LIFT—To take the hounds from a lost scent in the hopes of finding a better scent farther on.
LINE—The scent trail of the fox.
LIVERY—The uniform worn by the professional members of the hunt staff. Usually it is scarlet, but blue, yellow, brown, or gray are also used. The recent dominance of scarlet has to do with people buying coats off the rack as opposed to having tailors cut them. (When anything is mass-produced the choices usually dwindle and such is the case with livery.)
MASK—The fox’s head.
MEET—The site where the day’s hunting begins.
MFH—The master of foxhounds; the individual in charge of the hunt: hiring, firing, landowner relations, opening territory (in large hunts this is the job of the hunt secretary), developing the pack of hounds, determining the first cast of each meet. As in any leadership position, the master is also the lightning rod for criticism. The master may hunt the hounds, although this is usually done by a professional huntsman, who is also responsible for the hounds in the field, at the kennels. A long relationship between a master and a huntsman allows the hunt to develop and grow.
NOSE—The scenting ability of a hound.
OVERRIDE—To press hounds too closely.
OVERRUN—When hounds shoot past the line of scent. Often the scent has been diverted or foiled by a clever fox.
RATCATCHER—The informal dress worn during cubbing season and bye days.
STERN—A hound’s tail.
STIFF-NECKED FOX—One that runs in a straight line.
STRIKE HOUNDS—Those hounds who through keenness, nose, and often higher intelligence find the scent first and who press it.
TAIL HOUNDS—Those hounds running at the rear of the pack. This is not necessarily because they aren’t keen; they may be older hounds.
TALLYHO—The cheer when the fox is viewed. Derived from the Norman ty a hillaut, thus coming into our language in 1066.
TONGUE—To vocally pursue the fox.
VIEW HALLOO (HALLOA)—The cry given by a staff member who views a fox. Staff may also say tallyho or tally back should the fox turn back. One reason a different cry may be used by staff, especially in territory where the huntsman can’t see the staff, is that the field in their enthusiasm may cheer something other than a fox.
VIXEN—The female fox.
WALK—Puppies are “walked out” in the summer and fall of their first year. It’s part of their education and a delight for puppies and staff.
WHIPPERS-IN—Also called whips, these are the staff members who assist the huntsman, who make sure the hounds “do right.”
Read on for a preview of
HUNT BALL
by Rita Mae Brown
Coming in September 2005
from Ballantine Books
CHAPTER 1
A shining silver shroud covered the lowlands along
Broad Creek, deep and swift-running. The notes of the huntsman’s horn, muffled, made his direction difficult to determine. Three young women, students at prestigious Custis Hall, followed the creek bed that bordered a cut hayfield. A gnarled tree, bending toward the clear water as if to bathe its branches, startled them.
“Looks like a giant witch,” Valentina Smith blurted out.
They stopped to listen for hounds and the horn. Smooth gray stones jutted out of the creek, the water swirling and splashing around.
“Can you hear anything?” Felicity Porter, slender, serious, inquired.
“If we move away from the creek, we’ll hear better.” Valentina, as senior class president, was accustomed to taking charge.
Anne “Tootie” Harris, one of the best students at Custis Hall, was just as accustomed to resisting Valentina’s assumed authority. “We’ll get even more lost. Broad Creek runs south. It divides the Prescott land from Sister Jane’s land. If we keep going we’ll eventually reach the big old hog’s back jump in the fence line. If we turn right at that jump we’ll find the farm road back to the kennels.”
Angry that she hadn’t paid attention at the jump to where the rest of the riders disappeared into the fog, and now angry that she hadn’t paid attention to the flow of Broad Creek, Valentina growled, “Well, shit, Tootie, we could go into menopause before we reach the hog’s back jump!”
“One dollar, potty mouth.” Felicity held out her hand with grim satisfaction.
“Felicity, how can you think of the kitty at a time like this? We could be lost for days. Why, we could die of thirst and—”
“Val, we’re next to Broad Creek,” Tootie deadpanned.
“You two are ganging up on me.” Val tossed her head; her blonde ponytail, in a snood for riding, swayed slightly.
“No, we’re not.” Felicity rarely ran off the rails, her focus intense. “The deal when we started hunting with Jefferson Hunt was that each time one of us swore, one dollar to the kitty. I’m the bank.”
Valentina fished in her tweed jacket. “You’ll probably end up being a banker, F. I can see it now when you make your first million. You’ll count the money, put it in a vault, and not even smile.” She did, however, hand over her dollar.
Felicity leaned over to reach for the dollar, their horses side by side. She folded it in half, neatly sticking it in her inside jacket pocket. Felicity knew she wasn’t quick-witted. No point in firing back at Valentina.
With Felicity and Valentina it was the tortoise and the hare. With Tootie and Valentina it was the hawk and the hare, two swift-moving creatures with opposing points of view.
“Come on, I’ll get us back to the kennels,” Tootie promised.
In the far distance the hounds sang, voices ranging from soprano to basso profundo, from tenor to darkest alto. The heavy moisture in the air accounted for the variation in clarity. The girls would hear the hounds moving toward them, then it would sound as though the hounds were turning.
“Coach will tear us a new one.” Valentina did not reply to Tootie’s suggestion, speaking about the coach’s wrath instead.
“Coach? What about Mrs. Norton?” Felicity thought the headmistress’s disapproval would be more severe than Bunny Taliaferro’s, the riding coach, although Bunny naturally leaned toward censure.
“Wonder if they know we’re not with the field? I mean, it’s possible they’re still in the fog, too. Sister Jane would get really upset if she thought we were in trouble.” Valentina inhaled deeply. “If they don’t know, let’s swear never to tell.”
“The Three Musketeers.” Tootie half-smiled.
“All for one and one for all.” Valentina beamed.
“But you always manage to be first among equals, Val. It’s not exactly all for one and one for all. It’s all for Valentina and then maybe Val for all,” Tootie said, shooting a barb.
“Tootie, you can really be the African queen when you’re in a mood. You know?” Valentina raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, right.” Tootie, an exceptionally beautiful green-eyed African American, shrugged it off.
“Will you two get over yourselves? If we don’t find our way back, we’re in deep doo-doo. If we do find the field, we’re still in deep doo-doo but maybe not as deep.”
“Felicity, say shit and be done with it.” Val took out some of her discomfort on her sober classmate.
“One dollar.”
“I could learn to hate you.” Valentina fetched another crinkled dollar, fuming as Tootie hid a smile behind her gloved hand.
“Thank you.” This time Felicity snatched the money.
Hounds sounded as if they were swinging toward them; the notes on the horn played one long note followed by a series of doubled and even tripled notes, one long note and the process was repeated.
“All on,” Tootie remarked.
Bunny Taliaferro drummed the basics of foxhunting into those students she selected as proficient enough to ride hard over big fences and uneven ground. The show-ring riders who panicked outside of a flat ring where they counted strides could never join the chosen few. This caused tensions because often the show-ring girls looked much prettier on a horse. Unfortunately, flying down a steep hill usually meant they popped off their horses like toast. The sound of “ooff” and “ohh” punctuated the hoofbeats on those occasions.