THE MUSIC OF THE HOUNDS
author unknown

Heavens? What melodious strains?
How beat our hearts
Big with tumultuous joy! The loaded gales
Breathe harmony.

The maple leaves are blushing.
And the oak a marvel is;
The withered leaves are crushing
‘Neath the haro’s fleet feet, I wis.
The yellow of the birchen tree
Reflects the westering sum,
And the squirrel, in the bickory,
Seems full of food and fun.

The sumac flaunts its pennon,
Where the golden-rod hath died,
And the astor’s eye is bent on
The gentian’s purple pride;
The scream of the jay, like clarion,
Rings boldly on the air,
Like a fierce, freebooting baron,
Raiding the monks at prayer.

Now is the time, if ever,
For the wood-land-ways to sound
With the music of the clever
And keen-scented beagle hound.
The joy hath shrieked defiance,
The hare hath left his "form"-
Even the young may learn reliance
When the scent of "puss" lies "warm."

O, what tumult ‘mid the bracken,
O, what music in the air,
See them quarter and then slacken,
And, in full cry, follow fair.
Like a knot of jewels rampant,
See the pack, through copse and plain,
Over gem-like leaves triumphant,
Bearing to the coup-de-main.

O, what music meets the ear,
What the beagle giveth tongue;
Silver trumpet not more clear,
Sweater never beauty sung.
Hark? All nature seems to listen,
And the leaflets hush their fall,
As their lithe forms, chasing, glisten,
As their voices, echoing, call.

Forest and Stream, 2 November 1882

YANKEE by Jerome Burnett

Concerning dogs- you ought to know
The pointer we call Yankee;
He’s smart and sharp and full of "go,"
And never dull nor cranky.

Bring forth the gun, he leaps to life
In all his proud elation;
He’s eager for the joyous strife,
The soul of animation.

Say but the word, he’s with you,
Whatever the wind or weather,
He’ll take the field and work it through,
And never miss a feather.

And when he strikes the subtle trail,
You’ll watch him every minute,
His action shows he cannot fall,
Because his soul is in it.

Then when the steady point is made,
The climax he intended,
No workmen better knows his trade-
‘Tis art and nature blended.

The rigid form, the foot upraised,
The breast that’s gently swelling,
The beaming eye so often praised,
Of rarest sport are telling.

A picture tis, here rudely done,
Of wondrous combination,
A pose of grace that ever has won
Out greatest admiration.

It tells of one that’s true and tried,
As friend we have no dearer;
Whatever may come, whatever betide,
No love can be sincerer.

He’s taught us much that men receive
Their doubt with faith to leaven,
For knowing him we can believe
That good dogs go to heaven

Forest and Stream 5 January 1882