Cubhunting season has arrived, and hunt staffs across North America are taking to the field tasked with imposing new rules upon young hounds just discovering new freedoms! Edric C. Roberts addresses the conflict in this timely and light-hearted poem from his collection, Hunters’ Moon (Richard R. Smith Inc., New York, 1930, 70 pp, illustrated).
Douglas Lees photo
Riot
Somehow, I honestly never knew why,
Rarity, Chorister, Landlord and I
Found ourselves happily hunting alone,
Running like smoke on a line of our own;
Maybe our keenness had led us astray
In the endeavor to get well away;
Maybe the intricate maze of the wood
Helped us to lose ourselves more than we should;
Either, or both, you can easily see,
Thus, might account for our innocent spree.
Also we felt quite a laudable pride
Hearing our voices resound far and wide,
Waking the echoes like three-season hounds,
(Really and truly mere puppy-like sounds,)
Loudly proclaiming the way he had gone,
None of us knowing what line we were on.
Who would consider a small thing like that
In the excitement of going ‘full bat’?
Not for a moment did one of us think
Anything wrong with the very strong ‘stink,’
Only it filled us with hatred and rage,
Just as it should do with pups of our age;
Nothing else mattered to our youthful wits
But the desire to pull him to bits.
Judge of our horror and wide-eyed surprise,
Just as we’d run to a view of our prize,
When, from the trees that were sheltering him,
Who should appear but that horrid boy Jim;
‘Landlord,’ he shouted, and ‘Chorister,’ too.
‘Rarity, blast yer. ‘Ware riot, and you.’
This, I may say, was directed at me,
Followed up quickly, before I could see,
By a superbly timed cut of his whip
Which, with a crack, caught me full on the hip.
Sadly, but wisely, we gave up the chase,
Wistfully hastening our steps to retrace,
Chivvied and rated by Jim the whole way,
(Which, after all, was a cad’s trick to play).
Only to find, when we safely got back,
Nothing but chaff from the rest of the pack;
Rather, indeed, it was something like spite,
Judged by their efforts to worry and bite.
Never again shall we hunt our own line,
Rarity’s, Chorister’s, Landlord’s or mine.
Posted August 22, 2018