Fox Hunting Society

This is a poem I wrote while in Boot Camp at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. I missed my beagles and fox hounds. So, the only thing I could do was to write about them, which I did. I dedicate this to every beagler who had known the thrill of being involved in such a hunt as the one I relate. I also offer it as a Memorial to the two gentlemen and fellow hunters mentioned, Ross McCorstin and Monroe Barwick. They were two of the finest gentlemen with whom I have ever been privileged to hunt. All of the hound mentioned belonged to either Ross or Monroe. I read this to Ross not long before he departed this life. His words still ring in my ears: "That needs to be published!" Of the four homesteads mentioned; Carl Evans Place, Wickenhouser Place, Sizemore's and Muncrief's only the Muncrief Place was occupied at the time this hunt took place, and Dan Muncrief enjoyed hearing the hounds. This was somewhat a wilderness area at that time. Sad to say, today there are approximately 100 houses and mobile homes in this area.

I'll try to relate a night at our hunting grounds,

When two of the hunters cast their hounds.

Time wouldn't permit, neither would space

To tell of all that happened, in this fox chase.

The race had started, and was well under way,

When out in the dark we heard Ross say

"Just listen to old Hobo, he's got the lead,

That rascal has endurance and lots of speed."

Yes, it's sure true and I'm certainly not denying,

He may be running, but it sounds like he's flying.

But Monroe was there and he'd brought old Joe,

If Hobo outran him, he'd have a long row to hoe.

And so it goes, on and on throughout the night,

For the front position, there's always a fight.

We had jumped this fox at the Carl Evan's Place,

Right from the start it had been a very fast pace.

He was a typical Red, for he sure could run,

He seemed to enjoy it and was having lots of fun.

East of the Wickenhouser Place he would go,

Then back down South about a mile or so.

He'd made a circle and come right back,

The hounds all running in a very close pack.

Some course chop mouths, some fine squalls,

Up Lizzy Obson Creek by the water falls.

To the Gaot Rancher Corner and then South.

All were running and giving lots of mouth.

Down to Steel Branch and around the hill,

On down South to deserted Old Woodville.

Scenting conditions were good, all was fair,

The hounds now running, their heads in the air.

They had a very short check and all was quiet,

The first time we'd noticed the chill of the night.

Hobo grabbed the track and then headed East,

To our attentive ears this was a gourmet feast.

Running like lightning, really covering the ground,

The others caught him, but they didn't fool around.

Joe was soon there with his old course chop,

He was a great hound that nothing could stop.

Once he was stricken and he couldn't even walk,

Now he was up running and sure he could talk.

Soon the other hounds took up the slack,

Now they were all running in one big pack.

Traveler, Dinah, Drive and all often rest,

Right in there running and doing their best.

In behind Muncrief's and around Ingram Hill,

Somehow the music seemed to ward off the chill.

Around Washita Point, then back up the lake,

Old Red was giving 'em all they could take.

The moon was out and the stars were bright,

Up through the fields, now running by sight.

Then right up the road, out in the sharp gravel,

Red flexed his muscles, getting ready to travel.

He passed Sizemore's and headed west,

He was really putting the hounds to the test.

We had kindled a fire to knock off the chill,

Mr. Red came our way and gave us a thrill.

We saw him in the firelight as he glided swiftly by,

Then here came the hounds, really setting up a cry.

Some of the young hounds were beginning to tire,

They were a little behind as they came by the fire.

Yet, all of their strength they willingly employed,

For this was something they thoroughly enjoyed.

Though ears were bleeding and pads were sore,

They stayed right in there, crying out for more.

Sail was half-beagle, but she sure could run,

When they hit a thicket, she had her fun.

North to the creek, where the going got rough,

That's when little Sail really strutted her stuff.

The briers were thick and the brush was low,

The other hounds still running, but a bit slow.

A red-specked hound with a long blue tail,

True to her name, she really could sail.

A high tenor squall she very freely gave,

The others caught up, but they had to slave.

Traveler was there too, running true to style,

His big voice ringing out, mile after mile.

It's almost intoxicating, the music of the chase,

But to take part in this sport is no discrace.

The rich, the poor, the young and the old,

All around one fire for protection from the cold.

Drinking from the coffee that sits on the fire,

Listening to hounds that never seem to tire.

This race had ended a short distance away,

Just at the dawn of another beautiful day.

Only as a last resort, old Red took to his den,

We were all hoping this was the way it would end.

To kill such a splendid runner would be a disgrace,

For no other animal could quite take his place.

The hounds had worked hard all through the night,

For the front position, there had been quite a fight.

Which was out front, most really couldn't be said,

For at one time of another, each one had led.

They deserved their feed and a good days' rest,

For all had run hard and given their absolute best.

The sun slowly rose to the notes of a hunter's horn.

The hounds were returning, ears bleeding and torn.

Though tired and worn they seemed very contented,

For this was a sport that mere man hadn't invented.

Hounds and fox, both created by the Lord Almighty,

More reason to be proud of our Fox Hunting Society.

Willis Moody McWilliams

"Keep 'em Runnin"