Part 8 (1/2)

And now they gathered to the gamble At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down, The hounds went crackling through the brown Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost.

The wood stood silent in its host Of halted trees all winter bare.

The boughs, like veins that suck the air, Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.

There came no song from any bird; The darkness of the wood stood still Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.

The whips crept to the sides to view; The Master gave the nod, and ”Leu, Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,”

Went Robin, cracking through the whin And through the hedge-gap into cover.

The binders crashed as hounds went over, And c.o.c.k-c.o.c.k-c.o.c.k the pheasants rose.

Then up went stern and down went nose, And Robin's cheerful tenor cried, Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride, ”O wind him, beauties, push him out, Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout, O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him.”

The beauties burst the scrub to find him, They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn, The bramble and the broom were drawn, The covert's northern end was blank.

[Ill.u.s.tration: And now they gathered to the gamble At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.]

They turned to draw along the bank Through thicker cover than the Rough Through three-and-four-year understuff Where Robin's forearm screened his eyes.

”Yooi, find him, beauties,” came his cries.

”Hark, hark to Daffodil,” the laughter Faln from his horn, brought whimpers after, For ends of scents were everywhere.

He said, ”This Hope's a likely lair.

And there's his billets, grey and furred.

And George, he's moving, there's a bird.”

A blue uneasy jay was chacking.

(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking) From tree to tree, as in pursuit, He said ”That's it. There's fox afoot.

And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.

Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks, Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark.”

The mild horn's note, the soft flaked spark Of music, fell on that rank scent.

From heart to wild heart magic went.

The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose.

”Daffodil has it. There she goes.

O hark to her.” With wild high crying From frantic hearts, the hounds went flying To Daffodil for that rank taint.

A waft of it came warm but faint, In Robin's mouth, and faded so.

”First find a fox, then let him go,”

Cried Robin Dawe. ”For any sake.

Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break.”

He cheered his beauties like a lover And charged beside them into cover.

PART TWO--THE FOX

[Ill.u.s.tration: Reynard the fox]

[Ill.u.s.tration: And there on the night before my tale he trotted out]

On old Cold Crendon's windy tops Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse, Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows, Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows, And foxes lie on short-gra.s.sed turf, Nose between paws, to hear the surf Of wind in the beeches drowsily.

There was our fox bred l.u.s.tily Three years before, and there he berthed Under the beech-roots snugly earthed, With a roof of flint and a floor of chalk And ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk, Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts, A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.