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diff --git a/38052.txt b/38052.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..86ef9bc --- /dev/null +++ b/38052.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4309 @@ +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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REYNARD THE FOX *** + +***** This file should be named 38052.txt or 38052.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/0/5/38052/ + +Produced by Judith Wirawan, Juliet Sutherland, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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