A number of other fishes have a somewhat similar arrangement by which they could secure prey, but the angler is perhaps the most remarkable.
THE GREYHOUND.
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AS I write, a greyhound, faithful and true, is looking up into my face, her long, slender muzzle resting on my arm, her eyes beaming with intelligence. She is blinking, puffing out her lips, whining—in fact, laughing and talking, after her fashion; and probably this is what she is trying to say: "I am a greyhound. I can outrun any hare in California, and when I was younger and not so heavy I could jump up behind my master on the horse, when the grass and flowers were tall, and so look around for a jack rabbit."
Mouse does not mention that the horse decidedly objected to her sharp claws, sometimes bucking to throw her off, and thus has often made it very uncomfortable for her master. She has just taken her head from my arm, offended perhaps at this breach of confidence, so I must continue the story without further comment from her.
Mouse is but one of a number of greyhounds that I have owned. Some were mouse-colored, like Mouse herself; others a tawny hue; others again, mouse and white. And in the field together they presented a fine appearance—long, slender forms, delicate limbs, powerful muscles, ratlike tails, deep chests, pointed muzzles, and feet like springy cushions. They are quaintly described in the old lines:
"Headed like a snake, Necked like a drake, Backed like a beam, Sided like a bream, Tailed like a rat, And footed like a cat."
When preparing for an outing, Mouse and Dinah (the latter being her baby, though taller than the mother) well know what is to come. When crop, gloves, saddle, and bridle appear, they become intensely excited, and insist upon holding my gloves or the crop, and, when I mount, leap up against the horse again and again with every expression of delight.
As we ride out of the orange grove, it is a mild and delicious morning. Hills, fields, and meadows are green; roses are on every side; oranges glisten on the dark-green trees; the air is rich with floral odors and filled with the song of birds. Snow is gleaming on the big peaks of the mountains; it is winter there, over the tops of the orange trees, but summer down here in the valley. No wonder the dogs are delighted, and the horses need the curb! Ladies and gentlemen now appear, coming out of the side streets, and bound for the "meet," followed by coaches with merry riders, all headed for the mesa at the foot of the range.
Presently the silvery notes of a horn are borne melodiously on the wind, and out from the shadow of the eucalyptus grove comes the pack of hounds from San Marino, one of the beautiful homes in the San Gabriel. A few moments later the hunt is together on a lofty hill overlooking the surrounding country. Young folks are patting and admiring the dogs; and noble fellows these dogs are. Among them are some great, tawny, leonine creatures, brought from Australia, where they hunted the kangaroo; others are mouse-colored, and one is jet black. Each a bunch of springs and nerves, a noble group they make—Dinah, Silk, Raymon, Fleet, Eclipse, and many more.
The hunt is made up of ladies and gentlemen, lovers of riding and dogs. Thirty or more are on horseback, with invited guests from all over the county, and the remainder in coaches and carriages, who follow the hunt in this way, and at noon meet the riders at breakfast in some shaded nook. The horn sounds gleefully. The great, high-pointed Mexican saddles, which the gentlemen use, are looked after. Horses champ their musical bits, eager to be off; and finally, at the word, the cavalcade winds slowly down the hill, spreading out over the mesa—a gently rising tract, the slope of the mountains, planted with grape, orange, and olive, with intervening spaces of very low brush. Two miles or less away rise the Sierra Madres, like a huge stone wall, with peaks from four thousand to eleven thousand feet high; and along their base the hunt proceeds. A few feet in advance, mounted on a fiery broncho, is the master of the hounds, with his silver horn. The dogs separate, and move slowly ahead, wading now through banks of golden poppies, wild heliotrope, and brown-backed violets. Greyhounds do not hunt by scent, as foxhounds do, but by sight alone; so every now and then they stop to look about, all the while keeping a keen eye ahead.
Suddenly there is a shout, and horses and dogs are away. From under the very nose of Mouse a curious apparition springs up—a fluffy object of grayish tints. It is the jack rabbit! the enemy of the farmer, the girdler of fruit trees. For an instant he stands astonished, wondering what it is all about, then dashes away like a rocket, and is followed by the field. Nearly all the dogs see him, while those which do not follow the others. The horses seem to understand the shout, and in a moment are off in a wild race over the mesa, beating down the flowers, and throwing clods of earth behind them.
The jack, true to his instincts, makes for the low brush in a washout. He seems a streak of light disappearing and reappearing here and there. The dogs are doing their best, working like machines. Watch their wonderful running! Even at the terrific pace, with ditches, and holes dug by gophers, badgers, or owls to look out for, the action of the beautiful dogs attracts our attention. They sweep on like the wind—a kaleidoscopic effect of grays and yellows, passing and repassing. Now Silk leads; then, in turn, the blue dog is ahead. See! Mouse is in the air. Losing sight of the game, she leaps bodily three feet upward over the brush, looks quickly around, catches sight of the fleeing form, and is away again. The speed is marvelous! No race horse can keep up with a thoroughbred racing greyhound; yet the field is doing bravely. One little boy, though far behind, follows pluckily, his short-legged pony struggling sturdily through a plowed field.
The hare has dashed across the washout and up a large vineyard, around and down a well-known road. How they go! Four, six, ten horses all bunched, and running like the wind—a wild, melodious jangle of hoofs, spurs, and bit chains. Up go the dogs suddenly. "Jump!" cries the master of the hounds, warningly, turning in his saddle. The hare has stopped abruptly at the edge of a dry ditch, and turned at a sharp angle. Some of the dogs go over and sweep around in great curves, while others break off on both sides, and are soon following the game over the back track. A noble chase it is! Everything favors the hare, and he is making a great run. Hunters give out; one or two dogs are fagged; but over the green fields and down toward the city goes the main body of the hunt. The little fellow on the pony has become discouraged. The pony is breathing hard, and his brave rider's yellow locks have evidently been in contact with the pin clover.
But courage! What is this? A shout from below, and he sees the jack, with ears flat, a signal of distress, coming up the slope. The dogs have turned him again. Off the young rider goes over the field, side by side with hare and hounds. Soon a big mouse-colored dog darts ahead, overtakes the hare, and kills him instantly. Often the dog inserts its long nose beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air.
"Often the dog tosses him into the air."
<!-- image -->A moment later the entire field is about the catch, and the long ears and diminutive brush of this farmers' pest decorate the hat of the first lady in at the finish.
Panting dogs and horses and flushed riders are grouped about; owners making excuses for pet dogs, and all agreeing that the hare was a most extraordinary old fellow, wily and conceited. He must have girdled many peach and cherry trees in his time, and no one mourns his fate.
The run is discussed, and its good points dilated upon; favorite horses are petted, and young men with suspicious grass stains on their coats and trousers are ridiculed by more fortunate riders.
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Now one thirsty dog is drinking from a canteen which one of the huntsmen has unslung, while other dogs await their turn; others again are lying on the cool grass, panting like steam engines, yet very proud of their work. Half an hour or more is given for rest; then dogs, horses, and riders are ready for another run, and perhaps two miles of delightful country is gone over before another hare is seen. This time he runs for the mountains, and, after carrying the hunt a mile or more up the slope, dashes into a canyon, and is away, while the disappointed dogs and riders join the coaches and carriages at the hunt breakfast, spread on the slope among the wild flowers; and here, looking down on the lovely valley and the Pacific Ocean thirty miles away, the day's sport ends.
Such is real "hare and hounds" in southern California—an inspiring sport, as the natural instincts of the greyhounds are given full play, and the hare has every advantage, and can only be caught if faithfully followed by riding at a pace which, for speed and excitement, is rarely equaled. In certain regions of California the hare exists in myriads, and the ranchers keep the greyhounds to run them off; so it is natural that Californians should believe that they have some of the fastest dogs in the world. How fast can they run? A good greyhound has been known to run four miles in twelve minutes. Silk has caught a hare within one hundred and fifty feet of the start; and as for Mouse, now fat and heavy, I have run the fastest horse I could find against her, and she was always just ahead, looking back as if to say, "Why don't you come?"
Coursing is by no means a new sport. Not only is it an old English custom, but even in the ancient carvings of Thebes we find the greyhound. Among the ancients, chasing the hare with these dogs was considered a noble sport; for the greyhound has an aristocratic mien, and is the type of refinement and culture among dogs. True coursing differs materially from the methods of the hunt described, and often degenerates into a sport carried on simply for gain. It was first organized as a sport by Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, in the time of Elizabeth, and the old rules are to some extent followed in England to-day. In these, the various efforts of the dogs in turning the hare count, and numbers of dogs contest, one with another, to a finish. In America, hunting clubs rarely run the dogs in inclosures, as it is unsportsmanlike not to give the hare every advantage in an open country.
The hare runs as fast as the dogs; but as he lacks their endurance, he takes them up slopes and over rough country, displaying great cunning. One old hare, which I chased a number of times, invariably ran in a wide circle, finally leading the dogs among the rocks, and escaping in a thick grove. This little animal was indebted to me for much exercise, and I have no doubt he enjoyed the running. The hare, being smaller and lighter, can turn more quickly, and the best dog is the one that can most adroitly meet these quick changes of direction. The pack is rushing along when the hare suddenly turns at a right angle; poor dogs overrun and take a wide turn, and before they can recover, the hare is far away, while a good dog will lose but little. Once my dog had almost caught a hare, when the cunning animal darted to a tree and began to run around it in a circle, while I stopped and looked on. Mouse could not make the turns so quickly, and apparently soon became dizzy, for, as the hare ran off, she came to me, very much embarrassed at my laughter. Another time I saw a jack turn suddenly, dodge Mouse's snap at him, and dart between her legs and away.