This coursing on the prairie,especially after big game,is an exceedingly manly and attractive sport;the furious galloping,often over rough ground with an occasional deep washout or gully,the sight of the gallant hounds running and tackling,and the exhilaration of the pure air and wild surrounding,all combine to give it a peculiar zest.But there is really less need of bold and skilful horsemanship than in the otherwise less attractive and more artificial sport of fox-hunting,or riding to hounds,in a closed and long-settled country.
Those of us who are in part of southern blood have a hereditary right to be fond of cross-country riding;for our forefathers in Virginia,Georgia,or the Carolinas,have for six generations followed the fox with horse,horn,and hound.In the long-settled Northern States the sport has been less popular,though much more so now than formerly;yet it has always existed,here and there,and in certain places has been followed quite steadily.
In no place in the Northeast is hunting the wild red fox put on a more genuine and healthy basis than in the Geneseo Valley,in central New York.There has always been fox-hunting in this valley,the farmers having good horses and being fond of sport;but it was conducted in a very irregular,primitive manner,until some twenty years ago Mr.
Austin Wadsworth turned his attention to it.He has been master of fox-hounds ever since,and no pack in the country has yielded better sport than his,or has brought out harder riders among the men and stronger jumpers among the horses.Mr.Wadsworth began his hunting by picking up some of the various trencher-fed hounds of the neighborhood,the hunting of that period being managed on the principle of each farmer bringing to the meet the hound or hounds he happened to possess,and appearing on foot or horseback as his fancy dictated.Having gotten together some of these native hounds and started fox-hunting in localities where the ground was so open as to necessitate following the chase on horseback,Mr.Wadsworth imported a number of dogs from the best English kennels.He found these to be much faster than the American dogs and more accustomed to work together,but less enduring,and without such good noses.The American hounds were very obstinate and self-willed.Each wished to work out the trail for himself.But once found,they would puzzle it out,no matter how cold,and would follow it if necessary for a day and night.
By a judicious crossing of the two Mr.Wadsworth finally got his present fine pack,which for its own particular work on its own ground would be hard to beat.The country ridden over is well wooded,and there are many foxes.The abundance of cover,however,naturally decreases the number of kills.It is a very fertile land,and there are few farming regions more beautiful,for it is prevented from being too tame in aspect by the number of bold hills and deep ravines.Most of the fences are high posts-and-rails or "snake"fences,although there is an occasional stone wall,haha,or water-jump.The steepness of the ravines and the density of the timber make it necessary for a horse to be sure-footed and able to scramble anywhere,and the fences are so high that none but very good jumpers can possibly follow the pack.Most of the horses used are bred by the farmers in the neighborhood,or are from Canada,and they usually have thoroughbred or trotting-stock blood in them.
One of the pleasantest days I ever passed in the saddle was after Mr.
Wadsworth's hounds.I was staying with him at the time,in company with my friend Senator Cabot Lodge,of Boston.The meet was about twelve miles distant from the house.It was only a small field of some twenty-five riders,but there was not one who did not mean going.Iwas mounted on a young horse,a powerful,big-boned black,a great jumper,though perhaps a trifle hot-headed.Lodge was on a fine bay,which could both run and jump.There were two or three other New Yorkers and Bostonians present,several men who had come up from Buffalo for the run,a couple of retired army officers,a number of farmers from the neighborhood;and finally several members of a noted local family of hard riders,who formed a class by themselves,all having taken naturally to every variety of horsemanship from earliest infancy.
It was a thoroughly democratic assemblage;every one was there for sport,and nobody cared an ounce how he or anybody else was dressed.
Slouch hats,brown coats,corduroy breeches,and leggings,or boots,were the order of the day.We cast off in a thick wood.The dogs struck a trail almost immediately and were off with clamorous yelping,while the hunt thundered after them like a herd of buffaloes.We went headlong down the hill-side into and across a brook.Here the trail led straight up a sheer bank.Most of the riders struck off to the left for an easier place,which was unfortunate for them,for the eight of us who went straight up the side (one man's horse falling back with him)were the only ones who kept on terms with the hounds.
