and push up, and suddenly horse and rider straighten out and are flashing across the grass, elated now and still with the best of them.

Behind in the distance a smashing of a top rail, a dull thud and a loose horse canters off into the next field.

Hounds have checked. Thank Heaven. Time for a breather. Now we shall see if they can work out the line as well as run their fox. Back and forth and round and round they go, their noses busy all the time. The field stands off, collecting wits and breath, steam rising from the horses. A hat is straightened, cheeks glow with the flush of the first burst and a ruddy-faced old gentleman steals a quick nip of sherry from a saddle flask. All eyes are on hounds, waiting and watching. Watching too are the hilltoppers, the groups of hunting enthusiasts who are not mounted today but who love to follow the hunt across the countryside in cars. Suddenly, from one of them a shout, "TA-LLY-HO...TA-LLY-HO."

He has seen a fox break out of Appledore and now he stands pointing in that direction. Quietly Huntsman Plumb gathers his hounds, moves toward the holloa and casts them. Again hounds own the line. Into cat briars they go, charging in full cry, their heads now up to catch the breast-high scent. They break out of covert, running well packed and speaking to it all the time. Field after field is left behind, and the number of riders dwindles. Some are unable to keep up the pace and others have had enough, but the bunched few in the lead go racing on. Relentlessly they fling themselves after hounds, into woods, out into meadow, back into woods and out onto plough. This is hunting pace—like a cavalry charge in battle.

Two fields ahead a rust-colored streak of lightning is seen hugging the ground and running fast. A sliver of red hangs from his mouth. The fox's tongue is hanging out—a sure sign he is weakening. Put to his last resources Old Reynard tries every trick, doubling back into the woods, trying to save his brush. Older hounds push to the front. They know. The end is nearing. Now is the time to be in the first flight. The Huntsman has before him a sinking fox. The excitement brings out the thruster in everybody and to be in that first flight is the most important thing in the world. The fox is in one field, the Huntsman and hounds are in the next and the riders are in the third. Horses are winded and no longer respond to whip and spur. The hounds are clamorous—Panic and Christmas and Dorothy and the rest come shrieking as loud as their nearly pumped-out wind will allow. Back into covert they go. Every hound is up and running for him. A quick turn—and another—Old Reynard is pulling out all of his tricks. Through a field of cattle to foil his scent; circling to double back across his own line. In full view of the field he stops and looks over his shoulder disdainfully smiling at the confusion among hounds. And then he's off again. But throw the pack off he cannot. Hounds are pressing him hard, their crashing music bringing the whole woods alive.... They are upon him. A snap, a turn and a tumble and it is all over.

CEREMONY OF THE KILL

Leaping from his horse Huntsman Plumb grabs the fox from the hounds and holds it high over his head out of reach. With a knife he quickly cuts off the mask (head) and brush. On panting, heaving, lathered horses the first flighters come up in time to see Huntsman throw the fox's carcass into the air for the hounds.

"Er-ray-ay, Er-ray-ay," goes the horn at his lips, announcing the kill. "Whooo-oop.... Whooo-oop," he cries out, repeating the long, slow mournful call on the horn. Hounds deserve their reward. They have run their fox for more than 50 minutes over a difficult terrain and with catchy scent. The field—what is left of them—stands about discussing the day's sport. The Master presents the mask and brush to two of those lucky enough to be in at the kill and the paws to the children who were well up front. A newcomer who has not hunted before is "blooded" to his first fox in traditional style: Blood from one of the fox's pads is daubed on his cheek, initiating him for all time to a sport which has been called "the image of war without its guilt and only five-and-twenty percent of its danger."