Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/How Whalebone Caused a Wedding
TALES OF THE HOME FOLKS IN PEACE AND WAR
HOW WHALEBONE CAUSED A WEDDING
Matt Kilpatrick of Putnam used to laugh and say that his famous foxhound Whalebone was responsible for a very brilliant wedding in Jasper. When Harvey Dennis and Tom Collingsworth were among his listeners (which was pretty much all the time, for the three were inseparable), they had a way of shaking their heads dubiously over this statement. Mr. Dennis thought that his dog Rowan (pronounced Ro-ann) ought to have some of the credit, while Mr. Collingsworth was equally sure that Music had as much to do with the happy event as any of the rest. The Collingsworth argument—and it was a sound one—was that where a lady dog is skipping along and performing to the queen's taste all the work that is cut out for her, she ought to come ahead of the gentlemen dogs in any historical statement or reminiscence.
When I first heard the story, considerations of local pride led me to feel that Rowan had been unjustly robbed of the credit that belonged to him; but time cools the ardor of youth, and mellows and sweetens the sources of partisanship. I can say now that Kowan had small advantage over his two famous rivals, when the scent was as high as the saddle-skirts and the pace the kind that kills.
Mr. Kilpatrick used to tell the story as a joke, and frequently he repeated it merely to tease those who were interested in the results of Whalebone's exploit, or to worry his fox-hunting rivals, who were his dearest friends. But the story was true. In repeating it I shall have to include details that Mr. Kilpatrick found it unnecessary to burden himself with, for they were as familiar to his neighborhood audience as any of their own personal affairs.
The way of it was this: One day in the beginning of December, 1860, Colonel Elmore Rivers, of Jasper County, put a negro boy on a mule and sent him around with an invitation to certain of his friends, requesting them to do him the honor of eating their Christmas dinner with him. This invitation was prepared with great care by Mrs. Rivers, who was a schoolma'am from Connecticut when the colonel married her. It was beautifully written on the inside of a sheet of foolscap, and this sheet was tacked to a piece of card-board, by means of a deftly made true-lover's-knot of blue ribbon. The card-board was placed in a satchel, and the satchel was arranged to swing over the shoulders of the negro, so that there was no danger of losing it. There was only one invitation, and it was to be carried from one of the colonel's friends to the other until all had been notified of his hospitable desires.
The colonel added an oral postscript as he gave the negro a stiff dram. "Ding 'em," he exclaimed, "tell 'em to bring their dogs. Mind now! tell 'em to bring their dogs."
Mrs. Rivers enjoyed Christmas as heartily as anybody, but in beginning preparations for the festival she always had her misgivings. Her father, Dr. Joshua Penniman, had been a Puritan among Puritans, and somehow she had got the idea from him that there was a good deal of popery concealed in the Christmas ceremonials. But when once the necessity for preparation was upon her she cast her scruples aside, and her Christmas dinners were famous in that whole region. By catering to the colonel's social instincts in this and other particulars, she managed, at a later period of his life, to lead him triumphantly into the fold of the Baptist Church. It was a great victory for Miss Lou, as everybody called her, and she lived long to enjoy the distinction it conferred upon her.
The day after the invitation had been sent around, a couple of weanling pigs were caught and penned, and, until the day before Christmas, they were fed and fattened on nubbins and roasted white-oak acorns. Three young gobblers were also caught and put upon such diet as, according to the colonel's theory, would add to their toothsomeness, and give them a more delicate flavor. These are merely hints of the extensive preparations for the Christmas festival on the Rivers plantation.
What the colonel always wanted was a merry Christmas, and there could be no merriment where good-humor and good-cheer were lacking. He had said to his wife years before, when she was somewhat doubtful about introducing her New England holiday, "Go ahead, honey! Cut just as big a dash as you please with your Thanksgiving. I 'll enjoy it as much as you will, maybe more. The Lord knows we 've got a heap to be thankful for. We 'll cut a big dash and be thankful, and then when Christmas comes we 'll cut a big dash and be happy."
Thenceforward they had both Thanksgiving and Christmas on that plantation, and Miss Lou was as anxious to satisfy the colonel with her Christmas arrangements as he had been to please her with his zeal for Thanksgiving. Indeed, one Christmas-day, a year or two after their marriage, Miss Lou went so far as to present her husband with a daughter, and ever after that Christmas had a new significance in that household: Miss Lou satisfied her Puritan scruples by pretending to herself that she was engaged in celebrating her daughter's birthday, and the colonel was glad that two of the most important days in the calendar were merged into one.
When the child was born, a poor lonely old woman, named Betsey Cole, who lived in the woods between the Rivers plantation and town, sent the colonel word that the little lass would grow up to be both good and beautiful. Nothing would do after that but the colonel must send the fortune-teller a wagon-load of provisions, and he kept it up every Christmas as long as Betsey Cole lived.
The fortune-teller certainly made no mistake in her prediction. The child grew to be the most beautiful young woman in all that region. The colonel named 'her Mary after his mother, and the name see lied to fit her, for her character was as lovely as her face. Even the women and little children loved her, and when this kind of manifestation is made over a girl, it is needless to inquire about her character or disposition.
It might be supposed that Mary had a lover, but if so, no one knew it but her own sweet self. Her father, the colonel, declared she was as cool as a cucumber when the boys were around, and the young men who raved over her thought she was even cooler than a cucumber. And yet she had her father's ardent temperament and good-nature, and her mother's prudence and sound discretion. It was a happy combination in all respects, and it had its climax in a piquant individuality that impressed old and young with its charm.
There were two young men, among the many that were smitten, who made it a point to pay particular attention to the young lady. One was Jack Preston, and the other was Andy Colston. Both were handsome and ambitious, and both had good prospects. Colston already had the advantage of a fortune, but Preston was as hopeful and as cheerful as if he possessed a dozen plantations and a thousand negroes. Mentally they were about evenly matched, but Preston had been compelled by circumstances to cultivate an energy in the matter of steady application that Colston never knew the necessity of.
These young men were intimate friends, and they did not attempt to conceal from each other their attitude toward Mary Rivers. It was perhaps well that this was so. Both were high-strung and high-tempered, and if they had been anything but intimate with each other, the slightest cause or provocation would have precipitated trouble between them. And this would have been very unfortunate indeed; for, if the name of Mary Rivers had been even remotely hinted as the cause of such trouble, the colonel would have locked himself in his library, read a chapter in the family Bible, called for his saddle-horse and shot-gun, and gone cantering up the big road on business connected with the plantation.
But these rival lovers were bosom friends. There were points about each that attracted the other. When Preston was with Miss Mary he lost no opportunity of praising the good qualities of Colston, and Colston made no concealment of the fact that he considered Preston the salt of the earth, as we say in Georgia.
All this was very pleasant and very confusing. Mary was in love with one of them, but she never admitted the fact, even to herself, until a curious episode compelled her to acknowledge it. Even her mother confessed that she had been unable to discover Mary's preference until the fact fluttered out before everybody's eyes, like a startled bird from its nest. For a while the mother would think that her daughter preferred Preston. Then she would imagine that the girl was in love with Colston. And sometimes she would conclude that Mary's heart had not been touched at all. Miss Lou herself preferred Colston, but she was not opposed to Preston. Colston had a solid fortune, and Preston—well, Connecticut knows very well how many long days and how many hard licks are necessary to lay up a fortune. Young people may put up True Love as their candidate and pout at Hard Cash as much as they please, but if they had to go through the experience that Connecticut and the neighboring States went through sixty odd years ago (to go back no farther), they would come to the conclusion that Hard Cash has peculiar merits of its own.
Nevertheless, Miss Lou was too wise to say anything about the matter. She knew that her husband, although he possessed land and negroes and money, had a certain fine scorn for the privileges and distinctions that mere wealth confers. He was emphatically a man of the people, and he would have tolerated no effort to implant false notions in his daughter's mind. Moreover, Miss Lou had great confidence in Mary's sound judgment. It was one comfort, the mother thought, that Mary was not giddy. She was as gay as a lark, and full of the spirit of innocent fun, but (thank goodness) not giddy nor foolish.
But, after all, the chief worry of Miss Lou on the approach of this particular Christmas was not about Mary and her beaux. It was about the preparations that the colonel was making on his own responsibility. She saw several extra bags of meal coming in from Roach's Mill, and her heart sank within her at the thought of numberless fox-hounds swarming under the house and in the yard, and roaming around over the plantation. At the first convenient opportunity she broached the subject.
"Mr. Rivers" (she never called him colonel), "I do hope you have n't asked your friends to bring their hound-dogs with them. Why, they 'll take the whole place. You 've got twelve of your own. What on earth do you want with any more?"
"Why, yes, honey," said the colonel, with a sigh. "Harvey Dennis and Matt Kilpatrick and Tom Collingsworth will fetch their dogs, and I reckon maybe Jack Casswell and Bill Hearn will fetch theirs."
Mrs. Rivers dropped her hands in her lap in helpless dismay. "Mercies upon us! I thought you surely had dogs enough of your own."
"Why, honey," the colonel expostulated, "you 've let the niggers chunk my dogs till they are no manner account."
"Well, I do hate hound-dogs!" exclaimed Miss Lou; "sneaking around, sticking their noses in the pots and pans, and squalling like they 're killed if you lift your hand. Why, the foxes come right up in the yard and take off the geese and ducks, where your dogs could see them if they were n't too lazy to open their eyes."
"Those are just the foxes we 're going to catch, honey," remarked the colonel soothingly.
"Well, I 'd rather feed the foxes a whole year than to have forty or fifty hound-dogs quartered on this place three or four days."
The colonel made no reply, and after a while his wife remarked, pleasantly, if not cheerfully, "Well, I guess I 'll have bigger troubles than that before I die. If I don't, it will be a mercy."
"If you don't, honey, you 'll live and die a happy woman," responded the colonel.
Miss Lou wiped her face on her apron and sat absorbed in thought. Presently, Mary came dancing in. Her face was shining with health and high spirits.
"Just think, folks!" she exclaimed. "Four more days and I 'll be eighteen! A woman grown, but with the sweet disposition of a child!"
The colonel laughed and his wife flushed a little. "Where did you hear that?" she asked her daughter.
"Why, I heard you say those words to father no longer than last night. Look, father! mother is actually blushing!"
"I believe I did say something like that," said Miss Lou. "I intended to tell your father afterward that very few children have sweet dispositions. But my mind has been worried all day with the thought of the hound-dogs we 've got to feed."
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Mary, "are we to have a fox-hunt? And may I go?" The colonel nodded a prompt assent, but Miss Lou protested. "Now, Mr. Rivers, I think that is going too far. I certainly do. I have always been opposed to it. There is no earthly reason why Mary at her age should get on a horse and go galloping about the country with a crowd of yelling men and howling dogs. It may be well enough for the men,—though I think they could be better employed,—but I think the line ought to be drawn at the women."
"Why, mother, how many times have I been fox-hunting with father?"
"Just as many times as you have made me miserable," replied Miss Lou; "just that many times and no more."
"Now, momsy! don't scold your onliest and oldest daughter," pleaded Mary.
"Don't wheedle around me!" cried Miss Lou, pretending to be very angry. "Mr. Rivers, you need n't be winking at Mary behind your paper. I do think it is a shame that you should allow your daughter to go ripping and tearing about the country hunting foxes. I think it is a burning shame. I positively do."
"Well, honey"—
"I don't care what anybody says," Miss Lou broke in. "Here is Mary old enough to get married, and now she must go scampering about with a lot of men on horseback. It is ridiculous!"
"You hear that, father? Momsy says I 'm old enough to get married. I 'll marry the man that brings me the fox's brush the day after Christmas. And momsy shall bake the cake, and she 'll burn it just as the cake is burning now."
Miss Lou lifted her nose in the air. "I declare, if old Dilsey has gone to sleep and left that fruit-cake to burn, I 'll send her to the overseer!"
Whereupon she skipped from the room, and soon after the colonel and Mary heard her laughing at something the fat old cook had said. Miss Lou's temper was all on the surface.
The colonel looked at his daughter over his spectacles and smiled. "I reckon you know, precious, that we 'll have to catch the fox before your beau can give you the brush. But we 'll have some good dogs here. So you 'd better tell your sweetheart to stir his stumps. Maybe the wrong chap will get the brush."
"Why, you won't let me have one little joke, father," cried Mary. "Of course I won't marry the man that gives me the brush"—she paused, went to the long mirror that slanted forward from the wall, and made a pretty mouth at herself—"unless he 's the right person." Then she ran away, laughing.
Preparations for the Christmas festival went forward rapidly, and when the day came a goodly company had assembled to do honor to the hearty hospitality of Colonel Rivers. As Miss Lou had foreseen, the yard fairly swarmed with dogs. Harvey Dennis brought seven, Matt Kilpatrick ten, Tom Collingsworth twelve, Jack Casswell eight, and Bill Hearn fourteen—about fifty hounds in all. Colston and Preston had arrived the night before. Colston had dogs, but he left them at home. He knew the prejudices of Mary's mother. Preston was not a planter and had no dogs, but he was very fond of cross-country riding, and never lost an opportunity to engage in the sport.
The colonel was in ecstasies. The wide fireplace in the sitting-room was piled high with half-seasoned hickory wood, and those who sat around it had to form a very wide half-circle indeed, for the flaring logs and glowing embers sent forth a warmth that penetrated to all parts of the room, big as it was.
And it was a goodly company that sat around the blazing fire,—men of affairs, planters with very large interests depending on their energy and foresight, lawyers who had won more than a local fame, and yet all as gay and as good-humored as a parcel of schoolboys. The conversation was seasoned with apt anecdotes inimitably told, and full of the peculiar humor that has not its counterpart anywhere in the world outside of middle Georgia.
And the dinner was magnificent. Miss Lou was really proud of it, as she had a right to be. There are very few things that a Georgia plantation will not produce when it is coaxed, and the colonel had a knack of coaxing that was the envy of his neighbors. Miss Lou could not doubt the sincerity of the praise bestowed on her dinner. Ah 1 the guests were high-livers, and they declared solemnly that they had never before sat down to such a royal feast.
The servants moved about as silently as ghosts. There were four negro girls to wait on the table, and they attended to their duties with a promptness and precision that were constant tributes to the pains that Miss Lou had taken to train them, and to the vigilance with which she watched their movements.
Over the dessert, the colonel grew communicative. "This mince-pie," he said, "was made by Mary. I don't think she put enough of the twang into it."
"It is magnificent!" exclaimed Colston.
"Superb!" Preston declared.
"It 's as good as any," said Tom Collingsworth; "but this pie business is mighty deceiving. Miss Molly is eighteen, and if she can bake a pone of corn-bread as it ought to be baked, she 's ready to get married."
"That is her strong point!" cried the colonel. "She beats anybody at that."
"Well, then," said Collingsworth, "you just go and get her wedding goods."
"I 'm beginning to think so, too," replied the colonel. "No longer than the other day she declared she 'd marry the man that brings her the fox's brush to-morrow. What do you think of that?"
"Why, father!" exclaimed Mary, blushing violently.
"Then it 's just as good as settled," replied Collingsworth gravely. "I 'm just as certain to tail that fox as the sun shines. I rubbed my rabbit-foot on Music and Rowdy before I started, and I 'll whistle 'em up and shake it at 'em to-night."
"But remember, Mr. Collingsworth, you are already married," Mary suggested archly.
"I know—I know! But my old woman has been complaining might'ly of late—complaining might'ly. When I started away, she says, 'Tom, you ought n't to ride your big gray; he 's lots too young for you.' But something told me that I 'd need the big gray, and, sure enough, here 's right where the big gray comes in."
"I brought my sorrel along," remarked Colston, sententiously.
"Oh, you did?" inquired Collingsworth, sarcastically. "Well, I 'll give your sorrel half-way across a ten-acre field and run right spang over you with my big gray before you can get out of the way. There ain't but one nag I 'm afraid of, and that 's Jack Preston's roan filly. You did n't bring her, did you, Jack? Well," continued Collingsworth with a sigh, as Jack nodded assent, "I 'll give you one tussle anyhow. But that roan is a half-sister of Waters's Timoleon. I declare, Jack, you ought n't to be riding that filly around in the underbrush."
"She needs exercise," Preston explained. "She 's been in the stable eating her head off for a week."
Collingsworth shook his head. "Well," he said, after a while, "just keep her on the ground and I 'll try to follow along after you the best I can."
That day and nearly all night there was fun in the big house and fun on the plantation. The colonel insisted on having some yam-potatoes roasted in the ashes to go along with persimmon beer. The negroes made the night melodious with their play-songs, and everything combined to make the occasion a memorable one, especially to the young people. Toward bedtime the hunters went out and inspected their dogs, and an abundant feed of warm ash-cake was served out to them. Then Tom Collingsworth hung his saddle-blanket on the fence, and under it and around it his dogs curled themselves in the oak-leaves; and the rest of the dogs followed their example, so that when morning came not a hound was missing.
During the night Mary was awakened by the tramping of feet. Some one had come in. Then she heard the voice of Collingsworth.
"How is it, Harvey?"
"Splendid! Could n't be better. It's warmer. Been drizzling a little."
"Thank the Lord for that!" exclaimed Collingsworth.
Then Mary heard the big clock in the hall chime three. In a little while she heard Aunt Dilsey, the cook, shuffling in. A fire was already crackling and blazing in the sitting-room. Then the clock chimed four, and at once there seemed to be a subdued stir all over the house. The house-girl came into Mary's room with a lighted candle and quickly kindled a fire, and in a quarter of an hour the young lady tripped lightly downstairs, the skirt of her riding-habit flung over her arm.
It was not long before the company of fox-hunters was gathered around the breakfast-table. The aroma of Aunt Dilsey's hot coffee filled the room, mingled with the odor of fried chicken, and, after the colonel had asked a blessing, they all fell to with a heartiness of appetite that made Aunt Dilsey grin as she stood in the door of the dining-room, giving some parting advice to her young mistress.
There was a stir in the yard and in front of the house. The dogs, seeing the horses brought out, knew that there was fun on foot, and they were running about and yelping with delight. And the negroes were laughing and talking, and the horses snorting and whinnying, and, altogether, the scene was full of life and animation. The morning was a little damp and chilly, but what did that matter? The drifting clouds, tinged with the dim twilight of dawn, were more ominous in appearance than in fact. They were driving steadily eastward and breaking up, and the day promised to be all that could be desired.
At half past five the cavalcade moved off. Mary had disposed of a possible complication by requesting Tom Collingsworth to be her escort until the hunt should need his attention. In addition, she had Bob, the man-of-all-work, to look to her safety, and, although Bob was astride of a mule, he considered himself as well mounted as any of the rest. So they set out, Bob leading the way to open the plantation gates that led to the old sedge-fields, where a fox was always found.
The riders had been compelled to make a détour in order to cross Murder Creek, so that it was near half-past six o'clock when they reached the fields. Once upon a time these fields had been covered with broom-sedge, but now they had been taken by Bermuda grass, and were as clean-looking as if they were under cultivation. But they were still called the old sedge-fields.
As the east reddened, the huge shadows crept down into the valleys to find a hiding-place. They rested there a little, and then slowly disappeared, moving westward, and leaving behind them the light of day.
Tom Collingsworth had carried Mary to a hill that overlooked every part of the wide valley in which the dogs were hunting. He had been teasing her about Colston and Preston. Finally he asked:—
"Now, Miss Mary, which of the two would you like to receive the brush from?"
"I 'll allow you to choose for me. You are a good judge."
"Well," said Collingsworth, "if a man was to back me up against the wall, and draw a knife on me, and I could n't help myself, I 'd say Preston. That 's a fact."
What Mary would have said the old hunter never knew until long afterward, for just at that moment a quavering, long-drawn note came stealing up from the valley below.
"That 's my beauty!" exclaimed Collingworth. "That 's Music, telling what she thinks she knows. Wait!"
Again the long-drawn note came out of the valley, but this time it was eager, significant.
"Now she 's telling what she knows," exclaimed Collingsworth.
The dogs went scampering to the signal. Music was not indulging in any flirtation. The drag was very warm. Whalebone, Matt Kilpatrick's brag dog, picked it up with an exultant cry that made the horses prick their ears forward. Then Rowan joined in, and presently it was taken up by every ambitious dog on the ground. But there seemed to be some trouble. The dogs made no headway. They were casting about eagerly, but in confusion.
"If you 'll excuse me, Miss Mary, I 'll go down and try to untangle that skein. That fox is n't forty yards from Music's nose."
He spurred his horse forward, but had to rein him up again. Whalebone swept out of the underbrush, a hundred yards away, followed by Music and Rowan, gave a wild, exultant challenge that thrilled and vibrated on the air, and went whirling past Mary and Collingsworth not fifty yards from where they stood. Collingsworth gave a series of yells that brought the whole field into the chase, not far behind the leaders.
The drag led through and across a series of undulations, and Miss Mary and Collingsworth, cantering leisurely along a skirting ridge, had an excellent view of hunt and huntsmen. The drag was warm enough to be inviting, but not warm enough to excite the hounds. Whalebone, Music, and Rowan were running easily twenty yards ahead of the pack, and for a good part of the time a horse-blanket would have covered them.
It was evident, Mr. Collingsworth said, that the fox had run around at the head of the valley in some confusion, and had then slipped away before the hunt came upon the ground. It was a red, too, for a gray would have played around in the undergrowth with the dogs at his heels before breaking cover.
The ridge along which Miss Mary and Collingsworth rode bore gradually to the left, inclosing for three miles or more a low range of Bermuda hills, and a series of sweeping valleys, fringed here and there with pine and black-jack thickets.
The chase led toward the point where this ridge intersected the woodland region, so that the young lady and Collingsworth not only had an almost uninterrupted view of the hunt from the moment the hounds got away, but were taking a short cut to the point whither the dogs seemed to be going. Both Preston and Colston were well up with the hounds, but Preston's roan filly was going at a much easier gait than Colston's sorrel.
Where the ridge and the hunt entered the woods there was what is known as a "clay gall," a barren spot, above two acres in extent. The surface soil had been washed away and the red clay lay bare and unproductive. At this point the fox seemed to have taken unto himself wings. The drag had vanished.
Who can solve the mystery of scent? Xenophon, who knew as much (and as little) about it as anybody knew before or has known since, puzzled himself and his readers with a dissertation on the subject. There is a superstition that wild animals can withhold their scent, and there is a theory held by some hunters that a fox badly frightened will leave no scent behind him at ah 1. Those who have followed the hounds know that many a hopeful chase has suddenly come to an end under circumstances as mysterious as they were exasperating.
The old riders looked at one another significantly when the dogs ran whining about the clay gall. Matt Kilpatrick groaned and shook his head. Harvey Dennis encouraged the dogs and urged them on, and they seemed to do their best, but not a whimper came from the noisiest of the pack. Some of the huntsmen began to exhibit signs of despair. But the older ones were more philosophical.
"Wait," said Matt Kilpatrick. "Whalebone and Music and Rowan have gone off to investigate matters. Let 's hear what they have to say."
This seemed to be a pretty tame piece of advice to give a parcel of impatient people who had just got a taste of the chase, but it was reasonable; and so they waited with such appearance of resignation as they could muster. They did not have long to wait. By the time Collingsworth could throw a leg over the pommel of his saddle and take out his pocket-knife preparatory to whittling a twig, Whalebone gave a short, sharp challenge a quarter of a mile away. He was joined instantly by Rowan and Music, and then Bob, the negro, gave a yell as he heard Old Blue, the colonel's brag dog, put in his mouth. The rest of the dogs joined in the best they could, but a good many were thrown out, for the fox had been taking matters easily, it seems, until he heard the dogs coming over the hills, and then he made a bee-line for Little River, seven miles away.
The chase went with a rush from the moment Whalebone picked up the drag in the big woods. When the fox broke away he turned sharply to the left, and in a few moments the dogs streamed out into the open and struck across the Bermuda hills. Mr. Collingsworth, still escorting Mary, was compelled to let his big gray out a few links. It was fun for the young lady, who had a quick eye and a firm hand. She gave the black she was riding two sharp strokes with her whip, and, for a couple of miles, she set the pace for the riders. But it was a pace not good for the horses, as the older hunters knew, and Collingsworth remonstrated.
"Don't ride so hard, Miss Mary," he said. "You 'll have plenty of hard riding to do when that old red comes back. I 'm going to take my stand on yonder hill, and if you 'll keep me company, our horses will be fresh when the big scuffle comes."
So they took their stand on the hill, and the hounds swept away toward the river, followed by the more enthusiastic riders. They were riders, however, who seemed to have a knack of taking care of their horses. When the hounds went over a hill the music of their voices rose loud and clear; when they dipped down into the valleys, it came sweet and faint. They disappeared in the woods, two miles away, and their melody swelled out on the morning air like the notes of some powerful organ softly played. Then the music became fainter and fainter, falling on the ears as gently as a whisper, and finally it died away altogether.
"Now," said Collingsworth, "we 'll ride a half-mile to the left here, and I think we 'll then be in the hock of the ham."
"In the hock of the ham!" exclaimed Mary.
"Oh, I was talking to myself," explained the gray cavalier, laughing. "If you 'll put a ham on the ground and make an outline of it, you 'll get a good map of this chase, in my opinion. The line at the big end of the ham will be Little River. The line on the right will be the way the fox went, and the line on the left will be the way he 'll come back. If you ask me why a fox will run up stream when he 's not hard pushed, I 'll never tell you, but that 's the way they do."
A quarter of an hour passed—a half-hour—three quarters. Then, far to the left, there came upon the morning wind a whimpering sound that gradually swelled into a chorus of hounds.
"He 's cut out a bigger ham than I thought he would," said Collingsworth.
The sun was now shining brightly. An old bell-cow, browsing on the Bermuda roots on the hillside, lifted her head suddenly as she heard the hounds, and the kling-kolangle of the bell made a curious accompaniment to the music of the dogs, as they burst from a thicket of scrub-pine and persimmon bushes that crowned the farthest hill on the left. There was a short pause as the leading dogs came into view—a "little bobble," as Mr. Collingsworth phrased it—and they deployed about very rapidly, knowing by instinct that they had no time to lose. Old Blue, the colonel's dog, was still with the leaders, and seemed to be as spry as any of them. It was Old Blue, in fact, that recovered the drag a little to the right of the point where the dogs had made their appearance. The chase then swerved somewhat to the right, and half-way down the hill the dogs took a running jump at a ten-rail fence. Whalebone took it in grand style, knocking the top-rail off behind him. Rowan and Music went over easily, but Old Blue had to scramble a little. He made up for lost time when he did get over, and Mary grew enthusiastic. She declared that hereafter Old Blue should be treated with due respect.
By this time the rest of the dogs ha cf made their appearance. It was a pretty sight to see them swarming, helter-skelter, over the fence, and the sweet discord their voices made was thrilling indeed.
A rider appeared on the hill to the left. It was Preston, and he seemed to be riding easily and contentedly. On the hill to the right the silhouette of another rider appeared. It was Colston, and he was going as hard as he could. The fox, too, had given Colston a decided advantage, for he had swerved considerably to the left, a fact that placed Preston nearly a half-mile farther from the dogs than Colston was.
Collingsworth glanced at Mary and smiled, but she did not return the smile. She was very pale, and she swished the air with her riding-whip so suddenly and so vigorously that her horse jumped and snorted.
"Don't do that, child!" said Collingsworth, in a low tone. His eye had run ahead of the dogs, and he caught sight of the fox, doubling back up the valley, the dogs going down on one side of a low swampy growth that extended part of the way through the low ground, and the fox going back on the other side. He was going very nimbly, too, but his brush was heavy with dew, and his mouth was half open.
Mary glanced at Collingsworth, but that gentleman was looking steadily at Preston. Then a singular thing happened. Preston, riding to the hounds, raised his right hand above his head and held it there an instant. As quick as a flash, Collingsworth leaned from his saddle and shook his left hand, and then bent and unbent his arm rapidly. Preston's roan filly seemed to understand it, for she made three or four leaps forward, and then came to a standstill.
At this juncture Mr. Collingsworth gave the view halloo,—once, twice, thrice,—and then spurred his big gray toward the fox, which was now going at full speed. Whalebone responded with a howl of delight that rang clear and sharp, and in another moment he and Rowan and Music and Old Blue were going with their heads up and tails down. When Bob, the negro, saw Old Blue going with the best, he gave utterance to a shout which few white men could imitate, but which no sensible dog could misunderstand. At that instant the four dogs caught sight of the fox, and they went after him at a pace that neither he nor any of his tribe could improve on. He plunged into the swampy barrier, was forced out, and the dogs ran into him at the roan filly's feet. He leaped into the air with a squall, and fell into the red jaws of Whalebone and Old Blue.
Preston leaped from the filly so quickly that some of the others thought he had been thrown. When he rose to his feet he held the coveted brush in his hand, and without saying "By your leave," tied it to Miss Mary's saddle-bow. Mr. Collingsworth growled a little because Music was not the first to touch the fox. But otherwise he seemed to be very happy. Colston rode up, a little flushed, but he was not sulky. Mary seemed to pay no attention whatever to the little episode. Her face was somewhat rosier than usual, but this was undoubtedly due to the excitement and exercise of the chase.
When the belated hunters arrived—those who had ambled along with the colonel—the whole party turned their horses' heads toward the Rivers place, and, as they went along, Collingsworth noticed that Mary kept watching the brush to see that it was not lost.
A good deal more might be said, but I simply set out to explain why Matt Kilpatrick of Putnam used to laugh and say that his dog Whalebone caused a wedding.