Blue-grass and Rhododendron

Out-doors in Old Kentucky

John FoxJr., John Fox Jr.

• Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
• Year: 1994
• Print ISBN: 9780813108209, 9780813118420
• eBook ISBN: 9780813137742
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: North American History
• Index: History

Serving as tour guide, Fox invites his audience to go with him log rafting down the Kentucky River, bass fishing in the Cumberland Mountains, rabbit hunting in the Bluegrass, and chasing outlaws in the border country of Kentucky and Virginia. Along the route we meet Old South colonels and their ladies, lawless moonshiners and their shy daughters, bloodthirsty preachers, and educated young gentlemen visitors who explore the southern mountains for fun and profit. These sketches offer a delightful blend of macho adventure and sage observation by an erudite young writer who had lived in the two worlds that provide his subject matter-the elegant society of the Bluegrass aristocracy and the hardscrabble feuding clans of mountaineers.

Br’er Coon in Ole Kentucky

Br’er Coon in Ole Kentucky

De ole man coon am a sly ole cuss :

Git erlong, coon-dog, now !

An’ de lady coon am a leetle bit wuss ;

Git erlong, coon-dog, now !

We hunts ‘em when de nights gits dark ;

Git erlong, coon-dog, now!

Dey runs when dey hears de big dogs bark ;

Git erlong, coon-dog, now !

But ‘deed, Mister Coon, hit’s no use to try;

Git erlong, coon-dog, now !

Fer when we comes you’s boun’ to die ;

Git erlong, coon-dog, now !

THE day was late in autumn. The sun was low, and the haze of Indian summer hung like mist on the horizon. Crows were rising from fat pickings in the blue-grass fields, and stretching away in long lines through a yellow band of western light, and toward the cliffs of the Kentucky River, where they roost in safety the winter long. An hour later darkness fell, and we rode forth the same way, some fifty strong.

There were “young cap’n,” as “young marster ” is now called, and his sister Miriam; Northcott, who was from the North, and was my friend; young farmers from the neighborhood, with their sisters and sweethearts; a party from the county town not far away; a contingent from the Iroquois Hunt Club, of Lexington; old Tray, a tobacco tenant from the Cumberland foot-hills; and old Ash, a darky coon-hunter who is known throughout the State.

There were White Child and Black Babe, two young coon-dogs which Ash claimed as his own; Bulger, a cur that belonged to Tray; young captain’s favorites, June Bug and Star; several dogs from the neighborhood; and two little fox-terriers, trotting to heel, which the Major, a veteran, had brought along to teach the country folks a new wrinkle in an old sport.

Ash was a ragged, old-time darky with a scraggly beard and a caressing voice. He rode a mule with a blind bridle and no saddle. In his belt, and hanging behind, was an ax-head fixed to a handle of hatchet length; the purpose of this was to cut a limb from under Br’er Coon when he could not be shaken off, or to cut a low entrance into his hole, so that he could be prodded out at the top with a sharp stick. In his pockets were matches to build a fire, that the fight ould be seen; at his side hung a lantern with which “to shine his eye “when the coon was treed; and under him was a meal-sack for Br’er Possum.

Tobacco had brought Tray from the foot-hills to the Blue-grass. His horse was as sorry as Ash’s mule, and he wore a rusty gray overcoat and a rusty slouch-hat. The forefinger of his bridle-hand was off at the second joint—a coon’s teeth had nipped it as clean as the stroke of a surgeon’s knife, one night, when he ran into a fight to pull off a young dog. Tray and Ash betrayed a racial inheritance of mutual contempt that was intensified by the rivalry of their dogs. From these two, the humanity ran up, in the matter of dress, through the young farmers and country girls, and through the hunt club, to Northcott, who was conventional perfection, and young captain’s picturesque sister, who wore the white slouch-hat of some young cavalryman,—the brim pinned up at the side with the white wing of a pigeon that she had shot with her own hand.

The cavalcade moved over the turf of the front woods, out the pike gate, and clattered at a gallop for two miles down the limestone road. Here old Ash called a halt; and he and Tray, and young captain and Blackburn, who was tall, swarthy, and typical, rode on ahead. I was allowed to follow in order to see the dogs work. So was Northcott; but he preferred to stay behind for a while.

“Keep back thar now,” shouted Ash to the crowd, “an’ keep still! “So they waited behind while we went on. The old darky threw the dogs off in a woodland to the left, and there was dead silence for a while, and the mystery of darkness. By and by came a short, eager yelp.

II

ONLY two days before, Northcott and I were down in the Kentucky mountains fishing for bass in the Cumberland, and a gaunt mountaineer was helping us catch minnows.

“Coons is a-gittin’ fat,” he remarked sententiously to another mountaineer, who was lazily following us up the branch; “an’ they’s a-gittin’ fat on my corn.”

“You like coons?” I asked.

“Well, jes gimme all the coon I can eat in three days—in three days, mind ye—an’ then lay me up in bed ag’in a jug o’ moonshine—” Words failed him there, and he waved his hand. “Them coons kin have all o’ my corn they kin hold. I’d jes as lieve have my corn in coons as in a crib. I keeps my dawgs tied up so the coons kin take their time; but”—he turned solemnly to his companion again —“coons is a-gittin’ fat, an’ I’m goin’ to turn them dawgs loose.”

White moonshine, coons, and sweet potatoes for the Kentucky mountaineer; and on through the Blue-grass and the Purchase to the Ohio, and no farther—red whiskey, coons, and sweet potatoes for the night-roving children of Ham. It is a very old sport in the State. As far back as 1785, one shouting Methodist preacher is known to have trailed a virgin forest for old Br’er Coon. He was called Raccoon John Smith, and he is doubtless the father of the hunt in Kentucky. Traced back through Virginia, the history of the chase would most likely strike root in the homesickness of certain English colonists for trailing badgers of nights in the old country, and sending terriers into the ground for them. One night, doubtless, some man of these discovered what a plucky fight a certain ring-tailed, black-muzzled, bear-like little beast would put up at the least banter; and thereafter, doubtless, every man who loved to hunt the badger was ready to hunt the coon. That is the theory of a distinguished Maryland lawyer and coon-hunter, at least, and it is worthy of record. The sport is common in Pennsylvania, and also in Connecticut, where the hunters finish the coon with a shot-gun; and in New England, I am told, “drawing “the coon is yet done. Br’er Coon is placed in a long, square box or trough, and the point is to get a fox-terrier that is game enough to go in “and bring him out.” That, too, is an inheritance from the English way of badger-fighting, which was tried on our American badgers without success, as it was usually found necessary, after a short fight, to draw out the terrier—dead. Coon-hunting is, however, distinctly a Southern sport, although the coon is found all over the United States, and as far north as Alaska. It is the darky who has made the sport Southern. With him it has always been, is now, and always will be, a passion. Inseparable are the darky and his coon-dog. And nowhere in the South is the sport more popular than in Kentucky—with mountaineers, negroes, and people of the Blue-grass. It is the more remarkable, then, that of all the beasts that walk the blue-grass fields, the coon-dog is the only one for which the Kentuckian does not claim superiority. The Kentucky coon-dog—let his master get full credit for the generous concession—is no better than the coon-dog of any other State. Perhaps this surprising apathy is due to the fact that the coon-dog has no family position. A prize was offered in 1891 by the Blue-grass Kennel Club at Lexington, and was won, of course, by a Kentucky dog; but the American Kennel Club objected, and the prize has never been offered again. So the coon-dog has no recognized breed. He is not even called a hound. He is a dog—just a “dawg.” He may be cur, fox-terrier, fox-hound, or he may have all kinds of grand-parents. On one occasion that is worth interjecting he was even a mastiff. An Irishman in Louisville owned what he called the “brag coon-dog “of the State. There are big woods near Louisville, and a good deal of hunting for the coon is done in them. A German who lived in the same street had a mastiff with the playful habit of tossing every cat that came into his yard over the fence—dead. The Irishman conceived the idea that the mastiff would make the finest coon-dog on earth—not excepting his own. He persuaded the German to go out in the woods with him one night, and he took his own dog along to teach the mastiff how to fight. The coon was shaken out of the tree. The coon-dog made for the coon, and the mastiff made for the coon-dog, and reached him before he reached the coon. In a minute the coon-dog was dead, the coon was making off through the rustling maize, and Celt and Teuton were clinched under the spreading oak. Originally, the coon-dog was an uncompromising cur, or a worthless fox-hound that had dropped out of his pack; and most likely darkies and boys had a monopoly of the sport in the good old days when the hunting was purely for the fun of the fight, and when trees were cut down, and nobody took the trouble to climb. When the red fox drove out the gray, the newer and swifter hounds—old Lead’s descendants—took away the occupation of the old fox-hound, and he, in turn, took the place of the cur; so that the Kentucky coon-dog of to-day is usually the old-fashioned hound that was used to hunt the gray fox, the “pot-licker “—the black-and-tan, long-eared, rat-tailed, flat-bellied, splayfooted “pot-licker.” Such a hound is a good trailer; he makes a good fight, and there is no need in the hunt for special speed. Recently the terrier has been introduced to do the fighting when the coon has been trailed and treed, because he is a more even match, and as game as any dog; and, thanks to Mr. Belmont’s “Nursery “in the Blue-grass, the best terriers are accessible to the Kentucky hunters who want that kind of fight.

But it is the hunt with an old darky, and old coon-dogs, and a still, damp, dark night, that is dear to the Southern hunter’s heart. It is the music of the dogs, the rivalry between them, the subtleties of the trail, and the quick, fierce fight, that give the joy then. Only recently have the ladies begun to take part in the sport, and, naturally, it is growing in favor. Coons are plentiful in the Blue-grass, even around the towns, where truck-patches are convenient, and young turkeys and chickens unwary. For a coon, unless hard-pressed, will never go up any tree but his own; and up his own tree he is usually safe, for trees are now too valuable to be cut down for coons.

It is the ride of only a few hours from the mountains to the lowland Blue-grass, and down there, too, coons were getting fat; so on the morning of the second day Northcott and I woke up in the ell of an old-fashioned Blue-grass homestead—an ell that was known as the “office “in slavery days—and old Ash’s gray head was thrust through the open door.

“Breakfast ‘mos’ ready. Young cap’n say you mus’ git up now.”

Crackling flames were leaping up the big chimney from the ash kindling-wood and hickory logs piled in the enormous fireplace, and Northcott, from his bed in the corner, chuckled with delight.

That morning the Northerner rode through peaceful fields and woodlands, and looked at short-horn cattle and Southdown sheep and thorough-bred horses, and saw the havoc that tobacco was bringing to the lovely land. When he came back dinner was ready—his first Southern dinner.

After dinner, Miriam took him to feed young captain’s pet coon, the Governor, and Black Eye, a fox-terrier that was the Governor’s best friend—both in the same plate. The Governor was chained to an old apple-tree, and slept in a hole which he had enlarged for himself about six feet from the ground. Let a strange dog appear, and the Governor would retreat, and Black Eye attack; and after the fight the Governor would descend, and plainly manifest his gratitude with slaps and scratches and bites of tenderness. The Governor never looked for anything that was tossed him, but would feel for it with his paws, never lowering his blinking eyes at all. Moreover, he was a dainty beast, for he washed everything in a basin of water before he ate it.

“Dey eats ever’thing, boss,” said old Ash’s soft voice; “but dey likes crawfish best. I reckon coon ‘11 eat dawg, jes as dawg eats coon. But dawg won’t eat ‘possum. Gib a dawg a piece o’ ‘possum meat, and he spit it out, and look at you mean and reproachful. Knowin’ ‘possum lack I do, dat sut’nly do look strange. Hit do, mon, shore.

“An’ as fer fightin’—well, I ain’t never seed a coon dat wouldn’t fight, an’ I ain’t never seed nuttin’ dat a coon wouldn’t tackle. Most folks believes dat a ‘possum can’t fight. Well, you jes tie a ‘possum an’ coon together by de tails, an’ swing ‘em over a clothesline, an’ when you come back you gwine find de coon daid. ‘Possum jes take hole in de throat, an’ go to sleep—jes like a bull-pup.”

A gaunt figure in a slouch-hat and ragged overcoat had slouched in at the yard gate. His eye was blue and mild, and his face was thin and melancholy. Old Ash spoke to him familiarly, and young captain called him Tray. He had come for no reason other than that he was mildly curious and friendly; and he stopped shyly behind young captain, fumbling with the stump of one finger at a little sliver of wood that served as the one button to his overcoat, silent, listless, gentle, grave. And there the three stood, the pillars of the old social structure that the war brought down — the slave, the poor white, the master of one and the lord of both. Between one and the other the chasm was still deep, but they would stand shoulder to shoulder in the hunt that night.

“Dat wind from de souf,” said old Ash, as we turned back to the house. “Git cloudy bime-by. We gwine to git Mister Coon dis night, shore.”

A horn sounded from the quarters soon after supper, and the baying of dogs began. Several halloos came through the front woods, and soon there was the stamping of horses’ feet about the yard fence, and much jolly laughter. Girths were tightened, and a little later the loud slam of the pike gate announced that the hunt was begun.

III

Br’er Coon he has a bushy tail;

Br’er Possum’s tail am bar’ ;

Br’er Rabbit’s got no tail at all—

Jes a leetle bunch o’ ha’r.

WHEN the yelp came, Tray’s lips opened tii-umphantly: “Bulger!”

“Rabbit,” said old Ash, contemptuously.

Bulger was a young dog, and only half broken; but every hunter knew that each old dog had stopped in his tracks and was listening. There was another yelp and another; and the old dogs harked to him. But the hunters sat still to give the dogs time to trail, as hunters always do. Sometimes they will not move for half an hour, unless the dogs are going out of hearing. Old Ash was humming calmly:

Coony in de tree ;

‘Possum in de holler ;

Purty gal at my house,

Fat as she kin waller.

It was Tray’s dog, and old Ash could afford to be calm and scornful, for he was without faith. So over and over he sang it softly, while Tray’s mouth was open, and his ear was eagerly cocked to every note of the trail. The air was very chilly and damp. The moon was no more than a silver blotch in a leaden sky, and barely visible here and there was a dim star. On every side, the fields and dark patches of woodland rolled alike to the horizon, except straight ahead, where one black line traced the looping course of the river. That way the dogs were running, and the music was growing furious. It was too much for Tray, who suddenly let out the most remarkable yell I have ever heard from human lips. That was a signal to the crowd behind. A rumbling started; the crowd was striking the hard turnpike at a swi...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Foreword by Wade Hall
• The Southern Mountaineer
• The Kentucky Mountaineer
• Down the Kentucky on a Raft
• After Br’er Rabbit in the Blue-grass
• Through the Bad Bend
• Fox-Hunting in kentucky
• To the Breaks of Sandy
• Br’er Coon in Ole Kentucky
• Civilizing the Cumberland
• Man-Hunting in the Pound
• The Red Fox of the Mountains
• The Hanging of Talton Hall