The National tribune., 1902-10-30
COON HUNTING.
An Exciting Sport of Frosty November
Nights.
Country Life in America.)

Country Life in America.)
Peculiarly November sport, though Of
ten it has its beginning in October, is the
pursuit of Brer Coon. You who have
never followed coon in the dead watches
of the night take you straightway into
the circle of your cOmpanionship the owner
of coon dog. A coon dog is born, not
made. Usually lie is a mongrel, with a
bit of the bull and bit of the hound in
him. Rabbit and fox he will have none
of, but the scent of raccoon loOsens his
tongue to the full cry. 1t is a weird sen.
sation, the first coon hunt. With shot
gun in the party, revolver or two, and
every man supplied with a lantern and
plenty of matches, you enter the black
fastness Of the forest. The dog is loOsed
and swallowed up in darkness the instant
he. crosses the narrow circle of your Ian
tern light Silent you sit on an old log,
for woodland at night is not conducive
to freeing of the tongue. The stiffness,
unbroken save for the occasional rustling
of leaves or impatient snuff betraying the
whereabouts of the dog, enters your very
soul. There is a peculiar sense of loneli-
ness, a consciousness of being but an atom
in a universe of blackness. 1t walls you
in on all sides, impenetrable. Only above
is it broken, and there immeasurable dis
tance reaches up to the cold twinkling
points of light in frosty November sky.
Suddenly out of the darkness rises weird
sound, uncannily suggestive of little lost
child crying in the wilderness. Then the
dog, unraveling a trail, suddenly gives
tongue, and the music of the hunt rolls
through the woodland aisles.
Now he circles toward you, and now he
starts straight away at a pace which de-
mands that you follow.
Straight into the blackness beyond you
plunge. The yellow CLEANS of the lantern
hardly show the way 10 feet ahead. Down
through the swamp and the laurel tangles
leads the chase; at times, SO thick becomes
the laurel that hands and knees seem the
only method of progress. A ruffed grouse,
rush of wings in your very face. Start
ling enough by daylight are these swift
winged flyers, but when, without warning,
out of the blackness, brushing your very
face, they speed into the night, it gives
the stoutest heart u mighty jump. Fainter
and fainter sounds the music of the dog.
1t is mad race now, over mOlderiRg tree
trunks, through swampy patches, up over
the ridges, through the old chestnut grove
and down into the hollow beyond. 1t Is
each one for himself, for each would fain
be first in when the game is freed. Listen!
From over yOnder hill comes new note.
There is less of music in it, but there is
a steady purpose which tells its own story.
The game is treed. What will it be-a
veteran old chestnut rotted at the top
which will necessitate the smoking out of
Mr.. Coon; big pine without a limb for
so. feet, which will necessitate a good
nerve and a proper use of the climbing
irons; or will it be an easy tree, from
which Mr. Coon can be shaken without
difficulty?
1t was exciting before; it is doubly so
now. You forget the lack of breath, the
scratches from the brambles, the tumbles
over hidden roots. Listen! Steadily, un-
ceasingly the dog barks. No danger of
Mr.. Coon slipping out now. He is freed,
and old Bob proposes to see that he stays
freed. There he is at the foot of yonder
chestnut, looking up into the towering
branches and impatiently scratching at the
base of the tree. A fash from the lantern
ON the rough bark shows the claw marks
which proclaim that old Bob has made
no mistake. Now for the climbing-irOns
and long string to lower for the lantern.
That tree would be ''phaser" by day
light; in the dark there is no thought Of
its hight or size. Up you go, looking along
each branch as you come to it. Some