Part 11 (1/2)

FULL CRY

Meanwhile the fox pa.s.sed Nonesuch Farm, Keeping the spinney on his right.

Hounds raced him here with all their might Along the short firm gra.s.s, like fire.

The cowman viewed him from the byre Lolloping on, six fields ahead, Then hounds, still carrying such a head, It made him stare, then Rob on Pip, Sailing the great gra.s.s like a s.h.i.+p, Then grand Maroon in all his glory Sweeping his strides, his great chest h.o.a.ry With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.

They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl, They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill, Raced up the spur of Gallows Hill And viewed him there. The line he took Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook, Going like fun and hounds like mad.

Tom glanced to see what friends he had Still within sight, before he turned The ridge's shoulder; he discerned, One field away, young Cothill sailing Easily up. Pete Gurney failing, Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter, Bill waiting on the mare to beat her, Sal Ridden skirting to the right.

A horse, with stirrups flas.h.i.+ng bright Over his head at every stride, Looked like the Major's; Tom espied Far back, a scarlet speck of man Running, and straddling as he ran.

Charles Copse was up, n.o.b Manor followed, Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed Clumsy, but with the strength of ten.

Then black and brown and scarlet men, Brown horses, white and black and grey Scattered a dozen fields away.

The shoulder shut the scene away.

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

From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops, All wet red clay where a horse's foot Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.

The fox raced on, on the headlands firm, Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm, The rooks rose raving to curse him raw He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.

Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field Where a s.h.i.+p-like plough drave glitter-keeled, With a bay horse near and a white horse leading, And a man saying ”Zook” and the red earth bleeding.

He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop The stilts and swear at the team to stop.

The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs Crying ”Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs.”

A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean Arose from his wallet, nosing keen; With a rus.h.i.+ng swoop they were on his track, Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.

He swerved from his line with the curs at heel, The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel, With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him, While the ploughman shouted ”Zick; upon him.”

The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt, And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt, Down the dead gra.s.s tilt to the sandstone gash Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.

The loitering water, flooded full, Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool, It was wrinkled over with Arab script Of eddies that twisted up and slipt.

The stepping stones had a rush about them So the fox plunged in and swam without them.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He swerved from his line with the curs at heel]

He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow, He wrung his coat from his draggled bones And romped away for the Sa.r.s.en Stones.

A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back, Made sure that his scent had failed the pack, For the red clay, good for corn and roses, Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.

He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree, (A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three), He wriggled a shake and padded slow, Not sure if the hounds were on or no.

A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds, The ploughman had raised his hat for sign, And the hounds were lifted and on his line.

He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook, And a man's voice: ”Thiccy's the line he took,”

And a clear ”Yoi doit” and a whimpering quaver, Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.

The fox went off while the hounds made halt, And the horses breathed and the field found fault, But the whimpering rose to a crying crash By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.

Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat, And the green blades bent to the fox's feet And the cry rose keen not far behind Of the ”Blood, blood, blood” in the fox-hounds' mind.

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

The fox was strong, he was full of running, He could run for an hour and then be cunning, But the cry behind him made him chill, They were nearer now and they meant to kill.

They meant to run him until his blood Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud, Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging, And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.

Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty, With nothing but teeth against the thirty.

And all the way to that blinding end He would meet with men and have none his friend.

Men to holloa and men to run him, With stones to stagger and yells to stun him, Men to head him, with whips to beat him, Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.

And all the way, that wild high crying, To cold his blood with the thought of dying, The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder, Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.

He upped his brush and went with a will For the Sa.r.s.en Stones on Wan d.y.k.e Hill.

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