REYNARD THE FOX GHOST HEATH RUN f^fiisi ■ .-vV JOHN MASEFIELD niustraiecC hy CARTON MOOREPARK ^0^ ^0 ^V ^'^. '/\ <^ .^:^^' -v^ ', . .^ ..^- -^. cs ''>. .\' p. . V '^.. n^ •"^-^ ^. v^^ \ •» A s^'-^^. c^"^ v^ ^-^: 1 v- >^^ ^ « "" '■ « '^; 0^ •v. X^^x^ \ ^ " -r ■''C- ;^0 O^ ■» > av v. - ,..^ ,* .-?>■ \ 'c. >\^ " ^ '■ /. '''; .V '^., \ 'CO ,S 'C \V -■^^ ^A >0^ ■r. ,•0 '>, *<• V. * • o -^ ,> . ^ ' « * -"^^ ^- -^-^v '' <' C^ 'X \\- r^' ^v^- -V. -^'' * . s O ^ ^0 -^^ ^ /■ .^ .0- .x^'% ...^' .^<^. "<^s^ -•>-- ^^\' . " "^ v^^ )o. o s^"'^. '^. ■^z- . \ I » .0 C .\^ .^ >^ -'-^^ '>^ ■^J. ^ : ^ ^ 0^ x^^^. '.^' ;^ v^ -^ .^^^.v*--\^^^-. ..,^- ■ ^ z :.£,<. u.<^' ~'- %4 :.: '• x>. ,,<.■*■ ■- -•%.,;' s '-P A^ *, C). O- -^ ' " *• .. N^ ^.. %. ^ •• ■ ^ " n --/:.^ ''-^> ^ .0-' , '-^ / /:■ . % /■ ,^% ' .\^^ \,V % ■A' .V* -, '*^' , . -^ ' ■^, >>j •^ .A O '' ^.;^:4:-/% "^ '^.^ > / y::'-% ^. ^*' "b 0^ : ^ : -be x^' % <^ .^" /"^ ^ V '^, -o ^ ' n ■ ^ " .-x '-^ ^ ■ ./ " '' */c <-- ./ . ''b a ^O 0^ ^.-- v^' ■ "o 0^ .-■ '■ '^> ■ N^"^ xO REYNARD THE FOX BY JOHN MASEFIELD NEW EDITION WITH EIGHT PLATES IN COLOUR AND MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY CARTON MOOREPARK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1920 All rights reserved 'f1^^''/^*f .0^' .^t 'S^^ COPTBIGHT, 1919 AND 1920, By JOHN MASEFIELD. New illustrated edition, October, 1920. Norwood Press J. S. Gushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Maaa., U.S.A. OCT 28 1220 ©CI,A601I49 3 <3- CO 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, vi INTRODUCTION 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, espe- cially 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 INTRODUCTION vii 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 com- munity 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 viii INTRODUCTION 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 genera- tions, 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 hunts- man. 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 INTRODUCTION ix 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 dis- mayed, 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 X INTRODUCTION little magpie Hound made it out in ye bog at ye back of ye Cop- pice, when again Hounds went at head through Long Stone Pas- tures 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 oflF, a sight, as Mr. Jarvis remarked to me, worthy of the Admira- tion 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 stag- gered 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." INTRODUCTION ad 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 Struc- ture. 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." xii INTRODUCTION "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 ve 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 't 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 : - INTRODUCTION xiii "A large field attended the Templecombe on Tuesday last at the popular meet at Heydigates. Will Mynors, late of the Par- ratts, 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 some- thing out of the common. Keeping Snib's Farm on his right, he ran dead straight for Callow'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 Danes- way, going at a pace which all thought could not last. xiv INTRODUCTION "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 ob- liquely 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 INTRODUCTION xv 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, xvi INTRODUCTION 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 INTRODUCTION xvii I have watched half-grown cubs stalking rabbits. Twice out hunt- ing, 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, Here- fordshire, Worcestershire and Berkshire, where he ran, from Trap- alanda, 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 i 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 xviii INTRODUCTION them across country; hunting is a pleasure, as well as an oppor- tunity 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 featheV 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 INTRODUCTION xix 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 difiicult 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. XX 'INTRODUCTION 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 Hve 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 The stables were alive with din An old man with a gaunt, burnt face All sport, from bloody war to craps The Godsdown Tigress with her cub A sea of moving heads, and sterns His chief delight He had a welcome and salute . The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray And now they gathered to the gamble He saw the farms where the dogs were barking There he slept in the mild west weather . The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yaps He faced the fence and put her through it A white horse rising a dark horse flying . Then down the slope and up the road He ran the sheep that their smell might check With a cracking whip and "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik, Forrard" He saw it now as a redness topped .... And man to man with a gasp for breath . For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam . xxi PAGE 5 i6 80 96 120 128 144 IS3 162 172 182 185 222 256 290 29s 303 313 330 336 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^^''''^ ZZlll 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, 3 4 REYNARD THE FOX 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 The stables were alive with din From dawn until the time of meeting. 6 REYNARD THE FOX 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. Outside, the spangled cock did call To scattering grain that Martha flung. REYNARD THE FOX 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 8 REYNARD THE FOX 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," (( (( (( > FARMER BENNETT 41 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. 43 44 REYNARD THE FOX 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 couj^le, 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. *ril learn 'ee rabbit in my shed. That's how my ricks get set afire.' REYNARD THE FOX 45 That's what he said, the bloody Har ; 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 47 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. E 49 so REYNARD THE FOX 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 SI 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, S3 54 REYNARD THE FOX 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 ; REYNARD THE FOX 55 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. S6 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 57 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, 58 REYNARD THE FOX 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 ? " REYNARD THE FOX 59 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 6o REYNARD THE FOX New gloves, the newest thing in crops, Worn with an air that well expressed His sense that no one else was dressed. THE DOCTOR 6x 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. 63 64 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 65 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, 66 REYNARD THE FOX 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 Coin St. Evelyn's with the party, REYNARD THE FOX (>J Hugh Col way 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 69 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, 71 72 REYNARD THE FOX The horses being bickering things, That so much scarlet made like kings, Such sidling and such pawing and shifting. THE MERCHANT'S SON 73 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 Coin 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. 7S ye REYNARD THE FOX 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 Coin 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 77 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), 79 AH sport, from bloody war to craps, Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler. REYNARD THE FOX 8i 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. His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same, A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare. 82 REYNARD THE FOX With white horse teeth and stooks of hair, (Like poHshed 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. Behind them rode her daughter Bell, A strange shy lovely girl whose face REYNARD THE FOX 83 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. 84 REYNARD THE FOX 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. "^ REYNARD THE FOX 85 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. 86 REYNARDTHEFOX 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. >"? REYNARDTHEFOX 87 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. Sweet Polly Colway managed It. And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink (The pleasant pit's seductive brink), He started working In the stable. » 88 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 89 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. Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk, His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn, 90 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 91 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 oif 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 93 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, 95 The Godsdown Tigress with her cub (Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came. REYNARD THE FOX 97 (Old Sheffield) and he owned each state Of all the Meryon Paris etchings. 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 98 REYNARD THE FOX 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 99 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, lOI I02 REYNARD THE FOX 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 103 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 dipt 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 loS I06 REYNARD THE FOX 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 X07 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 109 no REYNARD THE FOX 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 ; REYNARD THE FOX in 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. 112 REYNARD THE FOX 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, REYNARD THE FOX 113 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 "5 But now the clock had struck the hour, And round the corner, down the road The bob-bob-bobblng 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. 117 Ii8 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 119 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, A sea of moving heads and sterns, Ail round them, brushing coat and dress. REYNARD THE FOX 121 Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother" With mouths wide open, catching tears. 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. 122 REYNARDTHEFOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 123 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 laS 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. 127 His chief delight Was hunting fox from noon to night. REYNARD THE FOX ' 129 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). 130 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 131 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 ETUNTSMAN 133 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. "35 136 REYNARD THE FOX 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 REYNARD THE FOX 137 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 138 REYNARD THE FOX A hedge of whisker neatly dipt, A narrow strip or picture frame (Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same), Under his chin from ear to ear. THE MASTER 139 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. 141 142 REYNARD THE FOX 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. He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe ; Past sixty now, though hearty still, REYNARD THE FOX 143 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 had a welcome and salute For all, on horse or wheel or foot. REYNARD THE FOX 145 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 147 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 149 150 REYNARD THE FOX 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. 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 REYNARD THE FOX 151 It was so still. At every fence Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern. White-violet-leaves shewed at the burn. 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 152 REYNARD THE FOX 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, The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray, The glistening horses pressing on, And all the hurry to arrive. Were beautiful, like Spring alive. iil 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. 298 REYNARD THE FOX 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 299 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 ; 301 302 REYNARDTHEFOX 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 ; With a cracking whip and a "Hoik, Hoik, Hoik, Forrard," Tom galloped. Bob shouted "Yoick." 304 REYNARD THE FOX 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. 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, REYNARDTHEFOX 305 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 307 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, 309 3IO REYNARD THE FOX 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, Yool," 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. REYNARD THE FOX 311 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 312 REYNARD THE FOX 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. He saw it now as a redness, topped With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped. 314 REYNARD THE FOX 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, REYNARD THE FOX 315 The eyes Intense, dull, smouldering red, The fell like a ruff round each keen head. The pace like fire, and scarlet men Galloping, yelling, "Yool, 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, "Pm going at him. 3l6 REYNARD THE FOX ril 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 oif him and gasped for breath ; He said, "That's lost him, as sure as death. REYNARD THE FOX 317 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 " 319 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. Y 321 322 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 323 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 324 REYNARD THE FOX 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 32s 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. 327 328 REYNARD THE FOX 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. REYNARD THE FOX 329 And man to man with a gasp for breath Said, "Lord, what a run. Fm 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. And man to man with a gasp for breath Said, " Lord, what a run. I'm fagged to death.* REYNARD THE FOX 331 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 333 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, 335 For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam. The hounds and the hunt were limping home. REYNARD THE FOX 337 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." 338 REYNARD THE FOX 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. (it 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. REYNARD THE FOX 339 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. J / ^ J . 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