Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/652998
among the scrub, the ti-ti, swamp willow, and wax myrtle. A knot of wood ducks bobs and paddles in nervous circles, ready to rise at the first broken twig. A doublebarrel shotgun across my knees, 12 gauge, single-ought buck, my daddy passed it down. C all up the dog men, call up the hunters. Line up boats and jeeps and trailers. Lay up a field lunch, nothing fancy. Captain John Derst yellow bread from Savannah, Morris Tuten's venison summer sausage from Ridgeland, stone ground mustard and Duke's mayonnaise from wherever they W ay down in winter now, twixt Christmas and New Year's, sitting on a pine stump in the bottomland timber, music of the hounds drifting along the sea wind. The low-ground is knee deep this season, black water with floating bits of yellow and brown, the colors of the Walker dogs, flop-jowled, flop-eared, and faithful, big of heart, keen of nose, and fleet of foot. Spanish moss like the beards of the sad old Conquistadors, De Ayllon and De Soto, gone now some 500 years. The last yellow blaze of the wild muscatines looping here and there "It's the land, Scarlett . . . the only thing worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for . . ." - Gerald O'Hara, Gone With The Wind Hound and Hunter by WisloW Homer