The stables were alive with dinFrom dawn until the time of meeting.
Outside, the spangled cock did callTo scattering grain that Martha flung.And many a time a mop was wrungBy Susan ere the floor was clean.The harness room, that busy scene,Clinked and chinked from ostlers brighteningRings and bits with dips of whitening,Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,Dumbing buckles of their chirrupsBy the touch of oily feathers.Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers,Brushed at saddle-flaps or hoveSaddle linings to the stove.Blue smoke from strong tobacco driftedOut of the yard, the passers snifft it,Mixed with the strong ammonia flavourOf horses' stables and the savourOf saddle-paste and polish spiritWhich put the gleam on flap and tirrit.The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves,Belted by girths of coloured weaves,Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.One said, "My dad cured saddle galls,He called it Doctor Barton's cure;Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."And others said, "Ge' back, my son,""Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha' done.""Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes,He gives a rare pinch when he likes.""Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter.""I give 'em all sweet spit of nitreFor that, myself: that sometimes cures.""Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."They groomed, and sissed with hissing notesTo keep the dust out of their throats.
Outside, the spangled cock did callTo scattering grain that Martha flung.And many a time a mop was wrungBy Susan ere the floor was clean.The harness room, that busy scene,Clinked and chinked from ostlers brighteningRings and bits with dips of whitening,Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,Dumbing buckles of their chirrupsBy the touch of oily feathers.Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers,Brushed at saddle-flaps or hoveSaddle linings to the stove.Blue smoke from strong tobacco driftedOut of the yard, the passers snifft it,Mixed with the strong ammonia flavourOf horses' stables and the savourOf saddle-paste and polish spiritWhich put the gleam on flap and tirrit.The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves,Belted by girths of coloured weaves,Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.One said, "My dad cured saddle galls,He called it Doctor Barton's cure;Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."And others said, "Ge' back, my son,""Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha' done.""Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes,He gives a rare pinch when he likes.""Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter.""I give 'em all sweet spit of nitreFor that, myself: that sometimes cures.""Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."They groomed, and sissed with hissing notesTo keep the dust out of their throats.
The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves
There came again and yet againThe feed-box lid, the swish of grain,Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft,The hay-fork's stab and then the softHay's scratching slither down the shoot.Then with a thud some horse's footStamped, and the gulping munch againResumed its lippings at the grain.The road outside the inn was quietSave for the poor, mad, restless pyatHopping his hanging wicker-cage.No calmative of sleep or sageWill cure the fever to be free.He shook the wicker ceaselesslyNow up, now down, but never outOn wind-waves, being blown about,Looking for dead things good to eat.His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.At ten o'clock, the Doctor's ladBrought up his master's hunting padAnd put him in a stall, and leanedAgainst the stall, and sissed, and cleanedThe port and cannons of his curb.He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chidThe silly things his master did.
There came again and yet againThe feed-box lid, the swish of grain,Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft,The hay-fork's stab and then the softHay's scratching slither down the shoot.Then with a thud some horse's footStamped, and the gulping munch againResumed its lippings at the grain.
The road outside the inn was quietSave for the poor, mad, restless pyatHopping his hanging wicker-cage.No calmative of sleep or sageWill cure the fever to be free.He shook the wicker ceaselesslyNow up, now down, but never outOn wind-waves, being blown about,Looking for dead things good to eat.His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.
At ten o'clock, the Doctor's ladBrought up his master's hunting padAnd put him in a stall, and leanedAgainst the stall, and sissed, and cleanedThe port and cannons of his curb.He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chidThe silly things his master did.
At twenty past, old Baldock strodeHis ploughman's straddle down the road.An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;His eyes rapt back on some far place,Like some starved, half-mad saint in blissIn God's world through the rags of this.He leaned upon a stake of ashCut from a sapling: many a gashWas in his old, full-skirted coat.The twisted muscles in his throatMoved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.His oaken face was seamed and gored.He halted by the inn and staredOn that far bliss, that place preparedBeyond his eyes, beyond his mind.
At twenty past, old Baldock strodeHis ploughman's straddle down the road.An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;His eyes rapt back on some far place,Like some starved, half-mad saint in blissIn God's world through the rags of this.He leaned upon a stake of ashCut from a sapling: many a gashWas in his old, full-skirted coat.The twisted muscles in his throatMoved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.His oaken face was seamed and gored.He halted by the inn and staredOn that far bliss, that place preparedBeyond his eyes, beyond his mind.
An old man with a gaunt, burnt face;His eyes rapt back on some far place.
Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's WyndDrove up; and stopped to take a glass."I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"He said, "My little girl does singTo see the red coats galloping.It's good for grass, too, to be troddenExcept they poach it, where it's sodden."Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came inAnd had a sip of gin and stoutTo help the jockey's sweatings out."Rare day for scent," the jockey said.A pony, like a feather bedOn four short sticks, took place aside.The little girl who rode astrideWatched everything with eyes that glowedWith glory in the horse she rode.At half-past ten, some lads on footCame to be beaters to a shootOf rabbits at the Warren Hill.Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.They talked of dinner-beer and betting;And jeered at those who stood around.They rolled their dogs upon the groundAnd teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch.""Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?Sex quarts the lot last year we had.They'd ought to give us seven this.Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."
Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's WyndDrove up; and stopped to take a glass."I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"He said, "My little girl does singTo see the red coats galloping.It's good for grass, too, to be troddenExcept they poach it, where it's sodden."Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came inAnd had a sip of gin and stoutTo help the jockey's sweatings out."Rare day for scent," the jockey said.
A pony, like a feather bedOn four short sticks, took place aside.The little girl who rode astrideWatched everything with eyes that glowedWith glory in the horse she rode.
At half-past ten, some lads on footCame to be beaters to a shootOf rabbits at the Warren Hill.Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.They talked of dinner-beer and betting;And jeered at those who stood around.They rolled their dogs upon the groundAnd teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch.""Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?Sex quarts the lot last year we had.They'd ought to give us seven this.Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."
The clergyman from Condicote
A pommle cob came trotting up,Round-bellied like a drinking-cup,Bearing on back a pommle manRound-bellied like a drinking-can.The clergyman from Condicote.His face was scarlet from his trot,His white hair bobbed about his headAs halos do round clergy dead.He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"His loose mouth opened like a gateTo pass the wagons of his speech,He had a mighty voice to preach,Though indolent in other matters,He let his children go in tatters.His daughter Madge on foot, flushed-cheekt,In broken hat and boots that leakt,With bits of hay all over her,Her plain face grinning at the stir(A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with specklesOf sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles)Came after him and stood apartBeside the darling of her heart,Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean;A big young fair one, chiselled clean,Brow, chin, and nose, with great blue eyes,All innocence and sweet surprise,And golden hair piled coil on coilToo beautiful for time to spoil.They talked in undertones togetherNot of the hunting, nor the weather.Old Steven, from Scratch Steven Place(A white beard and a rosy face),Came next on his stringhalty grey,"I've come to see the hounds away,"He said, "And ride a field or two.We old have better things to doThan breaking all our necks for fun."He shone on people like the sun,And on himself for shining so.Three men came riding in a row:—John Pyn, a bull-man, quick to strike,Gross and blunt-headed like a shrikeYet sweet-voiced as a piping flute;Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,Red, with an angry, puzzled faceAnd mouth twitched upward out of place,Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds;And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,A man whose bulk of flesh and boneMade people call him Twenty Stone.He was the man who stood a pullAt Tencombe with the Jersey bullAnd brought the bull back to his stall.
A pommle cob came trotting up,Round-bellied like a drinking-cup,Bearing on back a pommle manRound-bellied like a drinking-can.The clergyman from Condicote.
His face was scarlet from his trot,His white hair bobbed about his headAs halos do round clergy dead.He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"His loose mouth opened like a gateTo pass the wagons of his speech,He had a mighty voice to preach,Though indolent in other matters,He let his children go in tatters.
His daughter Madge on foot, flushed-cheekt,In broken hat and boots that leakt,With bits of hay all over her,Her plain face grinning at the stir(A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with specklesOf sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles)Came after him and stood apartBeside the darling of her heart,Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean;A big young fair one, chiselled clean,Brow, chin, and nose, with great blue eyes,All innocence and sweet surprise,And golden hair piled coil on coilToo beautiful for time to spoil.They talked in undertones togetherNot of the hunting, nor the weather.Old Steven, from Scratch Steven Place(A white beard and a rosy face),Came next on his stringhalty grey,"I've come to see the hounds away,"He said, "And ride a field or two.We old have better things to doThan breaking all our necks for fun."He shone on people like the sun,And on himself for shining so.Three men came riding in a row:—John Pyn, a bull-man, quick to strike,Gross and blunt-headed like a shrikeYet sweet-voiced as a piping flute;Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,Red, with an angry, puzzled faceAnd mouth twitched upward out of place,Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds;And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,A man whose bulk of flesh and boneMade people call him Twenty Stone.He was the man who stood a pullAt Tencombe with the Jersey bullAnd brought the bull back to his stall.
Three men came riding in a row
Some children ranged the tavern-wall,Sucking their thumbs and staring hard;Some grooms brought horses from the yard.Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,"A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her?""A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "lookThere'm Mister Gaunt of Water's Hook.They say he" ... (whispered). "Law," said Jane.Gaunt flung his heel across the mane,And slithered from his horse and stamped."Boots tight," he said, "my feet are cramped."A loose-shod horse came clicking clack;Nick Wolvesey on a hired hackCame tittup, like a cup and ball.One saw the sun, moon, stars, and allThe great green earth twixt him and saddle;Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,Red as a rose, with eyes like sparks.Two boys from college out for larksHunted bright Molly for a smileBut were not worth their quarry's while.
Some children ranged the tavern-wall,Sucking their thumbs and staring hard;Some grooms brought horses from the yard.Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,"A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her?""A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "lookThere'm Mister Gaunt of Water's Hook.They say he" ... (whispered). "Law," said Jane.Gaunt flung his heel across the mane,And slithered from his horse and stamped."Boots tight," he said, "my feet are cramped."
A loose-shod horse came clicking clack;Nick Wolvesey on a hired hackCame tittup, like a cup and ball.One saw the sun, moon, stars, and allThe great green earth twixt him and saddle;Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,Red as a rose, with eyes like sparks.Two boys from college out for larksHunted bright Molly for a smileBut were not worth their quarry's while.
Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York
Two eyeglassed gunners dressed in tweedCame with a spaniel on a leadAnd waited for a fellow gunner.The parson's son, the famous runner,Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.His knees were red as yew tree rootFrom being bare, day in day out;He wore a blazer, and a clout(His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.His football shorts had many a speckAnd splash of mud from many a fallGot as he picked the slippery ballHeeled out behind a breaking scrum.He grinned at people, but was dumb,Not like these lousy foreigners.The otter-hounds and harriersFrom Godstow to the Wye all knew him.
Two eyeglassed gunners dressed in tweedCame with a spaniel on a leadAnd waited for a fellow gunner.The parson's son, the famous runner,Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.His knees were red as yew tree rootFrom being bare, day in day out;He wore a blazer, and a clout(His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.His football shorts had many a speckAnd splash of mud from many a fallGot as he picked the slippery ballHeeled out behind a breaking scrum.He grinned at people, but was dumb,Not like these lousy foreigners.The otter-hounds and harriersFrom Godstow to the Wye all knew him.
And with him came the stock which grew him—The parson and his sporting wife,She was a stout one, full of lifeWith red, quick, kindly, manly face.She held the knave, queen, king, and aceIn every hand she played with men.She was no sister to the hen,But fierce and minded to be queen.She wore a coat and skirt of green,Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,Her tie pin was a fox's head.The parson was a manly one,His jolly eyes were bright with fun.His jolly mouth was well inclinedTo cry aloud his jolly mindTo everyone, in jolly terms.He did not talk of churchyard worms,But of our privilege as dustTo box a lively bout with lustEre going to Heaven to rejoice.He loved the sound of his own voice.His talk was like a charge of horse;His build was all compact, for force,Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,He kept no Lent to make him meagre.He loved his God, himself and man.He never said "Life's wretched span;This wicked world," in any sermon.This body, that we feed the worm on,To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.He liked to see the foxes killed;But most he felt himself in cloverTo hear "Hen left, hare right, cock over,"At woodside, when the leaves are brown.Some grey cathedral in a townWhere drowsy bells toll out the timeTo shaven closes sweet with lime,And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortarAll summer on the Norman Dortar,Was certain some day to be his.Nor would a mitre go amissTo him, because he governed well.His voice was like the tenor bellWhen services were said and sung.And he had read in many a tongue,Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.
And with him came the stock which grew him—The parson and his sporting wife,She was a stout one, full of lifeWith red, quick, kindly, manly face.She held the knave, queen, king, and aceIn every hand she played with men.She was no sister to the hen,But fierce and minded to be queen.She wore a coat and skirt of green,Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,Her tie pin was a fox's head.
The parson was a manly one,His jolly eyes were bright with fun.His jolly mouth was well inclinedTo cry aloud his jolly mindTo everyone, in jolly terms.He did not talk of churchyard worms,But of our privilege as dustTo box a lively bout with lustEre going to Heaven to rejoice.He loved the sound of his own voice.His talk was like a charge of horse;His build was all compact, for force,Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,He kept no Lent to make him meagre.He loved his God, himself and man.He never said "Life's wretched span;This wicked world," in any sermon.This body, that we feed the worm on,To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.He liked to see the foxes killed;But most he felt himself in cloverTo hear "Hen left, hare right, cock over,"At woodside, when the leaves are brown.Some grey cathedral in a townWhere drowsy bells toll out the timeTo shaven closes sweet with lime,And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortarAll summer on the Norman Dortar,Was certain some day to be his.Nor would a mitre go amissTo him, because he governed well.His voice was like the tenor bellWhen services were said and sung.And he had read in many a tongue,Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.
Two bright young women, nothing meek,Rode up on bicycles and proppedTheir wheels in such wise that they droppedTo bring the parson's son to aid.Their cycling suits were tailor-made,Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.The colour and the zest of wineWere in their presence and their bearing;Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing.The parson's lady thought them pert.And they could mock a man and flirt,Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,Sing ragtime songs and win at tennisThe silver-cigarette-case-prize.They had good colour and bright eyes,Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin,On darkened stairways after dances,Which many lads had longed to win.Their reading was the last romances,And they were dashing hockey players.Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers."They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.
Two bright young women, nothing meek,Rode up on bicycles and proppedTheir wheels in such wise that they droppedTo bring the parson's son to aid.Their cycling suits were tailor-made,Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.The colour and the zest of wineWere in their presence and their bearing;Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing.The parson's lady thought them pert.And they could mock a man and flirt,Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,Sing ragtime songs and win at tennisThe silver-cigarette-case-prize.
They had good colour and bright eyes,Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin,On darkened stairways after dances,Which many lads had longed to win.Their reading was the last romances,And they were dashing hockey players.Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers."They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.
Old Farmer Bennett upon his big-boned savage black
Old Farmer Bennett followed theseUpon his big-boned savage blackWhose mule-teeth yellowed to bite backWhatever came within his reach.Old Bennett sat him like a leech.The grim old rider seemed to beAs hard about the mouth as he.The beaters nudged each other's ribsWith "There he goes, his bloody Nibs.He come on Joe and Anty Cop,And beat 'em with his hunting cropLike tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.His pickers were a pack of queans,And Joe and Anty took a couple,He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.Women and men, he didn't care(He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),He beat the whole four nearly dead.'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed,That's how my ricks get set afire.'That's what he said, the bloody liar;Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks,Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks.He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."Just like an axehead on its helveOld Bennett sat and watched the gathering.He'd given many a man a latheringIn field or barn, and women, too.His cold eye reached the women throughWith comment, and the men with scorn.He hated women gently born;He hated all beyond his grasp;For he was minded like the aspThat strikes whatever is not dust.
Old Farmer Bennett followed theseUpon his big-boned savage blackWhose mule-teeth yellowed to bite backWhatever came within his reach.Old Bennett sat him like a leech.The grim old rider seemed to beAs hard about the mouth as he.
The beaters nudged each other's ribsWith "There he goes, his bloody Nibs.He come on Joe and Anty Cop,And beat 'em with his hunting cropLike tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.His pickers were a pack of queans,And Joe and Anty took a couple,He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.Women and men, he didn't care(He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),He beat the whole four nearly dead.'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed,That's how my ricks get set afire.'That's what he said, the bloody liar;Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks,Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks.He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."
Just like an axehead on its helveOld Bennett sat and watched the gathering.He'd given many a man a latheringIn field or barn, and women, too.His cold eye reached the women throughWith comment, and the men with scorn.He hated women gently born;He hated all beyond his grasp;For he was minded like the aspThat strikes whatever is not dust.
Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrustNext into view. In face and limbThe beauty and the grace of himWere like the golden age returned.His grave eyes steadily discernedThe good in men and what was wise.He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes,And shocks of harvest-coloured hair,Still beautiful with youth. An airOr power of kindness went about him;No heart of youth could ever doubt himOr fail to follow where he led.He was a genius, simply bred,And quite unconscious of his power.He was the very red rose flowerOf all that coloured countryside.Gauchos had taught him how to ride.He knew all arts, but practised mostThe art of bettering flesh and ghostIn men and lads down in the mud.He knew no class in flesh and blood.He loved his kind. He spent some pithLong since, relieving Ladysmith.Many a horse he trotted tame,Heading commandos from their aim,In those old days upon the veldt.
Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrustNext into view. In face and limbThe beauty and the grace of himWere like the golden age returned.His grave eyes steadily discernedThe good in men and what was wise.He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes,And shocks of harvest-coloured hair,Still beautiful with youth. An airOr power of kindness went about him;No heart of youth could ever doubt himOr fail to follow where he led.He was a genius, simply bred,And quite unconscious of his power.
He was the very red rose flowerOf all that coloured countryside.Gauchos had taught him how to ride.He knew all arts, but practised mostThe art of bettering flesh and ghostIn men and lads down in the mud.He knew no class in flesh and blood.He loved his kind. He spent some pithLong since, relieving Ladysmith.Many a horse he trotted tame,Heading commandos from their aim,In those old days upon the veldt.
His daughters, Carrie, Jane, and Lu, rode with him
An old bear in a scarlet peltCame next, old Squire Harridew,His eyebrows gave a man the grueSo bushy and so fierce they were;He had a bitter tongue to swear.A fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,With all his liver made of fire,Small brain, great courage, mulish will.The hearts in all his house stood stillWhen someone crossed the squire's path.For he was terrible in wrath,And smashed whatever came to hand.Two things he failed to understand,The foreigner and what was new.His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lu,Rode with him, Carrie at his side.His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had diedIn Arizona, long before.The Squire set the greatest storeBy Carrie, youngest of the three,And lovely to the blood was she;Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,And eyes deep violet in their gleam,Bright blue when quiet in repose.She was a very golden rose.And many a man when sunset cameWould see the manor windows flame,And think, "My beauty's home is there."Queen Helen had less golden hair,Queen Cleopatra paler lips,Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse,By golden Carrie's glancing by.She had a wit for mockeryAnd sang mild, pretty senseless songsOf sunsets, Heav'n and lover's wrongs,Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.A rosebud need not have a mind.A lily is not sweet from learning.Jane looked like a dark lantern, burning.Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth,But minded like the living truth,A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.She was not "Darling Jan'd," nor "dearie'd,"She was all prickles to the touch,So sharp, that many feared to clutch,So keen, that many thought her bitter.She let the little sparrows twitter.She had a hard ungracious way.Her storm of hair was iron-grey,And she was passionate in her heartFor women's souls that burn apart,Just as her mother's had, with Squire.She gave the sense of smouldering fire.She was not happy being a maid,At home, with Squire, but she stayedEnduring life, however bleak,To guard her sisters who were weak,And force a life for them from Squire.And she had roused and stood his fireA hundred times, and earned his hate,To win those two a better state.Long years before the Canon's sonHad cared for her, but he had goneTo Klondyke, to the mines, for gold,To find, in some strange way untoldA foreign grave that no men knew.No depth, nor beauty, was in Lu,But charm and fun, for she was merry,Round, sweet and little like a cherry,With laughter like a robin's singing;She was not kittenlike and clinging,But pert and arch and fond of flirting,In mocking ways that were not hurting,And merry ways that women pardoned.Not being married yet she gardened.She loved sweet music; she would singSongs made before the German KingMade England German in her mind.She sang "My lady is unkind,""The Hunt is up," and those sweet thingsWhich Thomas Campion set to strings,"Thrice toss," and "What," and "Where are now?"The next to come was Major HoweDriv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.The testy major was in fumeTo find no hunter standing waiting;The groom who drove him caught a rating,The groom who had the horse in stable,Was damned in half the tongues of Babel.The Major being hot and headyWhen horse or dinner was not ready.He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),Mustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jawsShaved bluish like old partridge claws.When he had stripped his coat he madeA speckless presence for parade,New pink, white cords, and glossy topsNew gloves, the newest thing in crops,Worn with an air that well expressedHis sense that no one else was dressed.
An old bear in a scarlet peltCame next, old Squire Harridew,His eyebrows gave a man the grueSo bushy and so fierce they were;He had a bitter tongue to swear.A fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,With all his liver made of fire,Small brain, great courage, mulish will.The hearts in all his house stood stillWhen someone crossed the squire's path.For he was terrible in wrath,And smashed whatever came to hand.Two things he failed to understand,The foreigner and what was new.
His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lu,Rode with him, Carrie at his side.His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had diedIn Arizona, long before.The Squire set the greatest storeBy Carrie, youngest of the three,And lovely to the blood was she;Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,And eyes deep violet in their gleam,Bright blue when quiet in repose.She was a very golden rose.And many a man when sunset cameWould see the manor windows flame,And think, "My beauty's home is there."Queen Helen had less golden hair,Queen Cleopatra paler lips,Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse,By golden Carrie's glancing by.She had a wit for mockeryAnd sang mild, pretty senseless songsOf sunsets, Heav'n and lover's wrongs,Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.A rosebud need not have a mind.
A lily is not sweet from learning.Jane looked like a dark lantern, burning.Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth,But minded like the living truth,A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.She was not "Darling Jan'd," nor "dearie'd,"She was all prickles to the touch,So sharp, that many feared to clutch,So keen, that many thought her bitter.She let the little sparrows twitter.She had a hard ungracious way.Her storm of hair was iron-grey,And she was passionate in her heartFor women's souls that burn apart,Just as her mother's had, with Squire.She gave the sense of smouldering fire.She was not happy being a maid,At home, with Squire, but she stayedEnduring life, however bleak,To guard her sisters who were weak,And force a life for them from Squire.And she had roused and stood his fireA hundred times, and earned his hate,To win those two a better state.Long years before the Canon's sonHad cared for her, but he had goneTo Klondyke, to the mines, for gold,To find, in some strange way untoldA foreign grave that no men knew.
No depth, nor beauty, was in Lu,But charm and fun, for she was merry,Round, sweet and little like a cherry,With laughter like a robin's singing;She was not kittenlike and clinging,But pert and arch and fond of flirting,In mocking ways that were not hurting,And merry ways that women pardoned.Not being married yet she gardened.She loved sweet music; she would singSongs made before the German KingMade England German in her mind.She sang "My lady is unkind,""The Hunt is up," and those sweet thingsWhich Thomas Campion set to strings,"Thrice toss," and "What," and "Where are now?"
The next to come was Major HoweDriv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.The testy major was in fumeTo find no hunter standing waiting;The groom who drove him caught a rating,The groom who had the horse in stable,Was damned in half the tongues of Babel.The Major being hot and headyWhen horse or dinner was not ready.He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),Mustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jawsShaved bluish like old partridge claws.When he had stripped his coat he madeA speckless presence for parade,New pink, white cords, and glossy topsNew gloves, the newest thing in crops,Worn with an air that well expressedHis sense that no one else was dressed.
Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow
Quick trotting after Major HoweCame Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,A smiling silent man whose brainKnew all of every secret painIn every man and woman there.Their inmost lives were all laid bareTo him, because he touched their livesWhen strong emotions sharp as knivesBrought out what sort of soul each was.As secret as the graveyard grassHe was, as he had need to be.At some time he had had to seeEach person there, sans clothes, sans mask,Sans lying even, when to askProbed a tamed spirit into truth.Richard, his son, a jolly youthRode with him, fresh from Thomas's,As merry as a yearling isIn maytime in a clover patch.He was a gallant chick to hatchBig, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,With all his father's love of mindAnd greater force to give it act.To see him when the scrum was packt,Heave, playing forward, was a sight.His tackling was the crowd's delightIn many a danger close to goal.The pride in the three quarter's soulDropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.He was as steady as a bollard,And gallant as a skysail yard.He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.In good St. Thomas' Hospital,He was the crown imperialOf all the scholars of his year.The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,Came all on foot in corduroys,Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.(Will Masemore shot him in the sideBy accident at Masemore Farm.A hazel knocked Will Masemore's armIn getting through a hedge; his gunWas not half-cocked, so it was doneAnd those three boys left fatherless.)Their gaitered legs were in a messWith good red mud from twenty ditchesHal's face was plastered like his breeches,Dick chewed a twig of juniper.They kept at distance from the stirTheir loss had made them lads apart.Next came the Colway's pony cartFrom Coln St. Evelyn's with the party,Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty,And Polly Colway's brother, John(Their horses had been both sent on)And Polly Colway drove them there.Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.The grey mare killed her at the brookDown Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook,Just one month later, poor sweet woman.
Quick trotting after Major HoweCame Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,A smiling silent man whose brainKnew all of every secret painIn every man and woman there.Their inmost lives were all laid bareTo him, because he touched their livesWhen strong emotions sharp as knivesBrought out what sort of soul each was.As secret as the graveyard grassHe was, as he had need to be.At some time he had had to seeEach person there, sans clothes, sans mask,Sans lying even, when to askProbed a tamed spirit into truth.Richard, his son, a jolly youthRode with him, fresh from Thomas's,As merry as a yearling isIn maytime in a clover patch.He was a gallant chick to hatchBig, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,With all his father's love of mindAnd greater force to give it act.To see him when the scrum was packt,Heave, playing forward, was a sight.His tackling was the crowd's delightIn many a danger close to goal.The pride in the three quarter's soulDropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.He was as steady as a bollard,And gallant as a skysail yard.He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.In good St. Thomas' Hospital,He was the crown imperialOf all the scholars of his year.
The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,Came all on foot in corduroys,Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.(Will Masemore shot him in the sideBy accident at Masemore Farm.A hazel knocked Will Masemore's armIn getting through a hedge; his gunWas not half-cocked, so it was doneAnd those three boys left fatherless.)Their gaitered legs were in a messWith good red mud from twenty ditchesHal's face was plastered like his breeches,Dick chewed a twig of juniper.They kept at distance from the stirTheir loss had made them lads apart.Next came the Colway's pony cartFrom Coln St. Evelyn's with the party,Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty,And Polly Colway's brother, John(Their horses had been both sent on)And Polly Colway drove them there.Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.The grey mare killed her at the brookDown Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook,Just one month later, poor sweet woman.
Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,Commander in theCanace,Able to drive a horse, or ship,Or crew of men, without a whipBy will, as long as they could go.His face would wrinkle, row on row,From mouth to hair-roots when he laughtHe looked ahead as though his craftWere with him still, in dangerous channels.He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannelsInto the pony-cart and mounted.Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,The horses being bickering things,That so much scarlet made like kings,Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.
Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,Commander in theCanace,Able to drive a horse, or ship,Or crew of men, without a whipBy will, as long as they could go.His face would wrinkle, row on row,From mouth to hair-roots when he laughtHe looked ahead as though his craftWere with him still, in dangerous channels.He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannelsInto the pony-cart and mounted.Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,The horses being bickering things,That so much scarlet made like kings,Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.
When Hugh was up his mare went driftingSidelong and feeling with her heelsFor horses' legs and poshay wheels,While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.He was a rich town-merchant's son,A wise and kind man fond of fun,Who loved to have a troop of friendsAt Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,And troops of children in for tea,He gloried in a Christmas Tree.And Polly was his heart's best treasure,And Polly was a golden pleasureTo everyone, to see or hear.Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,He was a darkened man thereafter,Cowed silent, he would wince at laughterAnd be so gentle it was strangeEven to see. Life loves to change.Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are coldThe shutters up, the hunters sold,And green mould damps the locked front door.But this was still a month before,And Polly, golden in the chaise,Still smiled, and there were golden days,Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.
When Hugh was up his mare went driftingSidelong and feeling with her heelsFor horses' legs and poshay wheels,While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.He was a rich town-merchant's son,A wise and kind man fond of fun,Who loved to have a troop of friendsAt Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,And troops of children in for tea,He gloried in a Christmas Tree.And Polly was his heart's best treasure,And Polly was a golden pleasureTo everyone, to see or hear.Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,He was a darkened man thereafter,Cowed silent, he would wince at laughterAnd be so gentle it was strangeEven to see. Life loves to change.
Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are coldThe shutters up, the hunters sold,And green mould damps the locked front door.But this was still a month before,And Polly, golden in the chaise,Still smiled, and there were golden days,Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.
The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,(By Tempest out of Love-me-long)A proper handful of a horse,That nothing but the Aintree courseCould bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.All sport, from bloody war to craps,Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"For Billy lived too much with horsesIn coper's yards and sharper's courses,To lack the sharper-coper streak.He did not turn the other cheekWhen struck (as English Christians do),He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,And many a time his knuckles bledAgainst a race-course-gipsy's head.For "hit him first and argue later"Was truth at Billy's alma mater,Not love, not any bosh of love.His hand was like a chamois gloveAnd riding was his chief delight.He bred the chaser Chinese-white,From Lilybud by Mandarin.And when his mouth tucked corners in,And scent was high and hounds were going,He went across a field like snowingAnd tackled anything that came.
The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,(By Tempest out of Love-me-long)A proper handful of a horse,That nothing but the Aintree courseCould bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.All sport, from bloody war to craps,Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"For Billy lived too much with horsesIn coper's yards and sharper's courses,To lack the sharper-coper streak.He did not turn the other cheekWhen struck (as English Christians do),He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,And many a time his knuckles bledAgainst a race-course-gipsy's head.For "hit him first and argue later"Was truth at Billy's alma mater,Not love, not any bosh of love.His hand was like a chamois gloveAnd riding was his chief delight.He bred the chaser Chinese-white,From Lilybud by Mandarin.And when his mouth tucked corners in,And scent was high and hounds were going,He went across a field like snowingAnd tackled anything that came.
All sport, from bloody war to craps,Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler.
His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,(Like polished brass) and such a mannerIt flaunted from her like a banner.Her father was Tom See the trainer;She rode a lovely earth-disdainerWhich she and Billy wished to sell.
His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,(Like polished brass) and such a mannerIt flaunted from her like a banner.Her father was Tom See the trainer;She rode a lovely earth-disdainerWhich she and Billy wished to sell.
Behind them rode her daughter Bell
Behind them rode her daughter Bell,A strange shy lovely girl whose faceWas sweet with thought and proud with race,And bright with joy at riding there.She was as good as blowing airBut shy and difficult to know.The kittens in the barley-mow,The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,The blackbird in the apple calling,All knew her spirit more than we,So delicate these maidens beIn loving lovely helpless things.The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,Came, with two friends, a set of six.Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,(God help the school or rule which galled them;They carried head) and friends from town.
Behind them rode her daughter Bell,A strange shy lovely girl whose faceWas sweet with thought and proud with race,And bright with joy at riding there.She was as good as blowing airBut shy and difficult to know.The kittens in the barley-mow,The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,The blackbird in the apple calling,All knew her spirit more than we,So delicate these maidens beIn loving lovely helpless things.
The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,Came, with two friends, a set of six.Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,(God help the school or rule which galled them;They carried head) and friends from town.