Reynard the Fox Part 10

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 pa.s.sion.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fifth colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York_]

"Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fas.h.i.+on."

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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d," 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 G.o.dsdown 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 d.y.k.e ahead, His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.

Young Cothill's chaser rushed and pa.s.st him, n.o.b Manor, running next, said "Blast him, That poet chap who thinks he rides."

Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides Across the gra.s.s, the Colonel next: Then Squire volleying oaths and vext, Fighting his hunter for refusing: Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising Sailing the gra.s.s, 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 d.a.m.ns"; 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 gra.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He faced the fence and put her through it s.h.i.+elding 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 t.i.ttup down a gra.s.sy lane, Which led as hounds led in the main And gave no danger of a fall.

There, as they t.i.ttupped 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 s.h.i.+elding his eyes lest spikes should blind him, The cras.h.i.+ng blackthorn closed behind him.

Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.

His mare's ears c.o.c.ked, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.s.

The half-mile's gallop on the gra.s.s, Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.s 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.

n.o.b 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 sc.r.a.ped 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.