Part 15 (2/2)

And man to man with a gasp for breath Said, ”Lord, what a run. I'm f.a.gged to death.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: And man to man with a gasp for breath Said, ”Lord, what a run. I'm f.a.gged 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 c.o.c.ked, then an owl began With the cry that curdles the blood of man.

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

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

As he crossed the meadows at Naunton Larking, The dogs in the town all started barking, For with feet all b.l.o.o.d.y 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, 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 gra.s.s.

We'll turn to the c.o.c.k and take a gla.s.s, 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.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: For with feet all b.l.o.o.d.y and flanks all foam, The hounds and the hunt were limping home.]

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.

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.

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

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.

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