THE EXQUISITE

The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings

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 sworeAt all three sons, and trained, and toldLong tales of cricketing of old,When he alone had saved his side.Drink made it doubtful if he lied,Drink purpled him, he could not faceThe fences now, nor go the paceHe 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 jawThat no man's rule could be his lawNor any woman's son his master.Boxing he relished. He could plasterAll those who boxed out Tencombe way.A front tooth had been knocked awayTwo days before, which put his mouthA little to the east of south.And put a venom in his laughter.Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.Nob had no nerves but Cob had plentySo Cobby went where Nobby led.He had no brains inside his head,Was fearless, just like Nob, but putSome clog of folly round his foot,Where Nob put will of force or fraud;He spat aside and muttered GawdWhen vext; he took to whiskey kindlyAnd 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,He too (a year before) had hadA zest for going to the bad,With Cob and Nob. He knew the joysOf drinking with the stable-boys,Or smoking while he filled his skinWith pints of Guinness dashed with ginAnd 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.

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 jawThat no man's rule could be his lawNor any woman's son his master.Boxing he relished. He could plasterAll those who boxed out Tencombe way.A front tooth had been knocked awayTwo days before, which put his mouthA little to the east of south.And put a venom in his laughter.

Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.Nob had no nerves but Cob had plentySo Cobby went where Nobby led.He had no brains inside his head,Was fearless, just like Nob, but putSome clog of folly round his foot,Where Nob put will of force or fraud;He spat aside and muttered GawdWhen vext; he took to whiskey kindlyAnd 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,He too (a year before) had hadA zest for going to the bad,With Cob and Nob. He knew the joysOf drinking with the stable-boys,Or smoking while he filled his skinWith pints of Guinness dashed with ginAnd 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.

Third colored plateCourtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York

Sweet Polly Colway managed it.And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink(The pleasant pit's seductive brink),He started working in the stable,And well, for he was shrewd and able.He left the doubtful female friendsPicked 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 shakenBy 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,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.

Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,Old college friends, the last he had,Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shakenBy 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,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.

Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd

Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn,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 boyGrinned round at men with jolly joyAt being alive and being there.His big round face and mop of hairShone, his great teeth shone in his grin,The clean blood in his clear tanned skinRan merry, and his great voice mockedHis young friends present till they rocked.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 playedAt snicking off 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 revelAll rosy from his morning tub

Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin;He owned the Downs by Baydon Whin;And grazed some thousand sheep; the boyGrinned round at men with jolly joyAt being alive and being there.His big round face and mop of hairShone, his great teeth shone in his grin,The clean blood in his clear tanned skinRan merry, and his great voice mockedHis young friends present till they rocked.

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 playedAt snicking off 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 revelAll rosy from his morning tub

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 dressWas 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,(Old sheffield) and he owned each stateOf all the Meryon Paris etchings.

The Godsdown Tigress with her cub(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.

Colonel Sir Button Budd of FletchingsWas 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 banterWas there, Nick Childrey, too, come downThe night before from London town,To hunt and have his lungs blown clean.The Ilsley set from Tuttocks GreenWas there (old Henry Ilsley drove),Carlotta Ilsley brought her loveA 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 clusteredRound the inn-door, all busy drinking,One heard the kissing glasses clinkingIn passage as the tray was brought.Two terriers (which they had there) foughtThere on the green, a loud, wild whirl.Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.The hens behind the tavern clucked.

Some grooms and second horsemen mustered.A lot of men on foot were clusteredRound the inn-door, all busy drinking,One heard the kissing glasses clinkingIn passage as the tray was brought.Two terriers (which they had there) foughtThere on the green, a loud, wild whirl.Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.The hens behind the tavern clucked.

Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border

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,Tense tiger-sinew knit to bone.Strange-wayed from having lived aloneWith Kafir, Afghan and BelooshIn stations frozen in the KooshWhere nothing but the bullet sings.His mind had conquered many things,Painting, mechanics, physics, law,White-hot, hand-beaten things to drawSelf-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 bedIn bickers with the border-thieves.

A chestnut mare with swerves and heavesCame plunging, scattering all the crowd,She tossed her head and laughed aloudAnd bickered sideways past the meet.From pricking ears to mincing feetShe was all tense with blood and quiver,You saw her clipt hide twitch and shiverOver 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 horseA sculptor would have wrought his torseIn bronze or marble for Apollo.He loved to hurry like a swallowFor miles on miles of short-grassed sweetBlue-harebelled downs where dewy feetOf 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 lovedIn which a clean free spirit moved.So beautiful, he was, so bright.He looked to men like young delightGone courting April maidenhood,That has the primrose in her blood,He on his mincing lady mare.

So beautiful, he was, so bright.He looked to men like young delightGone courting April maidenhood,That has the primrose in her blood,He on his mincing lady mare.

Ock Gurney and old Pete were there

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 meetSaid "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 cockTurned 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 holeIn leather that was seamed and lined.He had the russet-apple mindThat betters as the weather worsen.He was a manly English person,Kind to the core, brave, merry, true;One grief he had, a grief still new,That former Parson joined with SquireIn putting down the Playing Quire,In church, and putting organ in."Ah, boys, that was a pious dinThat Quire was; a pious praiseThe 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 soreFor changes forty years before,When all (that could) in time and tune,Blew trumpets to the newë moon.He was a bachelor, from choice.He and his nephew farmed the BoycePrime 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,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 passesTo Ock, but like the summer flower.

But now the clock had struck the hour,And round the corner, down the roadThe bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowedWith three black knobs upon its spine;Three bobbing black-caps in a line.A glimpse of scarlet at the gapShowed 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 whimperAnd sweet religion entered Jumper.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, wavingTheir feathery sterns, and all behaving,One eye to Dansey on Maroon.Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,And though they trotted up so quietTheir 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,Whose taint still tingled every breath;But Dansey on Maroon was death,So, though their noses roved, their feetLarked 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 hairsAnd 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,Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"With mouths wide open, catching tears.

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, wavingTheir feathery sterns, and all behaving,One eye to Dansey on Maroon.Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,And though they trotted up so quietTheir 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,Whose taint still tingled every breath;But Dansey on Maroon was death,So, though their noses roved, their feetLarked 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 hairsAnd 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,Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"With mouths wide open, catching tears.

A sea of moving heads and sterns,All round them, brushing coat and dress.

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 smearedTheir 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 himExcept some brightening of the eye.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.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 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 himExcept some brightening of the eye.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.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.

Tom Dansey was a famous whipTrained 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 sleptIn stall beside the horse he kept,Snug in the straw; and Caunter's stickBrought morning to him all too quick.He learned the high quick gingery waysOf thoroughbreds; his stable daysMade him a rider, groom and vet.He promised to be too thicksetFor jockeying, so left it soon.Now he was whip and rode Maroon.

His chief delightWas hunting fox from noon to night.

He was a small, lean, wiry manWith sunk cheeks weathered to a tanScarred by the spikes of hawthorn spraysDashed 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 delightWas 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).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 rawWith 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.His passion was to go the paceHis 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 cocksDown at the Flags. His job with houndsAt present kept his blood in boundsFrom 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 tiltBlackthorns that made the gentry wiltWas his ambition and his hope.He was a hot colt needing rope,He was too quick to speak his passionTo suit his present huntsman's fashion.

He smiled and nodded and saluted to those who hailed him

The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,He sometimes called a favourite hound,Gently, to see the creature turnLook happy up and wag his stern.He smiled and nodded and saluted,To those who hailed him, as it suited.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 markLeft 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 brokenBeing jumped on down at Water's Oaken,The time his horse came down and rolled.His face was of the country mouldSuch as the mason sometimes cuttedOn English moulding-ends which juttedOut 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 eyeWas only part, what lay behindWas English character and mind.Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling,(Most shy, most clever in concealingIts 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 seeAnd mercy for his enemy.He had a clean-shaved face, but keptA hedge of whisker neatly clipt,A narrow strip or picture frame(Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same),Under his chin from ear to ear.

He had a clean-shaved face, but keptA hedge of whisker neatly clipt,A narrow strip or picture frame(Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same),Under his chin from ear to ear.

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,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 fedThree special friends with scraps of bread,Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strodeThrough 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.

The Master put old Roman by,And eyed the thrusters heedfully,He called a few pet hounds and fedThree special friends with scraps of bread,Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strodeThrough 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 had a welcome and saluteFor all, on horse or wheel or foot.

He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe;Past sixty now, though hearty still,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 foughtFive wars for us. Within his faceCourage and power had their place,Rough energy, decision, force.He smiled about him from his horse.He had a welcome and saluteFor 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 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."

Sir Peter gave two minutes' lawFor 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 flowingOff went Maroon, off went the hounds,Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,Across soft turf with dead leaves cleavingAnd hillocks that the mole was heaving.Mild going to those trotting feet.After the scarlet coats, the meetCame 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.

Sir Peter gave two minutes' lawFor 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 flowingOff went Maroon, off went the hounds,Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,Across soft turf with dead leaves cleavingAnd hillocks that the mole was heaving.Mild going to those trotting feet.After the scarlet coats, the meetCame 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.

Fourth colored plateCourtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York

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 tenseIt was so still. At every fenceCow-parsley pushed its thin green fern.White-violet-leaves shewed at the burn.

Young Cothill let his chaser go round Chols Elm Field

Young Cothill let his chaser goRound Chols Elm Field a turn or soTo soothe his edge. The riders wentChatting and laughing and contentIn 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 dayThe 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 MasterThe tanned lads ran, the field rode faster,The chatter joggled in the throatsOf riders bumping by like boats,"We really ought to hunt a bye day.""Fine day for scent," "A fly or die day.""They chopped a bagman in the check,He had a collar round his neck.""Old Ridden's girl's a pretty flapper.""That Vaughan's a cad, the whipper-snapper.""I tell 'ee, lads, I seed 'em plain,Down in the Rough at Shifford's Main,Old Squire stamping like a Duke,So red with blood I thought he'd puke,In appleplexie, as they do.Miss Jane stood just as white as dew,And heard him out in just white heat,And then she trimmed him down a treat,About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie(She'd be a pretty peach to marry).""Her'll draw up-wind, so us'll goDown by the furze, we'll see 'em so."

The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray,The glistening horses pressing on,·······And all the hurry to arrive,Were beautiful, like Spring alive.

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