Fox And The Hound Quotes

Good bye may seem forever. Farewell is like the end, but in my heart is the memory and there you will always be.

Forever is a long long time and time has a way of changing things

I realized fear one morning, with the blare of the fox hunter's sound. When they're all chasin' the poor bloody fox, 'tis safer to be dressed like the hound.

If they (ghosts) wander the halls of night, it is not from a grievance with or envy of the living. Rather, it is because they have no desire to see the living at all. Any more than snakes hope to see gardeners, or foxes the hounds. They wander about at midnight because at that hour they can generally do so without being harried by the sound and fury of earthly emotions. After all those years of striving and struggling, of hoping and praying, of shouldering expectations, stomaching opinions, navigating decorum, and making conversation, what they seek, quite simply, is a little peace and quiet.

Andrew said nothing for a while, then, "You're more a raccoon than a fox." Neil stared. "What?" "A raccoon," Andrew said, and mimed holding a ball in front of his face. "Exy is the shiny object of your sad little world. You know you're being hunted and you know the hounds are closing in, but you won't let go to save yourself. You once told me you don't understand why a person would actively try to die, but here you are. I guess that was another lie.

I didn't plan to be this dysfunctional at 27, but dysfunctionality has a way of creeping up on you. One second, you're 22, wrapping up your undergraduate degree from a top business school, and then suddenly, you're sitting alone in your car at 27, wondering how five years slipped trough your fingers without so much as a blink.

I don't condone killing, but if killing happens anyway, then I think women go about it much more sensibly. Leave it to men to be loud and violent and messy about the business. It's egotistical of them. It's not enough to eliminate their enemy. No. They must conquer them face to face and watch them plead for mercy, whereas women dispatch victims quickly and silently." "Men might say poison isn't sporting." "Yes, and men think that organizing parties of dozens of riders and hounds to chase down one poor fox is sporting. Men's opinions are irrelevant.

Because he’s the love of my life. And he’s my dog. Well,

The first sorrow of autumn is the slow good-bye of the garden that stands so long in the evening—a brown poppy head, the stalk of a lily, and still cannot go. The second sorrow is the empty feet of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold is folded in feathers with its head in a bag. And the third sorrow is the slow good-bye of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers the minutes of evening, the golden and holy ground of the picture. The fourth sorrow is the pond gone black, ruined, and sunken the city of water—the beetle's palace, the catacombs of the dragonfly. And the fifth sorrow is the slow good-bye of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter—firewood, tent poles. And the sixth sorrow is the fox's sorrow, the joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, the hooves that pound; till earth closes her ear to the fox's prayer. And the seventh sorrow is the slow good-bye of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window as the year packs up like a tatty fairground that came for the children.

I hate Diane. I fling her cinnamon roll out into the pasture—I will not eat the bread of my enemies,

What do you call this?” “A friendship with unhealthy, codependent tendencies.” I smile. “Well to me it seems like the start of something really, really special.

men think that organizing parties of dozens of riders and hounds to chase down one poor fox is sporting.” Louise snorted. “Men’s opinions are irrelevant.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young lady of rank and property will have packs of money- or land-hungry suitors yapping around her heels like hounds after a fox.

He did not care what happened as long as he would never be separated from the Master, for he had killed the great fox, and in this miserable, fouled land there was no longer any place for fox, hound, or human being.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. It's so romantic and soft. I want to capture it in a mason jar and preserve it for later.

There were foxes, and there were hounds. And then there were the animals who didn’t fit into the natural order of things at all. Who meant the hurt they caused every time.

The essence of writing? A hound chasing a fox: irrationally compelled to win the prize and eventual disappointment that it's eluded you.

often a matter of right or wrong is simply just a matter of perspective. To a fox, the hound is the villain. To a hound, the wolf. To a wolf, a human, and so on.

to put up with Lori in a healthier manner…like killing her with kindness, or murdering her with smiles, or disemboweling her with compliments. That sort of thing.

A sensible person does not read a novel as a task. He reads it as a diversion. He is prepared to interest himself in the characters and is concerned to see how they act in given circumstances, and what happens to them; he sympathizes with their troubles and is gladdened by their joys; he puts himself in their place and, to an extent, lives their lives. Their view of life, their attitude to the great subjects of human speculation, whether stated in words or shown in action, call forth in him a reaction of surprise, of pleasure or of indignation. But he knows instinctively where his interest lies and he follows it as surely as a hound follows the scent of a fox. Sometimes, through the author's failure, he loses the scent. Then he flounders about till he finds it again. He skips.

Beware the man who beguiles you, Lori-Angel. Those are the ones who won’t commit to you. Oh, they’ll show you wonders, to be sure, and they’ll spin your head with their pleasurable ways. But in the end, they always leave you and your broken heart far behind. Believe me, ‘tis better to have the simple hound than to follow the fox. Though the fox is fairer to behold, the hound knows where his home is and dutifully he stays, while the handsome fox is ever off to find new game. (Anne Bonny)

You wrong me. You wrong me, Mole. I loathe and despise this human trait of hounding smaller creatures to death, with large numbers opposed against one solitary animal. But, don't you see, it's the law of the wild. This poor fox is sacrificed today to the humans' cruelty.

take such delight in those chunky highlights. They are the visual manifestation of a request to speak with a manager at Applebee’s.

I felt like a fox backed into a corner, with the yelping of the hounds coming closer.

Maybe he’s suffering from a psychotic condition? Bipolar disorder? Depression?” My

on my cell phone, telling me about a housewarming party, but

Sex. He wants lots and lots of blowjobs. Oh god, I’m starring in a low-rent porno. Or worse… He

Adorably dysfunctional twenty-something seeks handsome veterinarian. Serious offers only.

They are brothers to the fox who boasted that he had made the hounds run....

And how often a matter of right or wrong is simply just a matter of perspective. To a fox, the hound is the villain. To a hound, the wolf. To a wolf, a human, and so on.

Elimination: lack of education

[A]nd in this miserable, fouled land there was no longer any place for fox, hound, or human being.

Like a fox being chased by the hounds, she needed a bolthole in which to lick her wounds.

Some of the most memorable, and least regrettable, nights of my own youth were spent in coon hunting with farmers. There is no denying that these activities contributed to the economy of farm households, but a further fact is that they were pleasures; they were wilderness pleasures, not greatly different from the pleasures pursued by conservationists and wilderness lovers. As I was always aware, my friends the coon hunters were not motivated just by the wish to tree coons and listen to hounds and listen to each other, all of which were sufficiently attractive; they were coon hunters also because they wanted to be afoot in the woods at night. Most of the farmers I have known, and certainly the most interesting ones, have had the capacity to ramble about outdoors for the mere happiness of it, alert to the doings of the creatures, amused by the sight of a fox catching grasshoppers, or by the puzzle of wild tracks in the snow.

This hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?' 'Hounds,' I corrected gently. 'Yes, of course.' 'But yet,' Poirot wagged his finger at me. 'You did not descend from your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and uttering loud Ow Ows?

The shower turns off and the shower curtain gets pulled to the side again. I sigh with relief. In a few minutes he’ll be dry and clothed and out of my apartment, and if I happen to crawl into bed and pull out Señorita Vibrator, well, that’s a secret I’ll take to the grave.

Said a hunted fox followed by twenty horsemen and a pack of twenty hounds, "Of course they will kill me. But how poor and how stupid they must be. Surely it would not be worth while for twenty foxes riding on twenty asses and accompanied by twenty wolves to chase and kill one man.

Over two days, the remaining superheroic population of the Earth had heeded the call--by ship, teleport, magical portal, elemental transduction...the H-Man, Pangolin the Protector, Glass Tambourine, Omega-Mur, Hammer and Sickle, Jackdaw, the Infinite Wisdom, Doctor Mandragora, Czar and Tzar and Star, Kalamari Karl, Lightening Dancer, Doctor Chlorophyll, Jack Viking, Monomaniac, the Gin Fairy, the Holy Ghanta, the Bandolier, the Nuclear Atom, the Mysterious Flame, Moonstalker, Cataclysm and Inferno, the Skyguard II, Your Imaginary Pal, Dark Storm, the Hate Witch, Psychofire, Rabid, Riot, Fox and Hound, Hydrolad, Captain Fuji, Captain Cape Town, Captain Australia, Captain...Jeannie lost count, one uniform and one costume blurring into another.

Why is it that so many ghosts prefer to travel the halls of night? Ask the living and they will tell you that these spirits either have some unquenched desire or an unaddressed grievance that stirs them from their sleep and sends them out into the world in search of solace. But the living are so self-centered. Of course they would judge a spirit’s nocturnal wanderings as the product of earthly memories. When, in fact, if these restless souls wanted to harrow the bustling avenues of noon, there is nothing to stop them from doing so. No. If they wander the halls of night, it is not from a grievance with or envy of the living. Rather, it is because they have no desire to see the living at all. Any more than snakes hope to see gardeners, or foxes the hounds. They wander about at midnight because at that hour they can generally do so without being harried by the sound and fury of earthly emotions. After all those years of striving and struggling, of hoping and praying, of shouldering expectations, stomaching opinions, navigating decorum, and making conversation, what they seek, quite simply, is a little peace and quiet.

Coming along the road towards me on his way to the covert, his head high, his body smeared all breast-deep in clay that stained the lower half of him copper ochre, came a fox hound, a pale hound. He was alone which was wrong. But being alone made him the type of all hounds that ever existed. He was running as if he'd been running all day, and he was running as if he would never stop, tongue out and eyes fixed. He was running to be with the rest of the hounds and the sound was drawing him along the rainy roads as if he were underwater and swimming up to the light to breathe. I was transfixed. I'd never seen a hound be a hound before. He was doing exactly what he needed to be doing. He was tired but joyful. He was late but getting there. Lost but catching up.

I will take this occasion to denounce and excoriate the vile practice of riding to the hounds. So the sodden huntsmen can watch a beautiful, delicate fox torn to pieces by their stinking dogs. Heartened by this loutish spectacle, they repair to the mansion house to get drunker than they already are, no better than their filthy, fawning, shit-eating, carrion-rolling, baby-killing beasts.

Hunting Song THE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn: And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms, and begs his stay; My dear, it rains, and hails, and snows, You will not hunt to-day. But a hunting we will go. A brushing fox in yonder wood, Secure to find we seek; For why, I carry'd sound and good A cartload there last week. And a hunting we will go. Away he goes, he flies the rout, Their steeds all spur and switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch: But a hunting we will go. At length is strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night: Then a drinking we will go.

He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to her some famous day’s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable.

But the thing was not leaves but a great red fox, brightened by the sun. As if eager for her to see him, he stood still among the red leaves, head turned toward her, fiery-tipped brush lifted, mouth open, happily, pleasantly, like a dog. He looked at her and she at him; he was so close she could see the hairs in his eyebrows, the teeth shining in his half-open mouth, and the green fire in his coolly appraising eyes; with the red sunlight playing on his lifted tail, his back and shoulders, his pointed ears, he looked big, big as a half-grown cow; she looked more closely and saw the nicked left ear. King Devil it was, the fox Nunn had chased in hatred and in anger for the last five years; he had stolen from every family in the country, led many hounds to their death; every hunter was sworn to kill him; many had seen him long enough to learn his mark, but never had he stood so still and close as this. With a last cool glance, he dropped his head and picked up a hen, one of Nancy's White Rocks, fresh-dead and limber.

Riding out with the Old Surrey and Burstow Hunt, White recorded the first time he saw a kill with distanced fascination. The fox was dug out of a drain where it had taken refuge and thrown to the hounds. They tore it to pieces while a circle of human onlookers 'screeched them on'. The humans, White thought, were disgusting, their cries 'tense, self-conscious, and histerically animal'. But the hounds were not. 'The savagery of the hounds', he wrote, 'was deep-rooted and terrible, but rang true, so that it was not horrible like that of the human.

I recken Nunn's gone, too,” Lureenie said as they walked along. Her voice rose in shrill anger. “Rans went a fox-hunten with th others, an him with nary a hound, an I heared em a comen an I went to th door an he stopped jist long enough to tell me he wasnt' comen in. Aimen to foller that gigglen fool of a Willie Cooksey over th river to J. D. Duffey's still; that's where they was a goen.” She added bitterly, “An in all this cold an th youngens all croupy an not but two sticks a wood for th fireplace, an th ax so dull I cain't make it cut, an him spenden money for that foxhound, an then liquor an hardly a bite to eat in th—” She stopped and bit her lip and walked quickly ahead.

You know she'll probably be at the party tonight? Which is why I'm absolutely not going if we don't get some coke.' 'Egon, why is it that every single time you're obliged to be in the same room with one of your ex-girlfriends you have to make it into a huge emergency? It's incredibly boring.' 'Come on. You know how it is. You catch sight of an old flame and get this breathless animal prickle like a fox in a room with a hound. And then all night you have to seem carefree and successful and elated, which is a pretence that for some reason you feel no choice but to maintain even though you know they're better qualified than anyone else in the world to detect immediately that you're really the same hapless cunt as ever.' 'That's adolescent. The fact that you are so neurotic about your past lovers makes it both fortunate and predictable that you have so few of them. It's one of those elegant self-regulating systems that one so often finds in nature.

What do you suppose has happened to Captain Phelan?" Beatrix's older sister Amelia asked, after he had gone missing for three days. "From what I remember of the man, he was a social fellow who would have adored being the center of so much attention." "He's gaining even more attention by his absence," Cam pointed out. "He doesn't want attention," Beatrix couldn't resist saying. "He's run to ground." Cam lifted a dark brow, looking amused. "Like a fox?" he asked. "Yes. Foxes are wily. Even when they seem to head directly away from their goal, they always turn and make it good at the last." Beatrix hesitated, her gaze distant as she stared through the nearby window, at the forest shadowed by a harsh and backward spring... too much easterly wind, too much rain. "Captain Phelan wants to come home. But he'll stay aground until the hounds stop drawing from him." She was quiet and contemplative after that, while Cam and Amelia continued to talk. It was only her imagination... but she had the curious feeling that Christopher Phelan was somewhere close by.

Today is a trumpet to set the hounds baying. The past is a fox the hunters are flaying. Nothing unspoken goes without saying. Love's a casino where lovers risk playing. The future's a marker our hearts are prepaying. The future's a promise there's no guaranteeing. Today is a fire the field mice are fleeing. Love is a marriage of feeling and being. The past is a mirror for wishful sightseeing. Nothing goes missing without absenteeing. Nothing gets cloven except by dividing. The future is chosen by atoms colliding. The past's an elision forever eliding. Today is a fog bank in which I am hiding. Love is a burn forever debriding. Love's an ascent forever plateauing. Nothing is granted except by bestowing. Today is an anthem the cuckoos are crowing. The future's a convolute river onflowing. The past is a lawn the neighbor is mowing. The past is an answer not worth pursuing, Nothing gets done except by the doing. The future's a climax forever ensuing. Love is only won by wooing. Today is a truce between reaping and rueing.

Against the rules. She's on it, like a hound on a fox. 'Her name is Annie.

There were foxes, and there were hounds.  And then there were the animals who didn’t fit into the natural order of things at all. Who meant the hurt they caused every time.

Remy had moved to England to spend his time avoiding having his head removed by the rest of his countrymen, while drinking himself into a steady oblivion. Unfortunately, he’d met a lovely young lady whom he proceeded to cheat on. She caught him and punished him. Witches have funny ideas when it comes to punishment. They tend to be creative. Her coven decided that if Remy was going to behave like an animal, they’d turn him into one. The idea was, according to Remy, they were going to turn him into a red fox, hand him over to a huntsman so he could be torn apart by their hounds at some point in the near future. The spell didn’t exactly work. The twelve members of the coven were using magic well beyond their capabilities and it ended up killing all of them and feeding their souls into Remy. Remy kept his intellect, his human nature and personality, while adding the life force of twelve young women to his newly changed body. Remy was now part man, part red fox. He was about three and a half feet tall, and covered in the fur of a red fox, from his fox muzzle to the tip of his bushy tail. He walked upright on legs that were more human in shape than animal, and had fingers, although each of them was tipped with a sharp claw. And he could talk, which allowed him to express his pissed-off-with-the-world nature on a regular basis.

Dame Nature, as the learned show,Provides each animal its foe;Hounds hunt the hare, the wily foxDevours your geese, the wolf your flocks.Thus envy pleads a natural claim,To persecute the muse’s fame,On poets in all times abusive,From Homer down to Pope inclusive.Swift’sMiscellanies.2. Containing

So who is the woman who excites Diana’s feelings? From the moment photographs of Camilla fluttered from Prince Charles’s diary during their honeymoon to the present day, the Princess of Wales has understandably harboured every kind of suspicion, resentment and jealousy about the woman Charles loved and lost during his bachelor days. Camilla is from sturdy county stock with numerous roots in the aristocracy. She is the daughter of Major Bruce Shand, a well-to-do wine merchant, Master of Fox Hounds and the Vice Lord Lieutenant of East Sussex. Her brother is the adventurer and author Mark Shand, who was once an escort of Bianca Jagger and model Marie Helvin, and is now married to Clio Goldsmith, niece of the grocery millionaire. Camilla is related to Lady Elspeth Howe, wife of the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the millionaire builder, Lord Ashcombe. Her great-grandmother was Alice Keppel who for many years was the mistress of another Prince of Wales, Edward VII. She was married to a serving Army officer and once said that her job was to “curtsey first--and then leap into bed.

Speaking of those children...."  He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox."  To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte."  The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see."  He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop."  He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.

Foxes are considered vermin by landowners, have a population inflated by modern farming techniques, and may be shot or snared by anyone—which is not clearly less cruel than hunting them with dogs. Nor was the ban a blow for class warfare, contrary to the belief of many Labour antis, who considered the “so-called sport” an exclusive preserve of cruel toffs. It never was. And by then fox-hunting, with village cricket and the Sunday service, was a fading vestige of the class-based, yet not wholly class-bound way of much of British rural society for centuries. “If the French nobility had been capable of playing cricket with their peasants, their chateaux would never have been burnt,” the historian G.M. Trevelyan wrote. Had they ridden to hounds with their tenants, as 19th-century English gentlemen huntsmen did, then cheered them as they sent in the terriers,

it might also have helped their cause. Perhaps it is a sign of how eternal Britons once considered their absurd class distinctions that they were comfortable with such mixing. Nonetheless, it was positive—as that devotee of the Cheshire Hounds, Friedrich Engels, appreciated. The author of the “Communist Manifesto” of 1848 considered fox-hunting “the greatest physical pleasure I know”, the apogee of English culture and, less convincingly, a source of useful ideas for managing the revolution. What lessons should be drawn from this farrago? The obvious one is that politicians make the laws they deserve. Ill-conceived and illogical, the ban is unworkable. It allows hunts to follow an artificial scent-trail—because an outright ban could criminalise anyone taking his pet dog for a walk in the country. And because it would not be illegal for that pooch to

kill, peradventure, a fox, it follows that if the hounds veer onto a real scent and make a kill, no law has been broken. The huntsman who welcomed your columnist explained that, in practice, this means that before a hunt one of his helpers films himself laying a pretend scent-trail—by dragging a rag theoretically, but not actually, soaked in fox scent, from a quad bike—to provide evidence for a possible defence in court. Then the hunt goes out and hunts as it always has, but illegally. The police—one of whose officers was riding with the hounds that wintry day—understand this, but do not much care. Animal rights activists know it, and it makes them mad, but it is so hard to collect evidence of lawbreaking, in the form of video footage showing a huntsman urging hounds on to a fox, that prosecutions are rare. Only a couple of dozen huntsmen have been convicted for contravening the ban, for which they mostly received small fines.

season. “We will hunt today within the law,” he told the assembled riders, who were sipping from tiny port glasses astride their champing steeds, with hounds boiling beneath them. He said it with a straight face, too, and no hint of a blush. A decade after the 400-year-old pursuit of hunting foxes with dogs was outlawed by a Labour government, it continues remarkably unchanged. None of England’s and Wales’s 175 fox-hound packs has been disbanded because of the ban; just as many people ride to them; and they probably still kill thousands of foxes a year. The hunt Bagehot visited had killed three in mid-week, two the previous Saturday, and, by the time the season ends later this month, expects to have dispatched its customary tally of around 140 foxes. Only Prince Charles and the Tory prime minister, David Cameron, they like to josh, have actually been forced to give up

Did you know he named his pistols?” she asked. He felt his jaw begin to tick and immediately forced himself to relax. “I think I’ve read that before.” “Well, I just read it recently. As if having a boy pistol and a girl pistol wasn’t bad enough, he goes and names them. Odysseus and Penelope.” She laughed. A full-throated, from-the-belly laugh. “But what can you expect from somebody named Lucious?” Over his four years as a Ranger, he’d traveled seventy-four thousand miles, made two hundred scouts, and one hundred eighty-two arrests. He’d endured cold, hunger, and fatigue without a murmur. He’d been said to have the eyes of a fox, the ears of a wolf, and the ability to follow scent like a hound. Yet this tiny bit of fluff could throw him off-kilter like no other. He counted to ten. “What’s wrong with the name Lucious?” She looked at him, incredulous. “What’s wrong with Lucious? It’s . . . it’s . . . I don’t know . . . silly, don’t you think? Sounds like luscious.” He was named after his father. The father whose life had been senselessly snuffed out by Mother Nature. Carrying his dad’s name was a great privilege and a source of pride for Luke. How dare she make fun of it. Anger simmering, he twisted the wires together and forced himself to respond as if he had nothing personal at stake. “Don’t guess I ever thought about it. Can’t say the name’s ever bothered me, though.” “That’s probably because it isn’t yours. I’m sure if it were, you’d think differently.” “Maybe so.” Picking up a cloth on the switchboard, he wiped his hands. “Did you get a look at this Lucious fellow?” “I did.” He raised a brow. “And was he luscious?” “Ha!” Folding the paper, she tossed it on the desk. “Hardly. If anybody was luscious, it was Frank Comer.

He wouldn’t turn your wife away.” Deene didn’t flatter himself that he was any particular friend of Moreland’s—he was a vote, perhaps, on some of the duke’s pet bills—but Moreland had been generous with advice at a time when Deene was without much wisdom of his own. “Except I have no wife.” This provoked a surprisingly sweet smile from His Grace. “Then you should rectify that poverty posthaste. Because I am the lone male in my household at present, I am more privy to the ladies’ views on your situation than I would be otherwise. I understand you are being stalked by the debutantes and their mamas.” “Of course I am being stalked.” Lest this conversation continue on into the Moreland home itself, Deene gestured to a bench and waited for Moreland to seat himself before doing the same. “I am the highest available title, unless you count some septuagenarian dukes with ample progeny, and I am in need of an heir. When I am riding to hounds, I will never pursue Reynard with quite the same lack of sympathy I have in the past.” “The fox most often escapes the hounds, because he’s running for his life. The wrong wife can make you entirely resent yours.” How honest could one be with a man twice one’s age? “I cannot say my parents’ union escaped such a characterization.” His Grace stretched out long legs and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “Times were different then. Matches were usually arranged by the parents for dynastic reasons, and expectations of the institution were different. Here is my advice to you, young man, which you may discard or heed at your pleasure: do not marry until you meet that person whom you cannot imagine living the rest of your life without. Call it love, call it affection, call it a fine understanding. Put whatever label you want on it. You will be wed for the rest of your life or perhaps for hers, and that can be a long, long time.” His

The cats multiplied. New litters hit their first heat and inbred. Red Fox corralled them like a stout colonel with a monocle and declared to the other hounds that this was his territory. Most of the dogs shoved off after a day or two. But the cats remained and overran our porch, and as the spring warmed, so came fleas and the starving mews of wormy felines badly in need of a vet. One of my blog readers donated supplies. The stench of urine rose with the morning dew.

Follow the Bat in the mountains, to find the soil and stones. Follow the Fox and the Iris, to find the tides of home. Follow the Hound and the Giant, to find the winds and the storm. And follow the Hawk moving eastern, to find what flames have born. Follow the Rook to the snowcaps, and you'll find the soul that begins. But it's in the pitch-deep darkness, that you'll find where all things end.

But the living are so self-centered. Of course they would judge a spirit’s nocturnal wanderings as the product of earthly memories. When, in fact, if these restless souls wanted to harrow the bustling avenues of noon, there is nothing to stop them from doing so. No. If they wander the halls of night, it is not from a grievance with or envy of the living. Rather, it is because they have no desire to see the living at all. Any more than snakes hope to see gardeners, or foxes the hounds. They wander about at midnight because at that hour they can generally do so without being harried by the sound and fury of earthly emotions. After all those years of striving and struggling, of hoping and praying, of shouldering expectations, stomaching opinions, navigating decorum, and making conversation, what they seek, quite simply, is a little peace and quiet.

Why are you here?!” Aya snapped, and the giant hound growled ominously in reply. “Don't be so mean to him. He's just a baby!” Finally! Someone she liked and who seemed to like her back. She dropped to her knees, squishing Tenko's face between her palms and snuggling him without fear. “Just a ba… Are you insane?” Rushton gasped.

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place; so, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on my neighbors.

In this bloody scene, only one man escaped White’s revulsion: the huntsman, a red-faced, grave and gentlemanly figure who stood by the hounds and blew the mort on his hunting horn, the formal act of parting to commemorate the death of the fox. By some strange alchemy – his closeness to the pack, his expert command of them – the huntsman was not horrible. For White it was a moral magic trick, a way out of his conundrum. By skillfully training a hunting animal, by closely associating with it, by identifying with it, you might be allowed to experience all your vital, sincere desires, even your most bloodthirsty ones, in total innocence. You could be true to yourself.

Foxes are capable of being useful if you train them appropriately.” “But then they’re not foxes anymore, only hounds.

Friday 22 April 1814 It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young lady of rank and property will have packs of money- or land-hungry suitors yapping around her heels like hounds after a fox.

Why is it that so many ghosts prefer to travel the halls of night? Ask the living and they will tell you that these spirits either have some unquenched desire or an unaddressed grievance that stirs them from their sleep and sends them out into the world in search of solace. But the living are so self-centered. Of course they would judge a spirit’s nocturnal wanderings as the product of earthly memories. When, in fact, if these restless souls wanted to harrow the bustling avenues of noon, there is nothing to stop them from doing so. No. If they wander the halls of night, it is not from a grievance with or envy of the living. Rather, it is because they have no desire to see the living at all. Any more than snakes hope to see gardeners, or foxes the hounds. They wander about at midnight because at that hour they can generally do so without being harried by the sound and fury of earthly emotions.

Among musical instruments, only the first—the human voice—is more universal than the harmonica. This is appropriate, given that the mouth organ is the most ventriloquial of musical devices. “I throw my voice,” explains Lonnie Glosson, the seller of millions of “talking harmonicas.” DeFord Bailey, harmonica star of the early Grand Ole Opry broadcasts, approached his first mouth organ as an impressionist would: “Oh, I would wear it out, trying to imitate everything I heard! Hens, foxes, hounds, turkeys . . . everything around me.