Part 10 (1/2)

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.