Free Home from the Hill by William Humphrey

night—good night for chasin’ foxes. Us men done all had supper—squirrel stew kilt by the Cap’m an cooked by yo’s truly, Ole Chauncey. Lots of pepper in it, cooked till all you got to do is jes suck the meat off the bones. Ain’t it larrupin? An now the fire died down so we build it up again, an off down in the woods ole hootowl go, ‘I cook for myself, who cook for you-all?’ An now the hounds begin to stir an—”
    And from his jumper pocket he would draw his battered old French-harp, green with age, and tap it in the palm of his hand and blow the pocket lint out of the reeds and sound a chord on it and tap it in the worn yellow palm of his hand again and put it to his mouth, and the hounds were cast.
    He commenced blowing softly, low and faint, so that you could not be sure how big a pack was running tonight, they were all so far away and the trail only barely warm, slow, only the leader giving any tongue, the rest trailing quiet. Then they ranged nearly out of hearing altogether. Then the trail doubled back your way and they came closer and closer, and suddenly the trail was hot and the whole big pack opened out as though the tuning-up was over and a baton had been raised and brought down, and they all sang out their parts, while above them all came the lead hound’s hoarse excited bellow, and this was the moment when you were sure to hear old Charley Hexam cry, “’At’s my ole whomper-jawed Rip hound! Lissen to im go!” And now they were in chorus, like a church choir with a conductor, the deep booming bass of the Black and Tans and the contralto of the Blueticks, and the liquid, clear soprano of the Walker hounds. They would get almost out of hearing, then the trail would swing back and then ran, it seemed, right around the base of the hill where you sat before the crackling fire, and then away, growing faint—but away on a false trail, foxed. For now you heard the taunting, exultant bark of an old and wily fox right below you, he enjoying the chase as much as the hounds, and having rested while his mate ran them for a while, calling them back now for more. And here they came, mad now, on a wide swooping bellowing swing, clearer-toned than ever in their pell-mell excitement, like the church bells all over town pealing out together on Easter Sunday morning. And then a stop. Then instead of the long baying you heard them all commence to yap, and you heard the men sitting around you cry with one voice with your own, “Gone to earth!” Then they barked and they howled and they yelped and they whined, and you could just see them pawing at the dirt of the foxhole, and then the leader, Old Blue, the old Bluetick, let out a single, prolonged rousing bugle-note, and you knew that the fox had gone out his back door and the chase was on again, and again swinging wide and fading and swelling and fading and pausing while they crossed water and found the scent on the other bank, and then coming to a long sighing pause, when a new note was heard from the pack, a few puzzled whimpers, a whine, then a series of disappointed howls, a general howl, and, exhausted, you breathed, “Faulted!” The fox had treed. The hunt was over.
    Or:
    â€œTell me a story, please, Chauncey. Please. Tell about the time Papa killed the wild boar. Tell it, Chauncey. Please.”
    â€œI should think you would know dat story by dis time.”
    He would sit very silent and give Chauncey time to grumble and sigh and say with mock begrudging, “Oh, ver’ well den. I see it ain’t no help for it.”
    Then he would announce his title:
    How Cap’m Wade Hunnicutt Kill the Las’ Wile Boar in Eas’ Texas
    â€œWell, I tole you many times how the trappers from all roun Sulphur Bottom come to yo Papa an they say, ‘Cap’m, it is something stealin from our traps. You the man to help us out.’ An Cap’m he say, ‘I see whut I kin