The Red Ranger
November, 1938
Pages 3, 4, 10 & 11
Blow the Horn and Call the Hounds
Speech by the Honorable Roy McKittrick, Attorney General of Missouri, at the 1938 Meeting of the
Missouri State Fox Hunters Association at Fulton, Missouri.
(Editor’s Note—Roy McKittrick was born in the country where as a boy he followed the hounds. All
through his busy life he has remained steadfastly our friend and ally. Truly he can “talk with crowds
and keep his virture, or walk with kings and not lose the common touch.” His speech at Fulton is a
literary gem that will be kept and treasured by foxhunters everywhere.—L.F.G)
Ladies and gentlemen—members of the greatest sport association that has ever been or ever will be
organized, the Foxhunters:
I am deeply grateful to have the pleasure of seeing you, but I appreciate more the opportunity of
seeing magnificent hounds and again hearing the voices which recall to memory voices of other great
dogs at other times.
It is written in the first chapter of the Holy Writ, “God said, ‘let the earth bring forth the living creatures
after his kind, cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth after their kind.’ And it was so. And
God made the beasts of the earth after his kind. And on the same day, which was the sixth day, God
said, ‘Let us make man,’ and he made man in his own image and his likeness, and gave man dominion
over every living thing that moveth upon the earth. Out of the dust of the ground man was formed.
Out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every fowl of the air, and brought
them unto Adam to see what he would call them.” And Adam named every living creature. He named
the sly, cunning, bushy-tailed animal “fox,” and he named the animal with keen scent, with the most
loyal heart of all animals, with the sweetest notes that rush from the throats of any other, “foxhound.”
There are some people who have taught, some who are still teaching that the biblical record is all
wrong and that man is the result of a process of evolution, whose ancestor is the monkey, but no one
has ever yet contended that the foxhound was any relation of the monkey. There is no blood flowing
in the veins and arteries of the foxhound that displays any monkey traits or characteristics. Darwin
and his theory may convince some that the ancestor of man is the monkey, but no man can ever
convince the owner of a foxhound of anything but that the hound was created by God, and if evidence
were required to prove that God created all beasts and creeping things as well as man, the sufficient
and conclusive proof would be the American foxhound. No power but the power of God could have
created a nose so keen and powerful to follow a scent and to distinguish scents, a heart that is as
loyal and faithful to his master, as that which beats behind the shoulder of a foxhound.
After Lord Fairfax in the beginning of the eighteenth century imported foxhounds to America, and as
the log huts in the forest began to appear, the hounds followed the trail. In those pioneer days it was
the hounds that gave their masters protection, that obtained for them the meat of life, and filled their
hearts with joy and contentment, and to this day within our time, there are many people whose efforts
along life’s pathway are being made lighter and easier, more pleasant and joyful by reason of their
faithful foxhound.
In the evening time when darkness veils the mortality of man, when there creeps about his heart and
over his soul a gloom, a sadness, and when his mind is tortured and anguished by misfortunes which
seem unbearable, and is so depressed as to kiss the dust and rise no more, his eyes glance to the
dogs that lie about him, who, with a pleading look, a shaking paw and quivering tail, becken and plead
with him to go in search of a fox to chase.
The sufferer turns and reaches for his cap and lantern, then blows his horn and calls his dog; he
begins to awaken from despair and desolation, he moves out into the starlight with a renewed hope,
with a renewed desire of witnessing another chase, of hearing the barking of his dogs again, of
seeing a fox waging a battle for life, of beholding the animal using all of its cunningness, strength and
power to escape the fatal charge of baying hounds.
Methinks I see again a foxhunter sitting upon a stake and rider fence, a hunter listening to the
pursuing hounds drawing closer and closer to their prey. He knows that they are on a sweet, sweet
scent by the thrill in their bark. As the excitement of the race begins to increase, he begins to wish
and hope that the fox will win. His sorrow and his battles of life create a sympathy in his heart for the
struggling animal that Adam named “fox,” and he is hoping and praying that the nimble fox will find
some avenue of escape, that he will be able to reach his den with its peaceful surroundings, where he
will be safe from the jaws of old Ned, Kate and Possum John.
The night grows chilly and he builds a little fire and watches the blaze rise and ascend, and as he sits
and listens to the music in the air, his soul begins to rise. The ebbing tide of hope returns to his
bosom and a determination to try again tomorrow gives him an assurance in the race of life that all
mankind has to run.
Then he begins to enjoy the voices of his beloved hounds, and listens more intently and eagerly to
the silver notes of Kate and the slow baying of old Ned, and the yelps of Possum John. They begin to
thrill him with the thrills that surpass that of the fiddle and the bow. Those silver notes from Kate’s
throat are whirling the blood through his veins like water over a cataract. The deep bass notes from
the mouth of old Ned are causing his heart to beat with the rapidity of the jump of the fox. His body
grows warmer as the race grows more tense. His excitement rises, he is forgetting the past, he is
forgetting the hardships and misfortunes, the distress and disappointments of yesterdays. His mind is
now soaring in that realm which almost reaches the border of Paradise; his soul seems to be, not in a
land of sadness and shadow, but in Eden, where there is music, where there is sweet fragrance from
the thickly wooded hills, where there is nothing but light in the midst of darkness. He hears music
everywhere, all about him, from every hilltop, from every vale; nature seems to be singing to him as he
sits upon the rail, but of all the music combined, to him there is none that is so grand, so melodious
and beautiful as the music that is floating from the throats of Kate, old Ned and Possum John.
After hours of running the red tongue of the fox is out, his tail is lowered, the baying of the dogs is not
so swift and keen, it is now a battle of endurance; but suddenly and unexpectedly the morning star
breaks the darkness and begins to shed its ray of light upon the hour, begins to suck the sparkling
dew from the grass. Then he realizes it is time to blow his horn and call the dogs.
He then wends his way back to that humble home which he left in despair and gloom, and as he passes
through the gate he begins to whistle his favorite boyhood song, “Roses are red and violets are blue,
sugar is sweet and so are you.” With a smile on his face he enters the door and is met by his
childhood sweetheart and greeted with a kiss upon his cheek. He grasps her in his arms and assures
her that he is going to make another fight to escape the hounds of misfortune, as the fox escaped the
jaws of his faithful dogs. Old Ned, Kate, and Possum John spared the life of the fox and restored the
hope of their master.
My friends, parents are spending millions and millions of dollars to educate their boys to enable them
to cope with the adversities of life, and obtain victories along life’s pathway. Some parents think that
the safest protection they can give their children is to leave them much of this world’s goods. Some
parents believe if they leave their children stocks and bond and land, it will protect them against
misery and want, and the countless and numerous misfortunes of life; or, if they spend thousands of
dollars in having their intellect polished to the highest degree in the greatest colleges and
universities in the land, that it is a guarantee and fortification for their children’s happiness and
security throughout their life. But what a mistaken philosophy.
We only have to turn the last page of the last chapter in the last decade of our history and there we
will find written thousands, yeah, millions of cases of crushed hopes and distress among the children
of such thinking parents; and when such security was swept away like the house built upon sand,
thousands of them today are standing at government doors begging, pleading for the bread of life.
I believe the boy who has never had an opportunity to watch a fox chase, to behold the crafty fox
maneuver in its race for life, has lost some great lessons that cannot be taught in any college or
university. Every boy should have a post-graduate course in the temple of Nature where they sound
the horn and call the dogs.
To me it seems a tragedy that there are so many people, so many boys and girls who have never
enjoyed the privilege of listening to the sweet music that floats from the throats of foxhounds, which
is more beautiful and sweeter than the melodies from the bow. Thousands of boys and girls in our
land have never had an opportunity to hear any music other than that from the strings of an orchestra
playing jazz, swing and jitterbug music. Such music has not for its purpose the enrichment of life nor
the purpose of stirring the soul to higher ideals, nor of soothing the tense, shaking nerves. Such
music neither cools the fevered brain, nor rides upon the wings of zephyr, but the moment it is
dashed from the fingers of the players its sound is lost in the dust and forgotten.
There are some who have never heard music other than that coming from the highly trained voices
and players in grand opera. Those comparatively few who attend the opera, are dressed in evening
clothes, their fingers and breasts jeweled, their hair and clothes perfumed and scented with a scent
that bloodhounds would not trail. Such people, of course, are not to be condemned for their love of
opera, they are unfortunate, and the foxhunter pities them because they do not have the opportunity
to listen to the melodies from the high and low plaintive notes planted in the throats of the foxhounds
by the all-wise Creator. Nothing is more superb, more enthralling, and nothing makes men happier or
more contented than to hear the opening notes of his beloved hound when the chase begins.
I use the descriptive phrase of “Beloved Dog.” I used that phrase for the purpose of portraying the
relationship that actually exists between the heart of the master and the heart of his dog. History and
literature have recorded many facts and demonstrations of the love that exists between the foxhound
and his owner. Many men have gone to their graves for the love of their dogs. Many dogs have lost
their lives in defense of their master. The Master of all men gave his life for all men, the hound of any
man will give his life for his master. The dog is not only willing to share with his master the joy and
pleasure of the hunt and chase, but equally willing to share his perils and danger.
Yes, men have murdered in defense of their dogs, men have killed to avenge the wrongful death of
their beloved hound. There are many instances where men have taken the life of their fellowman
because their dog has been wronged. One of the many instances has been revealed to the world in
that soul-stirring picture of “Bugle Ann,” where the dead foxhound caused the death of its slayer and
the incarceration in the penitentiary of its master. What greater love than that can be manifested by
mortal man?
Another thing I would like to say to my foxhunting friends is, that I am convinced more politicians
should have a greater knowledge of fox hunting. I think government officials should be as true and
loyal to their masters—the people—as the foxhound to its master. I believe they should be as
watchful, as alert and as quick to act in defense of their master as the hound is of its master. The
hound has no divided allegiance; the hound has no two masters—one today and another tomorrow.
He serves only one. How much better government we would have it officials would follow the
principles of the fox-running dogs. If officials would show as much zeal and ardor in bringing joy and
contentment to the people whom they serve, as the hound when he brings meat to his master’s feet; if
officials would display as much tenacity and determination when they strike the scent of crooks and
wrong doers violating their trusts, as the hound when he hits the hot trail of a fox we would have
better governments, and such officials as the fox, would soon be driven to the den of iron bars
prepared for them.
I am persuaded to believe that in politics and in official life too many display the characteristics and
traits of the fox; too many are cunningly back-tracking over the trail, running in circles and walking the
highest rail; too many are leaping from side to side in their endeavors to hide their scent and trail.
Too many are using the fox’s cunningness and craftiness to escape detection, to hide in dark places,
to fool their masters as to the direction they are going. If more of the traits of the hound, and less of
the slyness of the fox, were exercised in government affairs we would have a better government.
So, my friends, the memories that are the sweetest and the dearest to me are those that rush to my
mind at this moment as I see again old Ned, Kate and Possum John as they jump the stake and rider
fence and lead into the timber to pursue Old Tom, the fastest red fox of them all. I hear again the
cycles of the decades upon the wings of time. I feel the muscles of the black, bald-faced pony
trembling as she stops with her ears back to jump the fence in her eagerness to keep within the
sound of the voices of the fast-running hounds. I see them now as they are running the circle the
third time, crossing the meadow, up the branch and then into the timbers. Old Tom is losing ground. I
know soon he will be trying some of his tricks of throwing the hound off his scent. But it cannot be
done, Old Possum John, Old Ned and Kate are smart and clever, they are shrewd, loyal and true and
they are fighting it out with him. Now I behold the dawn—Old Tom has gone to his den to rest and
slumber—his race is won, he sleeps and dreams of another.
In conclusion my friends, I say—May the fox continue to live, hence, “Sound the horn and call the
hounds.”