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It begins with a regular movement, which grows more and more rapid and exciting as it progresses; then, as the fox is treed, the close comes, suddenly, with the baying of "Old Sounder."
Boys, blow up the dogs and let's have a fox-chase. Get the horn and give her a toot. Call up the dogs and we'll go down on the creek. Whoopee! Go it, Lead!
Come on, boys, and let's go down on the point of the ridge and hear this fox-chase. They will fetch him out on the other side. Whoopee! Go it, Lead! Come on, old dog! Whoopee!
Just listen at those dogs rim that fox! Listen, boys! I believe they have run him down in the gulf; we can just hear them down in there. Whoopee! Go it, Lead!
Just listen at 'em, boys! They have started him out of the creek. Whoopee! Come on, old dogs!
Come, boys, let's go round on the point of the ridge and hear that race. Whoopee! Just listen at Old Sounder!
Boys, they are bringing him out on the ridge. Just hear old Lead-Bow! Bow! Wow! Wow!
Come on, boys; you will miss the best part of the race. Whoopee! Hold 'em down, Rocks!
Boys, I can't stay here any longer—I've got to go to those dogs. I believe I hear old Lead at that old tree—bow, wow, wow! Let's go to them—they are treed on Round Knob. Whoopee! Coming to you, old dogs!
As I write these songs, old memories come drifting on their melody—memories of drowsy noons and the tankle-tump-a-tankle of the banjo on the porch, and the thump-chug, thump-chug of the batten as the mother's shuttle went patiently to and fro; of yodels ringing down the gulch; of spinning-wheel songs, old Scotch ballads blurred together