Night of the Singing Hounds

Jarvis lay on the stone overhang peering cautiously over into the blackness. Bertrand Foley sat motionless on a rock just barely within the dim ring of lantern light. "What's goin' on?" asked Tiffin, glancing at Foley, then looking intently around the pack of hounds for Little Kipper. "What'd the dogs corner?" Little Kipper was not in the pack. Jarvis rolled over and looked back at them. "They didn't corner nothin'. We found 'em up here on top the cliff hollerin ' down toward the bottom. Psimer went around the hill down there to have a look." They waited for a while as the lantern picked its way up the steep grading around toward them. Psimer came up breathing heavily, soaked from head to foot in the dew. "Well, what was it?" asked Jarvis impatiently. Bertrand Foley sat on the rock in silence and all four of the men stared at Psimer. "It was a fox. They chased it over the edge. And Tif. . ." he paused, "well, Little Kipper's down there too. He mustVe chased right over the ledge on that fox's tail. Sorry to see it, Tif, but it's a fine figure of a dog that'll chase a fox to his death." Tiffin smiled into the dark air beyond the ledge. "Yeah, Psimer, fine figure of a dog. A man would'a been plumb proud to own a dog like that." C NIGHT OF THE SINGING HOUNDS From high the ridge the hunters stop to play Cow-horn music to low-singing hounds, Foxfires ash-covered as the hound of day Slow-trails the rugged land mouthing no sound. The song of horn houndtalks an ended night, Ritual-song of fox, hound, horn, and men; Frost-spun, the scent of fox is cocoon-tight To frozen earth that hounds no longer wind. From high the ridge sore-footed walkers lag Their masters down a narrow cow-made trail, Mute to all boastful talk and hounddog brag Of bugled voices now on mountain stale. Night-singing hounds sight-trailing homeward men, Dreaming of cracklin-mash and burlap den. Billy C. Clark 25 ...