Art & Literature

Lost Hound illustration by Jane Gaston from the book of the same name by Robert AshcomYoung Entry---a common phrase used to describe the puppies just entered into the pack. Very soon, most of us will be watching them with a mixture of curiosity and expectation. To the huntsman, they hold the keys to his future successes or disappointments; to the Masters they are the ratification or the despair of their breeding philosophies; to those members of the field who have walked hounds, a few are dear and even exasperating friends known practically from the cradle; to most fieldmembers, they are a curious batch of newcomers from whom much is expected. But imagine entering the pack from the puppies' point of view---suddenly turned loose for the first time midst a bewildering flurry of horses, staff, new sounds, and new sights. After a year of control and repression, the puppy is now free to blossom into the being its up-to-now-stifled genes have urged it to be. How frightening and at the same time how exhilarating! And then the moment when, experimenting with its freedom and following its nose, it suddenly finds itself completely alone for the first time ever. And utterly lost. Here's a sympathetic look by Will Ogilvie.

The winter sunset lit the leafless trees
With gold and crimson as the short day waned;
The wind had ceased its plaintive melodies;
The woodland darkened, and deep silence reigned.

Then sudden from the firs there rose a wail,
A cry that shook the heavens with distress;
A lost hound stood, one foot upon the rail,
Telling the crescent moon his loneliness.

William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939), charcoal drawing by John Singer Sargent / Wikimedia CommonsSomething happened to William Butler Yeats on his way to becoming a painter...in the footsteps of his father. He decided he liked writing poetry better. Certainly he was a favorite of most of the English teachers I’ve ever had, but I don’t remember any of them assigning his foxhunting poems for study! Yeats was born in Ireland, so the foxhunting came naturally.

“Now lay me in a cushioned chair
And carry me, you four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.

The Keen Foxhunter's Miscellany, Peter Holt, Quiller Publishing, 2010, 224 pages, illustrated, available on AmazonHere’s a book about foxhunting by a man who never hunted. Peter Holt's wife, however, is a Master of Foxhounds, so the poor fellow has probably heard more about hunting than he ever wanted to know.

The book is a quirky collection of literary quotes, short reports, historical oddities, profiles of hunting eccentrics—no story longer than two pages.

Notwithstanding Holt's lack of hunting experience, this is a very funny book. Admittedly, my sense of humor is sometimes weird, so here are a couple of samples. You decide.

Heroes & Hounds, Bill Miller, Illustrated by Mary Burkhardt, 154 pages, $11.95 (paperback), $3.99 (Kindle), Available on Amazon.comA lost tri-colored foxhound. A spunky eleven-year-old girl with an independent streak. A strange man who subsists in the woods. And weaving among them, a fox that seems at times to have almost mystical powers.

Author Bill Miller, an honorary whipper-in for the Norfolk Hunt (MA) for more than twenty years, crafts a tale of loss and forgiveness in Heroes & Hounds. Carly, a fifth grader who dreams of riding to the hounds with the posh Riverdale Hunt Club, lives with her irascible grandfather on a Virginia farm while her parents serve overseas in the military. Carly’s best friends are her talented pony, Monroe; a cat named Buster; and a schoolmate, Freddie, who follows her lead into trouble.

When Hampton, a young Riverdale hound, is lost, Carly vows to find him, dreaming of being hailed as a hero and being asked to join the hunt. Instead she risks Freddie’s life and discovers Strange Willie, who knows all too well about being a hero.

The happiest man in England rose an hour before the dawn;
The stars were in the purple and the dew was on the lawn;
He sang from bed to bathroom—he could only sing “John Peel”;
He donned his boots and breeches and he buckled on his steel.
He chose his brightest waistcoat and his stock with care he tied,
Though scarce a soul would see him in his early morning ride.