Edric C. Roberts

Illustration by Jane Gaston from "Lost Hound," Robert Ashcom, The Derrydale Press and Millwood House, 1999, 161 pages

If you’ve ever walked the interstate
You know the dream of summer thunder with
No rain and heat in solemn surge like fate
Gone out of sync―where eighteen-wheelers brew
Their shouted, tire-born songs with diesel breath;
And fast food wrappers feed the session’s mood.

Blowing Home at Warrenton / Douglas Lees photo

‘Saddleford Crossroads at half-past eleven,’
Only last month, it would seem, we were there,
Rising so early to get there by seven,
Rubbing our hands in the chill morning air.

Time must have flown by, for that was September.
Horses half fit, and the country quite blind,
Details of every run since, we remember,
Sorrows and joys of each day call to mind.

Foxhunting juniors with Mr. Stewart's Cheshire Foxhounds / Jim Graham photo

The children are home for the holidays now,
A gay little crowd and a sporting one too,
They go where the grown-ups go, careless of how
Their ponies get over, so long as they do.

Arrived at the meet they are wild to begin,
And can’t understand all the waste of good time
Spent drinking brown sherry or horrid sloe-gin,
And deem it a most unforgivable crime.

Illustration by Lionel Edwards The trees and the hedges both touched with a glory,   The bracken all turning to gold,And grass in the mornings bejewelled and hoary,   Are sights that are good to behold. September is with us, and soon we’ll be hearing,   As mists roll away from the dawn,A note that is bandied from covert to clearing,   The magical note of the horn. And woods that have slumbered in peace and in quiet,   The whole of the long summer through,Will suddenly waken to clamour and riot,   Now cubbing is starting anew. Posted August 19, 2016 From Somewhere in England by Captain Edric G. Roberts, illustrated by Lionel Edwards... This content is for subscribers only.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

We see every color of horse in the hunting field. And while foxhunters really shouldn’t care about color, I’m guessing that many riders have a preference. Right or wrong, I know I do. In this photo, several horses of varying colors are crossing the country well. We may be missing more colors than we care to, but we hope you’ll get the idea.

Keeping up with the Blue Ridge hounds in Virginia are (L–R) Cyrus (a paint) owned and ridden by Karel Wennink; Guitar (a “black-pointed bay”) owned and ridden by your editor; Hot Rize (a “black-pointed bay” and winner of the 2014 Virginia Gold Cup) owned and ridden by Russell Haynes; and Very Berry (a roan) owned and ridden by Jef Murdock, MFH, Old Chatham Hunt (NY). / Nancy Kleck photo

Colour by Edric G. Roberts

The old saying, so often repeated,
That ‘there never was yet a good horse
Of a really bad colour,’ is greeted
With a shrug, as a matter of course;
To the past it is now relegated
As the lore of some old-fashioned school,
Which believed in tradition that rated
An exception as proof to the rule.

Illustration by Lionel Edwards

As, still as a statue, he sits on his horse,
    Watching and waiting,
Or rounding up stragglers behind in the gorse,
    Cursing and rating,
He’s always the same, hard-bitten and game.

The voice of a hound, or the click of a hoof
    Tell him what’s doing,
He knows, on the instant, alert and aloof,
    All that’s brewing;
Lean-visaged and tanned, he’s always at hand.

Illustration by Gilbert HollidayOver he goes, with a crash and a rattle,
   Hound couples clinking, ’gainst saddle and thigh;
Over he goes, and the light of the battle
   Gleams like a spark in his eager young eye.

Twigs of the hawthorn fly backward together,
   Meeting again with an ominous swish;
Over he goes, landing light as a feather,
   One with his horse and quick as you’d wish.

Kinds and condition of fences don’t matter,
   Straight as a ramrod he rides at them all;
Over he goes with a bang and a clatter,
   Knocking loose stones off the top of the wall.

Douglas Lees photoCubhunting 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).

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;

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;