The hillbilly rabbit was so far ahead of the dogs that he was loafing along when he appeared in the thin brush where I was waiting. This would be easy, a 20 yard shot. He stopped to get a breath and turned an ear toward the distant beagles as I raised my 12 gauge over/under. He didn’t spot me, but decided to resume his leisurely flight and cross left to right in front of me in low gear. A smooth swing and I pressed the trigger.

This hunt had the characteristics of the ideal Southern rabbit hunt. It occurred during the cool days following the close of deer season. Participants included a congenial group of friends, eager beagles and energized rabbits. The terrain was planted in pines in various stages of growth interspersed with shallow streams winding among strips of hardwoods and swampy flats holding several inches of water from typical winter rains.

As a bonus, this particular property in northern Kemper County, Mississippi held a special nostalgic memory for me. My father and I had spent 26 years hunting deer here before he passed on, going back to my first deer hunts. Those were the days of few deer when we used hounds on daily drives and armed ourselves with shotguns and buckshot packed in paper shells.

My rabbit hunt was particularly special because I was returning to the same woods. Gone are the giant white oaks and hickories of the 1950s. But the descendants of the area’s first big “Alabama” deer (the first deer in the area came from across the state line in Alabama) are now much more numerous and the briars beneath the pines shelter a flourishing cottontail rabbit population.

We were widely scattered throughout the woods as the beagles made yet another loop off to the south. That is when the cunning bunny hopped within range and I swung ahead of him and squeezed the trigger, which resulted in a most unusual happening. I prefer to omit this part of the story, but the merciless witnesses will cry foul if I don’t come clean.

Instead of a noisy blast, a jarred shoulder and a kicking rabbit, what resulted was an anemic pop, no kick, and a charge of number sixes sprinkling like sleet on the pine straw halfway between me and the rabbit, which by now was skipping happily off through the briers. I think I saw him jump into the air once and kick his heels together.

When I examined the empty hull I saw that it was well worn from years of being carried around in game pockets, probably in several states. I couldn’t remember if I had ever had a misfire in my over/under since I got the gun some 38 years earlier, and it had likely never fired a shell that wasn’t one of my handloads. When I checked the old hand marked boxes I had along, I found one that I had dated 20 years earlier. I had probably taken the old shell along on hunts when it had rained and its powder finally had given up the ghost.

The primer simply pushed out the powder and shot. I checked the barrel and found the old 1960s fiber wads stuck loosely inside. I punched them out with a stick and began contemplating how I could explain the quiet pop and a clean miss to the others.

When we gathered I learned the guys had indeed heard the pop, and of course an explanation was required. Their responses were kind to their sheepish guest, unlike their unspoken opinions of my lame excuse.

I was glad when the dogs changed the subject by striking another rabbit and were screaming their delight on the hot scent trail. This race was close in and the hunters formed a tight network, covering nearby briar patches, sumac filled openings in the pines and portions of the old access road. The rabbit dashed across the road 60 yards from me and barely out of range of our guns.

The beagles soon followed the rabbit’s course across the road, splashing water in the road ditches and streaking in full cry. I think all 10 of our pack were lined up on this fresh rabbit. There went Rocky and Rip and Cry Baby. The hunters filled in their dogs’ names. Little Bit, Black Magic, Mac, Lewis, Jack, Joe and J.J.

I snapped some photos of the dogs on the hot chase. One picture showed the pack crossing the road except for Billy Wade Whitfield’s two dogs. Billy Wade studied the photo thoughtfully and not seeing his beagles in the picture said, “Well, my two dogs had already crossed!” I refuse to get into which dogs were in the lead. I want to remain friends with these fellows.

A couple of times during the hunt, I closed my eyes and listened to the song of the distant pack, taking myself back 50 years to a pack of Walkers, our beagles’ larger cousins, flying through the oak tops and cane brakes and sweet gum sprouts beneath giant pines, pushing a heavy buck to his limit. I once again stood in wait back then, here in these woods, shivering as much from anticipation as from the cold that pierced my cotton and wool.

The beagles were sounding much like the small pack of big hounds that pushed the giant 13 pointer to me on Dec. 30, 1963. The aging buck fell to a single running shot from my old Savage .308. Mr. John Anderson was tending his cows nearby, heard the shot and came over to admire the deer with my father and me where it laid in the grass just a short distance from where I now waited for the beagles to bring a rabbit around. I momentarily wished the two men were there with us that day. Perhaps they were.

Rabbit running beagles is as much a tradition in Mississippi as in any state. These diminutive hounds with the oversize voices have a roundabout and storied history. In the 14th century, the English were hunting hares with beagle-type hounds. Beagles may have gotten their name from a French word meaning “open throat,” in reference to the breed’s melodious cries. Or the name may have come from old English, Celtic or French words for “small.” The name beagle was first used in 1475 and mentioned in American literature in 1642.

In this country very small beagles, averaging nine inches high, were used for rabbit hunting in the early 1800s. They were called “pocket size” beagles and were popular for hunting when “ladies, the aged and infirmed” were among the hunters. The short dogs were naturally slow and much easier to follow on foot than larger hounds.

Beagle hunts for rabbits were underway in the South before the Civil War, but the dogs were dissimilar to English beagles that are the stock from which today’s thirteen and fifteen inch beagles came. After the Civil War, beagles were brought from England, and perhaps Wales, to stock the kennels of beagle lovers in this country. Their characteristics are what we see in today’s beagles.

The little rabbit dogs are the shortstops on our team. They are scrappy and they seem to think they have to work harder than bigger dogs. Some have deep, choppy voices that mimic bigger and meaner sounding dogs. Others have shrill yodeling cries that raise the hair on your neck.

Like all hounds that bark on a scent trail, their voices can stir a strange primal urge within us to join the chase, at least spiritually. At a minimum, rabbit hunters participate eagerly in the chase with their beagles, contributing the final step that completes the race and rewards the hounds and the hunters.

Frankie stood as still as the surrounding pine limbs on this windless day when the beagles approached the spot he had chosen on the woods road. He raised his shotgun purposefully and fired just as its butt touched his shoulder. He ambled over to the road ditch and picked up his reward, his demeanor indicative of many days afield with beagles and rabbits. Soon the pack appeared and I am certain he took mental note of the first dog to arrive. He gave each dog a sniff and urged them to find another rabbit, which they soon did.

Someone yelled, “Did you get him?” The affirming reply set off another yell or two that made me stop and contemplate another magnetic aspect of dog hunting rabbits. Once you step into the woods you can yell encouragement to the dogs, shout out news of a jumped rabbit and whistle your location in thick cover. You can tromp around noisily, stepping on brush piles, stand to watch and listen or keep walking. If you have pent up frustrations, out here in rabbit country you can cut loose and let it all out. No quiet tiptoeing required.

Rabbit hound men and women who are drawn to this freedom in the woods and fields are widespread across the South. For many who keep beagles, rabbit chasing is their favorite hunting experience. And they value the camaraderie of group outings; fast action and a game animal that is a delight on the table. They are smitten by the little dogs with the big hearts and big mouths.