duces them to obey beyond any method of
training, as they feel a certain dependence upon the man, and they
answer his halloo or the horn without a moment's hesitation.

Nothing is so likely to destroy the character of a pack as a certain
amount of laziness or incapacity upon the master's part in following
them up. This is natural enough, as the best hounds, if repeatedly
left unassisted for hours when at bay with their game until they are
regularly beaten off, will lose their relish for the sport. On the
other hand, perseverance on the huntsman part will ensure a
corresponding amount in the hounds; they will become so accustomed to
the certain appearance of their master at the bay at some time or other
that they will stick to their game till night. I have frequently
killed elk at two or three o'clock in the afternoon that have been
found at six in the morning. Sometimes I have killed them even later
than this when, after wandering fruitlessly the whole day in every
direction but the right one, my ears have at length been gladdened by
the distant sound of the bay. The particular moment when hope and
certainty combined reward the day's toil is the very quintessence of
joy and delight. Nothing in the shape of enjoyment can come near it.
What a strange power has that helpless-looking mass--the brain! One
moment, and the limbs are fagged, the shins are tender with breaking
all day through the densest jungles, the feet are worn with unrequited
labor and--hark! The bay! no doubt of it--the bay! There is the magic
spell which, acting on the brain, flies through every nerve. New legs,
new feet, new everything, in a moment! fresh as though just out of bed;
here we go tearing through the jungle like a buffalo, and as happy as
though we had just come in for a fortune--happier, a great deal.

Nevertheless, elk-hunting is not a general taste, as people have not
opportunities of enjoying it constantly. Accordingly, they are out of
condition, and soon be, come distressed and of necessity "shut up" (a
vulgar but expressive term). This must be fine fun for a total
stranger rather inclined to corpulency, who has dauntlessly persevered
in keeping up with the huntsman, although at some personal
inconvenience. There is a limit to all endurance, and he is obliged to
stop, quite blown, completely done. He loses all sounds of hounds and
huntsman, and everything connected with the hunt. Where is he? How
horrible the idea that flash