September 15, 1939
For my seventh birthday, I was led by my father—Alexander Mackay-Smith—to a next-door meet, at dawn, at Guilford. My attention was everywhere, not focused. The science, art, customs, and language of foxhunting were not known to me. Dogs started barking (hounds opened) in the woods (covert), and swung right-handed. Everyone’s eyes and ears except mine were on the sounds in front of us. What to my wandering eyes should appear but a fox off to the right, headed north along the fence row.
“There he goes!” I shouted. My father looked where I pointed, said nothing, stood in his stirrups, and raised his hat (cap). There was excitement all around as tooting of the horn redoubled the hounds’ efforts. The whole pack swept through the gateway and roared along the fence exactly where my fox had run.
My father turned to me, said, “Well done; we say Tally-ho,” and we were away faster than I had ever ridden. The rest of the morning is a blur, but my foxhunting passion was planted and rooted in that place at that moment.
January 1, 1946
Meet at Long Branch. We had had sport of a peculiar nature from the hay field near the woods on several occasions this season. Whether we met at this or other nearby locations, hounds usually found in the Long Branch woods and started either a small loop toward Millwood, or a larger loop to the south through Montana Hall, Red Gate, Huntover, and return. Whichever, the first loop was connected to its opposite, always in the hay field and, depending on the quality of scenting, you could have as many figures-of-eight as you could stand. One day we hunted this pattern for over four hours at a walk and trot before calling it quits.
This day we began as before and had made the first south and north figure-eight when the Master had the bright idea to post some forgotten grownup and me at the edge of the hay field where we could watch unobtrusively. Hounds went south again nearly out of hearing, as we scanned to the end of the field for the fox’s return.
As hounds’ cry regained its ring toward us, here comes Charlie over the crest of the hill from Long Branch Creek. Just then, in the center of the field, another fox appeared and sat down to watch the approaching hunted one. When the latter was fifty yards away, the waiting fox sprang up, did a jig, and rushed toward his or her pal. They touched noses, the hunted fox disappeared, and the fresh one departed toward Millwood.
Imagine our excitement to tell the Master all. When hounds reappeared, they swept over the den with scarcely a pause, driving on northward. With a nod and “Back to your post,” the Master led the field in hot pursuit. Soon the quarry came back out of Blandy Farm at the corner, through the corner of Long Branch woods. Just as she (or he) came into sight, the other fox, who couldn’t see her (or him), emerged and waited near the den. There was a happy greeting between the two foxes, a prompt exchange of places, and the hunt went on.
After another southerly loop, it began to snow heavily. The greeter fox and the hunted one both retired, and a fine gone to ground ceremony solemnized the conclusion of this remarkable day. We had similar experiences twice more that season and never again, so far as I know. How did the fox in the den know that the returning one was approaching? What was the relation between these two? Brothers? Sisters? Hardly a conventional fox couple, as it lasted through the entire season! I have concluded that it must have been siblings of the same gender, raised in that den, who parted willingly or accidentally after the winter.
Posted July 14, 2010
Watch this space for further installments of “Hunting with my Father” by Matthew Mackay-Smith.