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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reynard the Fox
+
+Author: John Masefield
+
+Illustrator: Carton Moorepark
+
+Release Date: November 18, 2011 [EBook #38052]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REYNARD THE FOX ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Judith Wirawan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  REYNARD THE FOX
+
+
+  [Illustration: Publisher's emblem]
+
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+
+  NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
+  ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO
+
+
+  MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
+
+  LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
+  MELBOURNE
+
+
+  THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
+
+  TORONTO
+
+
+[Illustration: Frontispiece: First colored plate _Courtesy Arthur
+Ackermann and Son, New York_]
+
+
+
+
+  REYNARD THE FOX
+
+  BY
+
+  JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+
+  NEW EDITION WITH EIGHT PLATES IN COLOUR AND
+  MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
+
+  CARTON MOOREPARK
+
+  [Illustration: Ex libris Reynards]
+
+  New York
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+  1920
+  _All rights reserved_
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1919 AND 1920,
+  BY JOHN MASEFIELD.
+
+  New illustrated edition, October, 1920.
+
+
+  Norwood Press
+  J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
+  Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+I have been asked to write why I wrote this poem of "Reynard the Fox."
+As a man grows older, life becomes more interesting but less easy to
+know; for, late in life, even the strongest yields to the habit of his
+compartment. When he cannot range through all society, from the court to
+the gutter, a man must go where all society meets, as at the Pilgrimage,
+the Festival or the Game. Here in England the Game is both a festival
+and an occasion of pilgrimage. A man wanting to set down a picture of
+the society of England will find his models at the games.
+
+What are the English games? The man's game is Association football; the
+woman's game, perhaps, hockey or lacrosse. Golf I regard more as a
+symptom of a happy marriage than a game. Cricket, which was once widely
+popular among both sexes has lost its hold, except among the young. The
+worst of all these games is that few can play them at a time.
+
+But in the English country, during the autumn, winter and early spring
+of each year, the main sport is fox hunting, which is not like cricket
+or football, a game for a few and a spectacle for many, but something in
+which all who come may take a part, whether rich or poor, mounted or on
+foot. It is a sport loved and followed by both sexes, all ages and all
+classes. At a fox hunt, and nowhere else in England, except perhaps at
+a funeral, can you see the whole of the land's society brought together,
+focussed for the observer, as the Canterbury pilgrims were for Chaucer.
+
+This fact made the subject attractive. The fox hunt gave an opportunity
+for a picture or pictures of the members of an English community.
+
+Then to all Englishmen who have lived in a hunting country, hunting is
+in the blood, and the mind is full of it. It is the most beautiful and
+the most stirring sight to be seen in England. In the ports, as at
+Falmouth, there are ships under sail, under way, coming or going,
+beautiful unspeakably. In the country, especially on the great fields on
+the lower slopes of the Downland, the teams of the ploughmen may be seen
+bowing forward on a sky-line, and this sight can never fail to move one
+by its majesty of beauty. But in neither of these sights of beauty is
+there the bright colour and swift excitement of the hunt, nor the thrill
+of the horn, and the cry of the hounds ringing into the elements of the
+soul. Something in the hunt wakens memories hidden in the marrow, racial
+memories, of when one hunted for the tribe, animal memories, perhaps, of
+when one hunted with the pack, or was hunted.
+
+Hunting has always been popular here in England. In ancient times it was
+necessary. Wolves, wild boar, foxes and deer had to be kept down. To
+hunt was then the social duty of the mounted man, when he was not
+engaged in war. It was also the opportunity of all other members of the
+community to have a good time in the open, with a feast or a new fur at
+the end, to crown the pleasure.
+
+Since arms of precision were made, hunting on horseback with hounds has
+perhaps been unnecessary everywhere, but it is not easy to end a
+pleasure rooted in the instincts of men. Hunting has continued, and
+probably will continue, in this country and in Ireland. It is rapidly
+becoming a national sport in the United States.
+
+Some have written, that hunting is the sport of the wealthy man. Some
+wealthy men hunt, no doubt, but they are not the backbone of the sport,
+so much as those who love and use horses. Parts of this country, of
+Ireland and of the United States are more than ordinarily good pasture,
+fitted for the breeding of horses, beyond most other places in the
+world. Hardly anywhere else is the climate so equable, the soil so right
+for the feet of colts and the grass so good. Where these conditions
+exist, men will breed horses and use them. Men who breed good horses
+will ride, jump and test them, and will invent means of riding, jumping
+and testing them, the steeplechase, the circus, the contests at fairs
+and shows, the point-to-point meeting, and they will preserve, if
+possible, any otherwise dying sport which offers such means.
+
+I have mentioned several reasons why fox hunting should be popular:
+(_a_) that it is a social business, at which the whole community may and
+does attend in vast numbers in a pleasant mood of goodwill, good humour
+and equality, and during which all may go anywhere, into ground
+otherwise shut to them; (_b_) that it is done in the winter, at a
+season when other social gatherings are difficult, and in country
+districts where no buildings, except the churches, could contain the
+numbers assembled; (_c_) that it is most beautiful to watch, so
+beautiful that perhaps very few of the acts of men can be so lovely to
+watch nor so exhilarating. The only thing to be compared with it, in
+this country, is the sword dance, the old heroical dancing of the young
+men, still practised, in all its splendour of wild beauty, in some
+country places; (_d_) that we are a horse-loving people who have loved
+horses as we have loved the sea, and have made, in the course of
+generations, a breed of horse, second to none in the world, for beauty
+and speed.
+
+But besides all these reasons, there is another that brings many out
+hunting. This is the delight in hunting, in the working of hounds, by
+themselves, or with the huntsmen, to find and kill their fox. Though
+many men and women hunt in order to ride, many still ride in order to
+hunt.
+
+Perhaps this delight in hunting was more general in the mid-eighteenth
+century, when hounds were much slower than at present. Then, the hunt
+was indeed a test of hounds and huntsman. The fox was not run down but
+hunted down. The great run then was that in which hounds and huntsman
+kept to their fox. The great run now is perhaps that in which some few
+riders keep with the hounds.
+
+The ideal run of 1750 might have been described thus:--
+
+"Being in the current of Writing, I cannot but acquaint your Lorp of ye
+great Hunt there was, this Tuesday last there was a a Week. Sure so
+great a day has not been seen here since The Day your Lorp's Father
+broke his Collar Bone at ye Park Wall. As Milton says:--
+
+    "Well have we speeded, and o'er Hill and Dale
+    Forest and Field and Flood ...
+    As far as Indus east, Euphrates west."
+
+"We had but dismle Weather of it, and so cold, as made Sir Harry
+observe, that it was an ill wind blew no-one any good. We met at ye
+Tailings. I had out my brown Horse. There was present Sir Anthony
+Smoaker; Mr. Jarvis of Copse Stile; William Travis; John Hawbuck; your
+Lorp's Friend, Dick Fancowe, and two of ye Red Coats from ye Barracks.
+Ye fair Sex was dismayed, it was said, by ye rudeness of ye Elements;
+they did not venture it.
+
+"On coming to draw Tailings Wood, Glider spoke to it, and Tom viewed him
+away for the Valley, being the old Dog Fox, with the white Mask, that
+beat us at Fubb's Field, the day your Lorp road Bluebell.
+
+    "Now spoke the chearful Horn; and tuneful Hounds
+    Echoed, and Red Coats gallopped; stirring Scean,
+    Rude Health and Manly Wit together strive.
+
+"We went with the extream of Violence from Tailings Wood to ye small
+Coppice at Nap Hill where a Fellow put him from his Point, which gave
+Occasion to Sir Anthony to correct him. Ye little magpie Hound made it
+out in ye bog at ye back of ye Coppice, when again Hounds went at head
+through Long Stone Pastures as far as Tainton. Here we was delayed in ye
+Dear Park, the effluvia of ye Dear being extream strong and doubtless
+puzzling to the Noses of ye Hounds. And here I cannot but remark the
+skill with which ye Hounds worked it out till they had hit it off, a
+sight, as Mr. Jarvis remarked to me, worthy of the Admiration of an
+antient Philosopher, and of the eloquence of a most elegant Wit, or
+Poet. Leaving ye Dear Park, He made for Norton Cross, which he left on
+his left Hand, as though deciding for ye Hill. Crossing ye Hill, in
+Spite of ye Sheep, he was a little staggered by his being run by one of
+ye Shepherd's Doggs, a part of Creation that should not be tolerated,
+except in ye vision of ye Poet, as in a Pastoral or so. Here Joe
+Phillips, our Huntsman, made unavailing Casts, but by lifting to the
+Vineyard recovered him, when Hounds run him to Cow's Crookham, on your
+Lorp's Aston Estate.
+
+"By this Time, your Lorp will understand our Distress. Dick Fancowe was
+in ye Brook at Norton, Mr. Jarvis' grey Horse had cast a Shoe, and one
+of ye Red Coats had broak his Liver in falling at a Fence. For a time we
+went about to recover him:--
+
+    "Now with attentive Nose the restless Hound
+    Endeavours on the Scent, now here, now there,
+    Scorning adulterat scents of lesser Prey.
+    Now gloomy care invades the Huntsman's Face;
+    And Sportsmen (jovial erst) on weary steeds
+    Sit pensive."
+
+Here might well be seen the Advantages of a judicious Breeding in
+Hounds, that neglects not the intellectual Part, but aims rather at a
+complete Animal than alone at Sinews and Corporeal Structure. That Blood
+of the Old Berkshire Glorious, which your Lorp's Father was wont to
+observe, was what he most stood by, next to our Constitution and the
+Protestant Succession, here stood us in good stead, for it was to
+Glorious ye Ninth, as well as to Growler and Glider (all of ye same
+royal strain) that we was indebted to ye happy Conclusion. They pushed
+him out of ye Stubbings at Cow's Crookham, where it seems he had taken
+Refuge in the Hollow of a decayed Tree. We chac't him thence upon ye
+Grass to Shepherd's Hey. Here he began to run short, being not a little
+apprehensive, lest his Foes should triumph, and snatch from him that
+Life, which he had so long nefariously pampered.
+
+    On courtly Cock with all his household Train
+    Of Hens obsequious, by the Hen Wife mourned.
+
+"The Sun, coming out from among ye Clouds, where he had been too long
+hid, made (as was elegantly pretended by Sir Anthony), a Brightness,
+animating indeed to us, who carried the Sword of Justice, but, to the
+Criminal of our Pursuit, infinitely distressing. Then had your Lorp seen
+the gay Ardor of the Pack, as they came to the View, which they did
+about Stonepits, your Lorp would have said with the late elegant Poet:
+
+    "Now o'er the glittering grass the sinewy Hound
+    Shakes from his Feet the Dew and makes ye Woods resound."
+
+"To be brief, we killed in the Back Yard of ye Rummer and Glass after
+two and three quarters Hours of a Hunt such as (all are agreed) is not
+lightly to be parallelled. There was present at ye Death, beside Joe
+Phillips and Tom, Sir A. Smoaker, Mr. Wm. Travis and myself, all so
+extream distresst, Men and Beasts, that it was observed, it was a Marvel
+ye Horses were not dead. Such an Hunt, it was agreed, should be
+celebrated by an annual Dinner, at which the Toast of ye Chase might be
+rendered more than ordinary. Ye Hunt was upwards of Fifteen Miles in
+Length, and hath been the Subject of a Song, by a Member of Ye Hunt,
+which, as it would take long to transcribe, I forbear, hoping that we
+may sing it to your Lorp before (as ye Poet says)
+
+        "Ye vixen hath laid up her Cubs
+    In snuggest Cave secure, when balmy Spring
+    Wakens ye Meadows."
+
+"But to pass now from Celestial Pleasures to Worldly Cares, I have to
+acquaint your Lorp that your Lorp's Sister's Son, Mr. Parracombe, hath
+been killed by a Fall from his Horse, after Dinner with some Gentlemen,
+his particular Friends, an Affliction indeed great, humanly regarded,
+were it not also considered, how much happier his Lot must be, than in
+this Vale of Tears, etc. Ye Young Hounds thrive apace, and it is thought
+the forward Season will be very favourable for their future Prey. I am,
+your Lorp's most obedient, Charles Cothill."
+
+Perhaps the ideal run of the present time would be described as
+follows:--
+
+"A large field attended the Templecombe on Tuesday last at the popular
+meet at Heydigates. Will Mynors, late of the Parratts, carried the horn,
+in place of Tom Carling, now with Mr. Fletchers. A little time was spent
+in running through the shrubberies in the garden at Heydigates and then
+the word was given for the Cantlows. Will had no sooner put hounds into
+this famous cover than the dog pack proclaimed the joyous news. The fox,
+a traveller, was at once viewed away for the Three Oaks, across the
+rather heavy going of the pasture land. Coming to the Knock Brook, he
+swam it near Parson's Pleasure, going at a pace that let the knowing
+ones know that they were in for something out of the common. Keeping
+Snib's Farm on his right, he ran dead straight for Gallow's Wood, where
+some woodmen with their teams disturbed him. Swinging to his left, he
+went up the hill, through Bloody Lane, as though towards Dinsmore, but
+was again deflected by woodmen. Turning down the hill, he ran for the
+valley, passing Enderton Schoolhouse, the scholars of which were much
+cheered by the near prospect of the hunt. It was now evident that he was
+going for the Downs. Some of the less daring began to express the hope
+that he might be headed.
+
+"Scent from the first was burning and the pace a cracker. After leaving
+Enderton he made straight for the Danesway, past Snub's Titch and the
+Curlews, the green meadows of the pasture being sprinkled for miles with
+the relics of the field. He crossed the Roman Road at Orm's Oak and at
+once entered the Danesway, going at a pace which all thought could not
+last.
+
+"At the summit of the Danesway, known as the Gallows Point, hounds were
+brought to their noses, owing to the crossing of the line by sheep. A
+man working nearby was able to give the line and Will, lifting beyond
+the Lynchets, at once hit him off, and the hounds resumed their rush.
+From this point, they went almost exactly straight from the head of the
+Danesway to the fir copse by Arthur's Table. All this part of the run
+being across a rolling grass land, was at top speed, such as no horse
+could live with. At Arthur's Table, he was put from his earth by
+shooters who were netting the warren. As he could not get through them
+nor across the highway, then busy with traffic, He doubled down across
+the Starvings, where Will, the only man up at this point, although now
+three hundred yards behind hounds, caught sight of him on the opposite
+slope, romping away from hounds as though he would never grow old. On
+coming to the level, past Spinney's End, some of those who had been left
+at the Lynchets were able to rejoin, but were soon again cast out by the
+extreme violence of the going, which continued back across the Downs on
+a line obliquely parallel with his former track though a mile further to
+the south. It was supposed that he was going for the main earth in
+Bloody Acre Copse. Some workers in the strip at the edge of the copse
+headed him from this point. He swung left-handed past Staves acre, and
+so down to the valley by the shelving ground near Monk's Charwell. Here,
+for some unaccountable reason, the scent, which had been breast high,
+became catchy, and hounds lost their fox in the Osier cars at Charwell
+Springs. Later in the afternoon, while jogging home, a second fox was
+chopped in Mr. Parsloe's cover at Prince's Charwell. Hounds then went
+home.
+
+"The run from the Cantlows was not remarkable for any quality of
+hunting, but extremely so for pace and length. The distance run, from
+Cantlows Wood to the Osiers cannot have been less than thirteen miles,
+most of it indeed on the best going in the world, but at a racing pace,
+with nothing that can be called a check, the whole way. Some wished that
+the hounds might have been rewarded and others that Will Mynors might
+have crowned his opening gallop with a kill, but the general feeling was
+one of satisfaction that so game a fox escaped."
+
+My own interest in fox hunting began at a very early age. I was born in
+a good hunting country, partly woodland, partly pasture. My home, during
+my first seven years, was within half a mile of the kennels. I saw
+hounds on most days of my life. Hounds and hunting filled my
+imagination. I saw many meets, each as romantic as a circus. The
+huntsman and whipper-in seemed, then, to be the greatest men in the
+world, and those mild slaves, the hounds, the loveliest animals.
+
+Often, as a little child, I saw and heard hounds hunting in and near a
+covert within sight of my old home. Once, when I was, perhaps, five
+years old, the fox was hunted into our garden, and those glorious beings
+in scarlet, as well as the hounds, were all about my lairs, like
+visitants from Paradise. The fox, on this occasion, went through a
+woodshed and escaped.
+
+Later in my childhood, though I lived less near to the kennels, I was
+still within a mile of them, and saw hounds frequently at all seasons.
+In that hunting country, hunting was one of the interests of life;
+everybody knew about it, loved, followed, watched and discussed it. I
+went to many meets, and followed many hunts on foot. Each of these
+occasions is now distinct in my mind, with the colour and intensity of
+beauty. I saw many foxes starting off upon their runs, with the hounds
+close behind them. It was then that I learned to admire the ease and
+beauty of the speed of the fresh fox. That leisurely hurry, which romps
+away from the hardest trained and swiftest fox hounds without a visible
+effort, as though the hounds were weighted with lead, is the most lovely
+motion I have seen in an animal.
+
+No fox was the original of my Reynard, but as I was much in the woods as
+a boy I saw foxes fairly often, considering that they are night-moving
+animals. Their grace, beauty, cleverness, and secrecy always thrilled
+me. Then that kind of grin which the mask wears made me credit them with
+an almost human humour. I thought the fox a merry devil, though a bloody
+one. Then he is one against many, who keeps his end up, and lives, often
+snugly, in spite of the world. The pirate and the nightrider are nothing
+to the fox, for romance and danger. This way of life of his makes it
+difficult to observe him in a free state at close quarters.
+
+Once in the early spring in the very early morning, I saw a vixen
+playing with her cubs in the open space below a beech tree. Once I came
+upon a big dog-fox in a wheel-wright's yard, and watched him from within
+a few paces for some minutes. Twice I have watched half-grown cubs
+stalking rabbits. Twice out hunting, the fox has broken cover within
+three yards of me. These are the only free foxes which I have seen at
+close quarters. Foxes are night-moving animals. To know them well one
+should have cat's eyes and foxes' habits. By the imagination alone can
+men know foxes.
+
+When I was about halfway through my poem, I found a dead dog-fox in a
+field near Cumnor Hurst. He was a fine full-grown fox in perfect
+condition; he must have picked up poison, for he had not been hunted,
+nor shot. On the pads of this dead fox, I noticed for the first time,
+the length and strength of a fox's claws.
+
+Some have asked, whether the Ghost Heath Run is founded on any recorded
+run of any real Hunt. It is not. It is an imaginary run, in a country
+made up of many different pieces of country, some of them real, some of
+them imaginary. These real and imaginary fields, woods and brooks are
+taken as they exist, from Berkshire, where the fox lives, from
+Herefordshire where he was found, from Trapalanda, Gloucestershire,
+Buckinghamshire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire and Berkshire, where he
+ran, from Trapalanda, where he nearly died, and from a wild and
+beautiful corner in Berkshire where he rests from his run.
+
+Some have asked when the poem was written. It was written between
+January 1 and May 20, 1919.
+
+Some have asked, whether hunting will soon be abolished. I cannot tell,
+but I think it unlikely. People do not willingly resign their pleasures;
+men who breed horses will want to gallop them across country; hunting
+is a pleasure, as well as an opportunity to gallop; it is also an
+instinct in man. Some have thought that if "small holdings," that is
+"produce gardens," intensively cultivated, of about an acre apiece,
+became common, so that the country became more rigidly enclosed than at
+present, hunting would be made almost impossible. The small holding is
+generally the property of the small farmer (like the French cultivateur)
+who fences permanently with wire and cannot take down the wire during
+the hunting season, as most English farmers do at present. Small
+holdings will probably increase in number near towns, but farmers seem
+agreed that they can never become the national system of farming. The
+big farm, that can treat the great tract with machines, seems likely to
+be the farm of the future.
+
+Even if the small holdings system were to prevail, it would hardly
+prevail over the sporting instincts of the race. Beauty and delight are
+stronger than the will to work. I am pretty sure that a pack of hounds,
+coming feathery by, at the heels of a whip's horse, while the field
+takes station and the huntsman, drawing his horn, prepares to hunt,
+would shake the resolve of most small holders, digging in their lots
+with thrift, industry and self-control. And then, if the huntsman were
+to blow his horn, and the hounds to feather on it and give tongue, and
+find, and go away at head, I am pretty sure that most of the small
+holders of this race would follow them. It is in this race to hunt.
+
+I will conclude with a portrait of old Baldy Hill, the earth-stopper,
+who in the darkness of the early morning gads about on a pony, to
+"stop" or "put to" all earths, in which a hard-pressed fox might hide.
+In the poem, he enters when the hunt is about to start, but he is an
+important figure in a hunting community, and deserves a portrait. He may
+come here, at the beginning, for Baldy Hill is at the beginning of all
+fox hunts. He dates from the beginning of Man. I have seen many a Baldy
+Hill in my life; he never fails to give me the feeling that he is
+Primitive Man survived. Primitive Man lived like that, in the woods, in
+the darkness, outwitting the wild things, while the rain dripped, and
+the owl cried, and the ghost came out from the grave. Baldy Hill stole
+the last litter of the last she-wolf to cross them with the King's
+hounds. He was in at the death of the last wild-boar. Sometimes, in
+looking at him, I think that his ashen stake must have a flint head,
+with which, on moony nights, he still creeps out, to rouse, it may be,
+the mammoth in his secret valley, or a sabretooth tiger, still caved in
+the woods. Life may and does shoot out into exotic forms, which may and
+do flower and perish. Perhaps when all the other forms of English life
+are gone, the Baldy Hill form, the stock form, will abide, still
+striding, head bent, with an ashen stake, after some wild thing, that
+has meat, or fur, or is difficult or dangerous to tackle.
+
+    Old Baldy Hill, the game old cock,
+    Still wore knee-gaiters and a smock.
+    He bore a five foot ashen stick
+    All scarred and pilled from many a click
+    Beating in covert with his sons
+    To drive the pheasants to the guns.
+
+    His face was beaten by the weather
+    To wrinkled red like bellows leather
+    He had a cold clear hard blue eye.
+    His snares made many a rabbit die.
+    On moony nights he found it pleasant
+    To stare the woods for roosting pheasant
+    Up near the tree-trunk on the bough.
+
+    He never trod behind a plough.
+    He and his two sons got their food
+    From wild things in the field and wood,
+    By snares, by ferrets put in holes,
+    By ridding pasture-land of moles;
+    By keeping, beating, trapping, poaching
+    And spaniel-and-retriever-coaching.
+
+    He and his sons had special merits
+    In breeding and in handling ferrets
+    Full many a snaky hob and jill
+    Had bit the thumbs of Baldy Hill.
+    He had no beard, but long white hair.
+    He bent in gait. He used to wear
+    Flowers in his smock, gold-clocks and peasen;
+    And spindle-fruit in hunting season.
+
+I hope that he may live to wear spindle-fruit for many seasons to come.
+Hunting makes more people happy than anything I know. When people are
+happy together, I am quite certain that they build up something eternal,
+something both beautiful and divine, which weakens the power of all evil
+things upon this life of men and women.
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+BY CARTON MOOREPARK
+
+
+                                                                  PAGE
+
+  The stables were alive with din                                    5
+
+  An old man with a gaunt, burnt face                               16
+
+  All sport, from bloody war to craps                               80
+
+  The Godsdown Tigress with her cub                                 96
+
+  A sea of moving heads, and sterns                                120
+
+  His chief delight                                                128
+
+  He had a welcome and salute                                      144
+
+  The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray                           153
+
+  And now they gathered to the gamble                              162
+
+  He saw the farms where the dogs were barking                     172
+
+  There he slept in the mild west weather                          182
+
+  The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yaps                     185
+
+  He faced the fence and put her through it                        222
+
+  A white horse rising a dark horse flying                         256
+
+  Then down the slope and up the road                              291
+
+  He ran the sheep that their smell might check                    295
+
+  With a cracking whip and "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik, Forrard"             303
+
+  He saw it now as a redness topped                                313
+
+  And man to man with a gasp for breath                            330
+
+  For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam                     336
+
+
+
+
+COLOR PLATES
+
+  First colored plate                                   _Frontispiece_
+
+                                                           FACING PAGE
+
+  Second colored plate                                              28
+
+  Third colored plate                                               86
+
+  Fourth colored plate                                             150
+
+  Fifth colored plate                                              210
+
+  Sixth colored plate                                              236
+
+  Seventh colored plate                                            250
+
+  Eighth colored plate                                             338
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+THE MEET
+
+
+
+
+REYNARD THE FOX,
+
+OR
+
+THE GHOST HEATH RUN
+
+
+    The meet was at "The Cock and Pye
+    By Charles and Martha Enderby,"
+    The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn
+    Long since the haunt of Benjamin
+    The highwayman, who rode the bay.
+    The tavern fronts the coaching way,
+    The mail changed horses there of old.
+    It has a strip of grassy mould
+    In front of it, a broad green strip.
+    A trough, where horses' muzzles dip,
+    Stands opposite the tavern front,
+    And there that morning came the hunt,
+    To fill that quiet width of road
+    As full of men as Framilode
+    Is full of sea when tide is in.
+
+    The stables were alive with din
+    From dawn until the time of meeting.
+    A pad-groom gave a cloth a beating,
+    Knocking the dust out with a stake.
+    Two men cleaned stalls with fork and rake,
+    And one went whistling to the pump,
+    The handle whined, ker-lump, ker-lump,
+    The water splashed into the pail,
+    And, as he went, it left a trail,
+    Lipped over on the yard's bricked paving.
+    Two grooms (sent on before) were shaving
+    There in the yard, at glasses propped
+    On jutting bricks; they scraped and stropped,
+    And felt their chins and leaned and peered,
+    A woodland day was what they feared
+    (As second horsemen), shaving there.
+    Then, in the stalls where hunters were,
+    Straw rustled as the horses shifted,
+    The hayseeds ticked and haystraws drifted
+    From racks as horses tugged their feed.
+    Slow gulping sounds of steady greed
+    Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings,
+    Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings
+    To see the horse in the next stall.
+
+[Illustration:
+The stables were alive with din
+From dawn until the time of meeting.]
+
+    Outside, the spangled cock did call
+    To scattering grain that Martha flung.
+    And many a time a mop was wrung
+    By Susan ere the floor was clean.
+    The harness room, that busy scene,
+    Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening
+    Rings and bits with dips of whitening,
+    Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,
+    Dumbing buckles of their chirrups
+    By the touch of oily feathers.
+    Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers,
+    Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove
+    Saddle linings to the stove.
+    Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted
+    Out of the yard, the passers snifft it,
+    Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour
+    Of horses' stables and the savour
+    Of saddle-paste and polish spirit
+    Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit.
+    The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves,
+    Belted by girths of coloured weaves,
+    Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.
+    One said, "My dad cured saddle galls,
+    He called it Doctor Barton's cure;
+    Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."
+    And others said, "Ge' back, my son,"
+    "Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha' done."
+    "Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes,
+    He gives a rare pinch when he likes."
+    "Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter."
+    "I give 'em all sweet spit of nitre
+    For that, myself: that sometimes cures."
+    "Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."
+    They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes
+    To keep the dust out of their throats.
+
+[Illustration: The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves]
+
+    There came again and yet again
+    The feed-box lid, the swish of grain,
+    Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft,
+    The hay-fork's stab and then the soft
+    Hay's scratching slither down the shoot.
+    Then with a thud some horse's foot
+    Stamped, and the gulping munch again
+    Resumed its lippings at the grain.
+
+    The road outside the inn was quiet
+    Save for the poor, mad, restless pyat
+    Hopping his hanging wicker-cage.
+    No calmative of sleep or sage
+    Will cure the fever to be free.
+    He shook the wicker ceaselessly
+    Now up, now down, but never out
+    On wind-waves, being blown about,
+    Looking for dead things good to eat.
+    His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.
+
+    At ten o'clock, the Doctor's lad
+    Brought up his master's hunting pad
+    And put him in a stall, and leaned
+    Against the stall, and sissed, and cleaned
+    The port and cannons of his curb.
+    He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.
+    He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chid
+    The silly things his master did.
+
+
+
+
+THE PLOUGHMAN
+
+
+    At twenty past, old Baldock strode
+    His ploughman's straddle down the road.
+    An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;
+    His eyes rapt back on some far place,
+    Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss
+    In God's world through the rags of this.
+    He leaned upon a stake of ash
+    Cut from a sapling: many a gash
+    Was in his old, full-skirted coat.
+    The twisted muscles in his throat
+    Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.
+    His oaken face was seamed and gored.
+    He halted by the inn and stared
+    On that far bliss, that place prepared
+    Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind.
+
+[Illustration:
+An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;
+His eyes rapt back on some far place.]
+
+    Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's Wynd
+    Drove up; and stopped to take a glass.
+    "I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"
+    He said, "My little girl does sing
+    To see the red coats galloping.
+    It's good for grass, too, to be trodden
+    Except they poach it, where it's sodden."
+    Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,
+    With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in
+    And had a sip of gin and stout
+    To help the jockey's sweatings out.
+    "Rare day for scent," the jockey said.
+
+    A pony, like a feather bed
+    On four short sticks, took place aside.
+    The little girl who rode astride
+    Watched everything with eyes that glowed
+    With glory in the horse she rode.
+
+    At half-past ten, some lads on foot
+    Came to be beaters to a shoot
+    Of rabbits at the Warren Hill.
+    Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,
+    Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.
+    They talked of dinner-beer and betting;
+    And jeered at those who stood around.
+    They rolled their dogs upon the ground
+    And teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch."
+    "Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.
+    What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?
+    Sex quarts the lot last year we had.
+    They'd ought to give us seven this.
+    Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."
+
+
+
+
+THE CLERGYMAN
+
+
+[Illustration: The clergyman from Condicote]
+
+    A pommle cob came trotting up,
+    Round-bellied like a drinking-cup,
+    Bearing on back a pommle man
+    Round-bellied like a drinking-can.
+    The clergyman from Condicote.
+
+    His face was scarlet from his trot,
+    His white hair bobbed about his head
+    As halos do round clergy dead.
+    He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"
+    His loose mouth opened like a gate
+    To pass the wagons of his speech,
+    He had a mighty voice to preach,
+    Though indolent in other matters,
+    He let his children go in tatters.
+
+    His daughter Madge on foot, flushed-cheekt,
+    In broken hat and boots that leakt,
+    With bits of hay all over her,
+    Her plain face grinning at the stir
+    (A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with speckles
+    Of sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles)
+    Came after him and stood apart
+    Beside the darling of her heart,
+    Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean;
+    A big young fair one, chiselled clean,
+    Brow, chin, and nose, with great blue eyes,
+    All innocence and sweet surprise,
+    And golden hair piled coil on coil
+    Too beautiful for time to spoil.
+    They talked in undertones together
+    Not of the hunting, nor the weather.
+    Old Steven, from Scratch Steven Place
+    (A white beard and a rosy face),
+    Came next on his stringhalty grey,
+    "I've come to see the hounds away,"
+    He said, "And ride a field or two.
+    We old have better things to do
+    Than breaking all our necks for fun."
+    He shone on people like the sun,
+    And on himself for shining so.
+    Three men came riding in a row:--
+    John Pyn, a bull-man, quick to strike,
+    Gross and blunt-headed like a shrike
+    Yet sweet-voiced as a piping flute;
+    Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,
+    Red, with an angry, puzzled face
+    And mouth twitched upward out of place,
+    Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds;
+    And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,
+    A man whose bulk of flesh and bone
+    Made people call him Twenty Stone.
+    He was the man who stood a pull
+    At Tencombe with the Jersey bull
+    And brought the bull back to his stall.
+
+[Illustration: Three men came riding in a row]
+
+    Some children ranged the tavern-wall,
+    Sucking their thumbs and staring hard;
+    Some grooms brought horses from the yard.
+    Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,
+    "A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her?"
+    "A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "look
+    There'm Mister Gaunt of Water's Hook.
+    They say he" ... (whispered). "Law," said Jane.
+    Gaunt flung his heel across the mane,
+    And slithered from his horse and stamped.
+    "Boots tight," he said, "my feet are cramped."
+
+    A loose-shod horse came clicking clack;
+    Nick Wolvesey on a hired hack
+    Came tittup, like a cup and ball.
+    One saw the sun, moon, stars, and all
+    The great green earth twixt him and saddle;
+    Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,
+    Red as a rose, with eyes like sparks.
+    Two boys from college out for larks
+    Hunted bright Molly for a smile
+    But were not worth their quarry's while.
+
+[Illustration: Second colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    Two eyeglassed gunners dressed in tweed
+    Came with a spaniel on a lead
+    And waited for a fellow gunner.
+    The parson's son, the famous runner,
+    Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.
+    His knees were red as yew tree root
+    From being bare, day in day out;
+    He wore a blazer, and a clout
+    (His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.
+    His football shorts had many a speck
+    And splash of mud from many a fall
+    Got as he picked the slippery ball
+    Heeled out behind a breaking scrum.
+    He grinned at people, but was dumb,
+    Not like these lousy foreigners.
+    The otter-hounds and harriers
+    From Godstow to the Wye all knew him.
+
+
+
+
+THE PARSON
+
+
+    And with him came the stock which grew him--
+    The parson and his sporting wife,
+    She was a stout one, full of life
+    With red, quick, kindly, manly face.
+    She held the knave, queen, king, and ace
+    In every hand she played with men.
+    She was no sister to the hen,
+    But fierce and minded to be queen.
+    She wore a coat and skirt of green,
+    Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,
+    Her tie pin was a fox's head.
+
+    The parson was a manly one,
+    His jolly eyes were bright with fun.
+    His jolly mouth was well inclined
+    To cry aloud his jolly mind
+    To everyone, in jolly terms.
+    He did not talk of churchyard worms,
+    But of our privilege as dust
+    To box a lively bout with lust
+    Ere going to Heaven to rejoice.
+    He loved the sound of his own voice.
+    His talk was like a charge of horse;
+    His build was all compact, for force,
+    Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,
+    He kept no Lent to make him meagre.
+    He loved his God, himself and man.
+    He never said "Life's wretched span;
+    This wicked world," in any sermon.
+    This body, that we feed the worm on,
+    To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.
+    He liked to see the foxes killed;
+    But most he felt himself in clover
+    To hear "Hen left, hare right, cock over,"
+    At woodside, when the leaves are brown.
+    Some grey cathedral in a town
+    Where drowsy bells toll out the time
+    To shaven closes sweet with lime,
+    And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortar
+    All summer on the Norman Dortar,
+    Was certain some day to be his.
+    Nor would a mitre go amiss
+    To him, because he governed well.
+    His voice was like the tenor bell
+    When services were said and sung.
+    And he had read in many a tongue,
+    Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.
+
+
+
+
+"JILL AND JOAN"
+
+
+    Two bright young women, nothing meek,
+    Rode up on bicycles and propped
+    Their wheels in such wise that they dropped
+    To bring the parson's son to aid.
+    Their cycling suits were tailor-made,
+    Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.
+    The colour and the zest of wine
+    Were in their presence and their bearing;
+    Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing.
+    The parson's lady thought them pert.
+    And they could mock a man and flirt,
+    Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,
+    Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis
+    The silver-cigarette-case-prize.
+
+    They had good colour and bright eyes,
+    Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin,
+    On darkened stairways after dances,
+    Which many lads had longed to win.
+    Their reading was the last romances,
+    And they were dashing hockey players.
+    Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers."
+    They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.
+
+
+
+
+FARMER BENNETT
+
+
+[Illustration: Old Farmer Bennett upon his big-boned savage black]
+
+    Old Farmer Bennett followed these
+    Upon his big-boned savage black
+    Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back
+    Whatever came within his reach.
+    Old Bennett sat him like a leech.
+    The grim old rider seemed to be
+    As hard about the mouth as he.
+
+    The beaters nudged each other's ribs
+    With "There he goes, his bloody Nibs.
+    He come on Joe and Anty Cop,
+    And beat 'em with his hunting crop
+    Like tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.
+    His pickers were a pack of queans,
+    And Joe and Anty took a couple,
+    He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.
+    Women and men, he didn't care
+    (He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),
+    He beat the whole four nearly dead.
+    'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed,
+    That's how my ricks get set afire.'
+    That's what he said, the bloody liar;
+    Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks,
+    Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks.
+    He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."
+
+    Just like an axehead on its helve
+    Old Bennett sat and watched the gathering.
+    He'd given many a man a lathering
+    In field or barn, and women, too.
+    His cold eye reached the women through
+    With comment, and the men with scorn.
+    He hated women gently born;
+    He hated all beyond his grasp;
+    For he was minded like the asp
+    That strikes whatever is not dust.
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN AGE
+
+
+    Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrust
+    Next into view. In face and limb
+    The beauty and the grace of him
+    Were like the golden age returned.
+    His grave eyes steadily discerned
+    The good in men and what was wise.
+    He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes,
+    And shocks of harvest-coloured hair,
+    Still beautiful with youth. An air
+    Or power of kindness went about him;
+    No heart of youth could ever doubt him
+    Or fail to follow where he led.
+    He was a genius, simply bred,
+    And quite unconscious of his power.
+
+    He was the very red rose flower
+    Of all that coloured countryside.
+    Gauchos had taught him how to ride.
+    He knew all arts, but practised most
+    The art of bettering flesh and ghost
+    In men and lads down in the mud.
+    He knew no class in flesh and blood.
+    He loved his kind. He spent some pith
+    Long since, relieving Ladysmith.
+    Many a horse he trotted tame,
+    Heading commandos from their aim,
+    In those old days upon the veldt.
+
+
+
+
+THE SQUIRE
+
+
+[Illustration: His daughters, Carrie, Jane, and Lu, rode with him]
+
+    An old bear in a scarlet pelt
+    Came next, old Squire Harridew,
+    His eyebrows gave a man the grue
+    So bushy and so fierce they were;
+    He had a bitter tongue to swear.
+    A fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,
+    With all his liver made of fire,
+    Small brain, great courage, mulish will.
+    The hearts in all his house stood still
+    When someone crossed the squire's path.
+    For he was terrible in wrath,
+    And smashed whatever came to hand.
+    Two things he failed to understand,
+    The foreigner and what was new.
+
+    His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lu,
+    Rode with him, Carrie at his side.
+    His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had died
+    In Arizona, long before.
+    The Squire set the greatest store
+    By Carrie, youngest of the three,
+    And lovely to the blood was she;
+    Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,
+    And eyes deep violet in their gleam,
+    Bright blue when quiet in repose.
+    She was a very golden rose.
+    And many a man when sunset came
+    Would see the manor windows flame,
+    And think, "My beauty's home is there."
+    Queen Helen had less golden hair,
+    Queen Cleopatra paler lips,
+    Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse,
+    By golden Carrie's glancing by.
+    She had a wit for mockery
+    And sang mild, pretty senseless songs
+    Of sunsets, Heav'n and lover's wrongs,
+    Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.
+    A rosebud need not have a mind.
+
+    A lily is not sweet from learning.
+    Jane looked like a dark lantern, burning.
+    Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth,
+    But minded like the living truth,
+    A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.
+    She was not "Darling Jan'd," nor "dearie'd,"
+    She was all prickles to the touch,
+    So sharp, that many feared to clutch,
+    So keen, that many thought her bitter.
+    She let the little sparrows twitter.
+    She had a hard ungracious way.
+    Her storm of hair was iron-grey,
+    And she was passionate in her heart
+    For women's souls that burn apart,
+    Just as her mother's had, with Squire.
+    She gave the sense of smouldering fire.
+    She was not happy being a maid,
+    At home, with Squire, but she stayed
+    Enduring life, however bleak,
+    To guard her sisters who were weak,
+    And force a life for them from Squire.
+    And she had roused and stood his fire
+    A hundred times, and earned his hate,
+    To win those two a better state.
+    Long years before the Canon's son
+    Had cared for her, but he had gone
+    To Klondyke, to the mines, for gold,
+    To find, in some strange way untold
+    A foreign grave that no men knew.
+
+    No depth, nor beauty, was in Lu,
+    But charm and fun, for she was merry,
+    Round, sweet and little like a cherry,
+    With laughter like a robin's singing;
+    She was not kittenlike and clinging,
+    But pert and arch and fond of flirting,
+    In mocking ways that were not hurting,
+    And merry ways that women pardoned.
+    Not being married yet she gardened.
+    She loved sweet music; she would sing
+    Songs made before the German King
+    Made England German in her mind.
+    She sang "My lady is unkind,"
+    "The Hunt is up," and those sweet things
+    Which Thomas Campion set to strings,
+    "Thrice toss," and "What," and "Where are now?"
+
+    The next to come was Major Howe
+    Driv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.
+    The testy major was in fume
+    To find no hunter standing waiting;
+    The groom who drove him caught a rating,
+    The groom who had the horse in stable,
+    Was damned in half the tongues of Babel.
+    The Major being hot and heady
+    When horse or dinner was not ready.
+    He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,
+    With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),
+    Mustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jaws
+    Shaved bluish like old partridge claws.
+    When he had stripped his coat he made
+    A speckless presence for parade,
+    New pink, white cords, and glossy tops
+    New gloves, the newest thing in crops,
+    Worn with an air that well expressed
+    His sense that no one else was dressed.
+
+
+
+
+THE DOCTOR
+
+
+[Illustration: Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow]
+
+    Quick trotting after Major Howe
+    Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,
+    A smiling silent man whose brain
+    Knew all of every secret pain
+    In every man and woman there.
+    Their inmost lives were all laid bare
+    To him, because he touched their lives
+    When strong emotions sharp as knives
+    Brought out what sort of soul each was.
+    As secret as the graveyard grass
+    He was, as he had need to be.
+    At some time he had had to see
+    Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask,
+    Sans lying even, when to ask
+    Probed a tamed spirit into truth.
+    Richard, his son, a jolly youth
+    Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's,
+    As merry as a yearling is
+    In maytime in a clover patch.
+    He was a gallant chick to hatch
+    Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,
+    With all his father's love of mind
+    And greater force to give it act.
+    To see him when the scrum was packt,
+    Heave, playing forward, was a sight.
+    His tackling was the crowd's delight
+    In many a danger close to goal.
+    The pride in the three quarter's soul
+    Dropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.
+    He was as steady as a bollard,
+    And gallant as a skysail yard.
+    He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.
+    In good St. Thomas' Hospital,
+    He was the crown imperial
+    Of all the scholars of his year.
+
+    The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,
+    Came all on foot in corduroys,
+    Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,
+    Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.
+    (Will Masemore shot him in the side
+    By accident at Masemore Farm.
+    A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm
+    In getting through a hedge; his gun
+    Was not half-cocked, so it was done
+    And those three boys left fatherless.)
+    Their gaitered legs were in a mess
+    With good red mud from twenty ditches
+    Hal's face was plastered like his breeches,
+    Dick chewed a twig of juniper.
+    They kept at distance from the stir
+    Their loss had made them lads apart.
+    Next came the Colway's pony cart
+    From Coln St. Evelyn's with the party,
+    Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty,
+    And Polly Colway's brother, John
+    (Their horses had been both sent on)
+    And Polly Colway drove them there.
+    Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.
+    The grey mare killed her at the brook
+    Down Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook,
+    Just one month later, poor sweet woman.
+
+
+
+
+THE SAILOR
+
+
+    Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,
+    Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,
+    Commander in the _Canace_,
+    Able to drive a horse, or ship,
+    Or crew of men, without a whip
+    By will, as long as they could go.
+    His face would wrinkle, row on row,
+    From mouth to hair-roots when he laught
+    He looked ahead as though his craft
+    Were with him still, in dangerous channels.
+    He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels
+    Into the pony-cart and mounted.
+    Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,
+    The horses being bickering things,
+    That so much scarlet made like kings,
+    Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.
+
+
+
+
+THE MERCHANT'S SON
+
+
+    When Hugh was up his mare went drifting
+    Sidelong and feeling with her heels
+    For horses' legs and poshay wheels,
+    While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.
+    Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.
+    He was a rich town-merchant's son,
+    A wise and kind man fond of fun,
+    Who loved to have a troop of friends
+    At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,
+    And troops of children in for tea,
+    He gloried in a Christmas Tree.
+    And Polly was his heart's best treasure,
+    And Polly was a golden pleasure
+    To everyone, to see or hear.
+    Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,
+    He was a darkened man thereafter,
+    Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter
+    And be so gentle it was strange
+    Even to see. Life loves to change.
+
+    Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold
+    The shutters up, the hunters sold,
+    And green mould damps the locked front door.
+    But this was still a month before,
+    And Polly, golden in the chaise,
+    Still smiled, and there were golden days,
+    Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.
+
+
+
+
+SPORTSMAN
+
+
+    The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,
+    Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,
+    (By Tempest out of Love-me-long)
+    A proper handful of a horse,
+    That nothing but the Aintree course
+    Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.
+    All sport, from bloody war to craps,
+    Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;
+    They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"
+    For Billy lived too much with horses
+    In coper's yards and sharper's courses,
+    To lack the sharper-coper streak.
+    He did not turn the other cheek
+    When struck (as English Christians do),
+    He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,
+    And many a time his knuckles bled
+    Against a race-course-gipsy's head.
+    For "hit him first and argue later"
+    Was truth at Billy's alma mater,
+    Not love, not any bosh of love.
+    His hand was like a chamois glove
+    And riding was his chief delight.
+    He bred the chaser Chinese-white,
+    From Lilybud by Mandarin.
+    And when his mouth tucked corners in,
+    And scent was high and hounds were going,
+    He went across a field like snowing
+    And tackled anything that came.
+
+[Illustration:
+All sport, from bloody war to craps,
+Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler.]
+
+    His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,
+    A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,
+    With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,
+    (Like polished brass) and such a manner
+    It flaunted from her like a banner.
+    Her father was Tom See the trainer;
+    She rode a lovely earth-disdainer
+    Which she and Billy wished to sell.
+
+[Illustration: Behind them rode her daughter Bell]
+
+    Behind them rode her daughter Bell,
+    A strange shy lovely girl whose face
+    Was sweet with thought and proud with race,
+    And bright with joy at riding there.
+    She was as good as blowing air
+    But shy and difficult to know.
+    The kittens in the barley-mow,
+    The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,
+    The blackbird in the apple calling,
+    All knew her spirit more than we,
+    So delicate these maidens be
+    In loving lovely helpless things.
+
+    The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,
+    Came, with two friends, a set of six.
+    Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,
+    Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,
+    (God help the school or rule which galled them;
+    They carried head) and friends from town.
+
+[Illustration: The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings]
+
+    Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down.
+    He once had been a famous bat,
+    He had that stroke, "the Manor-pat,"
+    Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.
+    He once scored twenty in an over,
+    But now he cricketed no more.
+    He purpled in the face and swore
+    At all three sons, and trained, and told
+    Long tales of cricketing of old,
+    When he alone had saved his side.
+    Drink made it doubtful if he lied,
+    Drink purpled him, he could not face
+    The fences now, nor go the pace
+    He brought his friends to meet; no more.
+
+    His big son Nob, at whom he swore,
+    Swore back at him, for Nob was surly,
+    Tall, shifty, sullen-smiling, burly,
+    Quite fearless, built with such a jaw
+    That no man's rule could be his law
+    Nor any woman's son his master.
+    Boxing he relished. He could plaster
+    All those who boxed out Tencombe way.
+    A front tooth had been knocked away
+    Two days before, which put his mouth
+    A little to the east of south.
+    And put a venom in his laughter.
+
+    Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;
+    Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.
+    Nob had no nerves but Cob had plenty
+    So Cobby went where Nobby led.
+    He had no brains inside his head,
+    Was fearless, just like Nob, but put
+    Some clog of folly round his foot,
+    Where Nob put will of force or fraud;
+    He spat aside and muttered Gawd
+    When vext; he took to whiskey kindly
+    And loved and followed Nobby blindly,
+    And rode as in the saddle born.
+
+    Bun looked upon the two with scorn.
+    He was the youngest, and was wise.
+    He too was fair, with sullen eyes,
+    He too (a year before) had had
+    A zest for going to the bad,
+    With Cob and Nob. He knew the joys
+    Of drinking with the stable-boys,
+    Or smoking while he filled his skin
+    With pints of Guinness dashed with gin
+    And Cobby yelled a bawdy ditty,
+    Or cutting Nobby for the kitty,
+    And damning peoples' eyes and guts,
+    Or drawing evening-church for sluts,
+    He knew them all and now was quit.
+
+[Illustration: Third colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    Sweet Polly Colway managed it.
+    And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink
+    (The pleasant pit's seductive brink),
+    He started working in the stable,
+    And well, for he was shrewd and able.
+    He left the doubtful female friends
+    Picked up at Evening-Service ends,
+    He gave up cards and swore no more.
+    Nob called him "the Reforming Whore,"
+    "The Soul's Awakening," or "The Text,"
+    Nob being always coarse when vext.
+
+    Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,
+    Old college friends, the last he had,
+    Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shaken
+    By all the whiskey they had taken.
+    Hawke's hand was trembling on his rein.
+    His eyes were dead-blue like a vein,
+    His peaked sad face was touched with breeding,
+    His querulous mind was quaint from reading,
+    His piping voice still quirked with fun.
+    Many a mad thing he had done,
+    Riding to hounds and going to races.
+    A glimmer of the gambler's graces,
+    Wit, courage, devil, touched his talk.
+
+[Illustration: Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd]
+
+    Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,
+    His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn,
+    Twixt winning-post and betting column,
+    The weights and forms and likely colts.
+    He said "This road is full of jolts.
+    I shall be seasick riding here.
+    O damn last night with that liqueur."
+
+    Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin;
+    He owned the Downs by Baydon Whin;
+    And grazed some thousand sheep; the boy
+    Grinned round at men with jolly joy
+    At being alive and being there.
+    His big round face and mop of hair
+    Shone, his great teeth shone in his grin,
+    The clean blood in his clear tanned skin
+    Ran merry, and his great voice mocked
+    His young friends present till they rocked.
+
+    Steer Harpit came from Rowell Hill,
+    A small, frail man, all heart and will,
+    A sailor as his voice betrayed.
+    He let his whip-thong droop and played
+    At snicking off the grass-blades with it,
+    John Hankerton, from Compton Lythitt,
+    Was there with Pity Hankerton,
+    And Mike, their good-for-little son,
+    Back, smiling, from his seventh job.
+    Joan Urch was there upon her cob.
+    Tom Sparsholt on his lanky grey.
+    John Restrop from Hope Goneaway.
+    And Vaughan, the big black handsome devil,
+    Loose-lipped with song and wine and revel
+    All rosy from his morning tub
+
+
+
+
+THE EXQUISITE
+
+
+    The Godsdown tigress with her cub
+    (Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.
+    The great eyes smouldered in the dame,
+    Wit glittered, too, which few men saw.
+    There was more beauty there than claw.
+    Tommy in bearing, horse and dress
+    Was black, fastidious, handsomeness,
+    Choice to his trimmed soul's fingertips.
+    Heredia's sonnets on his lips.
+    A line undrawn, a plate not bitten,
+    A stone uncut, a phrase unwritten,
+    That would be perfect, made his mind.
+    A choice pull, from a rare print, signed,
+    Was Tommy. He collected plate,
+    (Old sheffield) and he owned each state
+    Of all the Meryon Paris etchings.
+
+[Illustration:
+The Godsdown Tigress with her cub
+(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.]
+
+    Colonel Sir Button Budd of Fletchings
+    Was there; Long Robert Thrupp was there,
+    (Three yards of him men said there were),
+    Long as the King of Prussia's fancy.
+    He rode the longlegged Necromancy,
+    A useless racehorse that could canter.
+    George Childrey with his jolly banter
+    Was there, Nick Childrey, too, come down
+    The night before from London town,
+    To hunt and have his lungs blown clean.
+    The Ilsley set from Tuttocks Green
+    Was there (old Henry Ilsley drove),
+    Carlotta Ilsley brought her love
+    A flop-jowled broker from the city.
+    Men pitied her, for she was pretty.
+
+    Some grooms and second horsemen mustered.
+    A lot of men on foot were clustered
+    Round the inn-door, all busy drinking,
+    One heard the kissing glasses clinking
+    In passage as the tray was brought.
+    Two terriers (which they had there) fought
+    There on the green, a loud, wild whirl.
+    Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.
+    The hens behind the tavern clucked.
+
+
+
+
+THE SOLDIER
+
+
+[Illustration: Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border]
+
+    Then on a horse which bit and bucked
+    (The half-broke four-year-old Marauder)
+    Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border,
+    Lean, puckered, yellowed, knotted, scarred,
+    Tough as a hide-rope twisted hard,
+    Tense tiger-sinew knit to bone.
+    Strange-wayed from having lived alone
+    With Kafir, Afghan and Beloosh
+    In stations frozen in the Koosh
+    Where nothing but the bullet sings.
+    His mind had conquered many things,
+    Painting, mechanics, physics, law,
+    White-hot, hand-beaten things to draw
+    Self-hammered from his own soul's stithy,
+    His speech was blacksmith-sparked and pithy.
+    Danger had been his brother bred;
+    The stones had often been his bed
+    In bickers with the border-thieves.
+
+
+
+
+THE COUNTRY'S HOPE
+
+
+    A chestnut mare with swerves and heaves
+    Came plunging, scattering all the crowd,
+    She tossed her head and laughed aloud
+    And bickered sideways past the meet.
+    From pricking ears to mincing feet
+    She was all tense with blood and quiver,
+    You saw her clipt hide twitch and shiver
+    Over her netted cords of veins.
+    She carried Cothill, of the Sleins;
+    A tall, black, bright-eyed handsome lad.
+    Great power and great grace he had.
+    Men hoped the greatest things of him,
+    His grace made people think him slim,
+    But he was muscled like a horse
+    A sculptor would have wrought his torse
+    In bronze or marble for Apollo.
+    He loved to hurry like a swallow
+    For miles on miles of short-grassed sweet
+    Blue-harebelled downs where dewy feet
+    Of pure winds hurry ceaselessly.
+    He loved the downland like a sea,
+    The downland where the kestrels hover;
+    The downland had him for a lover.
+    And every other thing he loved
+    In which a clean free spirit moved.
+
+    So beautiful, he was, so bright.
+    He looked to men like young delight
+    Gone courting April maidenhood,
+    That has the primrose in her blood,
+    He on his mincing lady mare.
+
+
+
+
+COUNTRYMEN
+
+
+[Illustration: Ock Gurney and old Pete were there]
+
+    Ock Gurney and old Pete were there,
+    Riding their bonny cobs and swearing.
+    Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing,
+    A horse-rosette, red, white and blue.
+    Their cheeks were brown as any brew,
+    And every comer to the meet
+    Said "Hello, Ock," or "Morning, Pete;
+    Be you a going to a wedding?"
+    "Why, noa," they said, "we'm going a bedding;
+    Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock?"
+    Pete Gurney was a lusty cock
+    Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale,
+    A dairy-farmer in the vale,
+    Much like a robin in the face,
+    Much character in little space,
+    With little eyes like burning coal.
+    His mouth was like a slit or hole
+    In leather that was seamed and lined.
+    He had the russet-apple mind
+    That betters as the weather worsen.
+    He was a manly English person,
+    Kind to the core, brave, merry, true;
+    One grief he had, a grief still new,
+    That former Parson joined with Squire
+    In putting down the Playing Quire,
+    In church, and putting organ in.
+    "Ah, boys, that was a pious din
+    That Quire was; a pious praise
+    The noise was that we used to raise;
+    I and my serpent, George with his'n,
+    On Easter Day in He is Risen,
+    Or blessed Christmas in Venite;
+    And how the trombone came in mighty,
+    In Alleluias from the heart.
+    Pious, for each man played his part,
+    Not like 'tis now." Thus he, still sore
+    For changes forty years before,
+    When all (that could) in time and tune,
+    Blew trumpets to the newë moon.
+    He was a bachelor, from choice.
+    He and his nephew farmed the Boyce
+    Prime pasture land for thirty cows.
+    Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house,
+    And jolly were the three together.
+    Ock had a face like summer weather,
+    A broad red sun, split by a smile.
+    He mopped his forehead all the while,
+    And said "By damn," and "Ben't us, Unk?"
+    His eyes were close and deeply sunk.
+    He cursed his hunter like a lover,
+    "Now blast your soul, my dear, give over.
+    Woa, now, my pretty, damn your eyes."
+    Like Pete he was of middle size,
+    Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder,
+    He stood a wrestle like a boulder,
+    He had a back for pitching hay.
+    His singing voice was like a bay.
+    In talk he had a sideways spit,
+    Each minute, to refresh his wit.
+    He cracked Brazil nuts with his teeth.
+    He challenged Cobbett of the Heath
+    (Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost.
+    Hunting was what he loved the most,
+    Next to his wife and Uncle Pete.
+    With beer to drink and cheese to eat,
+    And rain in May to fill the grasses,
+    This life was not a dream that passes
+    To Ock, but like the summer flower.
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUNDS
+
+
+    But now the clock had struck the hour,
+    And round the corner, down the road
+    The bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowed
+    With three black knobs upon its spine;
+    Three bobbing black-caps in a line.
+    A glimpse of scarlet at the gap
+    Showed underneath each bobbing cap,
+    And at the corner by the gate,
+    One heard Tom Dansey give a rate,
+    "Hep, Drop it, Jumper; have a care,"
+    There came a growl, half-rate, half-swear,
+    A spitting crack, a tuneful whimper
+    And sweet religion entered Jumper.
+
+    There was a general turn of faces,
+    The men and horses shifted places,
+    And round the corner came the hunt,
+    Those feathery things, the hounds, in front,
+    Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying,
+    Smiling at people, shoving, playing,
+    Nosing to children's faces, waving
+    Their feathery sterns, and all behaving,
+    One eye to Dansey on Maroon.
+    Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,
+    And though they trotted up so quiet
+    Their noses brought them news of riot,
+    Wild smells of things with living blood,
+    Hot smells, against the grippers good,
+    Of weasel, rabbit, cat and hare,
+    Whose feet had been before them there,
+    Whose taint still tingled every breath;
+    But Dansey on Maroon was death,
+    So, though their noses roved, their feet
+    Larked and trit-trotted to the meet.
+
+    Bill Tall and Ell and Mirtie Key
+    (Aged fourteen years between the three)
+    Were flooded by them at the bend,
+    They thought their little lives would end,
+    For grave sweet eyes looked into theirs,
+    Cold noses came, and clean short hairs
+    And tails all crumpled up like ferns,
+    A sea of moving heads and sterns,
+    All round them, brushing coat and dress;
+    One paused, expecting a caress.
+    The children shrank into each other,
+    Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"
+    With mouths wide open, catching tears.
+
+[Illustration:
+A sea of moving heads and sterns,
+All round them, brushing coat and dress.]
+
+    Sharp Mrs. Tall allayed their fears,
+    "Err out the road, the dogs won't hurt 'ee.
+    There now, you've cried your faces dirty.
+    More cleaning up for me to do.
+    What? Cry at dogs, great lumps like you?"
+    She licked her handkerchief and smeared
+    Their faces where the dirt appeared.
+
+    The hunt trit-trotted to the meeting,
+    Tom Dansey touching cap to greeting,
+    Slow-lifting crop-thong to the rim,
+    No hunter there got more from him
+    Except some brightening of the eye.
+    He halted at the Cock and Pye,
+    The hounds drew round him on the green,
+    Arrogant, Daffodil and Queen,
+    Closest, but all in little space.
+    Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace,
+    Yawning, or tilting nose in quest,
+    All stood and looked about with zest,
+    They were uneasy as they waited.
+    Their sires and dams had been well-mated,
+    They were a lovely pack for looks;
+    Their forelegs drumsticked without crooks,
+    Straight, without overtread or bend,
+    Muscled to gallop to the end,
+    With neat feet round as any cat's.
+    Great chested, muscled in the slats,
+    Bright, clean, short-coated, broad in shoulder,
+    With stag-like eyes that seemed to smoulder.
+    The heads well-cocked, the clean necks strong;
+    Brows broad, ears close, the muzzles long;
+    And all like racers in the thighs;
+    Their noses exquisitely wise,
+    Their minds being memories of smells;
+    Their voices like a ring of bells;
+    Their sterns all spirit, cock and feather;
+    Their colours like the English weather,
+    Magpie and hare, and badger-pye,
+    Like minglings in a double dye,
+    Some smutty-nosed, some tan, none bald;
+    Their manners were to come when called,
+    Their flesh was sinew knit to bone,
+    Their courage like a banner blown.
+    Their joy, to push him out of cover,
+    And hunt him till they rolled him over.
+    They were as game as Robert Dover.
+
+
+
+
+THE WHIP
+
+
+    Tom Dansey was a famous whip
+    Trained as a child in horsemanship.
+    Entered, as soon as he was able,
+    As boy at Caunter's racing stable;
+    There, like the other boys, he slept
+    In stall beside the horse he kept,
+    Snug in the straw; and Caunter's stick
+    Brought morning to him all too quick.
+    He learned the high quick gingery ways
+    Of thoroughbreds; his stable days
+    Made him a rider, groom and vet.
+    He promised to be too thickset
+    For jockeying, so left it soon.
+    Now he was whip and rode Maroon.
+
+[Illustration:
+His chief delight
+Was hunting fox from noon to night.]
+
+    He was a small, lean, wiry man
+    With sunk cheeks weathered to a tan
+    Scarred by the spikes of hawthorn sprays
+    Dashed thro', head down, on going days,
+    In haste to see the line they took.
+    There was a beauty in his look,
+    It was intent. His speech was plain.
+    Maroon's head, reaching to the rein,
+    Had half his thought before he spoke.
+    His "gone away," when foxes broke,
+    Was like a bell. His chief delight
+    Was hunting fox from noon to night.
+    His pleasure lay in hounds and horses,
+    He loved the Seven Springs water-courses,
+    Those flashing brooks (in good sound grass,
+    Where scent would hang like breath on glass).
+    He loved the English countryside;
+    The wine-leaved bramble in the ride,
+    The lichen on the apple-trees,
+    The poultry ranging on the lees,
+    The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover,
+    His wife's green grave at Mitcheldover,
+    Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw.
+    Under his hide his heart was raw
+    With joy and pity of these things.
+    The second whip was Kitty Myngs,
+    Still but a lad but keen and quick
+    (Son of old Myngs who farmed the Wick),
+    A horse-mouthed lad who knew his work.
+    He rode the big black horse, the Turk,
+    And longed to be a huntsman bold.
+    He had the horse-look, sharp and old,
+    With much good-nature in his face.
+    His passion was to go the pace
+    His blood was crying for a taming.
+    He was the Devil's chick for gaming,
+    He was a rare good lad to box.
+    He sometimes had a main of cocks
+    Down at the Flags. His job with hounds
+    At present kept his blood in bounds
+    From rioting and running hare.
+    Tom Dansey made him have a care.
+    He worshipped Dansey heart and soul.
+    To be a huntsman was his goal.
+    To be with hounds, to charge full tilt
+    Blackthorns that made the gentry wilt
+    Was his ambition and his hope.
+    He was a hot colt needing rope,
+    He was too quick to speak his passion
+    To suit his present huntsman's fashion.
+
+
+
+
+THE HUNTSMAN
+
+
+[Illustration: He smiled and nodded and saluted to those who hailed him]
+
+    The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,
+    He sometimes called a favourite hound,
+    Gently, to see the creature turn
+    Look happy up and wag his stern.
+    He smiled and nodded and saluted,
+    To those who hailed him, as it suited.
+    And patted Pip's, his hunter's neck.
+    His new pink was without a speck;
+    He was a red-faced smiling fellow,
+    His voice clear tenor, full and mellow,
+    His eyes, all fire, were black and small.
+    He had been smashed in many a fall.
+    His eyebrow had a white curved mark
+    Left by the bright shoe of The Lark,
+    Down in a ditch by Seven Springs.
+    His coat had all been trod to strings,
+    His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken
+    Being jumped on down at Water's Oaken,
+    The time his horse came down and rolled.
+    His face was of the country mould
+    Such as the mason sometimes cutted
+    On English moulding-ends which jutted
+    Out of the church walls, centuries since.
+    And as you never know the quince,
+    How good he is, until you try,
+    So, in Dawe's face, what met the eye
+    Was only part, what lay behind
+    Was English character and mind.
+    Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling,
+    (Most shy, most clever in concealing
+    Its depth) for beauty of all sorts,
+    Great manliness and love of sports,
+    A grave wise thoughtfulness and truth,
+    A merry fun, outlasting youth,
+    A courage terrible to see
+    And mercy for his enemy.
+
+    He had a clean-shaved face, but kept
+    A hedge of whisker neatly clipt,
+    A narrow strip or picture frame
+    (Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same),
+    Under his chin from ear to ear.
+
+
+
+
+THE MASTER
+
+
+    But now the resting hounds gave cheer,
+    Joyful and Arrogant and Catch-him,
+    Smelt the glad news and ran to snatch him,
+    The Master's dogcart turned the bend.
+    Damsel and Skylark knew their friend;
+    A thrill ran through the pack like fire,
+    And little whimpers ran in quire.
+    The horses cocked and pawed and whickered,
+    Young Cothill's chaser kicked and bickered,
+    And stood on end and struck out sparks.
+    Joyful and Catch-him sang like larks,
+    There was the Master in the trap,
+    Clutching old Roman in his lap,
+    Old Roman, crazy for his brothers,
+    And putting frenzy in the others,
+    To set them at the dogcart wheels,
+    With thrusting heads and little squeals.
+
+    The Master put old Roman by,
+    And eyed the thrusters heedfully,
+    He called a few pet hounds and fed
+    Three special friends with scraps of bread,
+    Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strode
+    Through all those clamourers in the road,
+    Saluted friends, looked round the crowd,
+    Saw Harridew's three girls and bowed,
+    Then took White Rabbit from the groom.
+
+[Illustration:
+He had a welcome and salute
+For all, on horse or wheel or foot.]
+
+    He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe;
+    Past sixty now, though hearty still,
+    A living picture of good-will,
+    An old, grave soldier, sweet and kind,
+    A courtier with a knightly mind,
+    Who felt whatever thing he thought.
+    His face was scarred, for he had fought
+    Five wars for us. Within his face
+    Courage and power had their place,
+    Rough energy, decision, force.
+    He smiled about him from his horse.
+    He had a welcome and salute
+    For all, on horse or wheel or foot,
+    Whatever kind of life each followed.
+    His tanned, drawn cheeks looked old and hollowed,
+    But still his bright blue eyes were young,
+    And when the pack crashed into tongue,
+    And staunch White Rabbit shook like fire,
+    He sent him at it like a flier,
+    And lived with hounds while horses could.
+    "They'm lying in the Ghost Heath Wood,
+    Sir Peter," said an earth-stopper,
+    (Old Baldy Hill), "You'll find 'em there.
+    'Z I come'd across I smell 'em plain.
+    There's one up back, down Tuttock's drain,
+    But, Lord, it's just a bog, the Tuttocks,
+    Hounds would be swallered to the buttocks.
+    Heath Wood, Sir Peter's best to draw."
+
+
+
+
+THE START
+
+
+    Sir Peter gave two minutes' law
+    For Kingston Challow and his daughter;
+    He said, "They're late. We'll start the slaughter.
+    Ghost Heath, then, Dansey. We'll be going."
+
+    Now, at his word, the tide was flowing
+    Off went Maroon, off went the hounds,
+    Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,
+    Across soft turf with dead leaves cleaving
+    And hillocks that the mole was heaving.
+    Mild going to those trotting feet.
+    After the scarlet coats, the meet
+    Came clopping up the grass in spate;
+    They poached the trickle at the gate;
+    Their horses' feet sucked at the mud;
+    Excitement in the horses' blood,
+    Cocked forward every ear and eye;
+    They quivered as the hounds went by,
+    They trembled when they first trod grass;
+    They would not let another pass,
+    They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Fourth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The wind was westerly but still;
+    The sky a high fair-weather cloud,
+    Like meadows ridge-and-furrow ploughed,
+    Just glinting sun but scarcely moving.
+    Blackbirds and thrushes thought of loving,
+    Catkins were out; the day seemed tense
+    It was so still. At every fence
+    Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern.
+    White-violet-leaves shewed at the burn.
+
+[Illustration: Young Cothill let his chaser go round Chols Elm Field]
+
+    Young Cothill let his chaser go
+    Round Chols Elm Field a turn or so
+    To soothe his edge. The riders went
+    Chatting and laughing and content
+    In groups of two or three together.
+    The hounds, a flock of shaking feather,
+    Bobbed on ahead, past Chols Elm Cop.
+    The horses' shoes went clip-a-clop,
+    Along the stony cart-track there.
+    The little spinney was all bare,
+    But in the earth-moist winter day
+    The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,
+    The glistening horses pressing on,
+    The brown faced lads, Bill, Dick and John,
+    And all the hurry to arrive,
+    Were beautiful, like Spring alive.
+    The hounds melted away with Master
+    The tanned lads ran, the field rode faster,
+    The chatter joggled in the throats
+    Of riders bumping by like boats,
+    "We really ought to hunt a bye day."
+    "Fine day for scent," "A fly or die day."
+    "They chopped a bagman in the check,
+    He had a collar round his neck."
+    "Old Ridden's girl's a pretty flapper."
+    "That Vaughan's a cad, the whipper-snapper."
+    "I tell 'ee, lads, I seed 'em plain,
+    Down in the Rough at Shifford's Main,
+    Old Squire stamping like a Duke,
+    So red with blood I thought he'd puke,
+    In appleplexie, as they do.
+    Miss Jane stood just as white as dew,
+    And heard him out in just white heat,
+    And then she trimmed him down a treat,
+    About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie
+    (She'd be a pretty peach to marry)."
+    "Her'll draw up-wind, so us'll go
+    Down by the furze, we'll see 'em so."
+
+[Illustration:
+The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,
+The glistening horses pressing on,
+   *       *       *       *       *
+And all the hurry to arrive,
+Were beautiful, like Spring alive.]
+
+    "Look, there they go, lad."
+
+                     There they went,
+    Across the brook and up the bent,
+    Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,
+    Along Ghost Heath to cover side.
+    The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,
+    Turf scatters tossed behind each back,
+    Some horses blowing with a whinny,
+    A jam of horses in the spinney,
+    Close to the ride-gate; leather straining,
+    Saddles all creaking; men complaining,
+    Chaffing each other as they pass't,
+    On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.
+    Now as they neared the Ghost Heath Wood
+    Some riders grumbled, "What's the good:
+    It's shot all day and poached all night.
+    We shall draw blank and lose the light,
+    And lose the scent, and lose the day.
+    Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,
+    Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this?
+    There's no fox here, there never is."
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    But as he trotted up to cover,
+    Robin was watching to discover
+    What chance there was, and many a token
+    Told him, that though no hound had spoken,
+    Most of them stirred to something there.
+    The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,
+    Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth,
+    From foxes which had crossed the Heath
+    Not very many hours before.
+    "We'll find," he said, "I'll bet a score."
+    Along Ghost Heath they trotted well,
+    The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,
+    The shaken brambles scattered drops,
+    Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,
+    Cracking the twigs down with their knockings
+    And planing out of sight with cockings;
+    A scut or two lopped white to bramble.
+
+
+
+
+"COVER"
+
+
+    And now they gathered to the gamble
+    At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,
+    The hounds went crackling through the brown
+    Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost.
+    The wood stood silent in its host
+    Of halted trees all winter bare.
+    The boughs, like veins that suck the air,
+    Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.
+    There came no song from any bird;
+    The darkness of the wood stood still
+    Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.
+    The whips crept to the sides to view;
+    The Master gave the nod, and "Leu,
+    Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,"
+    Went Robin, cracking through the whin
+    And through the hedge-gap into cover.
+    The binders crashed as hounds went over,
+    And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.
+    Then up went stern and down went nose,
+    And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,
+    Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride,
+    "O wind him, beauties, push him out,
+    Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout,
+    O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him."
+    The beauties burst the scrub to find him,
+    They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,
+    The bramble and the broom were drawn,
+    The covert's northern end was blank.
+
+[Illustration:
+And now they gathered to the gamble
+At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.]
+
+    They turned to draw along the bank
+    Through thicker cover than the Rough
+    Through three-and-four-year understuff
+    Where Robin's forearm screened his eyes.
+    "Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries.
+    "Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughter
+    Faln from his horn, brought whimpers after,
+    For ends of scents were everywhere.
+    He said, "This Hope's a likely lair.
+    And there's his billets, grey and furred.
+    And George, he's moving, there's a bird."
+
+    A blue uneasy jay was chacking.
+    (A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)
+    From tree to tree, as in pursuit,
+    He said "That's it. There's fox afoot.
+    And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.
+    Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,
+    Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark."
+    The mild horn's note, the soft flaked spark
+    Of music, fell on that rank scent.
+    From heart to wild heart magic went.
+    The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose.
+    "Daffodil has it. There she goes.
+    O hark to her." With wild high crying
+    From frantic hearts, the hounds went flying
+    To Daffodil for that rank taint.
+    A waft of it came warm but faint,
+    In Robin's mouth, and faded so.
+    "First find a fox, then let him go,"
+    Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake.
+    Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."
+    He cheered his beauties like a lover
+    And charged beside them into cover.
+
+
+
+
+PART TWO--THE FOX
+
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+[Illustration: And there on the night before my tale he trotted out]
+
+    On old Cold Crendon's windy tops
+    Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,
+    Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows,
+    Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,
+    And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,
+    Nose between paws, to hear the surf
+    Of wind in the beeches drowsily.
+    There was our fox bred lustily
+    Three years before, and there he berthed
+    Under the beech-roots snugly earthed,
+    With a roof of flint and a floor of chalk
+    And ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,
+    Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,
+    A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.
+    And there on the night before my tale
+    He trotted out for a point in the vale.
+    He saw, from the cover edge, the valley
+    Go trooping down with its droops of sally
+    To the brimming river's lipping bend,
+    And a light in the inn at Water's End.
+    He heard the owl go hunting by
+    And the shriek of the mouse the owl made die,
+    And the purr of the owl as he tore the red
+    Strings from between his claws and fed;
+    The smack of joy of the horny lips
+    Marbled green with the blobby strips.
+    He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,
+    Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking;
+    The fault with the spring as bright as gleed,
+    Green-slash-laced with water weed.
+    A glare in the sky still marked the town,
+    Though all folk slept and the blinds were down,
+    The street lamps watched the empty square,
+    The night-cat sang his evil there.
+    The fox's nose tipped up and round
+    Since smell is a part of sight and sound.
+    Delicate smells were drifting by,
+    The sharp nose flaired them heedfully:
+    Partridges in the clover stubble,
+    Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.
+    Rabbit bucks beginning to box;
+    A scratching place for the pheasant cocks;
+    A hare in the dead grass near the drain,
+    And another smell like the spring again.
+    A faint rank taint like April coming,
+    It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,
+    For somewhere out by Ghost Heath Stubs
+    Was a roving vixen wanting cubs.
+
+[Illustration:
+He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,
+Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking.]
+
+
+
+
+THE ROVING
+
+
+    Over the valley, floating faint
+    On a warmth of windflaw came the taint,
+    He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,
+    And he went up wind like an April thrush.
+    By the Roman Road to Braiches Ridge
+    Where the fallen willow makes a bridge,
+    Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn,
+    To the acres thin with pricking corn.
+    Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,
+    By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,
+    Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,
+    And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.
+    Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,
+    Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,
+    Past Howle's Oak Farm where the raving brain
+    Of a dog who heard him foamed his chain,
+    Then off, as the farmer's window opened,
+    Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End;
+    Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows,
+    And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows;
+    And away and away with a rolling scramble,
+    Through the blackthorn and up the bramble,
+    With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,
+    And his red fell clean for being married.
+    For clicketting time and Ghost Heath Wood
+    Had put the violet in his blood.
+
+[Illustration: A dog who heard him foamed his chain]
+
+    At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney,
+    His foot made the great black stallion whinny,
+    And the stallion's whinny aroused the stable
+    And the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,
+    And the clink of the bloodhound's chain aroused
+    The sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,
+    And the stir of the cattle changed the dream
+    Of the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.
+    The red-wattled black cock hot from Spain
+    Crowed from his perch for dawn again,
+    His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch,
+    Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,
+    They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eye
+    In the raftered roost as the fox went by.
+
+    By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,
+    Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,
+    By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,
+    And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still,
+    By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,
+    And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.
+    Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awoken
+    Over the grass to Water's Oaken,
+    And over the hedge and into ride
+    In Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.
+    Before the dawn he had loved and fed
+    And found a kennel and gone to bed
+    On a shelf of grass in a thick of gorse
+    That would bleed a hound and blind a horse.
+    There he slept in the mild west weather
+    With his nose and brush well tucked together,
+    He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hears
+    With the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.
+
+[Illustration:
+There he slept in the mild west weather
+With his nose and brush well tucked together.]
+
+    He slept while the pheasant cock untucked
+    His head from his wing, flew down and kukked,
+    While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeled
+    Out of the ash-trees into field.
+    While with great black flags that flogged and paddled
+    The rooks went out to the plough and straddled,
+    Straddled wide on the moist red cheese
+    Of the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.
+
+    Down in the village, men awoke,
+    The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke,
+    The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,
+    Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
+
+[Illustration: The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches]
+
+    The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,
+    And the cocks and hens let out of roost,
+    Windows were opened, mats were beaten,
+    All men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten,
+    But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf,
+    The sleeping fox looked after himself.
+
+    Deep in his dream he heard the life
+    Of the woodland seek for food or wife,
+    The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,
+    The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,
+    The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,
+    The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,
+    Cows in a byre, and distant men,
+    And Condicote church-clock striking ten.
+
+    At eleven o'clock a boy went past,
+    With a rough-haired terrier following fast.
+    The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap
+    Woke the fox from out of his nap.
+
+[Illustration:
+The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap
+Woke the fox from out of his nap.]
+
+
+
+
+SCENT
+
+
+    He rose and stretched till the claws in his pads
+    Stuck hornily out like long black gads,
+    He listened a while, and his nose went round
+    To catch the smell of the distant sound.
+
+    The windward smells came free from taint
+    They were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,
+    A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,
+    And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.
+    The lee-ward smells were much less certain
+    For the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,
+    Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,
+    Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.
+
+    He moved to his right to a clearer space,
+    And all his soul came into his face,
+    Into his eyes and into his nose,
+    As over the hill a murmur rose.
+
+    His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,
+    He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,
+    He trotted right and lifted a pad
+    Trying to test what foes he had.
+
+
+
+
+SOUND
+
+
+    On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drumming
+    Which sounded like horses quickly coming,
+    It died as the hunt went down the dip,
+    Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.
+    A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,
+    Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,
+    Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,
+    Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.
+    Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,
+    On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.
+    Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,
+    Voices and horses coming nearer,
+    And another noise, of a pit-pat beat
+    On the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.
+
+    He sat on his haunches listening hard,
+    While his mind went over the compass card,
+    Men were coming and rest was done,
+    But he still had time to get fit to run;
+    He could outlast horse and outrace hound,
+    But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.
+    Scent was burning, the going good
+    The world one lust for a fox's blood,
+    The main earths stopped and the drains put-to,
+    And fifteen miles to the land he knew.
+    But of all the ills, the ill least pleasant
+    Was to run in the light when men were present.
+    Men in the fields to shout and sign
+    For a lift of hounds to a fox's line.
+    Men at the earth at the long point's end,
+    Men at each check and none his friend,
+    Guessing each shift that a fox contrives,
+    But still, needs must when the devil drives.
+
+[Illustration: Men at the earth at the long point's end]
+
+    He readied himself, then a soft horn blew,
+    Then a clear voice carolled "Ed-hoick. Eleu."
+    Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice crying
+    And the crackle of scrub where hounds were trying.
+
+[Illustration: He trotted down with his nose intent]
+
+    Then, the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered,
+    Then another, then more, till his body shivered,
+    He left his kennel and trotted thence
+    With his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.
+    He trotted down with his nose intent
+    For a fox's line to cross his scent,
+    It was only fair (he being a stranger)
+    That the native fox should have the danger.
+    Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,
+    That the pace of his trot began to lift
+    The blue-winged Judas, a jay, began
+    Swearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.
+
+    He hurried his trotting, he now felt frighted,
+    It was his poor body made hounds excited,
+    He felt as he ringed the great wood through
+    That he ought to make for the land he knew.
+
+    Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,
+    Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickened
+    Then the wood behind was a crash of cry
+    For the blood in his veins; it made him fly.
+
+    They were on his line; it was death to stay,
+    He must make for home by the shortest way,
+    But with all this yelling and all this wrath
+    And all these devils, how find a path?
+
+    He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,
+    Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,
+    But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,
+    Watching the woodside, made him shirk.
+
+    He ringed the wood and looked at the south.
+    What wind there was blew into his mouth.
+    But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicket
+    Was Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.
+    At Dansey's back were a twenty more
+    Watching the cover and pressing fore.
+
+[Illustration: The fox drew in]
+
+    The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.
+    Death was there if he messed the puzzle.
+    There were men without and hounds within,
+    A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,
+    Teeth in cover and death without,
+    Both deaths coming, and no way out.
+
+
+
+
+FOUND
+
+
+    His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,
+    Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast,
+    Then horse hooves trampled, then horses' flitches
+    Burst their way through the hazel switches,
+    Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,
+    And a man, quite near, said "Found, by Gad,"
+    And a man, quite near, said "Now he'll break.
+    Lark's Leybourne Copse is the line he'll take."
+    And the men moved up with their talk and stink
+    And the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.
+    Men whose coming meant death from teeth
+    In a worrying wrench with him beneath.
+
+    The fox sneaked down by the cover side,
+    (With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide,
+    He took the ditch at the cover-end,
+    He hugged the ditch as his only friend.
+    The blackbird cock with the golden beak
+    Got out of his way with a jabbering shriek,
+    And the shriek told Tom on the raking bay
+    That for eighteen pence he was gone away.
+
+[Illustration: The blackbird got out of his way with a jabbering shriek]
+
+    He ran in the hedge in the triple growth
+    Of bramble and hawthorn, glad of both,
+    Till a couple of fields were past, and then
+    Came the living death of the dread of men.
+
+    Then, as he listened, he heard a "Hoy,"
+    Tom Dansey's horn and "Awa-wa-woy."
+    Then all hounds crying with all their forces,
+    Then a thundering down of seventy horses.
+    Robin Dawe's horn and halloos of "Hey
+    Hark Hollar, Hoik" and "Gone away,"
+    "Hark Hollar Hoik," and the smack of a whip,
+    A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip.
+    "Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar"; then Robin made
+    Pip go crash through the cut-and-laid,
+    Hounds were over and on his line
+    With a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.
+    The sound of the nearness sent a flood
+    Of terror of death through the fox's blood.
+    He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,
+    And he went up wind as a racer goes.
+
+
+
+
+AWAY
+
+
+[Illustration: The hounds went romping with delight]
+
+    Bold Robin Dawe was over first,
+    Cheering his hounds on at the burst;
+    The field were spurring to be in it,
+    "Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"
+    Came from Sir Peter on his white.
+    The hounds went romping with delight
+    Over the grass and got together;
+    The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leather
+    After the pack at Myngs's yell;
+    A cry like every kind of bell
+    Rang from these rompers as they raced.
+
+    The riders thrusting to be placed,
+    Jammed down their hats and shook their horses,
+    The hounds romped past with all their forces,
+    They crashed into the blackthorn fence;
+    The scent was heavy on their sense,
+    So hot it seemed the living thing,
+    It made the blood within them sing,
+    Gusts of it made their hackles rise,
+    Hot gulps of it were agonies
+    Of joy, and thirst for blood, and passion.
+
+[Illustration: Fifth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    "Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion."
+    He raced beside his pack to cheer.
+    The field's noise died upon his ear,
+    A faint horn, far behind, blew thin
+    In cover, lest some hound were in.
+    Then instantly the great grass rise
+    Shut field and cover from his eyes,
+    He and his racers were alone.
+    "A dead fox or a broken bone,"
+    Said Robin, peering for his prey.
+    The rise, which shut his field away,
+    Shewed him the vale's great map spread out,
+    The downs' lean flank and thrusting snout,
+    Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood,
+    Blue distance, still as solitude,
+    Glitter of water here and there,
+    The trees so delicately bare.
+    The dark green gorse and bright green holly.
+    "O glorious God," he said, "how jolly."
+    And there, down hill, two fields ahead,
+    The lolloping red dog-fox sped
+    Over Poor Pastures to the brook.
+    He grasped these things in one swift look
+    Then dived into the bulfinch heart
+    Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart
+    And skutched new blood upon his brow.
+    "His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"
+    Said Robin, landing with a grunt,
+    "Forrard, my beautifuls."
+
+                                  The hunt
+    Followed down hill to race with him,
+    White Rabbit with his swallow's skim,
+    Drew within hail, "Quick burst, Sir Peter."
+    "A traveller. Nothing could be neater.
+    Making for Godsdown clumps, I take it?"
+    "Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.
+    Forrard."
+
+
+
+
+THE FIELD
+
+
+                 Bill Ridden thundered down;
+    His big mouth grinned beneath his frown,
+    The hounds were going away from horses.
+    He saw the glint of water-courses,
+    Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke ahead,
+    His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.
+    Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him,
+    Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him,
+    That poet chap who thinks he rides."
+    Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides
+    Across the grass, the Colonel next:
+    Then Squire volleying oaths and vext,
+    Fighting his hunter for refusing:
+    Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising
+    Sailing the grass, then Cob on Warder,
+    Then Minton Price upon Marauder;
+    Ock Gurney with his eyes intense,
+    Burning as with a different sense,
+    His big mouth muttering glad "by damns";
+    Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,
+    Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.
+    Bennett with devils in his wame
+    Chewing black cud and spitting slanting;
+    Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting;
+    Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey;
+    Long Robert forcing Necromancy;
+    A dozen more with bad beginnings;
+    Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings,
+    A wild last hound with high shrill yelps,
+    Smacked forrard with some whip-thong skelps.
+    Then last of all, at top of rise,
+    The crowd on foot all gasps and eyes
+    The run up hill had winded them.
+
+    They saw the Yell Brook like a gem
+    Blue in the grass a short mile on,
+    They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone
+    A good eight fields and out of sight
+    Except a rippled glimmer white
+    Going away with dying cheering
+    And scarlet flappings disappearing,
+    And scattering horses going, going,
+    Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing
+    Far on ahead, a loose horse taking,
+    Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,
+    And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
+
+[Illustration: Far on ahead, a loose horse taking fence after fence]
+
+    Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling,
+    A much bashed fence still dropping stick,
+    Flung clods, still quivering from the kick,
+    Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay,
+    The horse-smell blowing clean away.
+    Birds flitting back into the cover.
+    One last faint cry, then all was over.
+    The hunt had been, and found, and gone.
+
+[Illustration:
+He faced the fence and put her through it
+Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him.]
+
+    At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on,
+    Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,
+    Where many of the riders slowed
+    To tittup down a grassy lane,
+    Which led as hounds led in the main
+    And gave no danger of a fall.
+    There, as they tittupped one and all,
+    Big Twenty Stone came scattering by,
+    His great mare made the hoof-casts fly.
+    "By leave," he cried. "Come on. Come up,
+    This fox is running like a tup;
+    Let's leave this lane and get to terms.
+    No sense in crawling here like worms.
+    Come, let me past and let me start,
+    This fox is running like a hart,
+    And this is going to be a run.
+    Come on. I want to see the fun.
+    Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it."
+    He faced the fence and put her through it
+    Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him,
+    The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.
+    Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.
+    His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.
+
+
+
+
+THE RUN
+
+
+    The kestrel cruising over meadow
+    Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow,
+    Wee figures, almost at a stand,
+    Crossing the multi-coloured land,
+    Slow as a shadow on a dial.
+
+[Illustration: Some horses, swerving at a trial]
+
+    Some horses, swerving at a trial,
+    Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.
+    The mud about the gates was dunched.
+    Like German cheese; men pushed for places,
+    And kicked the mud into the faces
+    Of those who made them room to pass.
+    The half-mile's gallop on the grass,
+    Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.
+
+[Illustration: At gates they bunched]
+
+    "His point's the Banner Barton Wood."
+    "That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this."
+    "You're right in that; by Jove it is."
+    "An up-wind travelling fox, by George."
+    "They say Tom viewed him at the forge."
+    "Well, let me pass and let's be on."
+
+    They crossed the lane to Tolderton,
+    The hill-marl died to valley clay,
+    And there before them ran the grey
+    Yell Water, swirling as it ran,
+    The Yell Brook of the hunting man.
+    The hunters eyed it and were grim.
+    They saw the water snaking slim
+    Ahead, like silver; they could see
+    (Each man) his pollard willow tree
+    Firming the bank, they felt their horses
+    Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces;
+    They heard the men behind draw near.
+    Each horse was trembling as a spear
+    Trembles in hand when tense to hurl,
+    They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.
+    The willow-roots like water-snakes;
+    The beaten holes the ratten makes,
+    They heard the water's rush; they heard
+    Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird;
+    A faint cry from the hounds ahead,
+    Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,
+    Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,
+    The sick hope that the bank be staunch,
+    Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.
+    Maroon across, Sir Peter's white
+    Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh
+    Mud to the hat but over, too,
+    Well splashed by Squire who was in.
+
+    With draggled pink stuck close to skin,
+    The Squire leaned from bank and hauled
+    His mired horse's rein; he bawled
+    For help from each man racing by.
+    "What, help you pull him out? Not I.
+    What made you pull him in?" they said.
+    Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,
+    And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream."
+    Ock Gurney in a cloud of steam
+    Stood by his dripping cob and wrung
+    The taste of brook mud from his tongue
+    And scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean.
+    "Lord, what a crowner we've a been,
+    This jumping brook's a mucky job."
+    He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob.
+    Now sir, let me." He turned to Squire
+    And cleared his hunter from the mire
+    By skill and sense and strength of arm.
+
+
+
+
+FULL CRY
+
+
+    Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm,
+    Keeping the spinney on his right.
+    Hounds raced him here with all their might
+    Along the short firm grass, like fire.
+    The cowman viewed him from the byre
+    Lolloping on, six fields ahead,
+    Then hounds, still carrying such a head,
+    It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,
+    Sailing the great grass like a ship,
+    Then grand Maroon in all his glory
+    Sweeping his strides, his great chest hoary
+    With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.
+    They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,
+    They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,
+    Raced up the spur of Gallows Hill
+    And viewed him there. The line he took
+    Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook,
+    Going like fun and hounds like mad.
+    Tom glanced to see what friends he had
+    Still within sight, before he turned
+    The ridge's shoulder; he discerned,
+    One field away, young Cothill sailing
+    Easily up. Pete Gurney failing,
+    Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,
+    Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,
+    Sal Ridden skirting to the right.
+    A horse, with stirrups flashing bright
+    Over his head at every stride,
+    Looked like the Major's; Tom espied
+    Far back, a scarlet speck of man
+    Running, and straddling as he ran.
+    Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,
+    Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed
+    Clumsy, but with the strength of ten.
+    Then black and brown and scarlet men,
+    Brown horses, white and black and grey
+    Scattered a dozen fields away.
+    The shoulder shut the scene away.
+
+[Illustration: Sixth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse
+    There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops,
+    All wet red clay where a horse's foot
+    Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.
+    The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,
+    Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm,
+    The rooks rose raving to curse him raw
+    He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.
+    Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field
+    Where a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled,
+    With a bay horse near and a white horse leading,
+    And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding.
+    He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop
+    The stilts and swear at the team to stop.
+    The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs
+    Crying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs."
+    A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean
+    Arose from his wallet, nosing keen;
+    With a rushing swoop they were on his track,
+    Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.
+    He swerved from his line with the curs at heel,
+    The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel,
+    With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,
+    While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him."
+    The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,
+    And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,
+    Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash
+    Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.
+    The loitering water, flooded full,
+    Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,
+    It was wrinkled over with Arab script
+    Of eddies that twisted up and slipt.
+    The stepping stones had a rush about them
+    So the fox plunged in and swam without them.
+
+[Illustration: He swerved from his line with the curs at heel]
+
+    He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow
+    Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow,
+    He wrung his coat from his draggled bones
+    And romped away for the Sarsen Stones.
+
+    A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back,
+    Made sure that his scent had failed the pack,
+    For the red clay, good for corn and roses,
+    Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.
+    He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree,
+    (A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three),
+    He wriggled a shake and padded slow,
+    Not sure if the hounds were on or no.
+
+    A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds
+    Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds,
+    The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,
+    And the hounds were lifted and on his line.
+    He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,
+    And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took,"
+    And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver,
+    Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.
+
+    The fox went off while the hounds made halt,
+    And the horses breathed and the field found fault,
+    But the whimpering rose to a crying crash
+    By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.
+    Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat,
+    And the green blades bent to the fox's feet
+    And the cry rose keen not far behind
+    Of the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    The fox was strong, he was full of running,
+    He could run for an hour and then be cunning,
+    But the cry behind him made him chill,
+    They were nearer now and they meant to kill.
+    They meant to run him until his blood
+    Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud,
+    Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging,
+    And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.
+    Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty,
+    With nothing but teeth against the thirty.
+    And all the way to that blinding end
+    He would meet with men and have none his friend.
+    Men to holloa and men to run him,
+    With stones to stagger and yells to stun him,
+    Men to head him, with whips to beat him,
+    Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.
+    And all the way, that wild high crying,
+    To cold his blood with the thought of dying,
+    The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder,
+    Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.
+    He upped his brush and went with a will
+    For the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church,
+    A christening party left the porch,
+    They stood stock still as he pounded by,
+    They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.
+    The toothless babe in his long white coat
+    Looked delicate meat, the fox took note;
+    But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,
+    Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.
+
+    Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste,
+    With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,
+    The fur on his chest blown dry with the air,
+    His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.
+    Over the Waste where the ganders grazed,
+    The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,
+    His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher,
+    He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.
+    The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren,
+    Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren.
+    The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,
+    And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth.
+    He had rabbitted there long months before,
+    The earths were deep and his need was sore,
+    The way was new, but he took a vearing,
+    And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.
+
+    Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,
+    Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green;
+    Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,
+    And up Midwinter to King of Spain.
+    Old Joe at digging his garden grounds,
+    Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds?
+    O lord, my back, to be young again,
+    'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain.
+    O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.
+    Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.
+    And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.
+    Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.
+    Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly.
+    Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,
+    Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,
+    With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.
+    Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying.
+    Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying.
+    There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past
+    (As I was digging) as fast as fast.
+    He's only been gone a minute by;
+    A girt dark dog as pert as pye."
+
+    Ellen and Susan came out scattering
+    Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering;
+    They saw the pack come head to foot
+    Running like racers nearly mute;
+    Robin and Dansey quartering near,
+    All going gallop like startled deer.
+    A half dozen flitting scarlets shewing
+    In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.
+    Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring
+    Sending the partridge coveys whirring,
+    Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane,
+    It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.
+
+    Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,
+    Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter,
+    Out they came from the sawdust floor,
+    They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor."
+
+    The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,
+    With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks,
+    Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line
+    Of the larch-wood smelling of turpentine.
+    Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,
+    A sadness breathing with one long sigh,
+    Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes,
+    A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.
+    As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,
+    Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe,
+    He swerved to the left to a broad green ride,
+    Where a boy made him rush for the further side.
+    He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,
+    But there were the timberers come to load.
+    Two timber carts and a couple of carters
+    With straps round their knees instead of garters.
+    He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,
+    The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.
+    He leaped from the larch wood into tillage,
+    The cobbler's garden of Barton village.
+
+    The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,
+    Beating sprigs in a broken boot;
+    He wore old glasses with thick horn rim,
+    He scowled at his work for his sight was dim.
+    His face was dingy, his lips were grey,
+    From primming sparrowbills day by day;
+    As he turned his boot he heard a noise
+    At his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys."
+    He saw his cat nip up on the shed,
+    Where her back arched up till it touched her head,
+    He saw his rabbit race round and round
+    Its little black box three feet from ground.
+    His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch,
+    "That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search."
+    He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,
+    When he saw a fox in his garden path.
+    The fox swerved left and scrambled out
+    Knocking crinked green shells from the Brussels Sprout,
+    He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,
+    And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,
+    Across the plough at the top of bent,
+    Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,
+    Over to Aldams, up to Cappells,
+    Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples,
+    Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres,
+    Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears,
+    Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak,
+    Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke,
+    Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,
+    Where the wind-washed steeple stood serene
+    With its golden bird still sailing air,
+    Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,
+    Past Maddings Hollow, down Dundry Dip,
+    And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.
+
+[Illustration: Seventh colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The three black firs of the Ship stood still
+    On the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill,
+    The fox looked back as he slackened past
+    The scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.
+
+
+
+
+VIEW HALLOO
+
+
+    There they were coming, mute but swift,
+    A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,
+    A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,
+    And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.
+    Stormcock leading, his stern spear-straight,
+    Racing as though for a piece of plate,
+    Little speck horsemen field on field;
+    Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed
+
+[Illustration: A white horse rising, a dark horse flying.]
+
+    At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic,
+    Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,
+    Up went Skylark as Antic sped
+    It was zest to blood how they carried head.
+    Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by,
+    Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.
+
+    The fox knew well, that before they tore him,
+    They should try their speed on the downs before him,
+    There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,
+    But his heart was high, that he beat them still.
+    The wind of the downland charmed his bones
+    So off he went for the Sarsen Stones.
+
+    The moan of the three great firs in the wind,
+    And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind,
+    Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breath
+    On the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death;
+    Larks scattered up; the peewits feeding
+    Rose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.
+    The hare leaped up from her form and swerved
+    Swift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.
+    On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinking
+    Cried sweet, as though wind blown glass were chinking.
+    Behind came thudding and loud halloo
+    Or a cry from hounds as they came to view.
+
+    The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs,
+    Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues,
+    In a three mile more he would reach the haven
+    In the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven,
+    In a three mile more he would make his berth
+    On the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,
+    Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier,
+    With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.
+    In a three mile more he would reach his dream,
+    So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.
+    Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore,
+    The lean red bolt of his body tore,
+    Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass,
+    Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,
+    Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing,
+    When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,
+    Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,
+    Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath,
+    Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping,
+    Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping,
+    Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,
+    With his shadow beside like spinning drift.
+    Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails,
+    Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,
+    Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps,
+    And none but the tumbling peewit weeps,
+    Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner
+    Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner,
+    Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece,
+    Where all winds hurry and none brings peace,
+    Then down, on the mile-long green decline
+    Where the turf's like spring and the air's like wine,
+    Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill
+    Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    On he went with a galloping rally
+    Past Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley,
+    The blood in his veins went romping high,
+    "Get on, on, on to the earth or die."
+    The air of the downs went purely past,
+    Till he felt the glory of going fast,
+    Till the terror of death, though there indeed,
+    Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed;
+    He was romping away from hounds and hunt,
+    He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front,
+    In a one mile more when his point was made,
+    He would rest in safety from dog or spade;
+    Nose between paws he would hear the shout
+    Of the "gone to earth" to the hounds without,
+    The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.
+    Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding,
+    He would hear the horn call hounds away,
+    And rest in peace till another day.
+    In one mile more he would lie at rest
+    So for one mile more he would go his best.
+    He reached the dip at the long droop's end
+    And he took what speed he had still to spend.
+
+    So down past Maesbury beech clump grey,
+    That would not be green till the end of May,
+    Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,
+    Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,
+    Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's Thorn
+    To Thirty Acre all thin with corn.
+    As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook,
+    The pack had view of the way he took,
+    Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,
+    He capped them on till they did their best.
+    The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brink
+    Was raced as quick as a man can think.
+    And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling,
+    The fox first felt that the pace was telling,
+    His body and lungs seemed all grown old,
+    His legs less certain, his heart less bold,
+    The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper,
+    The thud in the blood of his body deeper,
+    His pride in his speed, his joy in the race
+    Were withered away, for what use was pace?
+    He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.
+    Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.
+    Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,
+    And his fur felt sick and his chest was tagged
+    With taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,
+    It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.
+    Down he went to the brook and over,
+    Out of the corn and into the clover,
+    Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains,
+    Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,
+    Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke rings
+    Where the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.
+
+[Illustration: Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged]
+
+    Seven Sarsens of granite grim,
+    As he ran them by they looked at him;
+    As he leaped the lip of their earthen paling
+    The hounds were gaining and he was failing.
+
+    He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,
+    He pressed up hill to the blasted fir,
+    He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered;
+    "He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."
+    At the second attempt he cleared the fence,
+    He turned half right where the gorse was dense,
+    He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.
+    He was past his best, but his earth was near.
+    He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp,
+    The steep green wall of the dead men's camp,
+    He sidled up it and scampered down
+    To the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.
+
+    Within, as he reached that soft green turf,
+    The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf,
+    Desolate ramparts rose up steep,
+    On either side, for the ghosts to keep.
+
+    He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,
+    Close grown with moss which the wind made barren,
+    He passed the spring where the rushes spread,
+    And there in the stones was his earth ahead.
+    One last short burst upon failing feet,
+    There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,
+    Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.
+
+    The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.
+
+
+
+
+LAST HOPE
+
+
+[Illustration: A mask]
+
+    With hounds at head so close behind
+    He had to run as he changed his mind.
+    This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but still
+    There was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill.
+    A rabbit burrow a furlong on,
+    He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.
+    Though his death seemed near he did not blench
+    He upped his brush and he ran the trench.
+
+    He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,
+    Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.
+    Down in the valley of that dark gash
+    The wind-withered grasses looked like ash.
+    Trickles of stones and earth fell down
+    In that dark valley of dead men's town.
+    A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers,
+    From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.
+    He heard no noise from the hounds behind
+    But the hill-wind moaning like something blind.
+
+    He turned the bend in the hill and there
+    Was his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare,
+    But there with a gun tucked under his arm
+    Was young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm,
+    With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbit
+    Into a net which was set to nab it.
+    And young Jack Cole peered over the wall
+    And loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"
+    The terrier pup attacked with a will,
+    So the fox swerved right and away down hill.
+
+    Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ran
+    To the brackeny patch where the gorse began,
+    Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hid
+    The line he took from the eyes of Sid
+    He swerved down wind and ran like a hare
+    For the wind-blown spinney below him there.
+
+    He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark
+    (There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark)
+    He saw no more of the terrier pup.
+    But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.
+
+    He crossed the spinney with ears intent
+    For the cry of hounds on the way he went,
+    His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,
+    He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,
+    He was past his perfect, his strength was failing,
+    His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.
+    He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town,
+    That in one mile more they would have him down.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+
+
+
+CHECKED
+
+
+[Illustration: They had ceased to run, they had come to check]
+
+    Through the withered oak's wind-crouching tops
+    He saw men's scarlet above the copse,
+    He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slacken
+    In the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.
+
+    He felt that the unseen link which bound
+    His spine to the nose of the leading hound,
+    Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knew
+    Which way to follow nor what to do;
+    That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,
+    They had ceased to run, they had come to check,
+    They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.
+
+    The terrier's chase had killed his scent.
+
+    He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,
+    He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,
+    But there came no cry from a new attack,
+    His heart grew steady, his breath came back.
+
+    He left the spinney and ran its edge,
+    By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,
+    Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,
+    Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadow
+    Over the track called Godsdown Road,
+    To the great grass heave of the gods' abode,
+    He was moving now upon land he knew
+    Up Clench Royal and Morton Tew,
+    The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,
+    High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,
+    Land he had roved on night by night,
+    For hot blood suckage or furry bite,
+    The threat of the hounds behind was gone;
+    He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.
+    While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,
+    Robin on Pip came heaving up,
+    And found his pack spread out at check.
+    "I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"
+    He said, "You see? He's spoiled our sport.
+    He's killed the scent." He broke off short,
+    And stared at hounds and at the valley.
+    No jay or magpie gave a rally
+    Down in the copse, no circling rooks
+    Rose over fields; old Joyful's looks
+    Were doubtful in the gorse, the pack
+    Quested both up and down and back.
+    He watched each hound for each small sign.
+    They tried, but could not hit the line,
+    The scent was gone. The field took place
+    Out of the way of hounds. The pace
+    Had tailed them out; though four remained:
+
+    Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stained
+    Red from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,
+    Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.
+    The Colonel with Marauder beat.
+    They turned towards a thud of feet;
+    Dansey, and then young Cothill came
+    (His chestnut mare was galloped tame).
+    "There's Copse, a field behind," he said.
+    "Those last miles put them all to bed.
+    They're strung along the downs like flies."
+    Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise.
+    "Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
+
+[Illustration:
+"Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
+"They cannot own it; you must cast."]
+
+    "They cannot own it; you must cast,"
+    Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,
+    Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drew
+    Up wind, down hill, by spinney side.
+    They tried the brambled ditch; they tried
+    The swamp, all choked with bright green grass
+    And clumps of rush and pools like glass,
+    Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.
+    They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,
+    But no hound spoke to it or feathered.
+    The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,
+    The men mopped brows. "An hour's hard run.
+    Ten miles," they said, "we must have done.
+    It's all of six from Colston's Gorses."
+    The lucky got their second horses.
+
+    The time ticked by. "He's lost," they muttered.
+    A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.
+    Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.
+    They drew down wind along the bank,
+    (The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,
+    Grown with dwarf oak and juniper
+    Like dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.
+    The seepings made the ground one soak.
+    They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.
+    Then Robin shifted in his seat
+    Watching for signs, but no signs shewed.
+    "I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,
+    Beyond the spinney," Robin said.
+    Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.
+
+    Beyond the copse a great grass fallow
+    Stretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,
+    A rolling grass where hounds grew keen.
+    "Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,"
+    Said Robin, eager at their joy.
+    "Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.
+    They're on to him."
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+
+
+
+"ON"
+
+
+                      At his reminders
+    The keen hounds hurried to the finders.
+    The finding hounds began to hurry,
+    Men jammed their hats prepared to skurry,
+    The Ai Ai of the cry began.
+    Its spirit passed to horse and man,
+    The skirting hounds romped to the cry.
+    Hound after hound cried Ai Ai Ai,
+    Till all were crying, running, closing,
+    Their heads well up and no heads nosing,
+    Joyful ahead with spear-straight stern.
+    They raced the great slope to the burn.
+    Robin beside them, Tom behind,
+    Pointing past Robin down the wind.
+
+    For there, two furlongs on, he viewed
+    On Holy Hill or Cheddesdon Rood
+    Just where the ploughland joined the grass,
+    A speck down the first furrow pass,
+    A speck the colour of the plough.
+    "Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"
+    He cried. The speck passed slowly on,
+    It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.
+
+    Then down the slope and up the Rood,
+    Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown Wood
+    Dropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.
+    Over the Rood to High Clench Valley
+    The gallop led; the red-coats scattered,
+    The fragments of the hunt were tattered
+    Over five fields, ev'n since the check.
+
+[Illustration:
+Then down the slope and up the Rood,
+Went the hunt's gallop.]
+
+    "A dead fox or a broken neck,"
+    Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane."
+    The hunter leant against the rein,
+    Cocking his ears, he loved to see
+    The hounds at cry. The hounds and he
+    The chiefs in all that feast of pace.
+
+    The speck in front began to race.
+    The fox heard hounds get on to his line,
+    And again the terror went down his spine,
+    Again the back of his neck felt cold,
+    From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold.
+    But his legs were rested, his heart was good,
+    He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood,
+    It was four miles more, but an earth at end,
+    So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.
+
+[Illustration: The fox heard hounds get on to his line]
+
+    Down the great grass slope which the oak trees dot
+    With a swerve to the right from the keeper's cot,
+    Over High Clench brook in its channel deep,
+    To the grass beyond, where he ran to sheep.
+    The sheep formed line like a troop of horse,
+    They swerved, as he passed, to front his course
+    From behind, as he ran, a cry arose,
+    "See the sheep, there. Watch them. There he goes."
+
+    He ran the sheep that their smell might check
+    The hounds from his scent and save his neck,
+    But in two fields more he was made aware
+    That the hounds still ran; Tom had viewed him there.
+
+[Illustration:
+He ran the sheep that their smell might check
+The hounds from his scent and save his neck.]
+
+    Tom had held them on through the taint of sheep,
+    They had kept his line, as they meant to keep,
+    They were running hard with a burning scent,
+    And Robin could see which way he went.
+    The pace that he went brought strain to breath,
+    He knew as he ran that the grass was death.
+    He ran the slope towards Morton Tew
+    That the heave of the hill might stop the view,
+    Then he doubled down to the Blood Brook red,
+    And swerved upstream in the brook's deep bed.
+
+    He splashed the shallows, he swam the deeps,
+    He crept by banks as a moorhen creeps,
+    He heard the hounds shoot over his line,
+    And go on, on, on towards Cheddesdon Zine.
+
+    In the minute's peace he could slacken speed,
+    The ease from the strain was sweet indeed.
+    Cool to the pads the water flowed,
+    He reached the bridge on the Cheddesdon road.
+
+    As he came to light from the culvert dim,
+    Two boys on the bridge looked down on him;
+    They were young Bill Ripple and Harry Meun,
+    "Look, there be squirrel, a-swimmin', see 'un."
+    "Noa, ben't a squirrel, be fox, be fox.
+    Now, Hal, get pebble, we'll give en socks."
+    "Get pebble, Billy, dub un a plaster;
+    There's for thy belly, I'll learn ee, master."
+
+[Illustration: He raced from brook in a burst of shies]
+
+    The stones splashed spray in the fox's eyes,
+    He raced from brook in a burst of shies,
+    He ran for the reeds in the withy car,
+    Where the dead flags shake and the wild-duck are.
+
+    He pushed through the reeds which cracked at his passing,
+    To the High Clench Water, a grey pool glassing,
+    He heard Bill Ripple in Cheddesdon road
+    Shout, "This way, huntsman, it's here he goed."
+
+
+
+
+THE LIFTING HORN
+
+
+    The Leu Leu Leu went the soft horn's laughter,
+    The hounds (they had checked) came romping after,
+    The clop of the hooves on the road was plain,
+    Then the crackle of reeds, then cries again.
+
+    A whimpering first, then Robin's cheer,
+    Then the Ai Ai Ai; they were all too near;
+    His swerve had brought but a minute's rest,
+    Now he ran again, and he ran his best.
+
+    With a crackle of dead dry stalks of reed
+    The hounds came romping at topmost speed,
+    The redcoats ducked as the great hooves skittered
+    The Blood Brook's shallows to sheets that glittered;
+    With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,
+    Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick."
+    Like a running fire the dead reeds crackled
+    The hounds' heads lifted, their necks were hackled.
+    Tom cried to Bob as they thundered through,
+    "He is running short, we shall kill at Tew."
+    Bob cried to Tom as they rode in team,
+    "I was sure, that time, that he turned up-stream.
+    As the hounds went over the brook in stride,
+    I saw old Daffodil fling to side,
+    So I guessed at once, when they checked beyond."
+    The ducks flew up from the Morton Pond.
+    The fox looked up at their tailing strings,
+    He wished (perhaps) that a fox had wings.
+    Wings with his friends in a great V straining
+    The autumn sky when the moon is gaining;
+    For better the grey sky's solitude,
+    Than to be two miles from the Mourne End Wood
+    With the hounds behind, clean-trained to run,
+    And your strength half spent and your breath half done.
+    Better the reeds and the sky and water
+    Than that hopeless pad from a certain slaughter.
+    At the Morton Pond the fields began,
+    Long Tew's green meadows; he ran; he ran.
+
+[Illustration:
+With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,
+Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick."]
+
+    First the six green fields that make a mile,
+    With the lip-full Clench at the side the while,
+    With the rooks above, slow-circling, shewing
+    The world of men where a fox was going;
+    The fields all empty, dead grass, bare hedges,
+    And the brook's bright gleam in the dark of sedges.
+    To all things else he was dumb and blind,
+    He ran, with the hounds a field behind.
+
+
+
+
+MOURNE END WOOD
+
+
+    At the sixth green field came the long slow climb,
+    To the Mourne End Wood as old as time
+    Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows,
+    Oak woods green with the mistletoes,
+    Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep
+    With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep.
+    He saw his point on the heaving hill,
+    He had failing flesh and a reeling will,
+    He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff,
+    He saw black woods, which would shelter--
+      If--
+    Nothing else, but the steepening slope,
+    And a black line nodding, a line of hope,
+    The line of the yews on the long slope's brow,
+    A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now.
+    A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed,
+    They yelled to have him this side the wood;
+    Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them
+    With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them.
+    Then up went hackles as Shatterer led,
+    "Mob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead.
+    Turn him, damn it; Yooi, beauties, beat him.
+    O God, let them get him; let them eat him.
+    O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed,
+    If you'll let us get him this side the wood."
+
+    But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone,
+    The pack went wild up the hill alone.
+    Three hundred yards, and the worst was past,
+    The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed,
+    The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall
+    On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall.
+    He saw the skeleton trees show sky,
+    And the yew trees darken to see him die,
+    And the line of the woods go reeling black,
+    There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack.
+
+    Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller,
+    Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller
+    Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping
+    Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping.
+    He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting,
+    Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting,
+    The hounds were gaining like spotted pards
+    And the wood-hedge still was a hundred yards.
+    The wood-hedge black was a two year, quick
+    Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick
+    Thorns all over, and strongly plied,
+    With a clean red ditch on the take-off side.
+
+    He saw it now as a redness, topped
+    With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped,
+    Spiky to leap on, stiff to force,
+    No safe jump for a failing horse,
+    But beyond it, darkness of yews together,
+    Dark green plumes over soft brown feather,
+    Darkness of woods where scents were blowing
+    Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going,
+    Scents that might draw these hounds away.
+    So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay.
+
+[Illustration:
+He saw it now as a redness, topped
+With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped.]
+
+    Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back,
+    All his strength seemed to draw the pack,
+    The trees drew over him dark like Norns,
+    He was over the ditch and at the thorns.
+
+    He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield,
+    He leaped, but fell, in sight of the field,
+    The hounds went wild as they saw him fall,
+    The fence stood stiff like a Bucks flint wall.
+
+    He gathered himself for a new attempt,
+    His life before was an old dream dreamt,
+    All that he was was a blown fox quaking,
+    Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking,
+    While over the grass in crowd, in cry,
+    Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die,
+    The eyes intense, dull, smouldering red,
+    The fell like a ruff round each keen head,
+    The pace like fire, and scarlet men
+    Galloping, yelling, "Yooi, eat him, then."
+    He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached
+    The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached,
+    He steadied a second and then leaped down
+    To the dark of the wood where bright things drown.
+
+    He swerved, sharp right, under young green firs.
+    Robin called on the Dane with spurs,
+    He cried "Come, Dansey: if God's not good,
+    We shall change our fox in this Mourne End wood."
+    Tom cried back as he charged like spate,
+    "Mine can't jump that, I must ride to gate."
+    Robin answered, "I'm going at him.
+    I'll kill that fox, if he kills me, drat him.
+    We'll kill in covert. Gerr on, now, Dane."
+    He gripped him tight and he made it plain,
+    He slowed him down till he almost stood
+    While his hounds went crash into Mourne End Wood.
+
+    Like a dainty dancer with footing nice,
+    The Dane turned side for a leap in twice.
+    He cleared the ditch to the red clay bank,
+    He rose at the fence as his quarters sank,
+    He barged the fence as the bank gave way
+    And down he came in a fall of clay.
+
+    Robin jumped off him and gasped for breath;
+    He said, "That's lost him, as sure as death.
+    They've over-run him. Come up, the Dane,
+    But I'll kill him yet, if we ride to Spain."
+
+    He scrambled up to his horse's back,
+    He thrust through cover, he called his pack,
+    He cheered them on till they made it good,
+    Where the fox had swerved inside the wood.
+    The fox knew well, as he ran the dark,
+    That the headlong hounds were past their mark.
+    They had missed his swerve and had overrun.
+    But their devilish play was not yet done.
+
+
+
+
+"DONE"
+
+
+    For a minute he ran and heard no sound,
+    Then a whimper came from a questing hound,
+    Then a "This way, beauties," and then "Leu Leu,"
+    The floating laugh of the horn that blew.
+    Then the cry again and the crash and rattle
+    Of the shrubs burst back as they ran to battle.
+    Till the wood behind seemed risen from root,
+    Crying and crashing to give pursuit,
+    Till the trees seemed hounds and the air seemed cry,
+    And the earth so far that he needs but die,
+    Die where he reeled in the woodland dim
+    With a hound's white grips in the spine of him;
+    For one more burst he could spurt, and then
+    Wait for the teeth, and the wrench, and men.
+
+    He made his spurt for the Mourne End rocks,
+    The air blew rank with the taint of fox;
+    The yews gave way to a greener space
+    Of great stones strewn in a grassy place.
+    And there was his earth at the great grey shoulder,
+    Sunk in the ground, of a granite boulder
+    A dry deep burrow with rocky roof,
+    Proof against crowbars, terrier-proof,
+    Life to the dying, rest for bones.
+
+    The earth was stopped; it was filled with stones.
+
+    Then, for a moment, his courage failed,
+    His eyes looked up as his body quailed,
+    Then the coming of death, which all things dread,
+    Made him run for the wood ahead.
+
+[Illustration: There were foxes there]
+
+    The taint of fox was rank on the air,
+    He knew, as he ran, there were foxes there.
+    His strength was broken, his heart was bursting,
+    His bones were rotten, his throat was thirsting,
+    His feet were reeling, his brush was thick
+    From dragging the mud, and his brain was sick.
+    He thought as he ran of his old delight
+    In the wood in the moon in an April night,
+    His happy hunting, his winter loving,
+    The smells of things in the midnight roving;
+    The look of his dainty-nosing, red
+    Clean-felled dam with her footpad's tread,
+    Of his sire, so swift, so game, so cunning
+    With craft in his brain and power of running,
+    Their fights of old when his teeth drew blood.
+    Now he was sick, with his coat all mud.
+
+    He crossed the covert, he crawled the bank,
+    To a meuse in the thorns and there he sank,
+    With his ears flexed back and his teeth shown white,
+    In a rat's resolve for a dying bite.
+
+
+
+
+PRIZE
+
+
+    And there, as he lay, he saw the vale,
+    That a struggling sunlight silvered pale,
+    The Deerlip Brook like a strip of steel,
+    The Nun's Wood Yews where the rabbits squeal,
+    The great grass square of the Roman Fort,
+    And the smoke in the elms at Crendon Court.
+
+    And above the smoke in the elm-tree tops,
+    Was the beech-clump's blue, Blown Hilcote Copse,
+    Where he and his mates had long made merry
+    In the bloody joys of the rabbit-herry.
+
+    And there as he lay and looked, the cry
+    Of the hounds at head came rousing by;
+    He bent his bones in the blackthorn dim.
+    But the cry of the hounds was not for him,
+    Over the fence with a crash they went,
+    Belly to grass, with a burning scent,
+    Then came Dansey, yelling to Bob,
+    "They've changed, O damn it, now here's a job."
+    And Bob yelled back, "Well, we cannot turn 'em,
+    It's Jumper and Antic, Tom; we'll learn 'em.
+    We must just go on, and I hope we kill."
+    They followed hounds down the Mourne End Hill.
+    The fox lay still in the rabbit-meuse,
+    On the dry brown dust of the plumes of yews.
+    In the bottom below a brook went by,
+    Blue, in a patch, like a streak of sky.
+    There, one by one, with a clink of stone,
+    Came a red or dark coat on a horse half blown.
+    And man to man with a gasp for breath
+    Said, "Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death."
+
+[Illustration:
+And man to man with a gasp for breath
+Said, "Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death."]
+
+    After an hour, no riders came,
+    The day drew by like an ending game;
+    A robin sang from a pufft red breast,
+    The fox lay quiet and took his rest.
+    A wren on a tree-stump carolled clear,
+    Then the starlings wheeled in a sudden sheer,
+    The rooks came home to the twiggy hive
+    In the elm-tree tops which the winds do drive.
+    Then the noise of the rooks fell slowly still,
+    And the lights came out in the Clench Brook Mill
+    Then a pheasant cocked, then an owl began
+    With the cry that curdles the blood of man.
+
+    The stars grew bright as the yews grew black,
+    The fox rose stiffly and stretched his back.
+    He flaired the air, then he padded out
+    To the valley below him dark as doubt,
+    Winter-thin with the young green crops,
+    For Old Cold Crendon and Hilcote Copse.
+
+
+
+
+HOME
+
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    As he crossed the meadows at Naunton Larking,
+    The dogs in the town all started barking,
+    For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,
+    The hounds and the hunt were limping home:
+    Limping home in the dark, dead-beaten,
+    The hounds all rank from a fox they'd eaten,
+    Dansey saying to Robin Dawe,
+    "The fastest and longest I ever saw."
+    And Robin answered, "O Tom, 'twas good,
+    I thought they'd changed in the Mourne End Wood,
+    But now I feel that they did not change.
+    We've had a run that was great and strange;
+    And to kill in the end, at dusk, on grass.
+    We'll turn to the Cock and take a glass,
+    For the hounds, poor souls, are past their forces.
+    And a gallon of ale for our poor horses,
+    And some bits of bread for the hounds, poor things,
+    After all they've done (for they've done like kings),
+    Would keep them going till we get in.
+    We had it alone from Nun's Wood Whin."
+    Then Tom replied, "If they changed or not,
+    There've been few runs longer and none more hot,
+    We shall talk of to-day until we die."
+
+[Illustration:
+For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,
+The hounds and the hunt were limping home.]
+
+    The stars grew bright in the winter sky,
+    The wind came keen with a tang of frost,
+    The brook was troubled for new things lost,
+    The copse was happy for old things found,
+    The fox came home and he went to ground.
+    And the hunt came home and the hounds were fed,
+    They climbed to their bench and went to bed,
+    The horses in stable loved their straw.
+    "Good-night, my beauties," said Robin Dawe.
+
+    Then the moon came quiet and flooded full
+    Light and beauty on clouds like wool,
+    On a feasted fox at rest from hunting,
+    In the beech wood grey where the brocks were grunting.
+
+[Illustration: Eighth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The beech wood grey rose dim in the night
+    With moonlight fallen in pools of light,
+    The long dead leaves on the ground were rimed.
+    A clock struck twelve and the church-bells chimed.
+
+
+Printed in the United States of America.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+Words surrounded by _ are italicized.
+
+All author's punctuations retained.
+
+All apparent printer's errors and variable spellings retained, including
+variable usage of hyphen (e.g. "goodwill" and "good-will") and any other
+variable spellings.
+
+Descriptions added to captionless illustrations.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
+
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+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield.
+    </title>
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reynard the Fox
+
+Author: John Masefield
+
+Illustrator: Carton Moorepark
+
+Release Date: November 18, 2011 [EBook #38052]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REYNARD THE FOX ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Judith Wirawan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="557" alt="Cover" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+<h1>REYNARD THE FOX</h1>
+
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<img src="images/colophon.jpg" width="200" height="65" alt="Publisher's emblem" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<h4>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br />
+
+<span class="smcap">new york &middot; boston &middot; chicago &middot; dallas<br />
+atlanta &middot; san fransisco</span></h4>
+
+
+<h4>MACMILLAN &amp; CO., <span class="smcap">Limited<br />
+
+london &middot; bombay &middot; calcutta<br />
+melbourne</span></h4>
+
+
+<h4>THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, <span class="smcap">Ltd.<br />
+
+toronto</span></h4>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Frontispiece" id="Frontispiece"></a>&nbsp;</span>
+<img src="images/illus004.jpg" width="600" height="454" alt="Frontispiece: First colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h1>REYNARD THE FOX</h1>
+
+<h3>BY</h3>
+
+<h2>JOHN MASEFIELD</h2>
+
+<h5>NEW EDITION WITH EIGHT PLATES IN COLOUR AND<br />
+MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY</h5>
+
+<h3>CARTON MOOREPARK</h3>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 195px;">
+<img src="images/illus005.jpg" width="195" height="250" alt="Ex libris Reynards" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<h4>New York<br />
+THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br />
+1920<br />
+<i>All rights reserved</i></h4>
+
+<h5><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1919 and 1920,</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">By</span> JOHN MASEFIELD.</h5>
+
+<h5>New illustrated edition, October, 1920.</h5>
+
+
+<h5>Norwood Press<br />
+J. S. Cushing Co.&mdash;Berwick &amp; Smith Co.<br />
+Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.</h5>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+
+<p>I have been asked to write why I wrote this poem of "Reynard
+the Fox." As a man grows older, life becomes more interesting
+but less easy to know; for, late in life, even the strongest yields
+to the habit of his compartment. When he cannot range through
+all society, from the court to the gutter, a man must go where
+all society meets, as at the Pilgrimage, the Festival or the Game.
+Here in England the Game is both a festival and an occasion of
+pilgrimage. A man wanting to set down a picture of the society
+of England will find his models at the games.</p>
+
+<p>What are the English games? The man's game is Association
+football; the woman's game, perhaps, hockey or lacrosse. Golf
+I regard more as a symptom of a happy marriage than a game.
+Cricket, which was once widely popular among both sexes has lost
+its hold, except among the young. The worst of all these games
+is that few can play them at a time.</p>
+
+<p>But in the English country, during the autumn, winter and
+early spring of each year, the main sport is fox hunting, which
+is not like cricket or football, a game for a few and a spectacle
+for many, but something in which all who come may take a part,
+whether rich or poor, mounted or on foot. It is a sport loved and
+followed by both sexes, all ages and all classes. At a fox hunt,
+and nowhere else in England, except perhaps at a funeral, can
+you see the whole of the land's society brought together, focussed
+for the observer, as the Canterbury pilgrims were for Chaucer.</p>
+
+<p>This fact made the subject attractive. The fox hunt gave an
+opportunity for a picture or pictures of the members of an English
+community.</p>
+
+<p>Then to all Englishmen who have lived in a hunting country,
+hunting is in the blood, and the mind is full of it. It is the most
+beautiful and the most stirring sight to be seen in England. In
+the ports, as at Falmouth, there are ships under sail, under way,
+coming or going, beautiful unspeakably. In the country, especially
+on the great fields on the lower slopes of the Downland, the
+teams of the ploughmen may be seen bowing forward on a sky-line,
+and this sight can never fail to move one by its majesty of
+beauty. But in neither of these sights of beauty is there the
+bright colour and swift excitement of the hunt, nor the thrill of
+the horn, and the cry of the hounds ringing into the elements of
+the soul. Something in the hunt wakens memories hidden in the
+marrow, racial memories, of when one hunted for the tribe, animal
+memories, perhaps, of when one hunted with the pack, or was
+hunted.</p>
+
+<p>Hunting has always been popular here in England. In ancient
+times it was necessary. Wolves, wild boar, foxes and deer had
+to be kept down. To hunt was then the social duty of the mounted
+man, when he was not engaged in war. It was also the opportunity
+of all other members of the community to have a good time in
+the open, with a feast or a new fur at the end, to crown the
+pleasure.</p>
+
+<p>Since arms of precision were made, hunting on horseback with
+hounds has perhaps been unnecessary everywhere, but it is not
+easy to end a pleasure rooted in the instincts of men. Hunting
+has continued, and probably will continue, in this country and
+in Ireland. It is rapidly becoming a national sport in the United
+States.</p>
+
+<p>Some have written, that hunting is the sport of the wealthy
+man. Some wealthy men hunt, no doubt, but they are not the
+backbone of the sport, so much as those who love and use horses.
+Parts of this country, of Ireland and of the United States are more
+than ordinarily good pasture, fitted for the breeding of horses,
+beyond most other places in the world. Hardly anywhere else
+is the climate so equable, the soil so right for the feet of colts and
+the grass so good. Where these conditions exist, men will breed
+horses and use them. Men who breed good horses will ride,
+jump and test them, and will invent means of riding, jumping
+and testing them, the steeplechase, the circus, the contests at
+fairs and shows, the point-to-point meeting, and they will preserve,
+if possible, any otherwise dying sport which offers such means.</p>
+
+<p>I have mentioned several reasons why fox hunting should be
+popular: (<i>a</i>) that it is a social business, at which the whole community
+may and does attend in vast numbers in a pleasant mood of
+goodwill, good humour and equality, and during which all may
+go anywhere, into ground otherwise shut to them; (<i>b</i>) that it is
+done in the winter, at a season when other social gatherings are
+difficult, and in country districts where no buildings, except the
+churches, could contain the numbers assembled; (<i>c</i>) that it is
+most beautiful to watch, so beautiful that perhaps very few of
+the acts of men can be so lovely to watch nor so exhilarating.
+The only thing to be compared with it, in this country, is the
+sword dance, the old heroical dancing of the young men, still
+practised, in all its splendour of wild beauty, in some country places;
+(<i>d</i>) that we are a horse-loving people who have loved horses as
+we have loved the sea, and have made, in the course of generations,
+a breed of horse, second to none in the world, for beauty
+and speed.</p>
+
+<p>But besides all these reasons, there is another that brings many
+out hunting. This is the delight in hunting, in the working of
+hounds, by themselves, or with the huntsmen, to find and kill
+their fox. Though many men and women hunt in order to ride,
+many still ride in order to hunt.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps this delight in hunting was more general in the mid-eighteenth
+century, when hounds were much slower than at
+present. Then, the hunt was indeed a test of hounds and huntsman.
+The fox was not run down but hunted down. The great
+run then was that in which hounds and huntsman kept to their
+fox. The great run now is perhaps that in which some few riders
+keep with the hounds.</p>
+
+<p>The ideal run of 1750 might have been described thus:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Being in the current of Writing, I cannot but acquaint your
+Lorp of ye great Hunt there was, this Tuesday last there was a
+a Week. Sure so great a day has not been seen here since The
+Day your Lorp's Father broke his Collar Bone at ye Park Wall.
+As Milton says:&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Well have we speeded, and o'er Hill and Dale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forest and Field and Flood ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As far as Indus east, Euphrates west."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"We had but dismle Weather of it, and so cold, as made Sir
+Harry observe, that it was an ill wind blew no-one any good.
+We met at ye Tailings. I had out my brown Horse. There was
+present Sir Anthony Smoaker; Mr. Jarvis of Copse Stile; William
+Travis; John Hawbuck; your Lorp's Friend, Dick Fancowe, and
+two of ye Red Coats from ye Barracks. Ye fair Sex was dismayed,
+it was said, by ye rudeness of ye Elements; they did not
+venture it.</p>
+
+<p>"On coming to draw Tailings Wood, Glider spoke to it, and
+Tom viewed him away for the Valley, being the old Dog Fox,
+with the white Mask, that beat us at Fubb's Field, the day your
+Lorp road Bluebell.</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Now spoke the chearful Horn; and tuneful Hounds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Echoed, and Red Coats gallopped; stirring Scean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rude Health and Manly Wit together strive.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"We went with the extream of Violence from Tailings Wood
+to ye small Coppice at Nap Hill where a Fellow put him from his
+Point, which gave Occasion to Sir Anthony to correct him. Ye
+little magpie Hound made it out in ye bog at ye back of ye Coppice,
+when again Hounds went at head through Long Stone Pastures
+as far as Tainton. Here we was delayed in ye Dear Park,
+the effluvia of ye Dear being extream strong and doubtless puzzling
+to the Noses of ye Hounds. And here I cannot but remark the
+skill with which ye Hounds worked it out till they had hit it
+off, a sight, as Mr. Jarvis remarked to me, worthy of the Admiration
+of an antient Philosopher, and of the eloquence of a most
+elegant Wit, or Poet. Leaving ye Dear Park, He made for Norton
+Cross, which he left on his left Hand, as though deciding for ye
+Hill. Crossing ye Hill, in Spite of ye Sheep, he was a little staggered
+by his being run by one of ye Shepherd's Doggs, a part of
+Creation that should not be tolerated, except in ye vision of ye
+Poet, as in a Pastoral or so. Here Joe Phillips, our Huntsman,
+made unavailing Casts, but by lifting to the Vineyard recovered
+him, when Hounds run him to Cow's Crookham, on your Lorp's
+Aston Estate.</p>
+
+<p>"By this Time, your Lorp will understand our Distress. Dick
+Fancowe was in ye Brook at Norton, Mr. Jarvis' grey Horse had
+cast a Shoe, and one of ye Red Coats had broak his Liver in falling
+at a Fence. For a time we went about to recover him:&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Now with attentive Nose the restless Hound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Endeavours on the Scent, now here, now there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scorning adulterat scents of lesser Prey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now gloomy care invades the Huntsman's Face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Sportsmen (jovial erst) on weary steeds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sit pensive."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Here might well be seen the Advantages of a judicious Breeding in
+Hounds, that neglects not the intellectual Part, but aims rather
+at a complete Animal than alone at Sinews and Corporeal Structure.
+That Blood of the Old Berkshire Glorious, which your
+Lorp's Father was wont to observe, was what he most stood by,
+next to our Constitution and the Protestant Succession, here
+stood us in good stead, for it was to Glorious ye Ninth, as well
+as to Growler and Glider (all of ye same royal strain) that we
+was indebted to ye happy Conclusion. They pushed him out of
+ye Stubbings at Cow's Crookham, where it seems he had taken
+Refuge in the Hollow of a decayed Tree. We chac't him thence
+upon ye Grass to Shepherd's Hey. Here he began to run short,
+being not a little apprehensive, lest his Foes should triumph, and
+snatch from him that Life, which he had so long nefariously
+pampered.</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On courtly Cock with all his household Train<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Hens obsequious, by the Hen Wife mourned.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"The Sun, coming out from among ye Clouds, where he had been
+too long hid, made (as was elegantly pretended by Sir Anthony), a
+Brightness, animating indeed to us, who carried the Sword of
+Justice, but, to the Criminal of our Pursuit, infinitely distressing.
+Then had your Lorp seen the gay Ardor of the Pack, as they came
+to the View, which they did about Stonepits, your Lorp would
+have said with the late elegant Poet:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Now o'er the glittering grass the sinewy Hound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shakes from his Feet the Dew and makes ye Woods resound."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"To be brief, we killed in the Back Yard of ye Rummer and Glass
+after two and three quarters Hours of a Hunt such as (all are
+agreed) is not lightly to be parallelled. There was present at
+ye Death, beside Joe Phillips and Tom, Sir A. Smoaker, Mr. Wm. Travis
+and myself, all so extream distresst, Men and Beasts, that
+it was observed, it was a Marvel ye Horses were not dead. Such
+an Hunt, it was agreed, should be celebrated by an annual Dinner,
+at which the Toast of ye Chase might be rendered more than
+ordinary. Ye Hunt was upwards of Fifteen Miles in Length, and
+hath been the Subject of a Song, by a Member of Ye Hunt,
+which, as it would take long to transcribe, I forbear, hoping that
+we may sing it to your Lorp before (as ye Poet says)</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">"Ye vixen hath laid up her Cubs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In snuggest Cave secure, when balmy Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wakens ye Meadows."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"But to pass now from Celestial Pleasures to Worldly Cares, I
+have to acquaint your Lorp that your Lorp's Sister's Son, Mr.
+Parracombe, hath been killed by a Fall from his Horse, after
+Dinner with some Gentlemen, his particular Friends, an Affliction
+indeed great, humanly regarded, were it not also considered, how
+much happier his Lot must be, than in this Vale of Tears, etc.
+Ye Young Hounds thrive apace, and it is thought the forward
+Season will be very favourable for their future Prey. I am, your
+Lorp's most obedient, Charles Cothill."</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps the ideal run of the present time would be described
+as follows:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"A large field attended the Templecombe on Tuesday last at
+the popular meet at Heydigates. Will Mynors, late of the Parratts,
+carried the horn, in place of Tom Carling, now with
+Mr. Fletchers. A little time was spent in running through the
+shrubberies in the garden at Heydigates and then the word was
+given for the Cantlows. Will had no sooner put hounds into
+this famous cover than the dog pack proclaimed the joyous news.
+The fox, a traveller, was at once viewed away for the Three Oaks,
+across the rather heavy going of the pasture land. Coming to
+the Knock Brook, he swam it near Parson's Pleasure, going at
+a pace that let the knowing ones know that they were in for something
+out of the common. Keeping Snib's Farm on his right, he
+ran dead straight for Gallow's Wood, where some woodmen with
+their teams disturbed him. Swinging to his left, he went up the
+hill, through Bloody Lane, as though towards Dinsmore, but was
+again deflected by woodmen. Turning down the hill, he ran
+for the valley, passing Enderton Schoolhouse, the scholars of
+which were much cheered by the near prospect of the hunt. It
+was now evident that he was going for the Downs. Some of
+the less daring began to express the hope that he might be headed.</p>
+
+<p>"Scent from the first was burning and the pace a cracker.
+After leaving Enderton he made straight for the Danesway, past
+Snub's Titch and the Curlews, the green meadows of the pasture
+being sprinkled for miles with the relics of the field. He crossed
+the Roman Road at Orm's Oak and at once entered the Danesway,
+going at a pace which all thought could not last.</p>
+
+<p>"At the summit of the Danesway, known as the Gallows Point,
+hounds were brought to their noses, owing to the crossing of the
+line by sheep. A man working nearby was able to give the line
+and Will, lifting beyond the Lynchets, at once hit him off, and
+the hounds resumed their rush. From this point, they went almost
+exactly straight from the head of the Danesway to the fir copse
+by Arthur's Table. All this part of the run being across a rolling
+grass land, was at top speed, such as no horse could live with.
+At Arthur's Table, he was put from his earth by shooters who
+were netting the warren. As he could not get through them nor
+across the highway, then busy with traffic, He doubled down across
+the Starvings, where Will, the only man up at this point, although
+now three hundred yards behind hounds, caught sight of him on
+the opposite slope, romping away from hounds as though he would
+never grow old. On coming to the level, past Spinney's End,
+some of those who had been left at the Lynchets were able to
+rejoin, but were soon again cast out by the extreme violence of
+the going, which continued back across the Downs on a line obliquely
+parallel with his former track though a mile further to the
+south. It was supposed that he was going for the main earth
+in Bloody Acre Copse. Some workers in the strip at the edge of
+the copse headed him from this point. He swung left-handed past
+Staves acre, and so down to the valley by the shelving ground
+near Monk's Charwell. Here, for some unaccountable reason,
+the scent, which had been breast high, became catchy, and hounds
+lost their fox in the Osier cars at Charwell Springs. Later in the
+afternoon, while jogging home, a second fox was chopped in Mr.
+Parsloe's cover at Prince's Charwell. Hounds then went home.</p>
+
+<p>"The run from the Cantlows was not remarkable for any quality
+of hunting, but extremely so for pace and length. The distance
+run, from Cantlows Wood to the Osiers cannot have been less than
+thirteen miles, most of it indeed on the best going in the world,
+but at a racing pace, with nothing that can be called a check,
+the whole way. Some wished that the hounds might have been
+rewarded and others that Will Mynors might have crowned his
+opening gallop with a kill, but the general feeling was one of
+satisfaction that so game a fox escaped."</p>
+
+<p>My own interest in fox hunting began at a very early age.
+I was born in a good hunting country, partly woodland, partly
+pasture. My home, during my first seven years, was within
+half a mile of the kennels. I saw hounds on most days of my life.
+Hounds and hunting filled my imagination. I saw many meets,
+each as romantic as a circus. The huntsman and whipper-in
+seemed, then, to be the greatest men in the world, and those
+mild slaves, the hounds, the loveliest animals.</p>
+
+<p>Often, as a little child, I saw and heard hounds hunting in and
+near a covert within sight of my old home. Once, when I was,
+perhaps, five years old, the fox was hunted into our garden, and
+those glorious beings in scarlet, as well as the hounds, were all
+about my lairs, like visitants from Paradise. The fox, on this
+occasion, went through a woodshed and escaped.</p>
+
+<p>Later in my childhood, though I lived less near to the kennels,
+I was still within a mile of them, and saw hounds frequently at
+all seasons. In that hunting country, hunting was one of the
+interests of life; everybody knew about it, loved, followed,
+watched and discussed it. I went to many meets, and followed
+many hunts on foot. Each of these occasions is now distinct in
+my mind, with the colour and intensity of beauty. I saw many
+foxes starting off upon their runs, with the hounds close behind
+them. It was then that I learned to admire the ease and beauty
+of the speed of the fresh fox. That leisurely hurry, which romps
+away from the hardest trained and swiftest fox hounds without a
+visible effort, as though the hounds were weighted with lead,
+is the most lovely motion I have seen in an animal.</p>
+
+<p>No fox was the original of my Reynard, but as I was much in
+the woods as a boy I saw foxes fairly often, considering that they
+are night-moving animals. Their grace, beauty, cleverness, and
+secrecy always thrilled me. Then that kind of grin which the
+mask wears made me credit them with an almost human humour.
+I thought the fox a merry devil, though a bloody one. Then he
+is one against many, who keeps his end up, and lives, often snugly,
+in spite of the world. The pirate and the nightrider are nothing
+to the fox, for romance and danger. This way of life of his makes
+it difficult to observe him in a free state at close quarters.</p>
+
+<p>Once in the early spring in the very early morning, I saw a
+vixen playing with her cubs in the open space below a beech tree.
+Once I came upon a big dog-fox in a wheel-wright's yard, and
+watched him from within a few paces for some minutes. Twice
+I have watched half-grown cubs stalking rabbits. Twice out hunting,
+the fox has broken cover within three yards of me. These are
+the only free foxes which I have seen at close quarters. Foxes
+are night-moving animals. To know them well one should have
+cat's eyes and foxes' habits. By the imagination alone can men
+know foxes.</p>
+
+<p>When I was about halfway through my poem, I found a dead
+dog-fox in a field near Cumnor Hurst. He was a fine full-grown
+fox in perfect condition; he must have picked up poison, for he
+had not been hunted, nor shot. On the pads of this dead fox, I
+noticed for the first time, the length and strength of a fox's claws.</p>
+
+<p>Some have asked, whether the Ghost Heath Run is founded on
+any recorded run of any real Hunt. It is not. It is an imaginary
+run, in a country made up of many different pieces of country,
+some of them real, some of them imaginary. These real and
+imaginary fields, woods and brooks are taken as they exist, from
+Berkshire, where the fox lives, from Herefordshire where he was
+found, from Trapalanda, Gloucestershire, Buckinghamshire, Herefordshire,
+Worcestershire and Berkshire, where he ran, from Trapalanda,
+where he nearly died, and from a wild and beautiful
+corner in Berkshire where he rests from his run.</p>
+
+<p>Some have asked when the poem was written. It was written
+between January 1 and May 20, 1919.</p>
+
+<p>Some have asked, whether hunting will soon be abolished.
+I cannot tell, but I think it unlikely. People do not willingly
+resign their pleasures; men who breed horses will want to gallop
+them across country; hunting is a pleasure, as well as an opportunity
+to gallop; it is also an instinct in man. Some have thought
+that if "small holdings," that is "produce gardens," intensively
+cultivated, of about an acre apiece, became common, so that the
+country became more rigidly enclosed than at present, hunting
+would be made almost impossible. The small holding is generally
+the property of the small farmer (like the French cultivateur) who
+fences permanently with wire and cannot take down the wire
+during the hunting season, as most English farmers do at present.
+Small holdings will probably increase in number near towns, but
+farmers seem agreed that they can never become the national
+system of farming. The big farm, that can treat the great tract
+with machines, seems likely to be the farm of the future.</p>
+
+<p>Even if the small holdings system were to prevail, it would
+hardly prevail over the sporting instincts of the race. Beauty
+and delight are stronger than the will to work. I am pretty sure
+that a pack of hounds, coming feathery by, at the heels of a whip's
+horse, while the field takes station and the huntsman, drawing
+his horn, prepares to hunt, would shake the resolve of most small
+holders, digging in their lots with thrift, industry and self-control.
+And then, if the huntsman were to blow his horn, and the hounds
+to feather on it and give tongue, and find, and go away at head,
+I am pretty sure that most of the small holders of this race would
+follow them. It is in this race to hunt.</p>
+
+<p>I will conclude with a portrait of old Baldy Hill, the earth-stopper,
+who in the darkness of the early morning gads about on
+a pony, to "stop" or "put to" all earths, in which a hard-pressed
+fox might hide. In the poem, he enters when the hunt is about
+to start, but he is an important figure in a hunting community,
+and deserves a portrait. He may come here, at the beginning,
+for Baldy Hill is at the beginning of all fox hunts. He dates from
+the beginning of Man. I have seen many a Baldy Hill in my life;
+he never fails to give me the feeling that he is Primitive Man
+survived. Primitive Man lived like that, in the woods, in the
+darkness, outwitting the wild things, while the rain dripped, and
+the owl cried, and the ghost came out from the grave. Baldy
+Hill stole the last litter of the last she-wolf to cross them with the
+King's hounds. He was in at the death of the last wild-boar.
+Sometimes, in looking at him, I think that his ashen stake must
+have a flint head, with which, on moony nights, he still creeps
+out, to rouse, it may be, the mammoth in his secret valley, or
+a sabretooth tiger, still caved in the woods. Life may and does
+shoot out into exotic forms, which may and do flower and perish.
+Perhaps when all the other forms of English life are gone, the
+Baldy Hill form, the stock form, will abide, still striding, head
+bent, with an ashen stake, after some wild thing, that has meat,
+or fur, or is difficult or dangerous to tackle.</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Old Baldy Hill, the game old cock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still wore knee-gaiters and a smock.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bore a five foot ashen stick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All scarred and pilled from many a click<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beating in covert with his sons<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To drive the pheasants to the guns.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His face was beaten by the weather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wrinkled red like bellows leather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a cold clear hard blue eye.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His snares made many a rabbit die.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On moony nights he found it pleasant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To stare the woods for roosting pheasant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up near the tree-trunk on the bough.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He never trod behind a plough.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He and his two sons got their food<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From wild things in the field and wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By snares, by ferrets put in holes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By ridding pasture-land of moles;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By keeping, beating, trapping, poaching<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And spaniel-and-retriever-coaching.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He and his sons had special merits<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In breeding and in handling ferrets<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full many a snaky hob and jill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had bit the thumbs of Baldy Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had no beard, but long white hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bent in gait. He used to wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flowers in his smock, gold-clocks and peasen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And spindle-fruit in hunting season.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>I hope that he may live to wear spindle-fruit for many seasons
+to come. Hunting makes more people happy than anything I
+know. When people are happy together, I am quite certain
+that they build up something eternal, something both beautiful
+and divine, which weakens the power of all evil things upon this
+life of men and women.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="center">
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" width="80%" summary="Contents">
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><span class="smcap">page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">PART ONE</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE MEET</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE PLOUGHMAN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE CLERGYMAN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE PARSON</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"JILL AND JOAN"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">FARMER BENNETT</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE GOLDEN AGE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE SQUIRE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DOCTOR</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE SAILOR</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE MERCHANT'S SON</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">SPORTSMAN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE EXQUISITE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE SOLDIER</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE COUNTRY'S HOPE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">COUNTRYMEN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE HOUNDS</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE WHIP</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE HUNTSMAN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE MASTER</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE START</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"COVER"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">PART TWO</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE FOX</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE ROVING</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">SCENT</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">SOUND</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">FOUND</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">AWAY</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE FIELD</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE RUN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">FULL CRY</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">VIEW HALLOO</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">LAST HOPE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_269">269</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">CHECKED</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_275">275</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"ON"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE LIFTING HORN</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_299">299</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">MOURNE END WOOD</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"DONE"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_319">319</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">PRIZE</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_325">325</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">HOME</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_333">333</a></td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
+
+<h4><span class="smcap">By Carton Moorepark</span></h4>
+
+
+
+<div class="center">
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" width="80%" summary="Full Page Illustrations">
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><span class="smcap">page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The stables were alive with din</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_6">5</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">An old man with a gaunt, burnt face</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_17">16</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">All sport, from bloody war to craps</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_81">80</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Godsdown Tigress with her cub</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_97">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A sea of moving heads, and sterns</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_121">120</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">His chief delight</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He had a welcome and salute</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_142">144</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_155">153</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And now they gathered to the gamble</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_163">162</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He saw the farms where the dogs were barking</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_173">172</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">There he slept in the mild west weather</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_181">182</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yaps</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_186">185</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He faced the fence and put her through it</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_223">222</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A white horse rising a dark horse flying</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_255">256</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Then down the slope and up the road</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He ran the sheep that their smell might check</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_294">295</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">With a cracking whip and "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik, Forrard"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_304">303</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He saw it now as a redness topped</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_313">313</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And man to man with a gasp for breath</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_329">330</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_337">336</a></td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>COLOR PLATES</h2>
+
+
+<div class="center">
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" width="80%" summary="Color Plates">
+<tr><td align="left">First colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Frontispiece"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><span class="smcap">facing page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Second colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Third colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_87">86</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Fourth colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_149">150</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Fifth colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Sixth colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_237">236</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Seventh colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_252">250</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Eighth colored plate</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_338">338</a></td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>PART I</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2>THE MEET</h2>
+
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p>
+
+<h1><br />
+REYNARD THE FOX,</h1>
+
+<h4>OR</h4>
+
+<h2>THE GHOST HEATH RUN</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The meet was at "The Cock and Pye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Charles and Martha Enderby,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long since the haunt of Benjamin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The highwayman, who rode the bay.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tavern fronts the coaching way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mail changed horses there of old.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It has a strip of grassy mould<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In front of it, a broad green strip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A trough, where horses' muzzles dip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stands opposite the tavern front,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And there that morning came the hunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To fill that quiet width of road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As full of men as Framilode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is full of sea when tide is in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The stables were alive with din<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From dawn until the time of meeting.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pad-groom gave a cloth a beating,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Knocking the dust out with a stake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two men cleaned stalls with fork and rake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And one went whistling to the pump,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The handle whined, ker-lump, ker-lump,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The water splashed into the pail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, as he went, it left a trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lipped over on the yard's bricked paving.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two grooms (sent on before) were shaving<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">There in the yard, at glasses propped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On jutting bricks; they scraped and stropped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And felt their chins and leaned and peered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A woodland day was what they feared<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(As second horsemen), shaving there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, in the stalls where hunters were,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Straw rustled as the horses shifted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hayseeds ticked and haystraws drifted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From racks as horses tugged their feed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slow gulping sounds of steady greed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see the horse in the next stall.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus033.jpg" width="400" height="475" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>The stables were alive with din<br />
+From dawn until the time of meeting.</small></span></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Outside, the spangled cock did call<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To scattering grain that Martha flung.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a time a mop was wrung<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Susan ere the floor was clean.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The harness room, that busy scene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rings and bits with dips of whitening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dumbing buckles of their chirrups<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the touch of oily feathers.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saddle linings to the stove.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the yard, the passers snifft it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of horses' stables and the savour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of saddle-paste and polish spirit<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Belted by girths of coloured weaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One said, "My dad cured saddle galls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He called it Doctor Barton's cure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And others said, "Ge' back, my son,"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">"Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha' done."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gives a rare pinch when he likes."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I give 'em all sweet spit of nitre<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For that, myself: that sometimes cures."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To keep the dust out of their throats.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus036.jpg" width="400" height="219" alt="The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves" title="The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">There came again and yet again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The feed-box lid, the swish of grain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hay-fork's stab and then the soft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hay's scratching slither down the shoot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then with a thud some horse's foot<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Stamped, and the gulping munch again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Resumed its lippings at the grain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The road outside the inn was quiet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save for the poor, mad, restless pyat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hopping his hanging wicker-cage.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No calmative of sleep or sage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will cure the fever to be free.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shook the wicker ceaselessly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now up, now down, but never out<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On wind-waves, being blown about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looking for dead things good to eat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At ten o'clock, the Doctor's lad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brought up his master's hunting pad<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And put him in a stall, and leaned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the stall, and sissed, and cleaned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The port and cannons of his curb.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silly things his master did.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE PLOUGHMAN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At twenty past, old Baldock strode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ploughman's straddle down the road.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes rapt back on some far place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In God's world through the rags of this.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He leaned upon a stake of ash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut from a sapling: many a gash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was in his old, full-skirted coat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The twisted muscles in his throat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His oaken face was seamed and gored.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He halted by the inn and stared<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">On that far bliss, that place prepared<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus044.jpg" width="400" height="473" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;<br />
+His eyes rapt back on some far place.</small></span></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's Wynd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drove up; and stopped to take a glass.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "My little girl does sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see the red coats galloping.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's good for grass, too, to be trodden<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Except they poach it, where it's sodden."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And had a sip of gin and stout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To help the jockey's sweatings out.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Rare day for scent," the jockey said.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A pony, like a feather bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On four short sticks, took place aside.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little girl who rode astride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watched everything with eyes that glowed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With glory in the horse she rode.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At half-past ten, some lads on foot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came to be beaters to a shoot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of rabbits at the Warren Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They talked of dinner-beer and betting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And jeered at those who stood around.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They rolled their dogs upon the ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sex quarts the lot last year we had.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They'd ought to give us seven this.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE CLERGYMAN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus051.jpg" width="400" height="272" alt="The clergyman from Condicote" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A pommle cob came trotting up,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round-bellied like a drinking-cup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bearing on back a pommle man<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round-bellied like a drinking-can.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clergyman from Condicote.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His face was scarlet from his trot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His white hair bobbed about his head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As halos do round clergy dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His loose mouth opened like a gate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To pass the wagons of his speech,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a mighty voice to preach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though indolent in other matters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He let his children go in tatters.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His daughter Madge on foot, flushed-cheekt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In broken hat and boots that leakt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With bits of hay all over her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her plain face grinning at the stir<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with speckles<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles)<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Came after him and stood apart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside the darling of her heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A big young fair one, chiselled clean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brow, chin, and nose, with great blue eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All innocence and sweet surprise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And golden hair piled coil on coil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too beautiful for time to spoil.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They talked in undertones together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not of the hunting, nor the weather.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Steven, from Scratch Steven Place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(A white beard and a rosy face),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came next on his stringhalty grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I've come to see the hounds away,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "And ride a field or two.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We old have better things to do<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Than breaking all our necks for fun."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shone on people like the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on himself for shining so.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three men came riding in a row:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">John Pyn, a bull-man, quick to strike,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gross and blunt-headed like a shrike<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet sweet-voiced as a piping flute;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Red, with an angry, puzzled face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mouth twitched upward out of place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A man whose bulk of flesh and bone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made people call him Twenty Stone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was the man who stood a pull<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Tencombe with the Jersey bull<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And brought the bull back to his stall.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus054.jpg" width="400" height="235" alt="Three men came riding in a row" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Some children ranged the tavern-wall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sucking their thumbs and staring hard;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some grooms brought horses from the yard.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "look<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">There'm Mister Gaunt of Water's Hook.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They say he" ... (whispered). "Law," said Jane.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gaunt flung his heel across the mane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And slithered from his horse and stamped.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Boots tight," he said, "my feet are cramped."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A loose-shod horse came clicking clack;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nick Wolvesey on a hired hack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came tittup, like a cup and ball.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One saw the sun, moon, stars, and all<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great green earth twixt him and saddle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Red as a rose, with eyes like sparks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two boys from college out for larks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hunted bright Molly for a smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But were not worth their quarry's while.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus057.jpg" width="600" height="461" alt="" title="Second colored plate" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Two eyeglassed gunners dressed in tweed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came with a spaniel on a lead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waited for a fellow gunner.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The parson's son, the famous runner,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His knees were red as yew tree root<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From being bare, day in day out;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He wore a blazer, and a clout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His football shorts had many a speck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And splash of mud from many a fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got as he picked the slippery ball<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heeled out behind a breaking scrum.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He grinned at people, but was dumb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not like these lousy foreigners.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The otter-hounds and harriers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Godstow to the Wye all knew him.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE PARSON</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And with him came the stock which grew him&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The parson and his sporting wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was a stout one, full of life<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With red, quick, kindly, manly face.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She held the knave, queen, king, and ace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In every hand she played with men.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was no sister to the hen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But fierce and minded to be queen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She wore a coat and skirt of green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her tie pin was a fox's head.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The parson was a manly one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His jolly eyes were bright with fun.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">His jolly mouth was well inclined<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To cry aloud his jolly mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To everyone, in jolly terms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He did not talk of churchyard worms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But of our privilege as dust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To box a lively bout with lust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere going to Heaven to rejoice.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved the sound of his own voice.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His talk was like a charge of horse;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His build was all compact, for force,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He kept no Lent to make him meagre.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved his God, himself and man.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He never said "Life's wretched span;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This wicked world," in any sermon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This body, that we feed the worm on,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He liked to see the foxes killed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But most he felt himself in clover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hear "Hen left, hare right, cock over,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At woodside, when the leaves are brown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some grey cathedral in a town<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where drowsy bells toll out the time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To shaven closes sweet with lime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All summer on the Norman Dortar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was certain some day to be his.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor would a mitre go amiss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To him, because he governed well.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His voice was like the tenor bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When services were said and sung.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he had read in many a tongue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>"JILL AND JOAN"</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Two bright young women, nothing meek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rode up on bicycles and propped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their wheels in such wise that they dropped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bring the parson's son to aid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their cycling suits were tailor-made,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The colour and the zest of wine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were in their presence and their bearing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The parson's lady thought them pert.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they could mock a man and flirt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silver-cigarette-case-prize.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">They had good colour and bright eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On darkened stairways after dances,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which many lads had longed to win.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their reading was the last romances,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they were dashing hockey players.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>FARMER BENNETT</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus073.jpg" width="400" height="232" alt="Old Farmer Bennett upon his big-boned savage black" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Old Farmer Bennett followed these<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his big-boned savage black<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever came within his reach.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Bennett sat him like a leech.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The grim old rider seemed to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As hard about the mouth as he.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The beaters nudged each other's ribs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With "There he goes, his bloody Nibs.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He come on Joe and Anty Cop,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And beat 'em with his hunting crop<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His pickers were a pack of queans,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Joe and Anty took a couple,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Women and men, he didn't care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He beat the whole four nearly dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's how my ricks get set afire.'<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That's what he said, the bloody liar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Just like an axehead on its helve<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Bennett sat and watched the gathering.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'd given many a man a lathering<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In field or barn, and women, too.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His cold eye reached the women through<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With comment, and the men with scorn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He hated women gently born;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He hated all beyond his grasp;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he was minded like the asp<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That strikes whatever is not dust.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE GOLDEN AGE</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Next into view. In face and limb<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beauty and the grace of him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were like the golden age returned.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His grave eyes steadily discerned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The good in men and what was wise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shocks of harvest-coloured hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still beautiful with youth. An air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or power of kindness went about him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No heart of youth could ever doubt him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or fail to follow where he led.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a genius, simply bred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And quite unconscious of his power.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He was the very red rose flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all that coloured countryside.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gauchos had taught him how to ride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knew all arts, but practised most<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The art of bettering flesh and ghost<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In men and lads down in the mud.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knew no class in flesh and blood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved his kind. He spent some pith<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long since, relieving Ladysmith.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many a horse he trotted tame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heading commandos from their aim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In those old days upon the veldt.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE SQUIRE</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus083.jpg" width="400" height="234" alt="His daughters, Carrie, Jane, and Lu, rode with him" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">An old bear in a scarlet pelt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came next, old Squire Harridew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyebrows gave a man the grue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So bushy and so fierce they were;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a bitter tongue to swear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With all his liver made of fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Small brain, great courage, mulish will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hearts in all his house stood still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When someone crossed the squire's path.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he was terrible in wrath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And smashed whatever came to hand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two things he failed to understand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The foreigner and what was new.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lu,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rode with him, Carrie at his side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had died<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Arizona, long before.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Squire set the greatest store<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Carrie, youngest of the three,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lovely to the blood was she;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And eyes deep violet in their gleam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright blue when quiet in repose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was a very golden rose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a man when sunset came<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would see the manor windows flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And think, "My beauty's home is there."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Queen Helen had less golden hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Queen Cleopatra paler lips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By golden Carrie's glancing by.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She had a wit for mockery<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sang mild, pretty senseless songs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sunsets, Heav'n and lover's wrongs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rosebud need not have a mind.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A lily is not sweet from learning.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jane looked like a dark lantern, burning.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But minded like the living truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was not "Darling Jan'd," nor "dearie'd,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was all prickles to the touch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So sharp, that many feared to clutch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So keen, that many thought her bitter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She let the little sparrows twitter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She had a hard ungracious way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her storm of hair was iron-grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she was passionate in her heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For women's souls that burn apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just as her mother's had, with Squire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She gave the sense of smouldering fire.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">She was not happy being a maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At home, with Squire, but she stayed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enduring life, however bleak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To guard her sisters who were weak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And force a life for them from Squire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she had roused and stood his fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hundred times, and earned his hate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To win those two a better state.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long years before the Canon's son<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had cared for her, but he had gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Klondyke, to the mines, for gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To find, in some strange way untold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A foreign grave that no men knew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">No depth, nor beauty, was in Lu,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But charm and fun, for she was merry,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Round, sweet and little like a cherry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With laughter like a robin's singing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was not kittenlike and clinging,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But pert and arch and fond of flirting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In mocking ways that were not hurting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And merry ways that women pardoned.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not being married yet she gardened.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She loved sweet music; she would sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Songs made before the German King<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made England German in her mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She sang "My lady is unkind,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"The Hunt is up," and those sweet things<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which Thomas Campion set to strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Thrice toss," and "What," and "Where are now?"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The next to come was Major Howe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Driv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The testy major was in fume<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To find no hunter standing waiting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The groom who drove him caught a rating,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The groom who had the horse in stable,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was damned in half the tongues of Babel.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Major being hot and heady<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When horse or dinner was not ready.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jaws<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shaved bluish like old partridge claws.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he had stripped his coat he made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A speckless presence for parade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">New pink, white cords, and glossy tops<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">New gloves, the newest thing in crops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Worn with an air that well expressed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His sense that no one else was dressed.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE DOCTOR</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus093.jpg" width="400" height="233" alt="Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Quick trotting after Major Howe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A smiling silent man whose brain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Knew all of every secret pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In every man and woman there.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Their inmost lives were all laid bare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To him, because he touched their lives<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When strong emotions sharp as knives<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brought out what sort of soul each was.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As secret as the graveyard grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was, as he had need to be.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At some time he had had to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sans lying even, when to ask<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Probed a tamed spirit into truth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Richard, his son, a jolly youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As merry as a yearling is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In maytime in a clover patch.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a gallant chick to hatch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With all his father's love of mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And greater force to give it act.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see him when the scrum was packt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heave, playing forward, was a sight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His tackling was the crowd's delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In many a danger close to goal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pride in the three quarter's soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was as steady as a bollard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gallant as a skysail yard.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In good St. Thomas' Hospital,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was the crown imperial<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all the scholars of his year.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came all on foot in corduroys,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Will Masemore shot him in the side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By accident at Masemore Farm.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In getting through a hedge; his gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was not half-cocked, so it was done<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And those three boys left fatherless.)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their gaitered legs were in a mess<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With good red mud from twenty ditches<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hal's face was plastered like his breeches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dick chewed a twig of juniper.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They kept at distance from the stir<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their loss had made them lads apart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Next came the Colway's pony cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Coln St. Evelyn's with the party,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Polly Colway's brother, John<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Their horses had been both sent on)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Polly Colway drove them there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grey mare killed her at the brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just one month later, poor sweet woman.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE SAILOR</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Commander in the <i>Canace</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Able to drive a horse, or ship,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or crew of men, without a whip<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By will, as long as they could go.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His face would wrinkle, row on row,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From mouth to hair-roots when he laught<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looked ahead as though his craft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were with him still, in dangerous channels.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the pony-cart and mounted.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The horses being bickering things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That so much scarlet made like kings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE MERCHANT'S SON</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">When Hugh was up his mare went drifting<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sidelong and feeling with her heels<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For horses' legs and poshay wheels,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a rich town-merchant's son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wise and kind man fond of fun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who loved to have a troop of friends<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And troops of children in for tea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gloried in a Christmas Tree.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Polly was his heart's best treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Polly was a golden pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To everyone, to see or hear.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a darkened man thereafter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be so gentle it was strange<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even to see. Life loves to change.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shutters up, the hunters sold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And green mould damps the locked front door.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But this was still a month before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Polly, golden in the chaise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still smiled, and there were golden days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>SPORTSMAN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(By Tempest out of Love-me-long)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A proper handful of a horse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That nothing but the Aintree course<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All sport, from bloody war to craps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Billy lived too much with horses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In coper's yards and sharper's courses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To lack the sharper-coper streak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He did not turn the other cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When struck (as English Christians do),<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a time his knuckles bled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against a race-course-gipsy's head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For "hit him first and argue later"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was truth at Billy's alma mater,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not love, not any bosh of love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His hand was like a chamois glove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And riding was his chief delight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bred the chaser Chinese-white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Lilybud by Mandarin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when his mouth tucked corners in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scent was high and hounds were going,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He went across a field like snowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tackled anything that came.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus110.jpg" width="400" height="473" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>All sport, from bloody war to craps,<br />
+Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler.</small></span></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Like polished brass) and such a manner<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It flaunted from her like a banner.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her father was Tom See the trainer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She rode a lovely earth-disdainer<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which she and Billy wished to sell.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus112.jpg" width="400" height="207" alt="Behind them rode her daughter Bell" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Behind them rode her daughter Bell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A strange shy lovely girl whose face<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Was sweet with thought and proud with race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bright with joy at riding there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was as good as blowing air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But shy and difficult to know.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The kittens in the barley-mow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blackbird in the apple calling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All knew her spirit more than we,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So delicate these maidens be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In loving lovely helpless things.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came, with two friends, a set of six.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(God help the school or rule which galled them;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They carried head) and friends from town.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus114.jpg" width="400" height="174" alt="The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He once had been a famous bat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had that stroke, "the Manor-pat,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He once scored twenty in an over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now he cricketed no more.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He purpled in the face and swore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At all three sons, and trained, and told<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long tales of cricketing of old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he alone had saved his side.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Drink made it doubtful if he lied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drink purpled him, he could not face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fences now, nor go the pace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He brought his friends to meet; no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His big son Nob, at whom he swore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swore back at him, for Nob was surly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tall, shifty, sullen-smiling, burly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quite fearless, built with such a jaw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That no man's rule could be his law<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor any woman's son his master.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Boxing he relished. He could plaster<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All those who boxed out Tencombe way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A front tooth had been knocked away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two days before, which put his mouth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A little to the east of south.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And put a venom in his laughter.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob had no nerves but Cob had plenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So Cobby went where Nobby led.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had no brains inside his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was fearless, just like Nob, but put<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some clog of folly round his foot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Nob put will of force or fraud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He spat aside and muttered Gawd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When vext; he took to whiskey kindly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And loved and followed Nobby blindly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rode as in the saddle born.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Bun looked upon the two with scorn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was the youngest, and was wise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He too was fair, with sullen eyes,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He too (a year before) had had<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A zest for going to the bad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Cob and Nob. He knew the joys<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of drinking with the stable-boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or smoking while he filled his skin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With pints of Guinness dashed with gin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Cobby yelled a bawdy ditty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or cutting Nobby for the kitty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And damning peoples' eyes and guts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or drawing evening-church for sluts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knew them all and now was quit.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus117.jpg" width="600" height="381" alt="Third colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Sweet Polly Colway managed it.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(The pleasant pit's seductive brink),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He started working in the stable,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And well, for he was shrewd and able.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He left the doubtful female friends<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Picked up at Evening-Service ends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gave up cards and swore no more.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob called him "the Reforming Whore,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"The Soul's Awakening," or "The Text,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob being always coarse when vext.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old college friends, the last he had,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shaken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By all the whiskey they had taken.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hawke's hand was trembling on his rein.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes were dead-blue like a vein,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His peaked sad face was touched with breeding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His querulous mind was quaint from reading,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">His piping voice still quirked with fun.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many a mad thing he had done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riding to hounds and going to races.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A glimmer of the gambler's graces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wit, courage, devil, touched his talk.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus121.jpg" width="400" height="236" alt="Ed Manor&#39;s friends were Hawke and Sladd" title="" /></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Twixt winning-post and betting column,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The weights and forms and likely colts.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said "This road is full of jolts.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shall be seasick riding here.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O damn last night with that liqueur."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He owned the Downs by Baydon Whin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And grazed some thousand sheep; the boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grinned round at men with jolly joy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At being alive and being there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His big round face and mop of hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shone, his great teeth shone in his grin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clean blood in his clear tanned skin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ran merry, and his great voice mocked<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His young friends present till they rocked.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Steer Harpit came from Rowell Hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A small, frail man, all heart and will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sailor as his voice betrayed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He let his whip-thong droop and played<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At snicking off the grass-blades with it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">John Hankerton, from Compton Lythitt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was there with Pity Hankerton,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Mike, their good-for-little son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back, smiling, from his seventh job.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joan Urch was there upon her cob.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom Sparsholt on his lanky grey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">John Restrop from Hope Goneaway.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Vaughan, the big black handsome devil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loose-lipped with song and wine and revel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All rosy from his morning tub<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE EXQUISITE</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Godsdown tigress with her cub<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great eyes smouldered in the dame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wit glittered, too, which few men saw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was more beauty there than claw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tommy in bearing, horse and dress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was black, fastidious, handsomeness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Choice to his trimmed soul's fingertips.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heredia's sonnets on his lips.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A line undrawn, a plate not bitten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stone uncut, a phrase unwritten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That would be perfect, made his mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A choice pull, from a rare print, signed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was Tommy. He collected plate,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">(Old sheffield) and he owned each state<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all the Meryon Paris etchings.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus128.jpg" width="400" height="471" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>The Godsdown Tigress with her cub<br />
+(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.</small></span></div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Colonel Sir Button Budd of Fletchings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was there; Long Robert Thrupp was there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Three yards of him men said there were),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long as the King of Prussia's fancy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He rode the longlegged Necromancy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A useless racehorse that could canter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">George Childrey with his jolly banter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was there, Nick Childrey, too, come down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The night before from London town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hunt and have his lungs blown clean.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Ilsley set from Tuttocks Green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was there (old Henry Ilsley drove),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Carlotta Ilsley brought her love<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A flop-jowled broker from the city.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men pitied her, for she was pretty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Some grooms and second horsemen mustered.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lot of men on foot were clustered<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the inn-door, all busy drinking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One heard the kissing glasses clinking<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In passage as the tray was brought.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two terriers (which they had there) fought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There on the green, a loud, wild whirl.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hens behind the tavern clucked.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE SOLDIER</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus133.jpg" width="400" height="251" alt="Came Minton-Price of th&#39; Afghan border" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then on a horse which bit and bucked<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(The half-broke four-year-old Marauder)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lean, puckered, yellowed, knotted, scarred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tough as a hide-rope twisted hard,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Tense tiger-sinew knit to bone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strange-wayed from having lived alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Kafir, Afghan and Beloosh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In stations frozen in the Koosh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where nothing but the bullet sings.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mind had conquered many things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Painting, mechanics, physics, law,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White-hot, hand-beaten things to draw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Self-hammered from his own soul's stithy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His speech was blacksmith-sparked and pithy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Danger had been his brother bred;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stones had often been his bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In bickers with the border-thieves.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE COUNTRY'S HOPE</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A chestnut mare with swerves and heaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came plunging, scattering all the crowd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She tossed her head and laughed aloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bickered sideways past the meet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From pricking ears to mincing feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was all tense with blood and quiver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You saw her clipt hide twitch and shiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over her netted cords of veins.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She carried Cothill, of the Sleins;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A tall, black, bright-eyed handsome lad.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great power and great grace he had.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men hoped the greatest things of him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His grace made people think him slim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he was muscled like a horse<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A sculptor would have wrought his torse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In bronze or marble for Apollo.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved to hurry like a swallow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For miles on miles of short-grassed sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blue-harebelled downs where dewy feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of pure winds hurry ceaselessly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved the downland like a sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The downland where the kestrels hover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The downland had him for a lover.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every other thing he loved<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which a clean free spirit moved.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">So beautiful, he was, so bright.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looked to men like young delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gone courting April maidenhood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That has the primrose in her blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He on his mincing lady mare.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>COUNTRYMEN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus141.jpg" width="400" height="226" alt="Ock Gurney and old Pete were there" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Ock Gurney and old Pete were there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riding their bonny cobs and swearing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A horse-rosette, red, white and blue.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their cheeks were brown as any brew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every comer to the meet<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Said "Hello, Ock," or "Morning, Pete;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be you a going to a wedding?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Why, noa," they said, "we'm going a bedding;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pete Gurney was a lusty cock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dairy-farmer in the vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Much like a robin in the face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Much character in little space,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With little eyes like burning coal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mouth was like a slit or hole<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In leather that was seamed and lined.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had the russet-apple mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That betters as the weather worsen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a manly English person,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kind to the core, brave, merry, true;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">One grief he had, a grief still new,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That former Parson joined with Squire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In putting down the Playing Quire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In church, and putting organ in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Ah, boys, that was a pious din<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Quire was; a pious praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The noise was that we used to raise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I and my serpent, George with his'n,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Easter Day in He is Risen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or blessed Christmas in Venite;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And how the trombone came in mighty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Alleluias from the heart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pious, for each man played his part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not like 'tis now." Thus he, still sore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For changes forty years before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all (that could) in time and tune,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Blew trumpets to the new&euml; moon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a bachelor, from choice.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He and his nephew farmed the Boyce<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prime pasture land for thirty cows.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And jolly were the three together.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ock had a face like summer weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A broad red sun, split by a smile.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He mopped his forehead all the while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And said "By damn," and "Ben't us, Unk?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes were close and deeply sunk.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cursed his hunter like a lover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now blast your soul, my dear, give over.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Woa, now, my pretty, damn your eyes."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like Pete he was of middle size,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He stood a wrestle like a boulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a back for pitching hay.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His singing voice was like a bay.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In talk he had a sideways spit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each minute, to refresh his wit.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cracked Brazil nuts with his teeth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He challenged Cobbett of the Heath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hunting was what he loved the most,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Next to his wife and Uncle Pete.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With beer to drink and cheese to eat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rain in May to fill the grasses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This life was not a dream that passes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Ock, but like the summer flower.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE HOUNDS</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">But now the clock had struck the hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And round the corner, down the road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With three black knobs upon its spine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three bobbing black-caps in a line.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A glimpse of scarlet at the gap<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Showed underneath each bobbing cap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And at the corner by the gate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One heard Tom Dansey give a rate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hep, Drop it, Jumper; have a care,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There came a growl, half-rate, half-swear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A spitting crack, a tuneful whimper<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sweet religion entered Jumper.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">There was a general turn of faces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The men and horses shifted places,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And round the corner came the hunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those feathery things, the hounds, in front,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smiling at people, shoving, playing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nosing to children's faces, waving<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their feathery sterns, and all behaving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One eye to Dansey on Maroon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And though they trotted up so quiet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their noses brought them news of riot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wild smells of things with living blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hot smells, against the grippers good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of weasel, rabbit, cat and hare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose feet had been before them there,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose taint still tingled every breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Dansey on Maroon was death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So, though their noses roved, their feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Larked and trit-trotted to the meet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Bill Tall and Ell and Mirtie Key<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Aged fourteen years between the three)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were flooded by them at the bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They thought their little lives would end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For grave sweet eyes looked into theirs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cold noses came, and clean short hairs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tails all crumpled up like ferns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sea of moving heads and sterns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All round them, brushing coat and dress;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One paused, expecting a caress.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The children shrank into each other,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With mouths wide open, catching tears.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus152.jpg" width="400" height="467" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>A sea of moving heads and sterns,<br />
+All round them, brushing coat and dress.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Sharp Mrs. Tall allayed their fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Err out the road, the dogs won't hurt 'ee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There now, you've cried your faces dirty.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More cleaning up for me to do.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What? Cry at dogs, great lumps like you?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She licked her handkerchief and smeared<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their faces where the dirt appeared.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The hunt trit-trotted to the meeting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom Dansey touching cap to greeting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slow-lifting crop-thong to the rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No hunter there got more from him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Except some brightening of the eye.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He halted at the Cock and Pye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds drew round him on the green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Arrogant, Daffodil and Queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closest, but all in little space.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yawning, or tilting nose in quest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All stood and looked about with zest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were uneasy as they waited.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their sires and dams had been well-mated,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were a lovely pack for looks;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their forelegs drumsticked without crooks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Straight, without overtread or bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Muscled to gallop to the end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With neat feet round as any cat's.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great chested, muscled in the slats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright, clean, short-coated, broad in shoulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With stag-like eyes that seemed to smoulder.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The heads well-cocked, the clean necks strong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brows broad, ears close, the muzzles long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all like racers in the thighs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their noses exquisitely wise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their minds being memories of smells;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their voices like a ring of bells;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their sterns all spirit, cock and feather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their colours like the English weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Magpie and hare, and badger-pye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like minglings in a double dye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some smutty-nosed, some tan, none bald;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their manners were to come when called,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their flesh was sinew knit to bone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their courage like a banner blown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their joy, to push him out of cover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hunt him till they rolled him over.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were as game as Robert Dover.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE WHIP</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Tom Dansey was a famous whip<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trained as a child in horsemanship.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Entered, as soon as he was able,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As boy at Caunter's racing stable;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, like the other boys, he slept<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In stall beside the horse he kept,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Snug in the straw; and Caunter's stick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brought morning to him all too quick.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He learned the high quick gingery ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of thoroughbreds; his stable days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made him a rider, groom and vet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He promised to be too thickset<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For jockeying, so left it soon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now he was whip and rode Maroon.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus160.jpg" width="400" height="470" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>His chief delight<br />
+Was hunting fox from noon to night.</small></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He was a small, lean, wiry man<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With sunk cheeks weathered to a tan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarred by the spikes of hawthorn sprays<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dashed thro', head down, on going days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In haste to see the line they took.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was a beauty in his look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was intent. His speech was plain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Maroon's head, reaching to the rein,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had half his thought before he spoke.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His "gone away," when foxes broke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was like a bell. His chief delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was hunting fox from noon to night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His pleasure lay in hounds and horses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved the Seven Springs water-courses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those flashing brooks (in good sound grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where scent would hang like breath on glass).<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved the English countryside;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wine-leaved bramble in the ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lichen on the apple-trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The poultry ranging on the lees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His wife's green grave at Mitcheldover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under his hide his heart was raw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With joy and pity of these things.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The second whip was Kitty Myngs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still but a lad but keen and quick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Son of old Myngs who farmed the Wick),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A horse-mouthed lad who knew his work.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He rode the big black horse, the Turk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And longed to be a huntsman bold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had the horse-look, sharp and old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With much good-nature in his face.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">His passion was to go the pace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His blood was crying for a taming.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was the Devil's chick for gaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a rare good lad to box.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sometimes had a main of cocks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down at the Flags. His job with hounds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At present kept his blood in bounds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From rioting and running hare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom Dansey made him have a care.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He worshipped Dansey heart and soul.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be a huntsman was his goal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be with hounds, to charge full tilt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blackthorns that made the gentry wilt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was his ambition and his hope.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a hot colt needing rope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was too quick to speak his passion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To suit his present huntsman's fashion.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE HUNTSMAN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus167.jpg" width="400" height="234" alt="He smiled and nodded and saluted to those who hailed him" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sometimes called a favourite hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gently, to see the creature turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look happy up and wag his stern.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He smiled and nodded and saluted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To those who hailed him, as it suited.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And patted Pip's, his hunter's neck.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His new pink was without a speck;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a red-faced smiling fellow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His voice clear tenor, full and mellow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes, all fire, were black and small.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had been smashed in many a fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyebrow had a white curved mark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Left by the bright shoe of The Lark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in a ditch by Seven Springs.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His coat had all been trod to strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Being jumped on down at Water's Oaken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The time his horse came down and rolled.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His face was of the country mould<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such as the mason sometimes cutted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On English moulding-ends which jutted<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the church walls, centuries since.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as you never know the quince,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How good he is, until you try,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So, in Dawe's face, what met the eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was only part, what lay behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was English character and mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Most shy, most clever in concealing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its depth) for beauty of all sorts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great manliness and love of sports,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A grave wise thoughtfulness and truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A merry fun, outlasting youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A courage terrible to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mercy for his enemy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He had a clean-shaved face, but kept<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A hedge of whisker neatly clipt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A narrow strip or picture frame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under his chin from ear to ear.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE MASTER</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">But now the resting hounds gave cheer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joyful and Arrogant and Catch-him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smelt the glad news and ran to snatch him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Master's dogcart turned the bend.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Damsel and Skylark knew their friend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thrill ran through the pack like fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And little whimpers ran in quire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horses cocked and pawed and whickered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young Cothill's chaser kicked and bickered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stood on end and struck out sparks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joyful and Catch-him sang like larks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was the Master in the trap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clutching old Roman in his lap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Roman, crazy for his brothers,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And putting frenzy in the others,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To set them at the dogcart wheels,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thrusting heads and little squeals.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Master put old Roman by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And eyed the thrusters heedfully,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He called a few pet hounds and fed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three special friends with scraps of bread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through all those clamourers in the road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saluted friends, looked round the crowd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saw Harridew's three girls and bowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then took White Rabbit from the groom.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus176.jpg" width="400" height="481" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>He had a welcome and salute<br />
+For all, on horse or wheel or foot.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past sixty now, though hearty still,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A living picture of good-will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An old, grave soldier, sweet and kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A courtier with a knightly mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who felt whatever thing he thought.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His face was scarred, for he had fought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Five wars for us. Within his face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Courage and power had their place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rough energy, decision, force.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He smiled about him from his horse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a welcome and salute<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For all, on horse or wheel or foot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever kind of life each followed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His tanned, drawn cheeks looked old and hollowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But still his bright blue eyes were young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when the pack crashed into tongue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And staunch White Rabbit shook like fire,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He sent him at it like a flier,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lived with hounds while horses could.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"They'm lying in the Ghost Heath Wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sir Peter," said an earth-stopper,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Old Baldy Hill), "You'll find 'em there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Z I come'd across I smell 'em plain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's one up back, down Tuttock's drain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, Lord, it's just a bog, the Tuttocks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hounds would be swallered to the buttocks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heath Wood, Sir Peter's best to draw."<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE START</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Sir Peter gave two minutes' law<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Kingston Challow and his daughter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "They're late. We'll start the slaughter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ghost Heath, then, Dansey. We'll be going."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Now, at his word, the tide was flowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Off went Maroon, off went the hounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across soft turf with dead leaves cleaving<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hillocks that the mole was heaving.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mild going to those trotting feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After the scarlet coats, the meet<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Came clopping up the grass in spate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They poached the trickle at the gate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their horses' feet sucked at the mud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Excitement in the horses' blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cocked forward every ear and eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They quivered as the hounds went by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They trembled when they first trod grass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They would not let another pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus183.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="Fourth colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The wind was westerly but still;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sky a high fair-weather cloud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like meadows ridge-and-furrow ploughed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just glinting sun but scarcely moving.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blackbirds and thrushes thought of loving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Catkins were out; the day seemed tense<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">It was so still. At every fence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White-violet-leaves shewed at the burn.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus185.jpg" width="400" height="235" alt="Young Cothill let his chaser go round Chols Elm Field" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Young Cothill let his chaser go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round Chols Elm Field a turn or so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To soothe his edge. The riders went<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chatting and laughing and content<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">In groups of two or three together.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds, a flock of shaking feather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bobbed on ahead, past Chols Elm Cop.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horses' shoes went clip-a-clop,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the stony cart-track there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little spinney was all bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But in the earth-moist winter day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The glistening horses pressing on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brown faced lads, Bill, Dick and John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the hurry to arrive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were beautiful, like Spring alive.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds melted away with Master<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tanned lads ran, the field rode faster,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The chatter joggled in the throats<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of riders bumping by like boats,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">"We really ought to hunt a bye day."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Fine day for scent," "A fly or die day."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"They chopped a bagman in the check,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had a collar round his neck."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Old Ridden's girl's a pretty flapper."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"That Vaughan's a cad, the whipper-snapper."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I tell 'ee, lads, I seed 'em plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in the Rough at Shifford's Main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Squire stamping like a Duke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So red with blood I thought he'd puke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In appleplexie, as they do.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Miss Jane stood just as white as dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And heard him out in just white heat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then she trimmed him down a treat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(She'd be a pretty peach to marry)."<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">"Her'll draw up-wind, so us'll go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down by the furze, we'll see 'em so."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus187.jpg" width="400" height="465" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,<br />
+The glistening horses pressing on,<br />
+<span style="letter-spacing:2em;">&middot;&middot;&middot;&middot;&middot;&middot;&middot;</span><br />
+And all the hurry to arrive,<br />
+Were beautiful, like Spring alive.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">"Look, there they go, lad."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i8">There they went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the brook and up the bent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along Ghost Heath to cover side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turf scatters tossed behind each back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some horses blowing with a whinny,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A jam of horses in the spinney,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close to the ride-gate; leather straining,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saddles all creaking; men complaining,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chaffing each other as they pass't,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now as they neared the Ghost Heath Wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some riders grumbled, "What's the good:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's shot all day and poached all night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shall draw blank and lose the light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lose the scent, and lose the day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's no fox here, there never is."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 250px;">
+<img src="images/illus190.jpg" width="250" height="116" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">But as he trotted up to cover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin was watching to discover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What chance there was, and many a token<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Told him, that though no hound had spoken,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Most of them stirred to something there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From foxes which had crossed the Heath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not very many hours before.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"We'll find," he said, "I'll bet a score."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along Ghost Heath they trotted well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shaken brambles scattered drops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cracking the twigs down with their knockings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And planing out of sight with cockings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A scut or two lopped white to bramble.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>"COVER"</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">And now they gathered to the gamble<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds went crackling through the brown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wood stood silent in its host<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of halted trees all winter bare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The boughs, like veins that suck the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There came no song from any bird;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The darkness of the wood stood still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whips crept to the sides to view;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Master gave the nod, and "Leu,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Went Robin, cracking through the whin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And through the hedge-gap into cover.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The binders crashed as hounds went over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then up went stern and down went nose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"O wind him, beauties, push him out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beauties burst the scrub to find him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bramble and the broom were drawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The covert's northern end was blank.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus196.jpg" width="400" height="479" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>And now they gathered to the gamble<br />
+At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">They turned to draw along the bank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through thicker cover than the Rough<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Through three-and-four-year understuff<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Robin's forearm screened his eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Faln from his horn, brought whimpers after,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ends of scents were everywhere.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "This Hope's a likely lair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there's his billets, grey and furred.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And George, he's moving, there's a bird."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A blue uneasy jay was chacking.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From tree to tree, as in pursuit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said "That's it. There's fox afoot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mild horn's note, the soft flaked spark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of music, fell on that rank scent.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From heart to wild heart magic went.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Daffodil has it. There she goes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O hark to her." With wild high crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From frantic hearts, the hounds went flying<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Daffodil for that rank taint.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A waft of it came warm but faint,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Robin's mouth, and faded so.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"First find a fox, then let him go,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cheered his beauties like a lover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And charged beside them into cover.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>PART TWO&mdash;THE FOX</h2>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
+<img src="images/illus201.jpg" width="200" height="198" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus203.jpg" width="400" height="241" alt="And there on the night before my tale he trotted out" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">On old Cold Crendon's windy tops<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nose between paws, to hear the surf<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wind in the beeches drowsily.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was our fox bred lustily<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three years before, and there he berthed<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the beech-roots snugly earthed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a roof of flint and a floor of chalk<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there on the night before my tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He trotted out for a point in the vale.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw, from the cover edge, the valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Go trooping down with its droops of sally<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the brimming river's lipping bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a light in the inn at Water's End.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard the owl go hunting by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the shriek of the mouse the owl made die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the purr of the owl as he tore the red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strings from between his claws and fed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The smack of joy of the horny lips<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Marbled green with the blobby strips.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fault with the spring as bright as gleed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Green-slash-laced with water weed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A glare in the sky still marked the town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though all folk slept and the blinds were down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The street lamps watched the empty square,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The night-cat sang his evil there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox's nose tipped up and round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since smell is a part of sight and sound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Delicate smells were drifting by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sharp nose flaired them heedfully:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Partridges in the clover stubble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rabbit bucks beginning to box;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A scratching place for the pheasant cocks;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hare in the dead grass near the drain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And another smell like the spring again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A faint rank taint like April coming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For somewhere out by Ghost Heath Stubs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was a roving vixen wanting cubs.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus205.jpg" width="400" height="469" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,<br />
+Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking.</small></span>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE ROVING</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Over the valley, floating faint<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a warmth of windflaw came the taint,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he went up wind like an April thrush.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the Roman Road to Braiches Ridge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the fallen willow makes a bridge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the acres thin with pricking corn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Howle's Oak Farm where the raving brain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a dog who heard him foamed his chain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then off, as the farmer's window opened,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And away and away with a rolling scramble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the blackthorn and up the bramble,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his red fell clean for being married.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For clicketting time and Ghost Heath Wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had put the violet in his blood.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus212.jpg" width="400" height="239" alt="A dog who heard him foamed his chain" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His foot made the great black stallion whinny,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stallion's whinny aroused the stable<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the clink of the bloodhound's chain aroused<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stir of the cattle changed the dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The red-wattled black cock hot from Spain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crowed from his perch for dawn again,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the raftered roost as the fox went by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awoken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the grass to Water's Oaken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And over the hedge and into ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Before the dawn he had loved and fed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And found a kennel and gone to bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a shelf of grass in a thick of gorse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That would bleed a hound and blind a horse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There he slept in the mild west weather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his nose and brush well tucked together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus216.jpg" width="400" height="465" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>There he slept in the mild west weather<br />
+With his nose and brush well tucked together.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He slept while the pheasant cock untucked<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His head from his wing, flew down and kukked,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the ash-trees into field.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While with great black flags that flogged and paddled<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The rooks went out to the plough and straddled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Straddled wide on the moist red cheese<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Down in the village, men awoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus218.jpg" width="400" height="241" alt="The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the cocks and hens let out of roost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Windows were opened, mats were beaten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sleeping fox looked after himself.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Deep in his dream he heard the life<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the woodland seek for food or wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cows in a byre, and distant men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Condicote church-clock striking ten.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">At eleven o'clock a boy went past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a rough-haired terrier following fast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Woke the fox from out of his nap.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus219.jpg" width="400" height="471" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>The boy&#39;s sweet whistle and dog&#39;s quick yap<br />
+Woke the fox from out of his nap.</small></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>SCENT</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He rose and stretched till the claws in his pads<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stuck hornily out like long black gads,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He listened a while, and his nose went round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To catch the smell of the distant sound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The windward smells came free from taint<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lee-ward smells were much less certain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He moved to his right to a clearer space,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all his soul came into his face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into his eyes and into his nose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As over the hill a murmur rose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He trotted right and lifted a pad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trying to test what foes he had.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>SOUND</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drumming<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which sounded like horses quickly coming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It died as the hunt went down the dip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Voices and horses coming nearer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And another noise, of a pit-pat beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He sat on his haunches listening hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While his mind went over the compass card,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men were coming and rest was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he still had time to get fit to run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He could outlast horse and outrace hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scent was burning, the going good<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world one lust for a fox's blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The main earths stopped and the drains put-to,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fifteen miles to the land he knew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But of all the ills, the ill least pleasant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was to run in the light when men were present.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men in the fields to shout and sign<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a lift of hounds to a fox's line.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men at the earth at the long point's end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men at each check and none his friend,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Guessing each shift that a fox contrives,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But still, needs must when the devil drives.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus229.jpg" width="400" height="232" alt="Men at the earth at the long point&#39;s end" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He readied himself, then a soft horn blew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a clear voice carolled "Ed-hoick. Eleu."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the crackle of scrub where hounds were trying.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus230.jpg" width="400" height="241" alt="He trotted down with his nose intent" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then, the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then another, then more, till his body shivered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He left his kennel and trotted thence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He trotted down with his nose intent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a fox's line to cross his scent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was only fair (he being a stranger)<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That the native fox should have the danger.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the pace of his trot began to lift<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blue-winged Judas, a jay, began<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He hurried his trotting, he now felt frighted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was his poor body made hounds excited,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He felt as he ringed the great wood through<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That he ought to make for the land he knew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickened<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the wood behind was a crash of cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the blood in his veins; it made him fly.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">They were on his line; it was death to stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He must make for home by the shortest way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But with all this yelling and all this wrath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all these devils, how find a path?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watching the woodside, made him shirk.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He ringed the wood and looked at the south.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What wind there was blew into his mouth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicket<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Dansey's back were a twenty more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watching the cover and pressing fore.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus233.jpg" width="400" height="239" alt="The fox drew in" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death was there if he messed the puzzle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There were men without and hounds within,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Teeth in cover and death without,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both deaths coming, and no way out.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>FOUND</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then horse hooves trampled, then horses' flitches<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Burst their way through the hazel switches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man, quite near, said "Found, by Gad,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man, quite near, said "Now he'll break.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lark's Leybourne Copse is the line he'll take."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the men moved up with their talk and stink<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men whose coming meant death from teeth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a worrying wrench with him beneath.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox sneaked down by the cover side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He took the ditch at the cover-end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He hugged the ditch as his only friend.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blackbird cock with the golden beak<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got out of his way with a jabbering shriek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the shriek told Tom on the raking bay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That for eighteen pence he was gone away.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus238.jpg" width="400" height="239" alt="The blackbird got out of his way with a jabbering shriek" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He ran in the hedge in the triple growth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of bramble and hawthorn, glad of both,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till a couple of fields were past, and then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came the living death of the dread of men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then, as he listened, he heard a "Hoy,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom Dansey's horn and "Awa-wa-woy."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then all hounds crying with all their forces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a thundering down of seventy horses.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin Dawe's horn and halloos of "Hey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hark Hollar, Hoik" and "Gone away,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hark Hollar Hoik," and the smack of a whip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar"; then Robin made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pip go crash through the cut-and-laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hounds were over and on his line<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sound of the nearness sent a flood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of terror of death through the fox's blood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he went up wind as a racer goes.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>AWAY</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus243.jpg" width="400" height="236" alt="The hounds went romping with delight" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Bold Robin Dawe was over first,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cheering his hounds on at the burst;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The field were spurring to be in it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came from Sir Peter on his white.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds went romping with delight<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the grass and got together;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After the pack at Myngs's yell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cry like every kind of bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rang from these rompers as they raced.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The riders thrusting to be placed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jammed down their hats and shook their horses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds romped past with all their forces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They crashed into the blackthorn fence;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The scent was heavy on their sense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So hot it seemed the living thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It made the blood within them sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gusts of it made their hackles rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hot gulps of it were agonies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of joy, and thirst for blood, and passion.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus245.jpg" width="600" height="457" alt="Fifth colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">"Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He raced beside his pack to cheer.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The field's noise died upon his ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A faint horn, far behind, blew thin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In cover, lest some hound were in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then instantly the great grass rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shut field and cover from his eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He and his racers were alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"A dead fox or a broken bone,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said Robin, peering for his prey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rise, which shut his field away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shewed him the vale's great map spread out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The downs' lean flank and thrusting snout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blue distance, still as solitude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Glitter of water here and there,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The trees so delicately bare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dark green gorse and bright green holly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"O glorious God," he said, "how jolly."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there, down hill, two fields ahead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lolloping red dog-fox sped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over Poor Pastures to the brook.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He grasped these things in one swift look<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then dived into the bulfinch heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And skutched new blood upon his brow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said Robin, landing with a grunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Forrard, my beautifuls."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i12">The hunt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Followed down hill to race with him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White Rabbit with his swallow's skim,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Drew within hail, "Quick burst, Sir Peter."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"A traveller. Nothing could be neater.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Making for Godsdown clumps, I take it?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forrard."<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE FIELD</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i5">Bill Ridden thundered down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His big mouth grinned beneath his frown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds were going away from horses.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the glint of water-courses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke ahead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That poet chap who thinks he rides."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the grass, the Colonel next:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Squire volleying oaths and vext,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fighting his hunter for refusing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Sailing the grass, then Cob on Warder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Minton Price upon Marauder;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ock Gurney with his eyes intense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Burning as with a different sense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His big mouth muttering glad "by damns";<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bennett with devils in his wame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chewing black cud and spitting slanting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long Robert forcing Necromancy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dozen more with bad beginnings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wild last hound with high shrill yelps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smacked forrard with some whip-thong skelps.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Then last of all, at top of rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The crowd on foot all gasps and eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The run up hill had winded them.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">They saw the Yell Brook like a gem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blue in the grass a short mile on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A good eight fields and out of sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Except a rippled glimmer white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going away with dying cheering<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scarlet flappings disappearing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scattering horses going, going,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far on ahead, a loose horse taking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus256.jpg" width="400" height="238" alt="Far on ahead, a loose horse taking fence after fence" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A much bashed fence still dropping stick,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flung clods, still quivering from the kick,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horse-smell blowing clean away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Birds flitting back into the cover.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One last faint cry, then all was over.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hunt had been, and found, and gone.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus258.jpg" width="400" height="478" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>He faced the fence and put her through it<br />
+Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where many of the riders slowed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To tittup down a grassy lane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which led as hounds led in the main<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gave no danger of a fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, as they tittupped one and all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Big Twenty Stone came scattering by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His great mare made the hoof-casts fly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"By leave," he cried. "Come on. Come up,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This fox is running like a tup;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let's leave this lane and get to terms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No sense in crawling here like worms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come, let me past and let me start,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This fox is running like a hart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And this is going to be a run.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He faced the fence and put her through it<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE RUN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The kestrel cruising over meadow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wee figures, almost at a stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crossing the multi-coloured land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slow as a shadow on a dial.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus264.jpg" width="400" height="229" alt="Some horses, swerving at a trial" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Some horses, swerving at a trial,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mud about the gates was dunched.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like German cheese; men pushed for places,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And kicked the mud into the faces<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of those who made them room to pass.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The half-mile's gallop on the grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus265.jpg" width="400" height="231" alt="At gates they bunched" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">"His point's the Banner Barton Wood."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"You're right in that; by Jove it is."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"An up-wind travelling fox, by George."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"They say Tom viewed him at the forge."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Well, let me pass and let's be on."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">They crossed the lane to Tolderton,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hill-marl died to valley clay,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And there before them ran the grey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yell Water, swirling as it ran,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Yell Brook of the hunting man.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hunters eyed it and were grim.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They saw the water snaking slim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ahead, like silver; they could see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Each man) his pollard willow tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Firming the bank, they felt their horses<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They heard the men behind draw near.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each horse was trembling as a spear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trembles in hand when tense to hurl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The willow-roots like water-snakes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beaten holes the ratten makes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They heard the water's rush; they heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A faint cry from the hounds ahead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sick hope that the bank be staunch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Maroon across, Sir Peter's white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Mud to the hat but over, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well splashed by Squire who was in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">With draggled pink stuck close to skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Squire leaned from bank and hauled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mired horse's rein; he bawled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For help from each man racing by.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"What, help you pull him out? Not I.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What made you pull him in?" they said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ock Gurney in a cloud of steam<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stood by his dripping cob and wrung<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The taste of brook mud from his tongue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Lord, what a crowner we've a been,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">This jumping brook's a mucky job."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now sir, let me." He turned to Squire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cleared his hunter from the mire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By skill and sense and strength of arm.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>FULL CRY</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Keeping the spinney on his right.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hounds raced him here with all their might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the short firm grass, like fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cowman viewed him from the byre<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolloping on, six fields ahead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then hounds, still carrying such a head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sailing the great grass like a ship,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then grand Maroon in all his glory<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweeping his strides, his great chest hoary<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Raced up the spur of Gallows Hill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And viewed him there. The line he took<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going like fun and hounds like mad.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom glanced to see what friends he had<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still within sight, before he turned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ridge's shoulder; he discerned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One field away, young Cothill sailing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Easily up. Pete Gurney failing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sal Ridden skirting to the right.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A horse, with stirrups flashing bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over his head at every stride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looked like the Major's; Tom espied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far back, a scarlet speck of man<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Running, and straddling as he ran.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clumsy, but with the strength of ten.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then black and brown and scarlet men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brown horses, white and black and grey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scattered a dozen fields away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shoulder shut the scene away.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus273.jpg" width="600" height="383" alt="Sixth colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All wet red clay where a horse's foot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The rooks rose raving to curse him raw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a bay horse near and a white horse leading,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stilts and swear at the team to stop.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Arose from his wallet, nosing keen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a rushing swoop they were on his track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He swerved from his line with the curs at heel,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The loitering water, flooded full,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was wrinkled over with Arab script<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of eddies that twisted up and slipt.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stepping stones had a rush about them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So the fox plunged in and swam without them.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus277.jpg" width="400" height="239" alt="He swerved from his line with the curs at heel" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He wrung his coat from his draggled bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And romped away for the Sarsen Stones.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made sure that his scent had failed the pack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the red clay, good for corn and roses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">(A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He wriggled a shake and padded slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not sure if the hounds were on or no.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the hounds were lifted and on his line.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox went off while the hounds made halt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the horses breathed and the field found fault,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the whimpering rose to a crying crash<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the green blades bent to the fox's feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the cry rose keen not far behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 250px;">
+<img src="images/illus280.jpg" width="250" height="195" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox was strong, he was full of running,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He could run for an hour and then be cunning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the cry behind him made him chill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were nearer now and they meant to kill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They meant to run him until his blood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With nothing but teeth against the thirty.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the way to that blinding end<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He would meet with men and have none his friend.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men to holloa and men to run him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With stones to stagger and yells to stun him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men to head him, with whips to beat him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the way, that wild high crying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To cold his blood with the thought of dying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He upped his brush and went with a will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A christening party left the porch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They stood stock still as he pounded by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The toothless babe in his long white coat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looked delicate meat, the fox took note;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fur on his chest blown dry with the air,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the Waste where the ganders grazed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had rabbitted there long months before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The earths were deep and his need was sore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The way was new, but he took a vearing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And up Midwinter to King of Spain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Joe at digging his garden grounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O lord, my back, to be young again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(As I was digging) as fast as fast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He's only been gone a minute by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A girt dark dog as pert as pye."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Ellen and Susan came out scattering<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They saw the pack come head to foot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Running like racers nearly mute;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin and Dansey quartering near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All going gallop like startled deer.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A half dozen flitting scarlets shewing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Sending the partridge coveys whirring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out they came from the sawdust floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the larch-wood smelling of turpentine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sadness breathing with one long sigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He swerved to the left to a broad green ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a boy made him rush for the further side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there were the timberers come to load.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two timber carts and a couple of carters<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With straps round their knees instead of garters.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He leaped from the larch wood into tillage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cobbler's garden of Barton village.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beating sprigs in a broken boot;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He wore old glasses with thick horn rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He scowled at his work for his sight was dim.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His face was dingy, his lips were grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From primming sparrowbills day by day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he turned his boot he heard a noise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw his cat nip up on the shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where her back arched up till it touched her head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw his rabbit race round and round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its little black box three feet from ground.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he saw a fox in his garden path.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox swerved left and scrambled out<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Knocking crinked green shells from the Brussels Sprout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the plough at the top of bent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over to Aldams, up to Cappells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the wind-washed steeple stood serene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With its golden bird still sailing air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Maddings Hollow, down Dundry Dip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus289.jpg" width="600" height="382" alt="Seventh colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The three black firs of the Ship stood still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox looked back as he slackened past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>VIEW HALLOO</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">There they were coming, mute but swift,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stormcock leading, his stern spear-straight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Racing as though for a piece of plate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little speck horsemen field on field;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus296.jpg" width="400" height="478" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>A white horse rising, a dark horse flying.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up went Skylark as Antic sped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was zest to blood how they carried head.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The fox knew well, that before they tore him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They should try their speed on the downs before him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But his heart was high, that he beat them still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind of the downland charmed his bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So off he went for the Sarsen Stones.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The moan of the three great firs in the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Larks scattered up; the peewits feeding<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hare leaped up from her form and swerved<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinking<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cried sweet, as though wind blown glass were chinking.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behind came thudding and loud halloo<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a cry from hounds as they came to view.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a three mile more he would reach the haven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a three mile more he would make his berth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a three mile more he would reach his dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lean red bolt of his body tore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his shadow beside like spinning drift.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And none but the tumbling peewit weeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Where all winds hurry and none brings peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then down, on the mile-long green decline<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the turf's like spring and the air's like wine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
+<img src="images/illus300.jpg" width="200" height="194" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">On he went with a galloping rally<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blood in his veins went romping high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Get on, on, on to the earth or die."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The air of the downs went purely past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he felt the glory of going fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the terror of death, though there indeed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was romping away from hounds and hunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">In a one mile more when his point was made,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He would rest in safety from dog or spade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nose between paws he would hear the shout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the "gone to earth" to the hounds without,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He would hear the horn call hounds away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rest in peace till another day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In one mile more he would lie at rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So for one mile more he would go his best.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He reached the dip at the long droop's end<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he took what speed he had still to spend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">So down past Maesbury beech clump grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That would not be green till the end of May,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's Thorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Thirty Acre all thin with corn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pack had view of the way he took,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He capped them on till they did their best.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brink<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was raced as quick as a man can think.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox first felt that the pace was telling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His body and lungs seemed all grown old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His legs less certain, his heart less bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The thud in the blood of his body deeper,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His pride in his speed, his joy in the race<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were withered away, for what use was pace?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his fur felt sick and his chest was tagged<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down he went to the brook and over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the corn and into the clover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke rings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus304.jpg" width="400" height="241" alt="Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Seven Sarsens of granite grim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he ran them by they looked at him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he leaped the lip of their earthen paling<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds were gaining and he was failing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He pressed up hill to the blasted fir,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the second attempt he cleared the fence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He turned half right where the gorse was dense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was past his best, but his earth was near.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The steep green wall of the dead men's camp,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sidled up it and scampered down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Within, as he reached that soft green turf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Desolate ramparts rose up steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On either side, for the ghosts to keep.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close grown with moss which the wind made barren,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He passed the spring where the rushes spread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there in the stones was his earth ahead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One last short burst upon failing feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>LAST HOPE</h2>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 136px;">
+<img src="images/illus309.jpg" width="136" height="250" alt="A mask" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">With hounds at head so close behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had to run as he changed his mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rabbit burrow a furlong on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though his death seemed near he did not blench<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He upped his brush and he ran the trench.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in the valley of that dark gash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind-withered grasses looked like ash.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trickles of stones and earth fell down<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">In that dark valley of dead men's town.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard no noise from the hounds behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the hill-wind moaning like something blind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He turned the bend in the hill and there<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there with a gun tucked under his arm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into a net which was set to nab it.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And young Jack Cole peered over the wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The terrier pup attacked with a will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So the fox swerved right and away down hill.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ran<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the brackeny patch where the gorse began,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The line he took from the eyes of Sid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He swerved down wind and ran like a hare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the wind-blown spinney below him there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw no more of the terrier pup.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He crossed the spinney with ears intent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the cry of hounds on the way he went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was past his perfect, his strength was failing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That in one mile more they would have him down.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 167px;">
+<img src="images/illus314.jpg" width="167" height="200" alt="Reynard the fox's shield" title="" />
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>CHECKED</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus317.jpg" width="400" height="280" alt="They had ceased to run, they had come to check" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Through the withered oak's wind-crouching tops<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw men's scarlet above the copse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slacken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He felt that the unseen link which bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His spine to the nose of the leading hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which way to follow nor what to do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They had ceased to run, they had come to check,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The terrier's chase had killed his scent.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there came no cry from a new attack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His heart grew steady, his breath came back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He left the spinney and ran its edge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the track called Godsdown Road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the great grass heave of the gods' abode,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was moving now upon land he knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up Clench Royal and Morton Tew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Land he had roved on night by night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For hot blood suckage or furry bite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The threat of the hounds behind was gone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin on Pip came heaving up,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And found his pack spread out at check.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "You see? He's spoiled our sport.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He's killed the scent." He broke off short,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stared at hounds and at the valley.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No jay or magpie gave a rally<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down in the copse, no circling rooks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rose over fields; old Joyful's looks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were doubtful in the gorse, the pack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quested both up and down and back.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He watched each hound for each small sign.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They tried, but could not hit the line,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The scent was gone. The field took place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the way of hounds. The pace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had tailed them out; though four remained:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stained<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Red from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Colonel with Marauder beat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They turned towards a thud of feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dansey, and then young Cothill came<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(His chestnut mare was galloped tame).<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"There's Copse, a field behind," he said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Those last miles put them all to bed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They're strung along the downs like flies."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus322.jpg" width="400" height="472" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>&quot;Thank God, a check,&quot; they said, &quot;at last.&quot;<br />
+&quot;They cannot own it; you must cast.&quot;</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">"They cannot own it; you must cast,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up wind, down hill, by spinney side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They tried the brambled ditch; they tried<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The swamp, all choked with bright green grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And clumps of rush and pools like glass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But no hound spoke to it or feathered.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The men mopped brows. "An hour's hard run.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ten miles," they said, "we must have done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's all of six from Colston's Gorses."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lucky got their second horses.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The time ticked by. "He's lost," they muttered.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">They drew down wind along the bank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grown with dwarf oak and juniper<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The seepings made the ground one soak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Robin shifted in his seat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watching for signs, but no signs shewed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the spinney," Robin said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Beyond the copse a great grass fallow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rolling grass where hounds grew keen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Said Robin, eager at their joy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They're on to him."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 154px;">
+<img src="images/illus325.jpg" width="154" height="250" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>"ON"</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i8">At his reminders<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The keen hounds hurried to the finders.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The finding hounds began to hurry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men jammed their hats prepared to skurry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Ai Ai of the cry began.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its spirit passed to horse and man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The skirting hounds romped to the cry.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hound after hound cried Ai Ai Ai,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till all were crying, running, closing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their heads well up and no heads nosing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joyful ahead with spear-straight stern.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They raced the great slope to the burn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin beside them, Tom behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pointing past Robin down the wind.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">For there, two furlongs on, he viewed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Holy Hill or Cheddesdon Rood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just where the ploughland joined the grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A speck down the first furrow pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A speck the colour of the plough.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cried. The speck passed slowly on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then down the slope and up the Rood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown Wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the Rood to High Clench Valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gallop led; the red-coats scattered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fragments of the hunt were tattered<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over five fields, ev'n since the check.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus331.jpg" width="400" height="467" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>Then down the slope and up the Rood,<br />
+Went the hunt&#39;s gallop.</small></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">"A dead fox or a broken neck,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hunter leant against the rein,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cocking his ears, he loved to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds at cry. The hounds and he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The chiefs in all that feast of pace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The speck in front began to race.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox heard hounds get on to his line,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And again the terror went down his spine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Again the back of his neck felt cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But his legs were rested, his heart was good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was four miles more, but an earth at end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus333.jpg" width="400" height="222" alt="The fox heard hounds get on to his line" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Down the great grass slope which the oak trees dot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a swerve to the right from the keeper's cot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over High Clench brook in its channel deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the grass beyond, where he ran to sheep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sheep formed line like a troop of horse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They swerved, as he passed, to front his course<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From behind, as he ran, a cry arose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"See the sheep, there. Watch them. There he goes."<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He ran the sheep that their smell might check<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds from his scent and save his neck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But in two fields more he was made aware<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the hounds still ran; Tom had viewed him there.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus335.jpg" width="400" height="467" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>He ran the sheep that their smell might check<br />
+The hounds from his scent and save his neck.</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Tom had held them on through the taint of sheep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They had kept his line, as they meant to keep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were running hard with a burning scent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Robin could see which way he went.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pace that he went brought strain to breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knew as he ran that the grass was death.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He ran the slope towards Morton Tew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the heave of the hill might stop the view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he doubled down to the Blood Brook red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And swerved upstream in the brook's deep bed.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He splashed the shallows, he swam the deeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He crept by banks as a moorhen creeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard the hounds shoot over his line,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And go on, on, on towards Cheddesdon Zine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">In the minute's peace he could slacken speed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ease from the strain was sweet indeed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cool to the pads the water flowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He reached the bridge on the Cheddesdon road.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">As he came to light from the culvert dim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two boys on the bridge looked down on him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were young Bill Ripple and Harry Meun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Look, there be squirrel, a-swimmin', see 'un."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Noa, ben't a squirrel, be fox, be fox.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, Hal, get pebble, we'll give en socks."<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">"Get pebble, Billy, dub un a plaster;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's for thy belly, I'll learn ee, master."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus337.jpg" width="400" height="240" alt="He raced from brook in a burst of shies" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The stones splashed spray in the fox's eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He raced from brook in a burst of shies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He ran for the reeds in the withy car,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the dead flags shake and the wild-duck are.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He pushed through the reeds which cracked at his passing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the High Clench Water, a grey pool glassing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He heard Bill Ripple in Cheddesdon road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shout, "This way, huntsman, it's here he goed."<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE LIFTING HORN</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The Leu Leu Leu went the soft horn's laughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds (they had checked) came romping after,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clop of the hooves on the road was plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the crackle of reeds, then cries again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">A whimpering first, then Robin's cheer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the Ai Ai Ai; they were all too near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His swerve had brought but a minute's rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now he ran again, and he ran his best.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">With a crackle of dead dry stalks of reed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds came romping at topmost speed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The redcoats ducked as the great hooves skittered<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Blood Brook's shallows to sheets that glittered;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a running fire the dead reeds crackled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds' heads lifted, their necks were hackled.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom cried to Bob as they thundered through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He is running short, we shall kill at Tew."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bob cried to Tom as they rode in team,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I was sure, that time, that he turned up-stream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the hounds went over the brook in stride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw old Daffodil fling to side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I guessed at once, when they checked beyond."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ducks flew up from the Morton Pond.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox looked up at their tailing strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He wished (perhaps) that a fox had wings.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wings with his friends in a great V straining<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The autumn sky when the moon is gaining;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">For better the grey sky's solitude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than to be two miles from the Mourne End Wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the hounds behind, clean-trained to run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And your strength half spent and your breath half done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Better the reeds and the sky and water<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than that hopeless pad from a certain slaughter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the Morton Pond the fields began,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long Tew's green meadows; he ran; he ran.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus343.jpg" width="400" height="473" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>With a cracking whip and a &quot;Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,<br />
+Forrard,&quot; Tom galloped. Bob shouted &quot;Yoick.&quot;</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">First the six green fields that make a mile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the lip-full Clench at the side the while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the rooks above, slow-circling, shewing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world of men where a fox was going;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fields all empty, dead grass, bare hedges,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And the brook's bright gleam in the dark of sedges.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To all things else he was dumb and blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He ran, with the hounds a field behind.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>MOURNE END WOOD</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">At the sixth green field came the long slow climb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the Mourne End Wood as old as time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oak woods green with the mistletoes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw his point on the heaving hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had failing flesh and a reeling will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw black woods, which would shelter&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nothing else, but the steepening slope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a black line nodding, a line of hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The line of the yews on the long slope's brow,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They yelled to have him this side the wood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then up went hackles as Shatterer led,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Mob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turn him, damn it; Yooi, beauties, beat him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O God, let them get him; let them eat him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If you'll let us get him this side the wood."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pack went wild up the hill alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three hundred yards, and the worst was past,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the skeleton trees show sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the yew trees darken to see him die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the line of the woods go reeling black,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds were gaining like spotted pards<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And the wood-hedge still was a hundred yards.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wood-hedge black was a two year, quick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thorns all over, and strongly plied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a clean red ditch on the take-off side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He saw it now as a redness, topped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spiky to leap on, stiff to force,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No safe jump for a failing horse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But beyond it, darkness of yews together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dark green plumes over soft brown feather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Darkness of woods where scents were blowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scents that might draw these hounds away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus353.jpg" width="400" height="475" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>He saw it now as a redness, topped<br />
+With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped.</small></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All his strength seemed to draw the pack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trees drew over him dark like Norns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was over the ditch and at the thorns.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He leaped, but fell, in sight of the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds went wild as they saw him fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fence stood stiff like a Bucks flint wall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He gathered himself for a new attempt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His life before was an old dream dreamt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All that he was was a blown fox quaking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While over the grass in crowd, in cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The eyes intense, dull, smouldering red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fell like a ruff round each keen head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pace like fire, and scarlet men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Galloping, yelling, "Yooi, eat him, then."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He steadied a second and then leaped down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the dark of the wood where bright things drown.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He swerved, sharp right, under young green firs.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin called on the Dane with spurs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cried "Come, Dansey: if God's not good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shall change our fox in this Mourne End wood."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom cried back as he charged like spate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Mine can't jump that, I must ride to gate."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robin answered, "I'm going at him.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll kill that fox, if he kills me, drat him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll kill in covert. Gerr on, now, Dane."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gripped him tight and he made it plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He slowed him down till he almost stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While his hounds went crash into Mourne End Wood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Like a dainty dancer with footing nice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Dane turned side for a leap in twice.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cleared the ditch to the red clay bank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He rose at the fence as his quarters sank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He barged the fence as the bank gave way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And down he came in a fall of clay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Robin jumped off him and gasped for breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "That's lost him, as sure as death.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">They've over-run him. Come up, the Dane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I'll kill him yet, if we ride to Spain."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He scrambled up to his horse's back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He thrust through cover, he called his pack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cheered them on till they made it good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the fox had swerved inside the wood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox knew well, as he ran the dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the headlong hounds were past their mark.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They had missed his swerve and had overrun.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But their devilish play was not yet done.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>"DONE"</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">For a minute he ran and heard no sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a whimper came from a questing hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a "This way, beauties," and then "Leu Leu,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The floating laugh of the horn that blew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the cry again and the crash and rattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the shrubs burst back as they ran to battle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the wood behind seemed risen from root,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crying and crashing to give pursuit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the trees seemed hounds and the air seemed cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the earth so far that he needs but die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Die where he reeled in the woodland dim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a hound's white grips in the spine of him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For one more burst he could spurt, and then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wait for the teeth, and the wrench, and men.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He made his spurt for the Mourne End rocks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The air blew rank with the taint of fox;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The yews gave way to a greener space<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of great stones strewn in a grassy place.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there was his earth at the great grey shoulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sunk in the ground, of a granite boulder<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dry deep burrow with rocky roof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Proof against crowbars, terrier-proof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life to the dying, rest for bones.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The earth was stopped; it was filled with stones.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then, for a moment, his courage failed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes looked up as his body quailed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the coming of death, which all things dread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made him run for the wood ahead.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus363.jpg" width="400" height="236" alt="There were foxes there" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The taint of fox was rank on the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knew, as he ran, there were foxes there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His strength was broken, his heart was bursting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His bones were rotten, his throat was thirsting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His feet were reeling, his brush was thick<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From dragging the mud, and his brain was sick.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He thought as he ran of his old delight<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">In the wood in the moon in an April night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His happy hunting, his winter loving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The smells of things in the midnight roving;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The look of his dainty-nosing, red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clean-felled dam with her footpad's tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of his sire, so swift, so game, so cunning<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With craft in his brain and power of running,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their fights of old when his teeth drew blood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now he was sick, with his coat all mud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">He crossed the covert, he crawled the bank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a meuse in the thorns and there he sank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his ears flexed back and his teeth shown white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a rat's resolve for a dying bite.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>PRIZE</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">And there, as he lay, he saw the vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That a struggling sunlight silvered pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Deerlip Brook like a strip of steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Nun's Wood Yews where the rabbits squeal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great grass square of the Roman Fort,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the smoke in the elms at Crendon Court.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">And above the smoke in the elm-tree tops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was the beech-clump's blue, Blown Hilcote Copse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where he and his mates had long made merry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the bloody joys of the rabbit-herry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">And there as he lay and looked, the cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the hounds at head came rousing by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He bent his bones in the blackthorn dim.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">But the cry of the hounds was not for him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the fence with a crash they went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Belly to grass, with a burning scent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then came Dansey, yelling to Bob,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"They've changed, O damn it, now here's a job."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Bob yelled back, "Well, we cannot turn 'em,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's Jumper and Antic, Tom; we'll learn 'em.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We must just go on, and I hope we kill."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They followed hounds down the Mourne End Hill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox lay still in the rabbit-meuse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the dry brown dust of the plumes of yews.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the bottom below a brook went by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blue, in a patch, like a streak of sky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, one by one, with a clink of stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came a red or dark coat on a horse half blown.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And man to man with a gasp for breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said, "Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus370.jpg" width="400" height="475" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>And man to man with a gasp for breath<br />
+Said, &quot;Lord, what a run. I&#39;m fagged to death.&quot;</small></span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">After an hour, no riders came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The day drew by like an ending game;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A robin sang from a pufft red breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox lay quiet and took his rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wren on a tree-stump carolled clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the starlings wheeled in a sudden sheer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rooks came home to the twiggy hive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the elm-tree tops which the winds do drive.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the noise of the rooks fell slowly still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the lights came out in the Clench Brook Mill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a pheasant cocked, then an owl began<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the cry that curdles the blood of man.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The stars grew bright as the yews grew black,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox rose stiffly and stretched his back.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He flaired the air, then he padded out<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the valley below him dark as doubt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Winter-thin with the young green crops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Old Cold Crendon and Hilcote Copse.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>HOME</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 260px;">
+<img src="images/illus375.jpg" width="260" height="100" alt="Reynard the fox" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">As he crossed the meadows at Naunton Larking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dogs in the town all started barking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds and the hunt were limping home:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Limping home in the dark, dead-beaten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hounds all rank from a fox they'd eaten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dansey saying to Robin Dawe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"The fastest and longest I ever saw."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Robin answered, "O Tom, 'twas good,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">I thought they'd changed in the Mourne End Wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now I feel that they did not change.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We've had a run that was great and strange;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to kill in the end, at dusk, on grass.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll turn to the Cock and take a glass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the hounds, poor souls, are past their forces.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a gallon of ale for our poor horses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some bits of bread for the hounds, poor things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After all they've done (for they've done like kings),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would keep them going till we get in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We had it alone from Nun's Wood Whin."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Tom replied, "If they changed or not,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There've been few runs longer and none more hot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shall talk of to-day until we die."<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/illus376.jpg" width="400" height="469" alt="" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><small>For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,<br />
+The hounds and the hunt were limping home.</small></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The stars grew bright in the winter sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind came keen with a tang of frost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brook was troubled for new things lost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The copse was happy for old things found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fox came home and he went to ground.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the hunt came home and the hounds were fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They climbed to their bench and went to bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horses in stable loved their straw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Good-night, my beauties," said Robin Dawe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">Then the moon came quiet and flooded full<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light and beauty on clouds like wool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a feasted fox at rest from hunting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the beech wood grey where the brocks were grunting.<br /></span>
+</div><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/illus379.jpg" width="600" height="457" alt="Eighth colored plate" title="" /><br />
+<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 19em;"><small><i>Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York</i></small></span></span>
+</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><br />
+<span class="i0">The beech wood grey rose dim in the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With moonlight fallen in pools of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The long dead leaves on the ground were rimed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A clock struck twelve and the church-bells chimed.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h5><br />Printed in the United States of America.</h5>
+<hr />
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/endpaper.jpg" width="600" height="271" alt="Endpaper" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<div class="tnotes"><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3>
+
+<div class="tnote"><p>All author's punctuations retained.</p></div>
+
+<div class="tnote"><p>All apparent printer's errors and variable spellings retained, including
+variable usage of hyphen (e.g. "goodwill" and "good-will") and any other
+variable spellings.</p></div>
+
+<div class="tnote"><p>Table of Content added.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
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+</body>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reynard the Fox
+
+Author: John Masefield
+
+Illustrator: Carton Moorepark
+
+Release Date: November 18, 2011 [EBook #38052]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REYNARD THE FOX ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Judith Wirawan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  REYNARD THE FOX
+
+
+  [Illustration: Publisher's emblem]
+
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+
+  NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
+  ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO
+
+
+  MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
+
+  LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
+  MELBOURNE
+
+
+  THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
+
+  TORONTO
+
+
+[Illustration: Frontispiece: First colored plate _Courtesy Arthur
+Ackermann and Son, New York_]
+
+
+
+
+  REYNARD THE FOX
+
+  BY
+
+  JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+
+  NEW EDITION WITH EIGHT PLATES IN COLOUR AND
+  MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
+
+  CARTON MOOREPARK
+
+  [Illustration: Ex libris Reynards]
+
+  New York
+  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+  1920
+  _All rights reserved_
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1919 AND 1920,
+  BY JOHN MASEFIELD.
+
+  New illustrated edition, October, 1920.
+
+
+  Norwood Press
+  J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
+  Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+I have been asked to write why I wrote this poem of "Reynard the Fox."
+As a man grows older, life becomes more interesting but less easy to
+know; for, late in life, even the strongest yields to the habit of his
+compartment. When he cannot range through all society, from the court to
+the gutter, a man must go where all society meets, as at the Pilgrimage,
+the Festival or the Game. Here in England the Game is both a festival
+and an occasion of pilgrimage. A man wanting to set down a picture of
+the society of England will find his models at the games.
+
+What are the English games? The man's game is Association football; the
+woman's game, perhaps, hockey or lacrosse. Golf I regard more as a
+symptom of a happy marriage than a game. Cricket, which was once widely
+popular among both sexes has lost its hold, except among the young. The
+worst of all these games is that few can play them at a time.
+
+But in the English country, during the autumn, winter and early spring
+of each year, the main sport is fox hunting, which is not like cricket
+or football, a game for a few and a spectacle for many, but something in
+which all who come may take a part, whether rich or poor, mounted or on
+foot. It is a sport loved and followed by both sexes, all ages and all
+classes. At a fox hunt, and nowhere else in England, except perhaps at
+a funeral, can you see the whole of the land's society brought together,
+focussed for the observer, as the Canterbury pilgrims were for Chaucer.
+
+This fact made the subject attractive. The fox hunt gave an opportunity
+for a picture or pictures of the members of an English community.
+
+Then to all Englishmen who have lived in a hunting country, hunting is
+in the blood, and the mind is full of it. It is the most beautiful and
+the most stirring sight to be seen in England. In the ports, as at
+Falmouth, there are ships under sail, under way, coming or going,
+beautiful unspeakably. In the country, especially on the great fields on
+the lower slopes of the Downland, the teams of the ploughmen may be seen
+bowing forward on a sky-line, and this sight can never fail to move one
+by its majesty of beauty. But in neither of these sights of beauty is
+there the bright colour and swift excitement of the hunt, nor the thrill
+of the horn, and the cry of the hounds ringing into the elements of the
+soul. Something in the hunt wakens memories hidden in the marrow, racial
+memories, of when one hunted for the tribe, animal memories, perhaps, of
+when one hunted with the pack, or was hunted.
+
+Hunting has always been popular here in England. In ancient times it was
+necessary. Wolves, wild boar, foxes and deer had to be kept down. To
+hunt was then the social duty of the mounted man, when he was not
+engaged in war. It was also the opportunity of all other members of the
+community to have a good time in the open, with a feast or a new fur at
+the end, to crown the pleasure.
+
+Since arms of precision were made, hunting on horseback with hounds has
+perhaps been unnecessary everywhere, but it is not easy to end a
+pleasure rooted in the instincts of men. Hunting has continued, and
+probably will continue, in this country and in Ireland. It is rapidly
+becoming a national sport in the United States.
+
+Some have written, that hunting is the sport of the wealthy man. Some
+wealthy men hunt, no doubt, but they are not the backbone of the sport,
+so much as those who love and use horses. Parts of this country, of
+Ireland and of the United States are more than ordinarily good pasture,
+fitted for the breeding of horses, beyond most other places in the
+world. Hardly anywhere else is the climate so equable, the soil so right
+for the feet of colts and the grass so good. Where these conditions
+exist, men will breed horses and use them. Men who breed good horses
+will ride, jump and test them, and will invent means of riding, jumping
+and testing them, the steeplechase, the circus, the contests at fairs
+and shows, the point-to-point meeting, and they will preserve, if
+possible, any otherwise dying sport which offers such means.
+
+I have mentioned several reasons why fox hunting should be popular:
+(_a_) that it is a social business, at which the whole community may and
+does attend in vast numbers in a pleasant mood of goodwill, good humour
+and equality, and during which all may go anywhere, into ground
+otherwise shut to them; (_b_) that it is done in the winter, at a
+season when other social gatherings are difficult, and in country
+districts where no buildings, except the churches, could contain the
+numbers assembled; (_c_) that it is most beautiful to watch, so
+beautiful that perhaps very few of the acts of men can be so lovely to
+watch nor so exhilarating. The only thing to be compared with it, in
+this country, is the sword dance, the old heroical dancing of the young
+men, still practised, in all its splendour of wild beauty, in some
+country places; (_d_) that we are a horse-loving people who have loved
+horses as we have loved the sea, and have made, in the course of
+generations, a breed of horse, second to none in the world, for beauty
+and speed.
+
+But besides all these reasons, there is another that brings many out
+hunting. This is the delight in hunting, in the working of hounds, by
+themselves, or with the huntsmen, to find and kill their fox. Though
+many men and women hunt in order to ride, many still ride in order to
+hunt.
+
+Perhaps this delight in hunting was more general in the mid-eighteenth
+century, when hounds were much slower than at present. Then, the hunt
+was indeed a test of hounds and huntsman. The fox was not run down but
+hunted down. The great run then was that in which hounds and huntsman
+kept to their fox. The great run now is perhaps that in which some few
+riders keep with the hounds.
+
+The ideal run of 1750 might have been described thus:--
+
+"Being in the current of Writing, I cannot but acquaint your Lorp of ye
+great Hunt there was, this Tuesday last there was a a Week. Sure so
+great a day has not been seen here since The Day your Lorp's Father
+broke his Collar Bone at ye Park Wall. As Milton says:--
+
+    "Well have we speeded, and o'er Hill and Dale
+    Forest and Field and Flood ...
+    As far as Indus east, Euphrates west."
+
+"We had but dismle Weather of it, and so cold, as made Sir Harry
+observe, that it was an ill wind blew no-one any good. We met at ye
+Tailings. I had out my brown Horse. There was present Sir Anthony
+Smoaker; Mr. Jarvis of Copse Stile; William Travis; John Hawbuck; your
+Lorp's Friend, Dick Fancowe, and two of ye Red Coats from ye Barracks.
+Ye fair Sex was dismayed, it was said, by ye rudeness of ye Elements;
+they did not venture it.
+
+"On coming to draw Tailings Wood, Glider spoke to it, and Tom viewed him
+away for the Valley, being the old Dog Fox, with the white Mask, that
+beat us at Fubb's Field, the day your Lorp road Bluebell.
+
+    "Now spoke the chearful Horn; and tuneful Hounds
+    Echoed, and Red Coats gallopped; stirring Scean,
+    Rude Health and Manly Wit together strive.
+
+"We went with the extream of Violence from Tailings Wood to ye small
+Coppice at Nap Hill where a Fellow put him from his Point, which gave
+Occasion to Sir Anthony to correct him. Ye little magpie Hound made it
+out in ye bog at ye back of ye Coppice, when again Hounds went at head
+through Long Stone Pastures as far as Tainton. Here we was delayed in ye
+Dear Park, the effluvia of ye Dear being extream strong and doubtless
+puzzling to the Noses of ye Hounds. And here I cannot but remark the
+skill with which ye Hounds worked it out till they had hit it off, a
+sight, as Mr. Jarvis remarked to me, worthy of the Admiration of an
+antient Philosopher, and of the eloquence of a most elegant Wit, or
+Poet. Leaving ye Dear Park, He made for Norton Cross, which he left on
+his left Hand, as though deciding for ye Hill. Crossing ye Hill, in
+Spite of ye Sheep, he was a little staggered by his being run by one of
+ye Shepherd's Doggs, a part of Creation that should not be tolerated,
+except in ye vision of ye Poet, as in a Pastoral or so. Here Joe
+Phillips, our Huntsman, made unavailing Casts, but by lifting to the
+Vineyard recovered him, when Hounds run him to Cow's Crookham, on your
+Lorp's Aston Estate.
+
+"By this Time, your Lorp will understand our Distress. Dick Fancowe was
+in ye Brook at Norton, Mr. Jarvis' grey Horse had cast a Shoe, and one
+of ye Red Coats had broak his Liver in falling at a Fence. For a time we
+went about to recover him:--
+
+    "Now with attentive Nose the restless Hound
+    Endeavours on the Scent, now here, now there,
+    Scorning adulterat scents of lesser Prey.
+    Now gloomy care invades the Huntsman's Face;
+    And Sportsmen (jovial erst) on weary steeds
+    Sit pensive."
+
+Here might well be seen the Advantages of a judicious Breeding in
+Hounds, that neglects not the intellectual Part, but aims rather at a
+complete Animal than alone at Sinews and Corporeal Structure. That Blood
+of the Old Berkshire Glorious, which your Lorp's Father was wont to
+observe, was what he most stood by, next to our Constitution and the
+Protestant Succession, here stood us in good stead, for it was to
+Glorious ye Ninth, as well as to Growler and Glider (all of ye same
+royal strain) that we was indebted to ye happy Conclusion. They pushed
+him out of ye Stubbings at Cow's Crookham, where it seems he had taken
+Refuge in the Hollow of a decayed Tree. We chac't him thence upon ye
+Grass to Shepherd's Hey. Here he began to run short, being not a little
+apprehensive, lest his Foes should triumph, and snatch from him that
+Life, which he had so long nefariously pampered.
+
+    On courtly Cock with all his household Train
+    Of Hens obsequious, by the Hen Wife mourned.
+
+"The Sun, coming out from among ye Clouds, where he had been too long
+hid, made (as was elegantly pretended by Sir Anthony), a Brightness,
+animating indeed to us, who carried the Sword of Justice, but, to the
+Criminal of our Pursuit, infinitely distressing. Then had your Lorp seen
+the gay Ardor of the Pack, as they came to the View, which they did
+about Stonepits, your Lorp would have said with the late elegant Poet:
+
+    "Now o'er the glittering grass the sinewy Hound
+    Shakes from his Feet the Dew and makes ye Woods resound."
+
+"To be brief, we killed in the Back Yard of ye Rummer and Glass after
+two and three quarters Hours of a Hunt such as (all are agreed) is not
+lightly to be parallelled. There was present at ye Death, beside Joe
+Phillips and Tom, Sir A. Smoaker, Mr. Wm. Travis and myself, all so
+extream distresst, Men and Beasts, that it was observed, it was a Marvel
+ye Horses were not dead. Such an Hunt, it was agreed, should be
+celebrated by an annual Dinner, at which the Toast of ye Chase might be
+rendered more than ordinary. Ye Hunt was upwards of Fifteen Miles in
+Length, and hath been the Subject of a Song, by a Member of Ye Hunt,
+which, as it would take long to transcribe, I forbear, hoping that we
+may sing it to your Lorp before (as ye Poet says)
+
+        "Ye vixen hath laid up her Cubs
+    In snuggest Cave secure, when balmy Spring
+    Wakens ye Meadows."
+
+"But to pass now from Celestial Pleasures to Worldly Cares, I have to
+acquaint your Lorp that your Lorp's Sister's Son, Mr. Parracombe, hath
+been killed by a Fall from his Horse, after Dinner with some Gentlemen,
+his particular Friends, an Affliction indeed great, humanly regarded,
+were it not also considered, how much happier his Lot must be, than in
+this Vale of Tears, etc. Ye Young Hounds thrive apace, and it is thought
+the forward Season will be very favourable for their future Prey. I am,
+your Lorp's most obedient, Charles Cothill."
+
+Perhaps the ideal run of the present time would be described as
+follows:--
+
+"A large field attended the Templecombe on Tuesday last at the popular
+meet at Heydigates. Will Mynors, late of the Parratts, carried the horn,
+in place of Tom Carling, now with Mr. Fletchers. A little time was spent
+in running through the shrubberies in the garden at Heydigates and then
+the word was given for the Cantlows. Will had no sooner put hounds into
+this famous cover than the dog pack proclaimed the joyous news. The fox,
+a traveller, was at once viewed away for the Three Oaks, across the
+rather heavy going of the pasture land. Coming to the Knock Brook, he
+swam it near Parson's Pleasure, going at a pace that let the knowing
+ones know that they were in for something out of the common. Keeping
+Snib's Farm on his right, he ran dead straight for Gallow's Wood, where
+some woodmen with their teams disturbed him. Swinging to his left, he
+went up the hill, through Bloody Lane, as though towards Dinsmore, but
+was again deflected by woodmen. Turning down the hill, he ran for the
+valley, passing Enderton Schoolhouse, the scholars of which were much
+cheered by the near prospect of the hunt. It was now evident that he was
+going for the Downs. Some of the less daring began to express the hope
+that he might be headed.
+
+"Scent from the first was burning and the pace a cracker. After leaving
+Enderton he made straight for the Danesway, past Snub's Titch and the
+Curlews, the green meadows of the pasture being sprinkled for miles with
+the relics of the field. He crossed the Roman Road at Orm's Oak and at
+once entered the Danesway, going at a pace which all thought could not
+last.
+
+"At the summit of the Danesway, known as the Gallows Point, hounds were
+brought to their noses, owing to the crossing of the line by sheep. A
+man working nearby was able to give the line and Will, lifting beyond
+the Lynchets, at once hit him off, and the hounds resumed their rush.
+From this point, they went almost exactly straight from the head of the
+Danesway to the fir copse by Arthur's Table. All this part of the run
+being across a rolling grass land, was at top speed, such as no horse
+could live with. At Arthur's Table, he was put from his earth by
+shooters who were netting the warren. As he could not get through them
+nor across the highway, then busy with traffic, He doubled down across
+the Starvings, where Will, the only man up at this point, although now
+three hundred yards behind hounds, caught sight of him on the opposite
+slope, romping away from hounds as though he would never grow old. On
+coming to the level, past Spinney's End, some of those who had been left
+at the Lynchets were able to rejoin, but were soon again cast out by the
+extreme violence of the going, which continued back across the Downs on
+a line obliquely parallel with his former track though a mile further to
+the south. It was supposed that he was going for the main earth in
+Bloody Acre Copse. Some workers in the strip at the edge of the copse
+headed him from this point. He swung left-handed past Staves acre, and
+so down to the valley by the shelving ground near Monk's Charwell. Here,
+for some unaccountable reason, the scent, which had been breast high,
+became catchy, and hounds lost their fox in the Osier cars at Charwell
+Springs. Later in the afternoon, while jogging home, a second fox was
+chopped in Mr. Parsloe's cover at Prince's Charwell. Hounds then went
+home.
+
+"The run from the Cantlows was not remarkable for any quality of
+hunting, but extremely so for pace and length. The distance run, from
+Cantlows Wood to the Osiers cannot have been less than thirteen miles,
+most of it indeed on the best going in the world, but at a racing pace,
+with nothing that can be called a check, the whole way. Some wished that
+the hounds might have been rewarded and others that Will Mynors might
+have crowned his opening gallop with a kill, but the general feeling was
+one of satisfaction that so game a fox escaped."
+
+My own interest in fox hunting began at a very early age. I was born in
+a good hunting country, partly woodland, partly pasture. My home, during
+my first seven years, was within half a mile of the kennels. I saw
+hounds on most days of my life. Hounds and hunting filled my
+imagination. I saw many meets, each as romantic as a circus. The
+huntsman and whipper-in seemed, then, to be the greatest men in the
+world, and those mild slaves, the hounds, the loveliest animals.
+
+Often, as a little child, I saw and heard hounds hunting in and near a
+covert within sight of my old home. Once, when I was, perhaps, five
+years old, the fox was hunted into our garden, and those glorious beings
+in scarlet, as well as the hounds, were all about my lairs, like
+visitants from Paradise. The fox, on this occasion, went through a
+woodshed and escaped.
+
+Later in my childhood, though I lived less near to the kennels, I was
+still within a mile of them, and saw hounds frequently at all seasons.
+In that hunting country, hunting was one of the interests of life;
+everybody knew about it, loved, followed, watched and discussed it. I
+went to many meets, and followed many hunts on foot. Each of these
+occasions is now distinct in my mind, with the colour and intensity of
+beauty. I saw many foxes starting off upon their runs, with the hounds
+close behind them. It was then that I learned to admire the ease and
+beauty of the speed of the fresh fox. That leisurely hurry, which romps
+away from the hardest trained and swiftest fox hounds without a visible
+effort, as though the hounds were weighted with lead, is the most lovely
+motion I have seen in an animal.
+
+No fox was the original of my Reynard, but as I was much in the woods as
+a boy I saw foxes fairly often, considering that they are night-moving
+animals. Their grace, beauty, cleverness, and secrecy always thrilled
+me. Then that kind of grin which the mask wears made me credit them with
+an almost human humour. I thought the fox a merry devil, though a bloody
+one. Then he is one against many, who keeps his end up, and lives, often
+snugly, in spite of the world. The pirate and the nightrider are nothing
+to the fox, for romance and danger. This way of life of his makes it
+difficult to observe him in a free state at close quarters.
+
+Once in the early spring in the very early morning, I saw a vixen
+playing with her cubs in the open space below a beech tree. Once I came
+upon a big dog-fox in a wheel-wright's yard, and watched him from within
+a few paces for some minutes. Twice I have watched half-grown cubs
+stalking rabbits. Twice out hunting, the fox has broken cover within
+three yards of me. These are the only free foxes which I have seen at
+close quarters. Foxes are night-moving animals. To know them well one
+should have cat's eyes and foxes' habits. By the imagination alone can
+men know foxes.
+
+When I was about halfway through my poem, I found a dead dog-fox in a
+field near Cumnor Hurst. He was a fine full-grown fox in perfect
+condition; he must have picked up poison, for he had not been hunted,
+nor shot. On the pads of this dead fox, I noticed for the first time,
+the length and strength of a fox's claws.
+
+Some have asked, whether the Ghost Heath Run is founded on any recorded
+run of any real Hunt. It is not. It is an imaginary run, in a country
+made up of many different pieces of country, some of them real, some of
+them imaginary. These real and imaginary fields, woods and brooks are
+taken as they exist, from Berkshire, where the fox lives, from
+Herefordshire where he was found, from Trapalanda, Gloucestershire,
+Buckinghamshire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire and Berkshire, where he
+ran, from Trapalanda, where he nearly died, and from a wild and
+beautiful corner in Berkshire where he rests from his run.
+
+Some have asked when the poem was written. It was written between
+January 1 and May 20, 1919.
+
+Some have asked, whether hunting will soon be abolished. I cannot tell,
+but I think it unlikely. People do not willingly resign their pleasures;
+men who breed horses will want to gallop them across country; hunting
+is a pleasure, as well as an opportunity to gallop; it is also an
+instinct in man. Some have thought that if "small holdings," that is
+"produce gardens," intensively cultivated, of about an acre apiece,
+became common, so that the country became more rigidly enclosed than at
+present, hunting would be made almost impossible. The small holding is
+generally the property of the small farmer (like the French cultivateur)
+who fences permanently with wire and cannot take down the wire during
+the hunting season, as most English farmers do at present. Small
+holdings will probably increase in number near towns, but farmers seem
+agreed that they can never become the national system of farming. The
+big farm, that can treat the great tract with machines, seems likely to
+be the farm of the future.
+
+Even if the small holdings system were to prevail, it would hardly
+prevail over the sporting instincts of the race. Beauty and delight are
+stronger than the will to work. I am pretty sure that a pack of hounds,
+coming feathery by, at the heels of a whip's horse, while the field
+takes station and the huntsman, drawing his horn, prepares to hunt,
+would shake the resolve of most small holders, digging in their lots
+with thrift, industry and self-control. And then, if the huntsman were
+to blow his horn, and the hounds to feather on it and give tongue, and
+find, and go away at head, I am pretty sure that most of the small
+holders of this race would follow them. It is in this race to hunt.
+
+I will conclude with a portrait of old Baldy Hill, the earth-stopper,
+who in the darkness of the early morning gads about on a pony, to
+"stop" or "put to" all earths, in which a hard-pressed fox might hide.
+In the poem, he enters when the hunt is about to start, but he is an
+important figure in a hunting community, and deserves a portrait. He may
+come here, at the beginning, for Baldy Hill is at the beginning of all
+fox hunts. He dates from the beginning of Man. I have seen many a Baldy
+Hill in my life; he never fails to give me the feeling that he is
+Primitive Man survived. Primitive Man lived like that, in the woods, in
+the darkness, outwitting the wild things, while the rain dripped, and
+the owl cried, and the ghost came out from the grave. Baldy Hill stole
+the last litter of the last she-wolf to cross them with the King's
+hounds. He was in at the death of the last wild-boar. Sometimes, in
+looking at him, I think that his ashen stake must have a flint head,
+with which, on moony nights, he still creeps out, to rouse, it may be,
+the mammoth in his secret valley, or a sabretooth tiger, still caved in
+the woods. Life may and does shoot out into exotic forms, which may and
+do flower and perish. Perhaps when all the other forms of English life
+are gone, the Baldy Hill form, the stock form, will abide, still
+striding, head bent, with an ashen stake, after some wild thing, that
+has meat, or fur, or is difficult or dangerous to tackle.
+
+    Old Baldy Hill, the game old cock,
+    Still wore knee-gaiters and a smock.
+    He bore a five foot ashen stick
+    All scarred and pilled from many a click
+    Beating in covert with his sons
+    To drive the pheasants to the guns.
+
+    His face was beaten by the weather
+    To wrinkled red like bellows leather
+    He had a cold clear hard blue eye.
+    His snares made many a rabbit die.
+    On moony nights he found it pleasant
+    To stare the woods for roosting pheasant
+    Up near the tree-trunk on the bough.
+
+    He never trod behind a plough.
+    He and his two sons got their food
+    From wild things in the field and wood,
+    By snares, by ferrets put in holes,
+    By ridding pasture-land of moles;
+    By keeping, beating, trapping, poaching
+    And spaniel-and-retriever-coaching.
+
+    He and his sons had special merits
+    In breeding and in handling ferrets
+    Full many a snaky hob and jill
+    Had bit the thumbs of Baldy Hill.
+    He had no beard, but long white hair.
+    He bent in gait. He used to wear
+    Flowers in his smock, gold-clocks and peasen;
+    And spindle-fruit in hunting season.
+
+I hope that he may live to wear spindle-fruit for many seasons to come.
+Hunting makes more people happy than anything I know. When people are
+happy together, I am quite certain that they build up something eternal,
+something both beautiful and divine, which weakens the power of all evil
+things upon this life of men and women.
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+BY CARTON MOOREPARK
+
+
+                                                                  PAGE
+
+  The stables were alive with din                                    5
+
+  An old man with a gaunt, burnt face                               16
+
+  All sport, from bloody war to craps                               80
+
+  The Godsdown Tigress with her cub                                 96
+
+  A sea of moving heads, and sterns                                120
+
+  His chief delight                                                128
+
+  He had a welcome and salute                                      144
+
+  The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray                           153
+
+  And now they gathered to the gamble                              162
+
+  He saw the farms where the dogs were barking                     172
+
+  There he slept in the mild west weather                          182
+
+  The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yaps                     185
+
+  He faced the fence and put her through it                        222
+
+  A white horse rising a dark horse flying                         256
+
+  Then down the slope and up the road                              291
+
+  He ran the sheep that their smell might check                    295
+
+  With a cracking whip and "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik, Forrard"             303
+
+  He saw it now as a redness topped                                313
+
+  And man to man with a gasp for breath                            330
+
+  For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam                     336
+
+
+
+
+COLOR PLATES
+
+  First colored plate                                   _Frontispiece_
+
+                                                           FACING PAGE
+
+  Second colored plate                                              28
+
+  Third colored plate                                               86
+
+  Fourth colored plate                                             150
+
+  Fifth colored plate                                              210
+
+  Sixth colored plate                                              236
+
+  Seventh colored plate                                            250
+
+  Eighth colored plate                                             338
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+THE MEET
+
+
+
+
+REYNARD THE FOX,
+
+OR
+
+THE GHOST HEATH RUN
+
+
+    The meet was at "The Cock and Pye
+    By Charles and Martha Enderby,"
+    The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn
+    Long since the haunt of Benjamin
+    The highwayman, who rode the bay.
+    The tavern fronts the coaching way,
+    The mail changed horses there of old.
+    It has a strip of grassy mould
+    In front of it, a broad green strip.
+    A trough, where horses' muzzles dip,
+    Stands opposite the tavern front,
+    And there that morning came the hunt,
+    To fill that quiet width of road
+    As full of men as Framilode
+    Is full of sea when tide is in.
+
+    The stables were alive with din
+    From dawn until the time of meeting.
+    A pad-groom gave a cloth a beating,
+    Knocking the dust out with a stake.
+    Two men cleaned stalls with fork and rake,
+    And one went whistling to the pump,
+    The handle whined, ker-lump, ker-lump,
+    The water splashed into the pail,
+    And, as he went, it left a trail,
+    Lipped over on the yard's bricked paving.
+    Two grooms (sent on before) were shaving
+    There in the yard, at glasses propped
+    On jutting bricks; they scraped and stropped,
+    And felt their chins and leaned and peered,
+    A woodland day was what they feared
+    (As second horsemen), shaving there.
+    Then, in the stalls where hunters were,
+    Straw rustled as the horses shifted,
+    The hayseeds ticked and haystraws drifted
+    From racks as horses tugged their feed.
+    Slow gulping sounds of steady greed
+    Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings,
+    Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings
+    To see the horse in the next stall.
+
+[Illustration:
+The stables were alive with din
+From dawn until the time of meeting.]
+
+    Outside, the spangled cock did call
+    To scattering grain that Martha flung.
+    And many a time a mop was wrung
+    By Susan ere the floor was clean.
+    The harness room, that busy scene,
+    Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening
+    Rings and bits with dips of whitening,
+    Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,
+    Dumbing buckles of their chirrups
+    By the touch of oily feathers.
+    Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers,
+    Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove
+    Saddle linings to the stove.
+    Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted
+    Out of the yard, the passers snifft it,
+    Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour
+    Of horses' stables and the savour
+    Of saddle-paste and polish spirit
+    Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit.
+    The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves,
+    Belted by girths of coloured weaves,
+    Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.
+    One said, "My dad cured saddle galls,
+    He called it Doctor Barton's cure;
+    Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."
+    And others said, "Ge' back, my son,"
+    "Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha' done."
+    "Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes,
+    He gives a rare pinch when he likes."
+    "Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter."
+    "I give 'em all sweet spit of nitre
+    For that, myself: that sometimes cures."
+    "Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."
+    They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes
+    To keep the dust out of their throats.
+
+[Illustration: The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves]
+
+    There came again and yet again
+    The feed-box lid, the swish of grain,
+    Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft,
+    The hay-fork's stab and then the soft
+    Hay's scratching slither down the shoot.
+    Then with a thud some horse's foot
+    Stamped, and the gulping munch again
+    Resumed its lippings at the grain.
+
+    The road outside the inn was quiet
+    Save for the poor, mad, restless pyat
+    Hopping his hanging wicker-cage.
+    No calmative of sleep or sage
+    Will cure the fever to be free.
+    He shook the wicker ceaselessly
+    Now up, now down, but never out
+    On wind-waves, being blown about,
+    Looking for dead things good to eat.
+    His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.
+
+    At ten o'clock, the Doctor's lad
+    Brought up his master's hunting pad
+    And put him in a stall, and leaned
+    Against the stall, and sissed, and cleaned
+    The port and cannons of his curb.
+    He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.
+    He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chid
+    The silly things his master did.
+
+
+
+
+THE PLOUGHMAN
+
+
+    At twenty past, old Baldock strode
+    His ploughman's straddle down the road.
+    An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;
+    His eyes rapt back on some far place,
+    Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss
+    In God's world through the rags of this.
+    He leaned upon a stake of ash
+    Cut from a sapling: many a gash
+    Was in his old, full-skirted coat.
+    The twisted muscles in his throat
+    Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.
+    His oaken face was seamed and gored.
+    He halted by the inn and stared
+    On that far bliss, that place prepared
+    Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind.
+
+[Illustration:
+An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;
+His eyes rapt back on some far place.]
+
+    Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's Wynd
+    Drove up; and stopped to take a glass.
+    "I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"
+    He said, "My little girl does sing
+    To see the red coats galloping.
+    It's good for grass, too, to be trodden
+    Except they poach it, where it's sodden."
+    Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,
+    With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in
+    And had a sip of gin and stout
+    To help the jockey's sweatings out.
+    "Rare day for scent," the jockey said.
+
+    A pony, like a feather bed
+    On four short sticks, took place aside.
+    The little girl who rode astride
+    Watched everything with eyes that glowed
+    With glory in the horse she rode.
+
+    At half-past ten, some lads on foot
+    Came to be beaters to a shoot
+    Of rabbits at the Warren Hill.
+    Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,
+    Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.
+    They talked of dinner-beer and betting;
+    And jeered at those who stood around.
+    They rolled their dogs upon the ground
+    And teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch."
+    "Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.
+    What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?
+    Sex quarts the lot last year we had.
+    They'd ought to give us seven this.
+    Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."
+
+
+
+
+THE CLERGYMAN
+
+
+[Illustration: The clergyman from Condicote]
+
+    A pommle cob came trotting up,
+    Round-bellied like a drinking-cup,
+    Bearing on back a pommle man
+    Round-bellied like a drinking-can.
+    The clergyman from Condicote.
+
+    His face was scarlet from his trot,
+    His white hair bobbed about his head
+    As halos do round clergy dead.
+    He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"
+    His loose mouth opened like a gate
+    To pass the wagons of his speech,
+    He had a mighty voice to preach,
+    Though indolent in other matters,
+    He let his children go in tatters.
+
+    His daughter Madge on foot, flushed-cheekt,
+    In broken hat and boots that leakt,
+    With bits of hay all over her,
+    Her plain face grinning at the stir
+    (A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with speckles
+    Of sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles)
+    Came after him and stood apart
+    Beside the darling of her heart,
+    Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean;
+    A big young fair one, chiselled clean,
+    Brow, chin, and nose, with great blue eyes,
+    All innocence and sweet surprise,
+    And golden hair piled coil on coil
+    Too beautiful for time to spoil.
+    They talked in undertones together
+    Not of the hunting, nor the weather.
+    Old Steven, from Scratch Steven Place
+    (A white beard and a rosy face),
+    Came next on his stringhalty grey,
+    "I've come to see the hounds away,"
+    He said, "And ride a field or two.
+    We old have better things to do
+    Than breaking all our necks for fun."
+    He shone on people like the sun,
+    And on himself for shining so.
+    Three men came riding in a row:--
+    John Pyn, a bull-man, quick to strike,
+    Gross and blunt-headed like a shrike
+    Yet sweet-voiced as a piping flute;
+    Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,
+    Red, with an angry, puzzled face
+    And mouth twitched upward out of place,
+    Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds;
+    And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,
+    A man whose bulk of flesh and bone
+    Made people call him Twenty Stone.
+    He was the man who stood a pull
+    At Tencombe with the Jersey bull
+    And brought the bull back to his stall.
+
+[Illustration: Three men came riding in a row]
+
+    Some children ranged the tavern-wall,
+    Sucking their thumbs and staring hard;
+    Some grooms brought horses from the yard.
+    Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,
+    "A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her?"
+    "A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "look
+    There'm Mister Gaunt of Water's Hook.
+    They say he" ... (whispered). "Law," said Jane.
+    Gaunt flung his heel across the mane,
+    And slithered from his horse and stamped.
+    "Boots tight," he said, "my feet are cramped."
+
+    A loose-shod horse came clicking clack;
+    Nick Wolvesey on a hired hack
+    Came tittup, like a cup and ball.
+    One saw the sun, moon, stars, and all
+    The great green earth twixt him and saddle;
+    Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,
+    Red as a rose, with eyes like sparks.
+    Two boys from college out for larks
+    Hunted bright Molly for a smile
+    But were not worth their quarry's while.
+
+[Illustration: Second colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    Two eyeglassed gunners dressed in tweed
+    Came with a spaniel on a lead
+    And waited for a fellow gunner.
+    The parson's son, the famous runner,
+    Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.
+    His knees were red as yew tree root
+    From being bare, day in day out;
+    He wore a blazer, and a clout
+    (His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.
+    His football shorts had many a speck
+    And splash of mud from many a fall
+    Got as he picked the slippery ball
+    Heeled out behind a breaking scrum.
+    He grinned at people, but was dumb,
+    Not like these lousy foreigners.
+    The otter-hounds and harriers
+    From Godstow to the Wye all knew him.
+
+
+
+
+THE PARSON
+
+
+    And with him came the stock which grew him--
+    The parson and his sporting wife,
+    She was a stout one, full of life
+    With red, quick, kindly, manly face.
+    She held the knave, queen, king, and ace
+    In every hand she played with men.
+    She was no sister to the hen,
+    But fierce and minded to be queen.
+    She wore a coat and skirt of green,
+    Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,
+    Her tie pin was a fox's head.
+
+    The parson was a manly one,
+    His jolly eyes were bright with fun.
+    His jolly mouth was well inclined
+    To cry aloud his jolly mind
+    To everyone, in jolly terms.
+    He did not talk of churchyard worms,
+    But of our privilege as dust
+    To box a lively bout with lust
+    Ere going to Heaven to rejoice.
+    He loved the sound of his own voice.
+    His talk was like a charge of horse;
+    His build was all compact, for force,
+    Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,
+    He kept no Lent to make him meagre.
+    He loved his God, himself and man.
+    He never said "Life's wretched span;
+    This wicked world," in any sermon.
+    This body, that we feed the worm on,
+    To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.
+    He liked to see the foxes killed;
+    But most he felt himself in clover
+    To hear "Hen left, hare right, cock over,"
+    At woodside, when the leaves are brown.
+    Some grey cathedral in a town
+    Where drowsy bells toll out the time
+    To shaven closes sweet with lime,
+    And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortar
+    All summer on the Norman Dortar,
+    Was certain some day to be his.
+    Nor would a mitre go amiss
+    To him, because he governed well.
+    His voice was like the tenor bell
+    When services were said and sung.
+    And he had read in many a tongue,
+    Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.
+
+
+
+
+"JILL AND JOAN"
+
+
+    Two bright young women, nothing meek,
+    Rode up on bicycles and propped
+    Their wheels in such wise that they dropped
+    To bring the parson's son to aid.
+    Their cycling suits were tailor-made,
+    Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.
+    The colour and the zest of wine
+    Were in their presence and their bearing;
+    Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing.
+    The parson's lady thought them pert.
+    And they could mock a man and flirt,
+    Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,
+    Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis
+    The silver-cigarette-case-prize.
+
+    They had good colour and bright eyes,
+    Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin,
+    On darkened stairways after dances,
+    Which many lads had longed to win.
+    Their reading was the last romances,
+    And they were dashing hockey players.
+    Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers."
+    They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.
+
+
+
+
+FARMER BENNETT
+
+
+[Illustration: Old Farmer Bennett upon his big-boned savage black]
+
+    Old Farmer Bennett followed these
+    Upon his big-boned savage black
+    Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back
+    Whatever came within his reach.
+    Old Bennett sat him like a leech.
+    The grim old rider seemed to be
+    As hard about the mouth as he.
+
+    The beaters nudged each other's ribs
+    With "There he goes, his bloody Nibs.
+    He come on Joe and Anty Cop,
+    And beat 'em with his hunting crop
+    Like tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.
+    His pickers were a pack of queans,
+    And Joe and Anty took a couple,
+    He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.
+    Women and men, he didn't care
+    (He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),
+    He beat the whole four nearly dead.
+    'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed,
+    That's how my ricks get set afire.'
+    That's what he said, the bloody liar;
+    Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks,
+    Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks.
+    He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."
+
+    Just like an axehead on its helve
+    Old Bennett sat and watched the gathering.
+    He'd given many a man a lathering
+    In field or barn, and women, too.
+    His cold eye reached the women through
+    With comment, and the men with scorn.
+    He hated women gently born;
+    He hated all beyond his grasp;
+    For he was minded like the asp
+    That strikes whatever is not dust.
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN AGE
+
+
+    Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrust
+    Next into view. In face and limb
+    The beauty and the grace of him
+    Were like the golden age returned.
+    His grave eyes steadily discerned
+    The good in men and what was wise.
+    He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes,
+    And shocks of harvest-coloured hair,
+    Still beautiful with youth. An air
+    Or power of kindness went about him;
+    No heart of youth could ever doubt him
+    Or fail to follow where he led.
+    He was a genius, simply bred,
+    And quite unconscious of his power.
+
+    He was the very red rose flower
+    Of all that coloured countryside.
+    Gauchos had taught him how to ride.
+    He knew all arts, but practised most
+    The art of bettering flesh and ghost
+    In men and lads down in the mud.
+    He knew no class in flesh and blood.
+    He loved his kind. He spent some pith
+    Long since, relieving Ladysmith.
+    Many a horse he trotted tame,
+    Heading commandos from their aim,
+    In those old days upon the veldt.
+
+
+
+
+THE SQUIRE
+
+
+[Illustration: His daughters, Carrie, Jane, and Lu, rode with him]
+
+    An old bear in a scarlet pelt
+    Came next, old Squire Harridew,
+    His eyebrows gave a man the grue
+    So bushy and so fierce they were;
+    He had a bitter tongue to swear.
+    A fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,
+    With all his liver made of fire,
+    Small brain, great courage, mulish will.
+    The hearts in all his house stood still
+    When someone crossed the squire's path.
+    For he was terrible in wrath,
+    And smashed whatever came to hand.
+    Two things he failed to understand,
+    The foreigner and what was new.
+
+    His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lu,
+    Rode with him, Carrie at his side.
+    His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had died
+    In Arizona, long before.
+    The Squire set the greatest store
+    By Carrie, youngest of the three,
+    And lovely to the blood was she;
+    Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,
+    And eyes deep violet in their gleam,
+    Bright blue when quiet in repose.
+    She was a very golden rose.
+    And many a man when sunset came
+    Would see the manor windows flame,
+    And think, "My beauty's home is there."
+    Queen Helen had less golden hair,
+    Queen Cleopatra paler lips,
+    Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse,
+    By golden Carrie's glancing by.
+    She had a wit for mockery
+    And sang mild, pretty senseless songs
+    Of sunsets, Heav'n and lover's wrongs,
+    Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.
+    A rosebud need not have a mind.
+
+    A lily is not sweet from learning.
+    Jane looked like a dark lantern, burning.
+    Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth,
+    But minded like the living truth,
+    A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.
+    She was not "Darling Jan'd," nor "dearie'd,"
+    She was all prickles to the touch,
+    So sharp, that many feared to clutch,
+    So keen, that many thought her bitter.
+    She let the little sparrows twitter.
+    She had a hard ungracious way.
+    Her storm of hair was iron-grey,
+    And she was passionate in her heart
+    For women's souls that burn apart,
+    Just as her mother's had, with Squire.
+    She gave the sense of smouldering fire.
+    She was not happy being a maid,
+    At home, with Squire, but she stayed
+    Enduring life, however bleak,
+    To guard her sisters who were weak,
+    And force a life for them from Squire.
+    And she had roused and stood his fire
+    A hundred times, and earned his hate,
+    To win those two a better state.
+    Long years before the Canon's son
+    Had cared for her, but he had gone
+    To Klondyke, to the mines, for gold,
+    To find, in some strange way untold
+    A foreign grave that no men knew.
+
+    No depth, nor beauty, was in Lu,
+    But charm and fun, for she was merry,
+    Round, sweet and little like a cherry,
+    With laughter like a robin's singing;
+    She was not kittenlike and clinging,
+    But pert and arch and fond of flirting,
+    In mocking ways that were not hurting,
+    And merry ways that women pardoned.
+    Not being married yet she gardened.
+    She loved sweet music; she would sing
+    Songs made before the German King
+    Made England German in her mind.
+    She sang "My lady is unkind,"
+    "The Hunt is up," and those sweet things
+    Which Thomas Campion set to strings,
+    "Thrice toss," and "What," and "Where are now?"
+
+    The next to come was Major Howe
+    Driv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.
+    The testy major was in fume
+    To find no hunter standing waiting;
+    The groom who drove him caught a rating,
+    The groom who had the horse in stable,
+    Was damned in half the tongues of Babel.
+    The Major being hot and heady
+    When horse or dinner was not ready.
+    He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,
+    With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),
+    Mustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jaws
+    Shaved bluish like old partridge claws.
+    When he had stripped his coat he made
+    A speckless presence for parade,
+    New pink, white cords, and glossy tops
+    New gloves, the newest thing in crops,
+    Worn with an air that well expressed
+    His sense that no one else was dressed.
+
+
+
+
+THE DOCTOR
+
+
+[Illustration: Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow]
+
+    Quick trotting after Major Howe
+    Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,
+    A smiling silent man whose brain
+    Knew all of every secret pain
+    In every man and woman there.
+    Their inmost lives were all laid bare
+    To him, because he touched their lives
+    When strong emotions sharp as knives
+    Brought out what sort of soul each was.
+    As secret as the graveyard grass
+    He was, as he had need to be.
+    At some time he had had to see
+    Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask,
+    Sans lying even, when to ask
+    Probed a tamed spirit into truth.
+    Richard, his son, a jolly youth
+    Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's,
+    As merry as a yearling is
+    In maytime in a clover patch.
+    He was a gallant chick to hatch
+    Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,
+    With all his father's love of mind
+    And greater force to give it act.
+    To see him when the scrum was packt,
+    Heave, playing forward, was a sight.
+    His tackling was the crowd's delight
+    In many a danger close to goal.
+    The pride in the three quarter's soul
+    Dropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.
+    He was as steady as a bollard,
+    And gallant as a skysail yard.
+    He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.
+    In good St. Thomas' Hospital,
+    He was the crown imperial
+    Of all the scholars of his year.
+
+    The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,
+    Came all on foot in corduroys,
+    Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,
+    Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.
+    (Will Masemore shot him in the side
+    By accident at Masemore Farm.
+    A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm
+    In getting through a hedge; his gun
+    Was not half-cocked, so it was done
+    And those three boys left fatherless.)
+    Their gaitered legs were in a mess
+    With good red mud from twenty ditches
+    Hal's face was plastered like his breeches,
+    Dick chewed a twig of juniper.
+    They kept at distance from the stir
+    Their loss had made them lads apart.
+    Next came the Colway's pony cart
+    From Coln St. Evelyn's with the party,
+    Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty,
+    And Polly Colway's brother, John
+    (Their horses had been both sent on)
+    And Polly Colway drove them there.
+    Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.
+    The grey mare killed her at the brook
+    Down Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook,
+    Just one month later, poor sweet woman.
+
+
+
+
+THE SAILOR
+
+
+    Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,
+    Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,
+    Commander in the _Canace_,
+    Able to drive a horse, or ship,
+    Or crew of men, without a whip
+    By will, as long as they could go.
+    His face would wrinkle, row on row,
+    From mouth to hair-roots when he laught
+    He looked ahead as though his craft
+    Were with him still, in dangerous channels.
+    He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels
+    Into the pony-cart and mounted.
+    Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,
+    The horses being bickering things,
+    That so much scarlet made like kings,
+    Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.
+
+
+
+
+THE MERCHANT'S SON
+
+
+    When Hugh was up his mare went drifting
+    Sidelong and feeling with her heels
+    For horses' legs and poshay wheels,
+    While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.
+    Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.
+    He was a rich town-merchant's son,
+    A wise and kind man fond of fun,
+    Who loved to have a troop of friends
+    At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,
+    And troops of children in for tea,
+    He gloried in a Christmas Tree.
+    And Polly was his heart's best treasure,
+    And Polly was a golden pleasure
+    To everyone, to see or hear.
+    Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,
+    He was a darkened man thereafter,
+    Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter
+    And be so gentle it was strange
+    Even to see. Life loves to change.
+
+    Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold
+    The shutters up, the hunters sold,
+    And green mould damps the locked front door.
+    But this was still a month before,
+    And Polly, golden in the chaise,
+    Still smiled, and there were golden days,
+    Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.
+
+
+
+
+SPORTSMAN
+
+
+    The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,
+    Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,
+    (By Tempest out of Love-me-long)
+    A proper handful of a horse,
+    That nothing but the Aintree course
+    Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.
+    All sport, from bloody war to craps,
+    Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;
+    They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"
+    For Billy lived too much with horses
+    In coper's yards and sharper's courses,
+    To lack the sharper-coper streak.
+    He did not turn the other cheek
+    When struck (as English Christians do),
+    He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,
+    And many a time his knuckles bled
+    Against a race-course-gipsy's head.
+    For "hit him first and argue later"
+    Was truth at Billy's alma mater,
+    Not love, not any bosh of love.
+    His hand was like a chamois glove
+    And riding was his chief delight.
+    He bred the chaser Chinese-white,
+    From Lilybud by Mandarin.
+    And when his mouth tucked corners in,
+    And scent was high and hounds were going,
+    He went across a field like snowing
+    And tackled anything that came.
+
+[Illustration:
+All sport, from bloody war to craps,
+Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler.]
+
+    His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,
+    A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,
+    With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,
+    (Like polished brass) and such a manner
+    It flaunted from her like a banner.
+    Her father was Tom See the trainer;
+    She rode a lovely earth-disdainer
+    Which she and Billy wished to sell.
+
+[Illustration: Behind them rode her daughter Bell]
+
+    Behind them rode her daughter Bell,
+    A strange shy lovely girl whose face
+    Was sweet with thought and proud with race,
+    And bright with joy at riding there.
+    She was as good as blowing air
+    But shy and difficult to know.
+    The kittens in the barley-mow,
+    The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,
+    The blackbird in the apple calling,
+    All knew her spirit more than we,
+    So delicate these maidens be
+    In loving lovely helpless things.
+
+    The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,
+    Came, with two friends, a set of six.
+    Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,
+    Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,
+    (God help the school or rule which galled them;
+    They carried head) and friends from town.
+
+[Illustration: The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings]
+
+    Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down.
+    He once had been a famous bat,
+    He had that stroke, "the Manor-pat,"
+    Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.
+    He once scored twenty in an over,
+    But now he cricketed no more.
+    He purpled in the face and swore
+    At all three sons, and trained, and told
+    Long tales of cricketing of old,
+    When he alone had saved his side.
+    Drink made it doubtful if he lied,
+    Drink purpled him, he could not face
+    The fences now, nor go the pace
+    He brought his friends to meet; no more.
+
+    His big son Nob, at whom he swore,
+    Swore back at him, for Nob was surly,
+    Tall, shifty, sullen-smiling, burly,
+    Quite fearless, built with such a jaw
+    That no man's rule could be his law
+    Nor any woman's son his master.
+    Boxing he relished. He could plaster
+    All those who boxed out Tencombe way.
+    A front tooth had been knocked away
+    Two days before, which put his mouth
+    A little to the east of south.
+    And put a venom in his laughter.
+
+    Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;
+    Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.
+    Nob had no nerves but Cob had plenty
+    So Cobby went where Nobby led.
+    He had no brains inside his head,
+    Was fearless, just like Nob, but put
+    Some clog of folly round his foot,
+    Where Nob put will of force or fraud;
+    He spat aside and muttered Gawd
+    When vext; he took to whiskey kindly
+    And loved and followed Nobby blindly,
+    And rode as in the saddle born.
+
+    Bun looked upon the two with scorn.
+    He was the youngest, and was wise.
+    He too was fair, with sullen eyes,
+    He too (a year before) had had
+    A zest for going to the bad,
+    With Cob and Nob. He knew the joys
+    Of drinking with the stable-boys,
+    Or smoking while he filled his skin
+    With pints of Guinness dashed with gin
+    And Cobby yelled a bawdy ditty,
+    Or cutting Nobby for the kitty,
+    And damning peoples' eyes and guts,
+    Or drawing evening-church for sluts,
+    He knew them all and now was quit.
+
+[Illustration: Third colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    Sweet Polly Colway managed it.
+    And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink
+    (The pleasant pit's seductive brink),
+    He started working in the stable,
+    And well, for he was shrewd and able.
+    He left the doubtful female friends
+    Picked up at Evening-Service ends,
+    He gave up cards and swore no more.
+    Nob called him "the Reforming Whore,"
+    "The Soul's Awakening," or "The Text,"
+    Nob being always coarse when vext.
+
+    Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,
+    Old college friends, the last he had,
+    Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shaken
+    By all the whiskey they had taken.
+    Hawke's hand was trembling on his rein.
+    His eyes were dead-blue like a vein,
+    His peaked sad face was touched with breeding,
+    His querulous mind was quaint from reading,
+    His piping voice still quirked with fun.
+    Many a mad thing he had done,
+    Riding to hounds and going to races.
+    A glimmer of the gambler's graces,
+    Wit, courage, devil, touched his talk.
+
+[Illustration: Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd]
+
+    Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,
+    His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn,
+    Twixt winning-post and betting column,
+    The weights and forms and likely colts.
+    He said "This road is full of jolts.
+    I shall be seasick riding here.
+    O damn last night with that liqueur."
+
+    Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin;
+    He owned the Downs by Baydon Whin;
+    And grazed some thousand sheep; the boy
+    Grinned round at men with jolly joy
+    At being alive and being there.
+    His big round face and mop of hair
+    Shone, his great teeth shone in his grin,
+    The clean blood in his clear tanned skin
+    Ran merry, and his great voice mocked
+    His young friends present till they rocked.
+
+    Steer Harpit came from Rowell Hill,
+    A small, frail man, all heart and will,
+    A sailor as his voice betrayed.
+    He let his whip-thong droop and played
+    At snicking off the grass-blades with it,
+    John Hankerton, from Compton Lythitt,
+    Was there with Pity Hankerton,
+    And Mike, their good-for-little son,
+    Back, smiling, from his seventh job.
+    Joan Urch was there upon her cob.
+    Tom Sparsholt on his lanky grey.
+    John Restrop from Hope Goneaway.
+    And Vaughan, the big black handsome devil,
+    Loose-lipped with song and wine and revel
+    All rosy from his morning tub
+
+
+
+
+THE EXQUISITE
+
+
+    The Godsdown tigress with her cub
+    (Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.
+    The great eyes smouldered in the dame,
+    Wit glittered, too, which few men saw.
+    There was more beauty there than claw.
+    Tommy in bearing, horse and dress
+    Was black, fastidious, handsomeness,
+    Choice to his trimmed soul's fingertips.
+    Heredia's sonnets on his lips.
+    A line undrawn, a plate not bitten,
+    A stone uncut, a phrase unwritten,
+    That would be perfect, made his mind.
+    A choice pull, from a rare print, signed,
+    Was Tommy. He collected plate,
+    (Old sheffield) and he owned each state
+    Of all the Meryon Paris etchings.
+
+[Illustration:
+The Godsdown Tigress with her cub
+(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.]
+
+    Colonel Sir Button Budd of Fletchings
+    Was there; Long Robert Thrupp was there,
+    (Three yards of him men said there were),
+    Long as the King of Prussia's fancy.
+    He rode the longlegged Necromancy,
+    A useless racehorse that could canter.
+    George Childrey with his jolly banter
+    Was there, Nick Childrey, too, come down
+    The night before from London town,
+    To hunt and have his lungs blown clean.
+    The Ilsley set from Tuttocks Green
+    Was there (old Henry Ilsley drove),
+    Carlotta Ilsley brought her love
+    A flop-jowled broker from the city.
+    Men pitied her, for she was pretty.
+
+    Some grooms and second horsemen mustered.
+    A lot of men on foot were clustered
+    Round the inn-door, all busy drinking,
+    One heard the kissing glasses clinking
+    In passage as the tray was brought.
+    Two terriers (which they had there) fought
+    There on the green, a loud, wild whirl.
+    Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.
+    The hens behind the tavern clucked.
+
+
+
+
+THE SOLDIER
+
+
+[Illustration: Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border]
+
+    Then on a horse which bit and bucked
+    (The half-broke four-year-old Marauder)
+    Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border,
+    Lean, puckered, yellowed, knotted, scarred,
+    Tough as a hide-rope twisted hard,
+    Tense tiger-sinew knit to bone.
+    Strange-wayed from having lived alone
+    With Kafir, Afghan and Beloosh
+    In stations frozen in the Koosh
+    Where nothing but the bullet sings.
+    His mind had conquered many things,
+    Painting, mechanics, physics, law,
+    White-hot, hand-beaten things to draw
+    Self-hammered from his own soul's stithy,
+    His speech was blacksmith-sparked and pithy.
+    Danger had been his brother bred;
+    The stones had often been his bed
+    In bickers with the border-thieves.
+
+
+
+
+THE COUNTRY'S HOPE
+
+
+    A chestnut mare with swerves and heaves
+    Came plunging, scattering all the crowd,
+    She tossed her head and laughed aloud
+    And bickered sideways past the meet.
+    From pricking ears to mincing feet
+    She was all tense with blood and quiver,
+    You saw her clipt hide twitch and shiver
+    Over her netted cords of veins.
+    She carried Cothill, of the Sleins;
+    A tall, black, bright-eyed handsome lad.
+    Great power and great grace he had.
+    Men hoped the greatest things of him,
+    His grace made people think him slim,
+    But he was muscled like a horse
+    A sculptor would have wrought his torse
+    In bronze or marble for Apollo.
+    He loved to hurry like a swallow
+    For miles on miles of short-grassed sweet
+    Blue-harebelled downs where dewy feet
+    Of pure winds hurry ceaselessly.
+    He loved the downland like a sea,
+    The downland where the kestrels hover;
+    The downland had him for a lover.
+    And every other thing he loved
+    In which a clean free spirit moved.
+
+    So beautiful, he was, so bright.
+    He looked to men like young delight
+    Gone courting April maidenhood,
+    That has the primrose in her blood,
+    He on his mincing lady mare.
+
+
+
+
+COUNTRYMEN
+
+
+[Illustration: Ock Gurney and old Pete were there]
+
+    Ock Gurney and old Pete were there,
+    Riding their bonny cobs and swearing.
+    Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing,
+    A horse-rosette, red, white and blue.
+    Their cheeks were brown as any brew,
+    And every comer to the meet
+    Said "Hello, Ock," or "Morning, Pete;
+    Be you a going to a wedding?"
+    "Why, noa," they said, "we'm going a bedding;
+    Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock?"
+    Pete Gurney was a lusty cock
+    Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale,
+    A dairy-farmer in the vale,
+    Much like a robin in the face,
+    Much character in little space,
+    With little eyes like burning coal.
+    His mouth was like a slit or hole
+    In leather that was seamed and lined.
+    He had the russet-apple mind
+    That betters as the weather worsen.
+    He was a manly English person,
+    Kind to the core, brave, merry, true;
+    One grief he had, a grief still new,
+    That former Parson joined with Squire
+    In putting down the Playing Quire,
+    In church, and putting organ in.
+    "Ah, boys, that was a pious din
+    That Quire was; a pious praise
+    The noise was that we used to raise;
+    I and my serpent, George with his'n,
+    On Easter Day in He is Risen,
+    Or blessed Christmas in Venite;
+    And how the trombone came in mighty,
+    In Alleluias from the heart.
+    Pious, for each man played his part,
+    Not like 'tis now." Thus he, still sore
+    For changes forty years before,
+    When all (that could) in time and tune,
+    Blew trumpets to the newe moon.
+    He was a bachelor, from choice.
+    He and his nephew farmed the Boyce
+    Prime pasture land for thirty cows.
+    Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house,
+    And jolly were the three together.
+    Ock had a face like summer weather,
+    A broad red sun, split by a smile.
+    He mopped his forehead all the while,
+    And said "By damn," and "Ben't us, Unk?"
+    His eyes were close and deeply sunk.
+    He cursed his hunter like a lover,
+    "Now blast your soul, my dear, give over.
+    Woa, now, my pretty, damn your eyes."
+    Like Pete he was of middle size,
+    Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder,
+    He stood a wrestle like a boulder,
+    He had a back for pitching hay.
+    His singing voice was like a bay.
+    In talk he had a sideways spit,
+    Each minute, to refresh his wit.
+    He cracked Brazil nuts with his teeth.
+    He challenged Cobbett of the Heath
+    (Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost.
+    Hunting was what he loved the most,
+    Next to his wife and Uncle Pete.
+    With beer to drink and cheese to eat,
+    And rain in May to fill the grasses,
+    This life was not a dream that passes
+    To Ock, but like the summer flower.
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUNDS
+
+
+    But now the clock had struck the hour,
+    And round the corner, down the road
+    The bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowed
+    With three black knobs upon its spine;
+    Three bobbing black-caps in a line.
+    A glimpse of scarlet at the gap
+    Showed underneath each bobbing cap,
+    And at the corner by the gate,
+    One heard Tom Dansey give a rate,
+    "Hep, Drop it, Jumper; have a care,"
+    There came a growl, half-rate, half-swear,
+    A spitting crack, a tuneful whimper
+    And sweet religion entered Jumper.
+
+    There was a general turn of faces,
+    The men and horses shifted places,
+    And round the corner came the hunt,
+    Those feathery things, the hounds, in front,
+    Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying,
+    Smiling at people, shoving, playing,
+    Nosing to children's faces, waving
+    Their feathery sterns, and all behaving,
+    One eye to Dansey on Maroon.
+    Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,
+    And though they trotted up so quiet
+    Their noses brought them news of riot,
+    Wild smells of things with living blood,
+    Hot smells, against the grippers good,
+    Of weasel, rabbit, cat and hare,
+    Whose feet had been before them there,
+    Whose taint still tingled every breath;
+    But Dansey on Maroon was death,
+    So, though their noses roved, their feet
+    Larked and trit-trotted to the meet.
+
+    Bill Tall and Ell and Mirtie Key
+    (Aged fourteen years between the three)
+    Were flooded by them at the bend,
+    They thought their little lives would end,
+    For grave sweet eyes looked into theirs,
+    Cold noses came, and clean short hairs
+    And tails all crumpled up like ferns,
+    A sea of moving heads and sterns,
+    All round them, brushing coat and dress;
+    One paused, expecting a caress.
+    The children shrank into each other,
+    Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"
+    With mouths wide open, catching tears.
+
+[Illustration:
+A sea of moving heads and sterns,
+All round them, brushing coat and dress.]
+
+    Sharp Mrs. Tall allayed their fears,
+    "Err out the road, the dogs won't hurt 'ee.
+    There now, you've cried your faces dirty.
+    More cleaning up for me to do.
+    What? Cry at dogs, great lumps like you?"
+    She licked her handkerchief and smeared
+    Their faces where the dirt appeared.
+
+    The hunt trit-trotted to the meeting,
+    Tom Dansey touching cap to greeting,
+    Slow-lifting crop-thong to the rim,
+    No hunter there got more from him
+    Except some brightening of the eye.
+    He halted at the Cock and Pye,
+    The hounds drew round him on the green,
+    Arrogant, Daffodil and Queen,
+    Closest, but all in little space.
+    Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace,
+    Yawning, or tilting nose in quest,
+    All stood and looked about with zest,
+    They were uneasy as they waited.
+    Their sires and dams had been well-mated,
+    They were a lovely pack for looks;
+    Their forelegs drumsticked without crooks,
+    Straight, without overtread or bend,
+    Muscled to gallop to the end,
+    With neat feet round as any cat's.
+    Great chested, muscled in the slats,
+    Bright, clean, short-coated, broad in shoulder,
+    With stag-like eyes that seemed to smoulder.
+    The heads well-cocked, the clean necks strong;
+    Brows broad, ears close, the muzzles long;
+    And all like racers in the thighs;
+    Their noses exquisitely wise,
+    Their minds being memories of smells;
+    Their voices like a ring of bells;
+    Their sterns all spirit, cock and feather;
+    Their colours like the English weather,
+    Magpie and hare, and badger-pye,
+    Like minglings in a double dye,
+    Some smutty-nosed, some tan, none bald;
+    Their manners were to come when called,
+    Their flesh was sinew knit to bone,
+    Their courage like a banner blown.
+    Their joy, to push him out of cover,
+    And hunt him till they rolled him over.
+    They were as game as Robert Dover.
+
+
+
+
+THE WHIP
+
+
+    Tom Dansey was a famous whip
+    Trained as a child in horsemanship.
+    Entered, as soon as he was able,
+    As boy at Caunter's racing stable;
+    There, like the other boys, he slept
+    In stall beside the horse he kept,
+    Snug in the straw; and Caunter's stick
+    Brought morning to him all too quick.
+    He learned the high quick gingery ways
+    Of thoroughbreds; his stable days
+    Made him a rider, groom and vet.
+    He promised to be too thickset
+    For jockeying, so left it soon.
+    Now he was whip and rode Maroon.
+
+[Illustration:
+His chief delight
+Was hunting fox from noon to night.]
+
+    He was a small, lean, wiry man
+    With sunk cheeks weathered to a tan
+    Scarred by the spikes of hawthorn sprays
+    Dashed thro', head down, on going days,
+    In haste to see the line they took.
+    There was a beauty in his look,
+    It was intent. His speech was plain.
+    Maroon's head, reaching to the rein,
+    Had half his thought before he spoke.
+    His "gone away," when foxes broke,
+    Was like a bell. His chief delight
+    Was hunting fox from noon to night.
+    His pleasure lay in hounds and horses,
+    He loved the Seven Springs water-courses,
+    Those flashing brooks (in good sound grass,
+    Where scent would hang like breath on glass).
+    He loved the English countryside;
+    The wine-leaved bramble in the ride,
+    The lichen on the apple-trees,
+    The poultry ranging on the lees,
+    The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover,
+    His wife's green grave at Mitcheldover,
+    Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw.
+    Under his hide his heart was raw
+    With joy and pity of these things.
+    The second whip was Kitty Myngs,
+    Still but a lad but keen and quick
+    (Son of old Myngs who farmed the Wick),
+    A horse-mouthed lad who knew his work.
+    He rode the big black horse, the Turk,
+    And longed to be a huntsman bold.
+    He had the horse-look, sharp and old,
+    With much good-nature in his face.
+    His passion was to go the pace
+    His blood was crying for a taming.
+    He was the Devil's chick for gaming,
+    He was a rare good lad to box.
+    He sometimes had a main of cocks
+    Down at the Flags. His job with hounds
+    At present kept his blood in bounds
+    From rioting and running hare.
+    Tom Dansey made him have a care.
+    He worshipped Dansey heart and soul.
+    To be a huntsman was his goal.
+    To be with hounds, to charge full tilt
+    Blackthorns that made the gentry wilt
+    Was his ambition and his hope.
+    He was a hot colt needing rope,
+    He was too quick to speak his passion
+    To suit his present huntsman's fashion.
+
+
+
+
+THE HUNTSMAN
+
+
+[Illustration: He smiled and nodded and saluted to those who hailed him]
+
+    The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,
+    He sometimes called a favourite hound,
+    Gently, to see the creature turn
+    Look happy up and wag his stern.
+    He smiled and nodded and saluted,
+    To those who hailed him, as it suited.
+    And patted Pip's, his hunter's neck.
+    His new pink was without a speck;
+    He was a red-faced smiling fellow,
+    His voice clear tenor, full and mellow,
+    His eyes, all fire, were black and small.
+    He had been smashed in many a fall.
+    His eyebrow had a white curved mark
+    Left by the bright shoe of The Lark,
+    Down in a ditch by Seven Springs.
+    His coat had all been trod to strings,
+    His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken
+    Being jumped on down at Water's Oaken,
+    The time his horse came down and rolled.
+    His face was of the country mould
+    Such as the mason sometimes cutted
+    On English moulding-ends which jutted
+    Out of the church walls, centuries since.
+    And as you never know the quince,
+    How good he is, until you try,
+    So, in Dawe's face, what met the eye
+    Was only part, what lay behind
+    Was English character and mind.
+    Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling,
+    (Most shy, most clever in concealing
+    Its depth) for beauty of all sorts,
+    Great manliness and love of sports,
+    A grave wise thoughtfulness and truth,
+    A merry fun, outlasting youth,
+    A courage terrible to see
+    And mercy for his enemy.
+
+    He had a clean-shaved face, but kept
+    A hedge of whisker neatly clipt,
+    A narrow strip or picture frame
+    (Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same),
+    Under his chin from ear to ear.
+
+
+
+
+THE MASTER
+
+
+    But now the resting hounds gave cheer,
+    Joyful and Arrogant and Catch-him,
+    Smelt the glad news and ran to snatch him,
+    The Master's dogcart turned the bend.
+    Damsel and Skylark knew their friend;
+    A thrill ran through the pack like fire,
+    And little whimpers ran in quire.
+    The horses cocked and pawed and whickered,
+    Young Cothill's chaser kicked and bickered,
+    And stood on end and struck out sparks.
+    Joyful and Catch-him sang like larks,
+    There was the Master in the trap,
+    Clutching old Roman in his lap,
+    Old Roman, crazy for his brothers,
+    And putting frenzy in the others,
+    To set them at the dogcart wheels,
+    With thrusting heads and little squeals.
+
+    The Master put old Roman by,
+    And eyed the thrusters heedfully,
+    He called a few pet hounds and fed
+    Three special friends with scraps of bread,
+    Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strode
+    Through all those clamourers in the road,
+    Saluted friends, looked round the crowd,
+    Saw Harridew's three girls and bowed,
+    Then took White Rabbit from the groom.
+
+[Illustration:
+He had a welcome and salute
+For all, on horse or wheel or foot.]
+
+    He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe;
+    Past sixty now, though hearty still,
+    A living picture of good-will,
+    An old, grave soldier, sweet and kind,
+    A courtier with a knightly mind,
+    Who felt whatever thing he thought.
+    His face was scarred, for he had fought
+    Five wars for us. Within his face
+    Courage and power had their place,
+    Rough energy, decision, force.
+    He smiled about him from his horse.
+    He had a welcome and salute
+    For all, on horse or wheel or foot,
+    Whatever kind of life each followed.
+    His tanned, drawn cheeks looked old and hollowed,
+    But still his bright blue eyes were young,
+    And when the pack crashed into tongue,
+    And staunch White Rabbit shook like fire,
+    He sent him at it like a flier,
+    And lived with hounds while horses could.
+    "They'm lying in the Ghost Heath Wood,
+    Sir Peter," said an earth-stopper,
+    (Old Baldy Hill), "You'll find 'em there.
+    'Z I come'd across I smell 'em plain.
+    There's one up back, down Tuttock's drain,
+    But, Lord, it's just a bog, the Tuttocks,
+    Hounds would be swallered to the buttocks.
+    Heath Wood, Sir Peter's best to draw."
+
+
+
+
+THE START
+
+
+    Sir Peter gave two minutes' law
+    For Kingston Challow and his daughter;
+    He said, "They're late. We'll start the slaughter.
+    Ghost Heath, then, Dansey. We'll be going."
+
+    Now, at his word, the tide was flowing
+    Off went Maroon, off went the hounds,
+    Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,
+    Across soft turf with dead leaves cleaving
+    And hillocks that the mole was heaving.
+    Mild going to those trotting feet.
+    After the scarlet coats, the meet
+    Came clopping up the grass in spate;
+    They poached the trickle at the gate;
+    Their horses' feet sucked at the mud;
+    Excitement in the horses' blood,
+    Cocked forward every ear and eye;
+    They quivered as the hounds went by,
+    They trembled when they first trod grass;
+    They would not let another pass,
+    They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Fourth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The wind was westerly but still;
+    The sky a high fair-weather cloud,
+    Like meadows ridge-and-furrow ploughed,
+    Just glinting sun but scarcely moving.
+    Blackbirds and thrushes thought of loving,
+    Catkins were out; the day seemed tense
+    It was so still. At every fence
+    Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern.
+    White-violet-leaves shewed at the burn.
+
+[Illustration: Young Cothill let his chaser go round Chols Elm Field]
+
+    Young Cothill let his chaser go
+    Round Chols Elm Field a turn or so
+    To soothe his edge. The riders went
+    Chatting and laughing and content
+    In groups of two or three together.
+    The hounds, a flock of shaking feather,
+    Bobbed on ahead, past Chols Elm Cop.
+    The horses' shoes went clip-a-clop,
+    Along the stony cart-track there.
+    The little spinney was all bare,
+    But in the earth-moist winter day
+    The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,
+    The glistening horses pressing on,
+    The brown faced lads, Bill, Dick and John,
+    And all the hurry to arrive,
+    Were beautiful, like Spring alive.
+    The hounds melted away with Master
+    The tanned lads ran, the field rode faster,
+    The chatter joggled in the throats
+    Of riders bumping by like boats,
+    "We really ought to hunt a bye day."
+    "Fine day for scent," "A fly or die day."
+    "They chopped a bagman in the check,
+    He had a collar round his neck."
+    "Old Ridden's girl's a pretty flapper."
+    "That Vaughan's a cad, the whipper-snapper."
+    "I tell 'ee, lads, I seed 'em plain,
+    Down in the Rough at Shifford's Main,
+    Old Squire stamping like a Duke,
+    So red with blood I thought he'd puke,
+    In appleplexie, as they do.
+    Miss Jane stood just as white as dew,
+    And heard him out in just white heat,
+    And then she trimmed him down a treat,
+    About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie
+    (She'd be a pretty peach to marry)."
+    "Her'll draw up-wind, so us'll go
+    Down by the furze, we'll see 'em so."
+
+[Illustration:
+The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,
+The glistening horses pressing on,
+   *       *       *       *       *
+And all the hurry to arrive,
+Were beautiful, like Spring alive.]
+
+    "Look, there they go, lad."
+
+                     There they went,
+    Across the brook and up the bent,
+    Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,
+    Along Ghost Heath to cover side.
+    The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,
+    Turf scatters tossed behind each back,
+    Some horses blowing with a whinny,
+    A jam of horses in the spinney,
+    Close to the ride-gate; leather straining,
+    Saddles all creaking; men complaining,
+    Chaffing each other as they pass't,
+    On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.
+    Now as they neared the Ghost Heath Wood
+    Some riders grumbled, "What's the good:
+    It's shot all day and poached all night.
+    We shall draw blank and lose the light,
+    And lose the scent, and lose the day.
+    Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,
+    Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this?
+    There's no fox here, there never is."
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    But as he trotted up to cover,
+    Robin was watching to discover
+    What chance there was, and many a token
+    Told him, that though no hound had spoken,
+    Most of them stirred to something there.
+    The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,
+    Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth,
+    From foxes which had crossed the Heath
+    Not very many hours before.
+    "We'll find," he said, "I'll bet a score."
+    Along Ghost Heath they trotted well,
+    The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,
+    The shaken brambles scattered drops,
+    Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,
+    Cracking the twigs down with their knockings
+    And planing out of sight with cockings;
+    A scut or two lopped white to bramble.
+
+
+
+
+"COVER"
+
+
+    And now they gathered to the gamble
+    At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,
+    The hounds went crackling through the brown
+    Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost.
+    The wood stood silent in its host
+    Of halted trees all winter bare.
+    The boughs, like veins that suck the air,
+    Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.
+    There came no song from any bird;
+    The darkness of the wood stood still
+    Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.
+    The whips crept to the sides to view;
+    The Master gave the nod, and "Leu,
+    Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,"
+    Went Robin, cracking through the whin
+    And through the hedge-gap into cover.
+    The binders crashed as hounds went over,
+    And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.
+    Then up went stern and down went nose,
+    And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,
+    Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride,
+    "O wind him, beauties, push him out,
+    Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout,
+    O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him."
+    The beauties burst the scrub to find him,
+    They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,
+    The bramble and the broom were drawn,
+    The covert's northern end was blank.
+
+[Illustration:
+And now they gathered to the gamble
+At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.]
+
+    They turned to draw along the bank
+    Through thicker cover than the Rough
+    Through three-and-four-year understuff
+    Where Robin's forearm screened his eyes.
+    "Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries.
+    "Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughter
+    Faln from his horn, brought whimpers after,
+    For ends of scents were everywhere.
+    He said, "This Hope's a likely lair.
+    And there's his billets, grey and furred.
+    And George, he's moving, there's a bird."
+
+    A blue uneasy jay was chacking.
+    (A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)
+    From tree to tree, as in pursuit,
+    He said "That's it. There's fox afoot.
+    And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.
+    Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,
+    Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark."
+    The mild horn's note, the soft flaked spark
+    Of music, fell on that rank scent.
+    From heart to wild heart magic went.
+    The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose.
+    "Daffodil has it. There she goes.
+    O hark to her." With wild high crying
+    From frantic hearts, the hounds went flying
+    To Daffodil for that rank taint.
+    A waft of it came warm but faint,
+    In Robin's mouth, and faded so.
+    "First find a fox, then let him go,"
+    Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake.
+    Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."
+    He cheered his beauties like a lover
+    And charged beside them into cover.
+
+
+
+
+PART TWO--THE FOX
+
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+[Illustration: And there on the night before my tale he trotted out]
+
+    On old Cold Crendon's windy tops
+    Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,
+    Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows,
+    Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,
+    And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,
+    Nose between paws, to hear the surf
+    Of wind in the beeches drowsily.
+    There was our fox bred lustily
+    Three years before, and there he berthed
+    Under the beech-roots snugly earthed,
+    With a roof of flint and a floor of chalk
+    And ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,
+    Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,
+    A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.
+    And there on the night before my tale
+    He trotted out for a point in the vale.
+    He saw, from the cover edge, the valley
+    Go trooping down with its droops of sally
+    To the brimming river's lipping bend,
+    And a light in the inn at Water's End.
+    He heard the owl go hunting by
+    And the shriek of the mouse the owl made die,
+    And the purr of the owl as he tore the red
+    Strings from between his claws and fed;
+    The smack of joy of the horny lips
+    Marbled green with the blobby strips.
+    He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,
+    Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking;
+    The fault with the spring as bright as gleed,
+    Green-slash-laced with water weed.
+    A glare in the sky still marked the town,
+    Though all folk slept and the blinds were down,
+    The street lamps watched the empty square,
+    The night-cat sang his evil there.
+    The fox's nose tipped up and round
+    Since smell is a part of sight and sound.
+    Delicate smells were drifting by,
+    The sharp nose flaired them heedfully:
+    Partridges in the clover stubble,
+    Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.
+    Rabbit bucks beginning to box;
+    A scratching place for the pheasant cocks;
+    A hare in the dead grass near the drain,
+    And another smell like the spring again.
+    A faint rank taint like April coming,
+    It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,
+    For somewhere out by Ghost Heath Stubs
+    Was a roving vixen wanting cubs.
+
+[Illustration:
+He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,
+Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking.]
+
+
+
+
+THE ROVING
+
+
+    Over the valley, floating faint
+    On a warmth of windflaw came the taint,
+    He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,
+    And he went up wind like an April thrush.
+    By the Roman Road to Braiches Ridge
+    Where the fallen willow makes a bridge,
+    Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn,
+    To the acres thin with pricking corn.
+    Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,
+    By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,
+    Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,
+    And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.
+    Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,
+    Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,
+    Past Howle's Oak Farm where the raving brain
+    Of a dog who heard him foamed his chain,
+    Then off, as the farmer's window opened,
+    Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End;
+    Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows,
+    And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows;
+    And away and away with a rolling scramble,
+    Through the blackthorn and up the bramble,
+    With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,
+    And his red fell clean for being married.
+    For clicketting time and Ghost Heath Wood
+    Had put the violet in his blood.
+
+[Illustration: A dog who heard him foamed his chain]
+
+    At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney,
+    His foot made the great black stallion whinny,
+    And the stallion's whinny aroused the stable
+    And the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,
+    And the clink of the bloodhound's chain aroused
+    The sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,
+    And the stir of the cattle changed the dream
+    Of the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.
+    The red-wattled black cock hot from Spain
+    Crowed from his perch for dawn again,
+    His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch,
+    Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,
+    They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eye
+    In the raftered roost as the fox went by.
+
+    By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,
+    Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,
+    By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,
+    And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still,
+    By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,
+    And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.
+    Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awoken
+    Over the grass to Water's Oaken,
+    And over the hedge and into ride
+    In Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.
+    Before the dawn he had loved and fed
+    And found a kennel and gone to bed
+    On a shelf of grass in a thick of gorse
+    That would bleed a hound and blind a horse.
+    There he slept in the mild west weather
+    With his nose and brush well tucked together,
+    He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hears
+    With the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.
+
+[Illustration:
+There he slept in the mild west weather
+With his nose and brush well tucked together.]
+
+    He slept while the pheasant cock untucked
+    His head from his wing, flew down and kukked,
+    While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeled
+    Out of the ash-trees into field.
+    While with great black flags that flogged and paddled
+    The rooks went out to the plough and straddled,
+    Straddled wide on the moist red cheese
+    Of the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.
+
+    Down in the village, men awoke,
+    The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke,
+    The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,
+    Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
+
+[Illustration: The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches]
+
+    The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,
+    And the cocks and hens let out of roost,
+    Windows were opened, mats were beaten,
+    All men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten,
+    But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf,
+    The sleeping fox looked after himself.
+
+    Deep in his dream he heard the life
+    Of the woodland seek for food or wife,
+    The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,
+    The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,
+    The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,
+    The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,
+    Cows in a byre, and distant men,
+    And Condicote church-clock striking ten.
+
+    At eleven o'clock a boy went past,
+    With a rough-haired terrier following fast.
+    The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap
+    Woke the fox from out of his nap.
+
+[Illustration:
+The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap
+Woke the fox from out of his nap.]
+
+
+
+
+SCENT
+
+
+    He rose and stretched till the claws in his pads
+    Stuck hornily out like long black gads,
+    He listened a while, and his nose went round
+    To catch the smell of the distant sound.
+
+    The windward smells came free from taint
+    They were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,
+    A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,
+    And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.
+    The lee-ward smells were much less certain
+    For the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,
+    Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,
+    Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.
+
+    He moved to his right to a clearer space,
+    And all his soul came into his face,
+    Into his eyes and into his nose,
+    As over the hill a murmur rose.
+
+    His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,
+    He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,
+    He trotted right and lifted a pad
+    Trying to test what foes he had.
+
+
+
+
+SOUND
+
+
+    On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drumming
+    Which sounded like horses quickly coming,
+    It died as the hunt went down the dip,
+    Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.
+    A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,
+    Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,
+    Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,
+    Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.
+    Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,
+    On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.
+    Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,
+    Voices and horses coming nearer,
+    And another noise, of a pit-pat beat
+    On the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.
+
+    He sat on his haunches listening hard,
+    While his mind went over the compass card,
+    Men were coming and rest was done,
+    But he still had time to get fit to run;
+    He could outlast horse and outrace hound,
+    But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.
+    Scent was burning, the going good
+    The world one lust for a fox's blood,
+    The main earths stopped and the drains put-to,
+    And fifteen miles to the land he knew.
+    But of all the ills, the ill least pleasant
+    Was to run in the light when men were present.
+    Men in the fields to shout and sign
+    For a lift of hounds to a fox's line.
+    Men at the earth at the long point's end,
+    Men at each check and none his friend,
+    Guessing each shift that a fox contrives,
+    But still, needs must when the devil drives.
+
+[Illustration: Men at the earth at the long point's end]
+
+    He readied himself, then a soft horn blew,
+    Then a clear voice carolled "Ed-hoick. Eleu."
+    Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice crying
+    And the crackle of scrub where hounds were trying.
+
+[Illustration: He trotted down with his nose intent]
+
+    Then, the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered,
+    Then another, then more, till his body shivered,
+    He left his kennel and trotted thence
+    With his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.
+    He trotted down with his nose intent
+    For a fox's line to cross his scent,
+    It was only fair (he being a stranger)
+    That the native fox should have the danger.
+    Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,
+    That the pace of his trot began to lift
+    The blue-winged Judas, a jay, began
+    Swearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.
+
+    He hurried his trotting, he now felt frighted,
+    It was his poor body made hounds excited,
+    He felt as he ringed the great wood through
+    That he ought to make for the land he knew.
+
+    Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,
+    Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickened
+    Then the wood behind was a crash of cry
+    For the blood in his veins; it made him fly.
+
+    They were on his line; it was death to stay,
+    He must make for home by the shortest way,
+    But with all this yelling and all this wrath
+    And all these devils, how find a path?
+
+    He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,
+    Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,
+    But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,
+    Watching the woodside, made him shirk.
+
+    He ringed the wood and looked at the south.
+    What wind there was blew into his mouth.
+    But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicket
+    Was Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.
+    At Dansey's back were a twenty more
+    Watching the cover and pressing fore.
+
+[Illustration: The fox drew in]
+
+    The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.
+    Death was there if he messed the puzzle.
+    There were men without and hounds within,
+    A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,
+    Teeth in cover and death without,
+    Both deaths coming, and no way out.
+
+
+
+
+FOUND
+
+
+    His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,
+    Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast,
+    Then horse hooves trampled, then horses' flitches
+    Burst their way through the hazel switches,
+    Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,
+    And a man, quite near, said "Found, by Gad,"
+    And a man, quite near, said "Now he'll break.
+    Lark's Leybourne Copse is the line he'll take."
+    And the men moved up with their talk and stink
+    And the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.
+    Men whose coming meant death from teeth
+    In a worrying wrench with him beneath.
+
+    The fox sneaked down by the cover side,
+    (With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide,
+    He took the ditch at the cover-end,
+    He hugged the ditch as his only friend.
+    The blackbird cock with the golden beak
+    Got out of his way with a jabbering shriek,
+    And the shriek told Tom on the raking bay
+    That for eighteen pence he was gone away.
+
+[Illustration: The blackbird got out of his way with a jabbering shriek]
+
+    He ran in the hedge in the triple growth
+    Of bramble and hawthorn, glad of both,
+    Till a couple of fields were past, and then
+    Came the living death of the dread of men.
+
+    Then, as he listened, he heard a "Hoy,"
+    Tom Dansey's horn and "Awa-wa-woy."
+    Then all hounds crying with all their forces,
+    Then a thundering down of seventy horses.
+    Robin Dawe's horn and halloos of "Hey
+    Hark Hollar, Hoik" and "Gone away,"
+    "Hark Hollar Hoik," and the smack of a whip,
+    A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip.
+    "Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar"; then Robin made
+    Pip go crash through the cut-and-laid,
+    Hounds were over and on his line
+    With a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.
+    The sound of the nearness sent a flood
+    Of terror of death through the fox's blood.
+    He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,
+    And he went up wind as a racer goes.
+
+
+
+
+AWAY
+
+
+[Illustration: The hounds went romping with delight]
+
+    Bold Robin Dawe was over first,
+    Cheering his hounds on at the burst;
+    The field were spurring to be in it,
+    "Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"
+    Came from Sir Peter on his white.
+    The hounds went romping with delight
+    Over the grass and got together;
+    The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leather
+    After the pack at Myngs's yell;
+    A cry like every kind of bell
+    Rang from these rompers as they raced.
+
+    The riders thrusting to be placed,
+    Jammed down their hats and shook their horses,
+    The hounds romped past with all their forces,
+    They crashed into the blackthorn fence;
+    The scent was heavy on their sense,
+    So hot it seemed the living thing,
+    It made the blood within them sing,
+    Gusts of it made their hackles rise,
+    Hot gulps of it were agonies
+    Of joy, and thirst for blood, and passion.
+
+[Illustration: Fifth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    "Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion."
+    He raced beside his pack to cheer.
+    The field's noise died upon his ear,
+    A faint horn, far behind, blew thin
+    In cover, lest some hound were in.
+    Then instantly the great grass rise
+    Shut field and cover from his eyes,
+    He and his racers were alone.
+    "A dead fox or a broken bone,"
+    Said Robin, peering for his prey.
+    The rise, which shut his field away,
+    Shewed him the vale's great map spread out,
+    The downs' lean flank and thrusting snout,
+    Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood,
+    Blue distance, still as solitude,
+    Glitter of water here and there,
+    The trees so delicately bare.
+    The dark green gorse and bright green holly.
+    "O glorious God," he said, "how jolly."
+    And there, down hill, two fields ahead,
+    The lolloping red dog-fox sped
+    Over Poor Pastures to the brook.
+    He grasped these things in one swift look
+    Then dived into the bulfinch heart
+    Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart
+    And skutched new blood upon his brow.
+    "His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"
+    Said Robin, landing with a grunt,
+    "Forrard, my beautifuls."
+
+                                  The hunt
+    Followed down hill to race with him,
+    White Rabbit with his swallow's skim,
+    Drew within hail, "Quick burst, Sir Peter."
+    "A traveller. Nothing could be neater.
+    Making for Godsdown clumps, I take it?"
+    "Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.
+    Forrard."
+
+
+
+
+THE FIELD
+
+
+                 Bill Ridden thundered down;
+    His big mouth grinned beneath his frown,
+    The hounds were going away from horses.
+    He saw the glint of water-courses,
+    Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke ahead,
+    His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.
+    Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him,
+    Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him,
+    That poet chap who thinks he rides."
+    Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides
+    Across the grass, the Colonel next:
+    Then Squire volleying oaths and vext,
+    Fighting his hunter for refusing:
+    Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising
+    Sailing the grass, then Cob on Warder,
+    Then Minton Price upon Marauder;
+    Ock Gurney with his eyes intense,
+    Burning as with a different sense,
+    His big mouth muttering glad "by damns";
+    Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,
+    Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.
+    Bennett with devils in his wame
+    Chewing black cud and spitting slanting;
+    Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting;
+    Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey;
+    Long Robert forcing Necromancy;
+    A dozen more with bad beginnings;
+    Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings,
+    A wild last hound with high shrill yelps,
+    Smacked forrard with some whip-thong skelps.
+    Then last of all, at top of rise,
+    The crowd on foot all gasps and eyes
+    The run up hill had winded them.
+
+    They saw the Yell Brook like a gem
+    Blue in the grass a short mile on,
+    They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone
+    A good eight fields and out of sight
+    Except a rippled glimmer white
+    Going away with dying cheering
+    And scarlet flappings disappearing,
+    And scattering horses going, going,
+    Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing
+    Far on ahead, a loose horse taking,
+    Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,
+    And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
+
+[Illustration: Far on ahead, a loose horse taking fence after fence]
+
+    Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling,
+    A much bashed fence still dropping stick,
+    Flung clods, still quivering from the kick,
+    Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay,
+    The horse-smell blowing clean away.
+    Birds flitting back into the cover.
+    One last faint cry, then all was over.
+    The hunt had been, and found, and gone.
+
+[Illustration:
+He faced the fence and put her through it
+Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him.]
+
+    At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on,
+    Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,
+    Where many of the riders slowed
+    To tittup down a grassy lane,
+    Which led as hounds led in the main
+    And gave no danger of a fall.
+    There, as they tittupped one and all,
+    Big Twenty Stone came scattering by,
+    His great mare made the hoof-casts fly.
+    "By leave," he cried. "Come on. Come up,
+    This fox is running like a tup;
+    Let's leave this lane and get to terms.
+    No sense in crawling here like worms.
+    Come, let me past and let me start,
+    This fox is running like a hart,
+    And this is going to be a run.
+    Come on. I want to see the fun.
+    Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it."
+    He faced the fence and put her through it
+    Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him,
+    The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.
+    Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.
+    His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.
+
+
+
+
+THE RUN
+
+
+    The kestrel cruising over meadow
+    Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow,
+    Wee figures, almost at a stand,
+    Crossing the multi-coloured land,
+    Slow as a shadow on a dial.
+
+[Illustration: Some horses, swerving at a trial]
+
+    Some horses, swerving at a trial,
+    Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.
+    The mud about the gates was dunched.
+    Like German cheese; men pushed for places,
+    And kicked the mud into the faces
+    Of those who made them room to pass.
+    The half-mile's gallop on the grass,
+    Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.
+
+[Illustration: At gates they bunched]
+
+    "His point's the Banner Barton Wood."
+    "That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this."
+    "You're right in that; by Jove it is."
+    "An up-wind travelling fox, by George."
+    "They say Tom viewed him at the forge."
+    "Well, let me pass and let's be on."
+
+    They crossed the lane to Tolderton,
+    The hill-marl died to valley clay,
+    And there before them ran the grey
+    Yell Water, swirling as it ran,
+    The Yell Brook of the hunting man.
+    The hunters eyed it and were grim.
+    They saw the water snaking slim
+    Ahead, like silver; they could see
+    (Each man) his pollard willow tree
+    Firming the bank, they felt their horses
+    Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces;
+    They heard the men behind draw near.
+    Each horse was trembling as a spear
+    Trembles in hand when tense to hurl,
+    They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.
+    The willow-roots like water-snakes;
+    The beaten holes the ratten makes,
+    They heard the water's rush; they heard
+    Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird;
+    A faint cry from the hounds ahead,
+    Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,
+    Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,
+    The sick hope that the bank be staunch,
+    Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.
+    Maroon across, Sir Peter's white
+    Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh
+    Mud to the hat but over, too,
+    Well splashed by Squire who was in.
+
+    With draggled pink stuck close to skin,
+    The Squire leaned from bank and hauled
+    His mired horse's rein; he bawled
+    For help from each man racing by.
+    "What, help you pull him out? Not I.
+    What made you pull him in?" they said.
+    Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,
+    And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream."
+    Ock Gurney in a cloud of steam
+    Stood by his dripping cob and wrung
+    The taste of brook mud from his tongue
+    And scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean.
+    "Lord, what a crowner we've a been,
+    This jumping brook's a mucky job."
+    He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob.
+    Now sir, let me." He turned to Squire
+    And cleared his hunter from the mire
+    By skill and sense and strength of arm.
+
+
+
+
+FULL CRY
+
+
+    Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm,
+    Keeping the spinney on his right.
+    Hounds raced him here with all their might
+    Along the short firm grass, like fire.
+    The cowman viewed him from the byre
+    Lolloping on, six fields ahead,
+    Then hounds, still carrying such a head,
+    It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,
+    Sailing the great grass like a ship,
+    Then grand Maroon in all his glory
+    Sweeping his strides, his great chest hoary
+    With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.
+    They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,
+    They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,
+    Raced up the spur of Gallows Hill
+    And viewed him there. The line he took
+    Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook,
+    Going like fun and hounds like mad.
+    Tom glanced to see what friends he had
+    Still within sight, before he turned
+    The ridge's shoulder; he discerned,
+    One field away, young Cothill sailing
+    Easily up. Pete Gurney failing,
+    Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,
+    Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,
+    Sal Ridden skirting to the right.
+    A horse, with stirrups flashing bright
+    Over his head at every stride,
+    Looked like the Major's; Tom espied
+    Far back, a scarlet speck of man
+    Running, and straddling as he ran.
+    Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,
+    Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed
+    Clumsy, but with the strength of ten.
+    Then black and brown and scarlet men,
+    Brown horses, white and black and grey
+    Scattered a dozen fields away.
+    The shoulder shut the scene away.
+
+[Illustration: Sixth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse
+    There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops,
+    All wet red clay where a horse's foot
+    Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.
+    The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,
+    Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm,
+    The rooks rose raving to curse him raw
+    He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.
+    Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field
+    Where a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled,
+    With a bay horse near and a white horse leading,
+    And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding.
+    He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop
+    The stilts and swear at the team to stop.
+    The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs
+    Crying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs."
+    A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean
+    Arose from his wallet, nosing keen;
+    With a rushing swoop they were on his track,
+    Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.
+    He swerved from his line with the curs at heel,
+    The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel,
+    With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,
+    While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him."
+    The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,
+    And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,
+    Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash
+    Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.
+    The loitering water, flooded full,
+    Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,
+    It was wrinkled over with Arab script
+    Of eddies that twisted up and slipt.
+    The stepping stones had a rush about them
+    So the fox plunged in and swam without them.
+
+[Illustration: He swerved from his line with the curs at heel]
+
+    He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow
+    Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow,
+    He wrung his coat from his draggled bones
+    And romped away for the Sarsen Stones.
+
+    A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back,
+    Made sure that his scent had failed the pack,
+    For the red clay, good for corn and roses,
+    Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.
+    He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree,
+    (A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three),
+    He wriggled a shake and padded slow,
+    Not sure if the hounds were on or no.
+
+    A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds
+    Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds,
+    The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,
+    And the hounds were lifted and on his line.
+    He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,
+    And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took,"
+    And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver,
+    Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.
+
+    The fox went off while the hounds made halt,
+    And the horses breathed and the field found fault,
+    But the whimpering rose to a crying crash
+    By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.
+    Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat,
+    And the green blades bent to the fox's feet
+    And the cry rose keen not far behind
+    Of the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    The fox was strong, he was full of running,
+    He could run for an hour and then be cunning,
+    But the cry behind him made him chill,
+    They were nearer now and they meant to kill.
+    They meant to run him until his blood
+    Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud,
+    Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging,
+    And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.
+    Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty,
+    With nothing but teeth against the thirty.
+    And all the way to that blinding end
+    He would meet with men and have none his friend.
+    Men to holloa and men to run him,
+    With stones to stagger and yells to stun him,
+    Men to head him, with whips to beat him,
+    Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.
+    And all the way, that wild high crying,
+    To cold his blood with the thought of dying,
+    The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder,
+    Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.
+    He upped his brush and went with a will
+    For the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church,
+    A christening party left the porch,
+    They stood stock still as he pounded by,
+    They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.
+    The toothless babe in his long white coat
+    Looked delicate meat, the fox took note;
+    But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,
+    Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.
+
+    Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste,
+    With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,
+    The fur on his chest blown dry with the air,
+    His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.
+    Over the Waste where the ganders grazed,
+    The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,
+    His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher,
+    He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.
+    The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren,
+    Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren.
+    The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,
+    And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth.
+    He had rabbitted there long months before,
+    The earths were deep and his need was sore,
+    The way was new, but he took a vearing,
+    And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.
+
+    Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,
+    Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green;
+    Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,
+    And up Midwinter to King of Spain.
+    Old Joe at digging his garden grounds,
+    Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds?
+    O lord, my back, to be young again,
+    'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain.
+    O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.
+    Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.
+    And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.
+    Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.
+    Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly.
+    Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,
+    Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,
+    With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.
+    Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying.
+    Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying.
+    There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past
+    (As I was digging) as fast as fast.
+    He's only been gone a minute by;
+    A girt dark dog as pert as pye."
+
+    Ellen and Susan came out scattering
+    Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering;
+    They saw the pack come head to foot
+    Running like racers nearly mute;
+    Robin and Dansey quartering near,
+    All going gallop like startled deer.
+    A half dozen flitting scarlets shewing
+    In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.
+    Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring
+    Sending the partridge coveys whirring,
+    Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane,
+    It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.
+
+    Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,
+    Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter,
+    Out they came from the sawdust floor,
+    They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor."
+
+    The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,
+    With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks,
+    Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line
+    Of the larch-wood smelling of turpentine.
+    Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,
+    A sadness breathing with one long sigh,
+    Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes,
+    A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.
+    As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,
+    Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe,
+    He swerved to the left to a broad green ride,
+    Where a boy made him rush for the further side.
+    He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,
+    But there were the timberers come to load.
+    Two timber carts and a couple of carters
+    With straps round their knees instead of garters.
+    He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,
+    The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.
+    He leaped from the larch wood into tillage,
+    The cobbler's garden of Barton village.
+
+    The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,
+    Beating sprigs in a broken boot;
+    He wore old glasses with thick horn rim,
+    He scowled at his work for his sight was dim.
+    His face was dingy, his lips were grey,
+    From primming sparrowbills day by day;
+    As he turned his boot he heard a noise
+    At his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys."
+    He saw his cat nip up on the shed,
+    Where her back arched up till it touched her head,
+    He saw his rabbit race round and round
+    Its little black box three feet from ground.
+    His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch,
+    "That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search."
+    He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,
+    When he saw a fox in his garden path.
+    The fox swerved left and scrambled out
+    Knocking crinked green shells from the Brussels Sprout,
+    He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,
+    And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,
+    Across the plough at the top of bent,
+    Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,
+    Over to Aldams, up to Cappells,
+    Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples,
+    Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres,
+    Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears,
+    Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak,
+    Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke,
+    Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,
+    Where the wind-washed steeple stood serene
+    With its golden bird still sailing air,
+    Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,
+    Past Maddings Hollow, down Dundry Dip,
+    And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.
+
+[Illustration: Seventh colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The three black firs of the Ship stood still
+    On the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill,
+    The fox looked back as he slackened past
+    The scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.
+
+
+
+
+VIEW HALLOO
+
+
+    There they were coming, mute but swift,
+    A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,
+    A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,
+    And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.
+    Stormcock leading, his stern spear-straight,
+    Racing as though for a piece of plate,
+    Little speck horsemen field on field;
+    Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed
+
+[Illustration: A white horse rising, a dark horse flying.]
+
+    At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic,
+    Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,
+    Up went Skylark as Antic sped
+    It was zest to blood how they carried head.
+    Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by,
+    Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.
+
+    The fox knew well, that before they tore him,
+    They should try their speed on the downs before him,
+    There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,
+    But his heart was high, that he beat them still.
+    The wind of the downland charmed his bones
+    So off he went for the Sarsen Stones.
+
+    The moan of the three great firs in the wind,
+    And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind,
+    Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breath
+    On the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death;
+    Larks scattered up; the peewits feeding
+    Rose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.
+    The hare leaped up from her form and swerved
+    Swift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.
+    On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinking
+    Cried sweet, as though wind blown glass were chinking.
+    Behind came thudding and loud halloo
+    Or a cry from hounds as they came to view.
+
+    The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs,
+    Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues,
+    In a three mile more he would reach the haven
+    In the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven,
+    In a three mile more he would make his berth
+    On the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,
+    Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier,
+    With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.
+    In a three mile more he would reach his dream,
+    So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.
+    Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore,
+    The lean red bolt of his body tore,
+    Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass,
+    Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,
+    Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing,
+    When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,
+    Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,
+    Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath,
+    Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping,
+    Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping,
+    Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,
+    With his shadow beside like spinning drift.
+    Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails,
+    Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,
+    Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps,
+    And none but the tumbling peewit weeps,
+    Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner
+    Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner,
+    Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece,
+    Where all winds hurry and none brings peace,
+    Then down, on the mile-long green decline
+    Where the turf's like spring and the air's like wine,
+    Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill
+    Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    On he went with a galloping rally
+    Past Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley,
+    The blood in his veins went romping high,
+    "Get on, on, on to the earth or die."
+    The air of the downs went purely past,
+    Till he felt the glory of going fast,
+    Till the terror of death, though there indeed,
+    Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed;
+    He was romping away from hounds and hunt,
+    He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front,
+    In a one mile more when his point was made,
+    He would rest in safety from dog or spade;
+    Nose between paws he would hear the shout
+    Of the "gone to earth" to the hounds without,
+    The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.
+    Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding,
+    He would hear the horn call hounds away,
+    And rest in peace till another day.
+    In one mile more he would lie at rest
+    So for one mile more he would go his best.
+    He reached the dip at the long droop's end
+    And he took what speed he had still to spend.
+
+    So down past Maesbury beech clump grey,
+    That would not be green till the end of May,
+    Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,
+    Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,
+    Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's Thorn
+    To Thirty Acre all thin with corn.
+    As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook,
+    The pack had view of the way he took,
+    Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,
+    He capped them on till they did their best.
+    The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brink
+    Was raced as quick as a man can think.
+    And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling,
+    The fox first felt that the pace was telling,
+    His body and lungs seemed all grown old,
+    His legs less certain, his heart less bold,
+    The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper,
+    The thud in the blood of his body deeper,
+    His pride in his speed, his joy in the race
+    Were withered away, for what use was pace?
+    He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.
+    Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.
+    Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,
+    And his fur felt sick and his chest was tagged
+    With taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,
+    It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.
+    Down he went to the brook and over,
+    Out of the corn and into the clover,
+    Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains,
+    Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,
+    Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke rings
+    Where the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.
+
+[Illustration: Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged]
+
+    Seven Sarsens of granite grim,
+    As he ran them by they looked at him;
+    As he leaped the lip of their earthen paling
+    The hounds were gaining and he was failing.
+
+    He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,
+    He pressed up hill to the blasted fir,
+    He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered;
+    "He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."
+    At the second attempt he cleared the fence,
+    He turned half right where the gorse was dense,
+    He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.
+    He was past his best, but his earth was near.
+    He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp,
+    The steep green wall of the dead men's camp,
+    He sidled up it and scampered down
+    To the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.
+
+    Within, as he reached that soft green turf,
+    The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf,
+    Desolate ramparts rose up steep,
+    On either side, for the ghosts to keep.
+
+    He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,
+    Close grown with moss which the wind made barren,
+    He passed the spring where the rushes spread,
+    And there in the stones was his earth ahead.
+    One last short burst upon failing feet,
+    There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,
+    Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.
+
+    The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.
+
+
+
+
+LAST HOPE
+
+
+[Illustration: A mask]
+
+    With hounds at head so close behind
+    He had to run as he changed his mind.
+    This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but still
+    There was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill.
+    A rabbit burrow a furlong on,
+    He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.
+    Though his death seemed near he did not blench
+    He upped his brush and he ran the trench.
+
+    He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,
+    Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.
+    Down in the valley of that dark gash
+    The wind-withered grasses looked like ash.
+    Trickles of stones and earth fell down
+    In that dark valley of dead men's town.
+    A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers,
+    From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.
+    He heard no noise from the hounds behind
+    But the hill-wind moaning like something blind.
+
+    He turned the bend in the hill and there
+    Was his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare,
+    But there with a gun tucked under his arm
+    Was young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm,
+    With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbit
+    Into a net which was set to nab it.
+    And young Jack Cole peered over the wall
+    And loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"
+    The terrier pup attacked with a will,
+    So the fox swerved right and away down hill.
+
+    Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ran
+    To the brackeny patch where the gorse began,
+    Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hid
+    The line he took from the eyes of Sid
+    He swerved down wind and ran like a hare
+    For the wind-blown spinney below him there.
+
+    He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark
+    (There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark)
+    He saw no more of the terrier pup.
+    But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.
+
+    He crossed the spinney with ears intent
+    For the cry of hounds on the way he went,
+    His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,
+    He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,
+    He was past his perfect, his strength was failing,
+    His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.
+    He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town,
+    That in one mile more they would have him down.
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+
+
+
+CHECKED
+
+
+[Illustration: They had ceased to run, they had come to check]
+
+    Through the withered oak's wind-crouching tops
+    He saw men's scarlet above the copse,
+    He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slacken
+    In the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.
+
+    He felt that the unseen link which bound
+    His spine to the nose of the leading hound,
+    Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knew
+    Which way to follow nor what to do;
+    That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,
+    They had ceased to run, they had come to check,
+    They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.
+
+    The terrier's chase had killed his scent.
+
+    He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,
+    He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,
+    But there came no cry from a new attack,
+    His heart grew steady, his breath came back.
+
+    He left the spinney and ran its edge,
+    By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,
+    Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,
+    Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadow
+    Over the track called Godsdown Road,
+    To the great grass heave of the gods' abode,
+    He was moving now upon land he knew
+    Up Clench Royal and Morton Tew,
+    The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,
+    High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,
+    Land he had roved on night by night,
+    For hot blood suckage or furry bite,
+    The threat of the hounds behind was gone;
+    He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.
+    While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,
+    Robin on Pip came heaving up,
+    And found his pack spread out at check.
+    "I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"
+    He said, "You see? He's spoiled our sport.
+    He's killed the scent." He broke off short,
+    And stared at hounds and at the valley.
+    No jay or magpie gave a rally
+    Down in the copse, no circling rooks
+    Rose over fields; old Joyful's looks
+    Were doubtful in the gorse, the pack
+    Quested both up and down and back.
+    He watched each hound for each small sign.
+    They tried, but could not hit the line,
+    The scent was gone. The field took place
+    Out of the way of hounds. The pace
+    Had tailed them out; though four remained:
+
+    Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stained
+    Red from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,
+    Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.
+    The Colonel with Marauder beat.
+    They turned towards a thud of feet;
+    Dansey, and then young Cothill came
+    (His chestnut mare was galloped tame).
+    "There's Copse, a field behind," he said.
+    "Those last miles put them all to bed.
+    They're strung along the downs like flies."
+    Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise.
+    "Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
+
+[Illustration:
+"Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
+"They cannot own it; you must cast."]
+
+    "They cannot own it; you must cast,"
+    Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,
+    Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drew
+    Up wind, down hill, by spinney side.
+    They tried the brambled ditch; they tried
+    The swamp, all choked with bright green grass
+    And clumps of rush and pools like glass,
+    Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.
+    They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,
+    But no hound spoke to it or feathered.
+    The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,
+    The men mopped brows. "An hour's hard run.
+    Ten miles," they said, "we must have done.
+    It's all of six from Colston's Gorses."
+    The lucky got their second horses.
+
+    The time ticked by. "He's lost," they muttered.
+    A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.
+    Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.
+    They drew down wind along the bank,
+    (The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,
+    Grown with dwarf oak and juniper
+    Like dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.
+    The seepings made the ground one soak.
+    They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.
+    Then Robin shifted in his seat
+    Watching for signs, but no signs shewed.
+    "I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,
+    Beyond the spinney," Robin said.
+    Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.
+
+    Beyond the copse a great grass fallow
+    Stretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,
+    A rolling grass where hounds grew keen.
+    "Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,"
+    Said Robin, eager at their joy.
+    "Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.
+    They're on to him."
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+
+
+
+"ON"
+
+
+                      At his reminders
+    The keen hounds hurried to the finders.
+    The finding hounds began to hurry,
+    Men jammed their hats prepared to skurry,
+    The Ai Ai of the cry began.
+    Its spirit passed to horse and man,
+    The skirting hounds romped to the cry.
+    Hound after hound cried Ai Ai Ai,
+    Till all were crying, running, closing,
+    Their heads well up and no heads nosing,
+    Joyful ahead with spear-straight stern.
+    They raced the great slope to the burn.
+    Robin beside them, Tom behind,
+    Pointing past Robin down the wind.
+
+    For there, two furlongs on, he viewed
+    On Holy Hill or Cheddesdon Rood
+    Just where the ploughland joined the grass,
+    A speck down the first furrow pass,
+    A speck the colour of the plough.
+    "Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"
+    He cried. The speck passed slowly on,
+    It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.
+
+    Then down the slope and up the Rood,
+    Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown Wood
+    Dropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.
+    Over the Rood to High Clench Valley
+    The gallop led; the red-coats scattered,
+    The fragments of the hunt were tattered
+    Over five fields, ev'n since the check.
+
+[Illustration:
+Then down the slope and up the Rood,
+Went the hunt's gallop.]
+
+    "A dead fox or a broken neck,"
+    Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane."
+    The hunter leant against the rein,
+    Cocking his ears, he loved to see
+    The hounds at cry. The hounds and he
+    The chiefs in all that feast of pace.
+
+    The speck in front began to race.
+    The fox heard hounds get on to his line,
+    And again the terror went down his spine,
+    Again the back of his neck felt cold,
+    From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold.
+    But his legs were rested, his heart was good,
+    He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood,
+    It was four miles more, but an earth at end,
+    So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.
+
+[Illustration: The fox heard hounds get on to his line]
+
+    Down the great grass slope which the oak trees dot
+    With a swerve to the right from the keeper's cot,
+    Over High Clench brook in its channel deep,
+    To the grass beyond, where he ran to sheep.
+    The sheep formed line like a troop of horse,
+    They swerved, as he passed, to front his course
+    From behind, as he ran, a cry arose,
+    "See the sheep, there. Watch them. There he goes."
+
+    He ran the sheep that their smell might check
+    The hounds from his scent and save his neck,
+    But in two fields more he was made aware
+    That the hounds still ran; Tom had viewed him there.
+
+[Illustration:
+He ran the sheep that their smell might check
+The hounds from his scent and save his neck.]
+
+    Tom had held them on through the taint of sheep,
+    They had kept his line, as they meant to keep,
+    They were running hard with a burning scent,
+    And Robin could see which way he went.
+    The pace that he went brought strain to breath,
+    He knew as he ran that the grass was death.
+    He ran the slope towards Morton Tew
+    That the heave of the hill might stop the view,
+    Then he doubled down to the Blood Brook red,
+    And swerved upstream in the brook's deep bed.
+
+    He splashed the shallows, he swam the deeps,
+    He crept by banks as a moorhen creeps,
+    He heard the hounds shoot over his line,
+    And go on, on, on towards Cheddesdon Zine.
+
+    In the minute's peace he could slacken speed,
+    The ease from the strain was sweet indeed.
+    Cool to the pads the water flowed,
+    He reached the bridge on the Cheddesdon road.
+
+    As he came to light from the culvert dim,
+    Two boys on the bridge looked down on him;
+    They were young Bill Ripple and Harry Meun,
+    "Look, there be squirrel, a-swimmin', see 'un."
+    "Noa, ben't a squirrel, be fox, be fox.
+    Now, Hal, get pebble, we'll give en socks."
+    "Get pebble, Billy, dub un a plaster;
+    There's for thy belly, I'll learn ee, master."
+
+[Illustration: He raced from brook in a burst of shies]
+
+    The stones splashed spray in the fox's eyes,
+    He raced from brook in a burst of shies,
+    He ran for the reeds in the withy car,
+    Where the dead flags shake and the wild-duck are.
+
+    He pushed through the reeds which cracked at his passing,
+    To the High Clench Water, a grey pool glassing,
+    He heard Bill Ripple in Cheddesdon road
+    Shout, "This way, huntsman, it's here he goed."
+
+
+
+
+THE LIFTING HORN
+
+
+    The Leu Leu Leu went the soft horn's laughter,
+    The hounds (they had checked) came romping after,
+    The clop of the hooves on the road was plain,
+    Then the crackle of reeds, then cries again.
+
+    A whimpering first, then Robin's cheer,
+    Then the Ai Ai Ai; they were all too near;
+    His swerve had brought but a minute's rest,
+    Now he ran again, and he ran his best.
+
+    With a crackle of dead dry stalks of reed
+    The hounds came romping at topmost speed,
+    The redcoats ducked as the great hooves skittered
+    The Blood Brook's shallows to sheets that glittered;
+    With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,
+    Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick."
+    Like a running fire the dead reeds crackled
+    The hounds' heads lifted, their necks were hackled.
+    Tom cried to Bob as they thundered through,
+    "He is running short, we shall kill at Tew."
+    Bob cried to Tom as they rode in team,
+    "I was sure, that time, that he turned up-stream.
+    As the hounds went over the brook in stride,
+    I saw old Daffodil fling to side,
+    So I guessed at once, when they checked beyond."
+    The ducks flew up from the Morton Pond.
+    The fox looked up at their tailing strings,
+    He wished (perhaps) that a fox had wings.
+    Wings with his friends in a great V straining
+    The autumn sky when the moon is gaining;
+    For better the grey sky's solitude,
+    Than to be two miles from the Mourne End Wood
+    With the hounds behind, clean-trained to run,
+    And your strength half spent and your breath half done.
+    Better the reeds and the sky and water
+    Than that hopeless pad from a certain slaughter.
+    At the Morton Pond the fields began,
+    Long Tew's green meadows; he ran; he ran.
+
+[Illustration:
+With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,
+Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick."]
+
+    First the six green fields that make a mile,
+    With the lip-full Clench at the side the while,
+    With the rooks above, slow-circling, shewing
+    The world of men where a fox was going;
+    The fields all empty, dead grass, bare hedges,
+    And the brook's bright gleam in the dark of sedges.
+    To all things else he was dumb and blind,
+    He ran, with the hounds a field behind.
+
+
+
+
+MOURNE END WOOD
+
+
+    At the sixth green field came the long slow climb,
+    To the Mourne End Wood as old as time
+    Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows,
+    Oak woods green with the mistletoes,
+    Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep
+    With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep.
+    He saw his point on the heaving hill,
+    He had failing flesh and a reeling will,
+    He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff,
+    He saw black woods, which would shelter--
+      If--
+    Nothing else, but the steepening slope,
+    And a black line nodding, a line of hope,
+    The line of the yews on the long slope's brow,
+    A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now.
+    A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed,
+    They yelled to have him this side the wood;
+    Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them
+    With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them.
+    Then up went hackles as Shatterer led,
+    "Mob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead.
+    Turn him, damn it; Yooi, beauties, beat him.
+    O God, let them get him; let them eat him.
+    O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed,
+    If you'll let us get him this side the wood."
+
+    But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone,
+    The pack went wild up the hill alone.
+    Three hundred yards, and the worst was past,
+    The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed,
+    The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall
+    On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall.
+    He saw the skeleton trees show sky,
+    And the yew trees darken to see him die,
+    And the line of the woods go reeling black,
+    There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack.
+
+    Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller,
+    Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller
+    Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping
+    Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping.
+    He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting,
+    Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting,
+    The hounds were gaining like spotted pards
+    And the wood-hedge still was a hundred yards.
+    The wood-hedge black was a two year, quick
+    Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick
+    Thorns all over, and strongly plied,
+    With a clean red ditch on the take-off side.
+
+    He saw it now as a redness, topped
+    With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped,
+    Spiky to leap on, stiff to force,
+    No safe jump for a failing horse,
+    But beyond it, darkness of yews together,
+    Dark green plumes over soft brown feather,
+    Darkness of woods where scents were blowing
+    Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going,
+    Scents that might draw these hounds away.
+    So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay.
+
+[Illustration:
+He saw it now as a redness, topped
+With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped.]
+
+    Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back,
+    All his strength seemed to draw the pack,
+    The trees drew over him dark like Norns,
+    He was over the ditch and at the thorns.
+
+    He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield,
+    He leaped, but fell, in sight of the field,
+    The hounds went wild as they saw him fall,
+    The fence stood stiff like a Bucks flint wall.
+
+    He gathered himself for a new attempt,
+    His life before was an old dream dreamt,
+    All that he was was a blown fox quaking,
+    Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking,
+    While over the grass in crowd, in cry,
+    Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die,
+    The eyes intense, dull, smouldering red,
+    The fell like a ruff round each keen head,
+    The pace like fire, and scarlet men
+    Galloping, yelling, "Yooi, eat him, then."
+    He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached
+    The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached,
+    He steadied a second and then leaped down
+    To the dark of the wood where bright things drown.
+
+    He swerved, sharp right, under young green firs.
+    Robin called on the Dane with spurs,
+    He cried "Come, Dansey: if God's not good,
+    We shall change our fox in this Mourne End wood."
+    Tom cried back as he charged like spate,
+    "Mine can't jump that, I must ride to gate."
+    Robin answered, "I'm going at him.
+    I'll kill that fox, if he kills me, drat him.
+    We'll kill in covert. Gerr on, now, Dane."
+    He gripped him tight and he made it plain,
+    He slowed him down till he almost stood
+    While his hounds went crash into Mourne End Wood.
+
+    Like a dainty dancer with footing nice,
+    The Dane turned side for a leap in twice.
+    He cleared the ditch to the red clay bank,
+    He rose at the fence as his quarters sank,
+    He barged the fence as the bank gave way
+    And down he came in a fall of clay.
+
+    Robin jumped off him and gasped for breath;
+    He said, "That's lost him, as sure as death.
+    They've over-run him. Come up, the Dane,
+    But I'll kill him yet, if we ride to Spain."
+
+    He scrambled up to his horse's back,
+    He thrust through cover, he called his pack,
+    He cheered them on till they made it good,
+    Where the fox had swerved inside the wood.
+    The fox knew well, as he ran the dark,
+    That the headlong hounds were past their mark.
+    They had missed his swerve and had overrun.
+    But their devilish play was not yet done.
+
+
+
+
+"DONE"
+
+
+    For a minute he ran and heard no sound,
+    Then a whimper came from a questing hound,
+    Then a "This way, beauties," and then "Leu Leu,"
+    The floating laugh of the horn that blew.
+    Then the cry again and the crash and rattle
+    Of the shrubs burst back as they ran to battle.
+    Till the wood behind seemed risen from root,
+    Crying and crashing to give pursuit,
+    Till the trees seemed hounds and the air seemed cry,
+    And the earth so far that he needs but die,
+    Die where he reeled in the woodland dim
+    With a hound's white grips in the spine of him;
+    For one more burst he could spurt, and then
+    Wait for the teeth, and the wrench, and men.
+
+    He made his spurt for the Mourne End rocks,
+    The air blew rank with the taint of fox;
+    The yews gave way to a greener space
+    Of great stones strewn in a grassy place.
+    And there was his earth at the great grey shoulder,
+    Sunk in the ground, of a granite boulder
+    A dry deep burrow with rocky roof,
+    Proof against crowbars, terrier-proof,
+    Life to the dying, rest for bones.
+
+    The earth was stopped; it was filled with stones.
+
+    Then, for a moment, his courage failed,
+    His eyes looked up as his body quailed,
+    Then the coming of death, which all things dread,
+    Made him run for the wood ahead.
+
+[Illustration: There were foxes there]
+
+    The taint of fox was rank on the air,
+    He knew, as he ran, there were foxes there.
+    His strength was broken, his heart was bursting,
+    His bones were rotten, his throat was thirsting,
+    His feet were reeling, his brush was thick
+    From dragging the mud, and his brain was sick.
+    He thought as he ran of his old delight
+    In the wood in the moon in an April night,
+    His happy hunting, his winter loving,
+    The smells of things in the midnight roving;
+    The look of his dainty-nosing, red
+    Clean-felled dam with her footpad's tread,
+    Of his sire, so swift, so game, so cunning
+    With craft in his brain and power of running,
+    Their fights of old when his teeth drew blood.
+    Now he was sick, with his coat all mud.
+
+    He crossed the covert, he crawled the bank,
+    To a meuse in the thorns and there he sank,
+    With his ears flexed back and his teeth shown white,
+    In a rat's resolve for a dying bite.
+
+
+
+
+PRIZE
+
+
+    And there, as he lay, he saw the vale,
+    That a struggling sunlight silvered pale,
+    The Deerlip Brook like a strip of steel,
+    The Nun's Wood Yews where the rabbits squeal,
+    The great grass square of the Roman Fort,
+    And the smoke in the elms at Crendon Court.
+
+    And above the smoke in the elm-tree tops,
+    Was the beech-clump's blue, Blown Hilcote Copse,
+    Where he and his mates had long made merry
+    In the bloody joys of the rabbit-herry.
+
+    And there as he lay and looked, the cry
+    Of the hounds at head came rousing by;
+    He bent his bones in the blackthorn dim.
+    But the cry of the hounds was not for him,
+    Over the fence with a crash they went,
+    Belly to grass, with a burning scent,
+    Then came Dansey, yelling to Bob,
+    "They've changed, O damn it, now here's a job."
+    And Bob yelled back, "Well, we cannot turn 'em,
+    It's Jumper and Antic, Tom; we'll learn 'em.
+    We must just go on, and I hope we kill."
+    They followed hounds down the Mourne End Hill.
+    The fox lay still in the rabbit-meuse,
+    On the dry brown dust of the plumes of yews.
+    In the bottom below a brook went by,
+    Blue, in a patch, like a streak of sky.
+    There, one by one, with a clink of stone,
+    Came a red or dark coat on a horse half blown.
+    And man to man with a gasp for breath
+    Said, "Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death."
+
+[Illustration:
+And man to man with a gasp for breath
+Said, "Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death."]
+
+    After an hour, no riders came,
+    The day drew by like an ending game;
+    A robin sang from a pufft red breast,
+    The fox lay quiet and took his rest.
+    A wren on a tree-stump carolled clear,
+    Then the starlings wheeled in a sudden sheer,
+    The rooks came home to the twiggy hive
+    In the elm-tree tops which the winds do drive.
+    Then the noise of the rooks fell slowly still,
+    And the lights came out in the Clench Brook Mill
+    Then a pheasant cocked, then an owl began
+    With the cry that curdles the blood of man.
+
+    The stars grew bright as the yews grew black,
+    The fox rose stiffly and stretched his back.
+    He flaired the air, then he padded out
+    To the valley below him dark as doubt,
+    Winter-thin with the young green crops,
+    For Old Cold Crendon and Hilcote Copse.
+
+
+
+
+HOME
+
+
+[Illustration: Reynard the fox]
+
+    As he crossed the meadows at Naunton Larking,
+    The dogs in the town all started barking,
+    For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,
+    The hounds and the hunt were limping home:
+    Limping home in the dark, dead-beaten,
+    The hounds all rank from a fox they'd eaten,
+    Dansey saying to Robin Dawe,
+    "The fastest and longest I ever saw."
+    And Robin answered, "O Tom, 'twas good,
+    I thought they'd changed in the Mourne End Wood,
+    But now I feel that they did not change.
+    We've had a run that was great and strange;
+    And to kill in the end, at dusk, on grass.
+    We'll turn to the Cock and take a glass,
+    For the hounds, poor souls, are past their forces.
+    And a gallon of ale for our poor horses,
+    And some bits of bread for the hounds, poor things,
+    After all they've done (for they've done like kings),
+    Would keep them going till we get in.
+    We had it alone from Nun's Wood Whin."
+    Then Tom replied, "If they changed or not,
+    There've been few runs longer and none more hot,
+    We shall talk of to-day until we die."
+
+[Illustration:
+For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,
+The hounds and the hunt were limping home.]
+
+    The stars grew bright in the winter sky,
+    The wind came keen with a tang of frost,
+    The brook was troubled for new things lost,
+    The copse was happy for old things found,
+    The fox came home and he went to ground.
+    And the hunt came home and the hounds were fed,
+    They climbed to their bench and went to bed,
+    The horses in stable loved their straw.
+    "Good-night, my beauties," said Robin Dawe.
+
+    Then the moon came quiet and flooded full
+    Light and beauty on clouds like wool,
+    On a feasted fox at rest from hunting,
+    In the beech wood grey where the brocks were grunting.
+
+[Illustration: Eighth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son,
+New York_]
+
+    The beech wood grey rose dim in the night
+    With moonlight fallen in pools of light,
+    The long dead leaves on the ground were rimed.
+    A clock struck twelve and the church-bells chimed.
+
+
+Printed in the United States of America.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+Words surrounded by _ are italicized.
+
+All author's punctuations retained.
+
+All apparent printer's errors and variable spellings retained, including
+variable usage of hyphen (e.g. "goodwill" and "good-will") and any other
+variable spellings.
+
+Descriptions added to captionless illustrations.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reynard the Fox, by John Masefield
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