Reynard the Fox Part 7

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 c.o.c.ked 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 sc.r.a.ps 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 b.u.t.tocks.

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 gra.s.s in spate; They poached the trickle at the gate; Their horses' feet sucked at the mud; Excitement in the horses' blood, c.o.c.ked forward every ear and eye; They quivered as the hounds went by, They trembled when they first trod gra.s.s; They would not let another pa.s.s, They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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, d.i.c.k 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 b.u.mping 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 s.h.i.+fford'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."

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 c.o.c.kings; A scut or two lopped white to bramble.

"COVER"