"Look, there they go, lad."There they went,Across the brook and up the bent,Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,Along Ghost Heath to cover side.The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,Turf scatters tossed behind each back,Some horses blowing with a whinny,A jam of horses in the spinney,Close to the ride-gate; leather straining,Saddles all creaking; men complaining,Chaffing each other as they pass't,On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.Now as they neared the Ghost Heath WoodSome riders grumbled, "What's the good:It's shot all day and poached all night.We shall draw blank and lose the light,And lose the scent, and lose the day.Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this?There's no fox here, there never is."
"Look, there they go, lad."
There they went,Across the brook and up the bent,Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,Along Ghost Heath to cover side.The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,Turf scatters tossed behind each back,Some horses blowing with a whinny,A jam of horses in the spinney,Close to the ride-gate; leather straining,Saddles all creaking; men complaining,Chaffing each other as they pass't,On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.Now as they neared the Ghost Heath WoodSome riders grumbled, "What's the good:It's shot all day and poached all night.We shall draw blank and lose the light,And lose the scent, and lose the day.Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this?There's no fox here, there never is."
Reynard the fox
But as he trotted up to cover,Robin was watching to discoverWhat chance there was, and many a tokenTold him, that though no hound had spoken,Most of them stirred to something there.The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth,From foxes which had crossed the HeathNot very many hours before."We'll find," he said, "I'll bet a score."Along Ghost Heath they trotted well,The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,The shaken brambles scattered drops,Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,Cracking the twigs down with their knockingsAnd planing out of sight with cockings;A scut or two lopped white to bramble.
But as he trotted up to cover,Robin was watching to discoverWhat chance there was, and many a tokenTold him, that though no hound had spoken,Most of them stirred to something there.The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth,From foxes which had crossed the HeathNot very many hours before."We'll find," he said, "I'll bet a score."Along Ghost Heath they trotted well,The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,The shaken brambles scattered drops,Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,Cracking the twigs down with their knockingsAnd planing out of sight with cockings;A scut or two lopped white to bramble.
And now they gathered to the gambleAt Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,The hounds went crackling through the brownDry stalks of bracken killed by frost.The wood stood silent in its hostOf halted trees all winter bare.The boughs, like veins that suck the air,Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.There came no song from any bird;The darkness of the wood stood stillWaiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.The whips crept to the sides to view;The Master gave the nod, and "Leu,Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,"Went Robin, cracking through the whinAnd through the hedge-gap into cover.The binders crashed as hounds went over,And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.Then up went stern and down went nose,And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride,"O wind him, beauties, push him out,Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout,O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him."The beauties burst the scrub to find him,They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,The bramble and the broom were drawn,The covert's northern end was blank.
And now they gathered to the gambleAt Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,The hounds went crackling through the brownDry stalks of bracken killed by frost.The wood stood silent in its hostOf halted trees all winter bare.The boughs, like veins that suck the air,Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred.There came no song from any bird;The darkness of the wood stood stillWaiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.The whips crept to the sides to view;The Master gave the nod, and "Leu,Leu in, Ed-hoick, Ed-hoick, Leu in,"Went Robin, cracking through the whinAnd through the hedge-gap into cover.The binders crashed as hounds went over,And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.Then up went stern and down went nose,And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride,"O wind him, beauties, push him out,Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout,O push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him."The beauties burst the scrub to find him,They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,The bramble and the broom were drawn,The covert's northern end was blank.
And now they gathered to the gambleAt Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.
They turned to draw along the bankThrough thicker cover than the RoughThrough three-and-four-year understuffWhere Robin's forearm screened his eyes."Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries."Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughterFaln from his horn, brought whimpers after,For ends of scents were everywhere.He said, "This Hope's a likely lair.And there's his billets, grey and furred.And George, he's moving, there's a bird."A blue uneasy jay was chacking.(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)From tree to tree, as in pursuit,He said "That's it. There's fox afoot.And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark."The mild horn's note, the soft flaked sparkOf music, fell on that rank scent.From heart to wild heart magic went.The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose."Daffodil has it. There she goes.O hark to her." With wild high cryingFrom frantic hearts, the hounds went flyingTo Daffodil for that rank taint.A waft of it came warm but faint,In Robin's mouth, and faded so."First find a fox, then let him go,"Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake.Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."He cheered his beauties like a loverAnd charged beside them into cover.
They turned to draw along the bankThrough thicker cover than the RoughThrough three-and-four-year understuffWhere Robin's forearm screened his eyes."Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries."Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughterFaln from his horn, brought whimpers after,For ends of scents were everywhere.He said, "This Hope's a likely lair.And there's his billets, grey and furred.And George, he's moving, there's a bird."
A blue uneasy jay was chacking.(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)From tree to tree, as in pursuit,He said "That's it. There's fox afoot.And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,Hark there, to Daffodil, hark, hark."The mild horn's note, the soft flaked sparkOf music, fell on that rank scent.From heart to wild heart magic went.The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose."Daffodil has it. There she goes.O hark to her." With wild high cryingFrom frantic hearts, the hounds went flyingTo Daffodil for that rank taint.A waft of it came warm but faint,In Robin's mouth, and faded so."First find a fox, then let him go,"Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake.Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."He cheered his beauties like a loverAnd charged beside them into cover.
Reynard the fox
And there on the night before my tale he trotted out
On old Cold Crendon's windy topsGrows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows,Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,Nose between paws, to hear the surfOf wind in the beeches drowsily.There was our fox bred lustilyThree years before, and there he berthedUnder the beech-roots snugly earthed,With a roof of flint and a floor of chalkAnd ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.And there on the night before my taleHe trotted out for a point in the vale.He saw, from the cover edge, the valleyGo trooping down with its droops of sallyTo the brimming river's lipping bend,And a light in the inn at Water's End.He heard the owl go hunting byAnd the shriek of the mouse the owl made die,And the purr of the owl as he tore the redStrings from between his claws and fed;The smack of joy of the horny lipsMarbled green with the blobby strips.He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking;The fault with the spring as bright as gleed,Green-slash-laced with water weed.A glare in the sky still marked the town,Though all folk slept and the blinds were down,The street lamps watched the empty square,The night-cat sang his evil there.The fox's nose tipped up and roundSince smell is a part of sight and sound.Delicate smells were drifting by,The sharp nose flaired them heedfully:Partridges in the clover stubble,Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.Rabbit bucks beginning to box;A scratching place for the pheasant cocks;A hare in the dead grass near the drain,And another smell like the spring again.A faint rank taint like April coming,It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,For somewhere out by Ghost Heath StubsWas a roving vixen wanting cubs.
On old Cold Crendon's windy topsGrows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows,Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,Nose between paws, to hear the surfOf wind in the beeches drowsily.There was our fox bred lustilyThree years before, and there he berthedUnder the beech-roots snugly earthed,With a roof of flint and a floor of chalkAnd ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.And there on the night before my taleHe trotted out for a point in the vale.He saw, from the cover edge, the valleyGo trooping down with its droops of sallyTo the brimming river's lipping bend,And a light in the inn at Water's End.He heard the owl go hunting byAnd the shriek of the mouse the owl made die,And the purr of the owl as he tore the redStrings from between his claws and fed;The smack of joy of the horny lipsMarbled green with the blobby strips.He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking;The fault with the spring as bright as gleed,Green-slash-laced with water weed.A glare in the sky still marked the town,Though all folk slept and the blinds were down,The street lamps watched the empty square,The night-cat sang his evil there.The fox's nose tipped up and roundSince smell is a part of sight and sound.Delicate smells were drifting by,The sharp nose flaired them heedfully:Partridges in the clover stubble,Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.Rabbit bucks beginning to box;A scratching place for the pheasant cocks;A hare in the dead grass near the drain,And another smell like the spring again.A faint rank taint like April coming,It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,For somewhere out by Ghost Heath StubsWas a roving vixen wanting cubs.
He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking.
Over the valley, floating faintOn a warmth of windflaw came the taint,He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,And he went up wind like an April thrush.By the Roman Road to Braiches RidgeWhere the fallen willow makes a bridge,Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn,To the acres thin with pricking corn.Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,Past Howle's Oak Farm where the raving brainOf a dog who heard him foamed his chain,Then off, as the farmer's window opened,Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End;Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows,And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows;And away and away with a rolling scramble,Through the blackthorn and up the bramble,With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,And his red fell clean for being married.For clicketting time and Ghost Heath WoodHad put the violet in his blood.
Over the valley, floating faintOn a warmth of windflaw came the taint,He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,And he went up wind like an April thrush.By the Roman Road to Braiches RidgeWhere the fallen willow makes a bridge,Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn,To the acres thin with pricking corn.Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,Past Howle's Oak Farm where the raving brainOf a dog who heard him foamed his chain,Then off, as the farmer's window opened,Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End;Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows,And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows;And away and away with a rolling scramble,Through the blackthorn and up the bramble,With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,And his red fell clean for being married.For clicketting time and Ghost Heath WoodHad put the violet in his blood.
A dog who heard him foamed his chain
At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney,His foot made the great black stallion whinny,And the stallion's whinny aroused the stableAnd the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,And the clink of the bloodhound's chain arousedThe sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,And the stir of the cattle changed the dreamOf the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.The red-wattled black cock hot from SpainCrowed from his perch for dawn again,His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch,Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eyeIn the raftered roost as the fox went by.By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still,By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awokenOver the grass to Water's Oaken,And over the hedge and into rideIn Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.Before the dawn he had loved and fedAnd found a kennel and gone to bedOn a shelf of grass in a thick of gorseThat would bleed a hound and blind a horse.There he slept in the mild west weatherWith his nose and brush well tucked together,He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hearsWith the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.
At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney,His foot made the great black stallion whinny,And the stallion's whinny aroused the stableAnd the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,And the clink of the bloodhound's chain arousedThe sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,And the stir of the cattle changed the dreamOf the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.The red-wattled black cock hot from SpainCrowed from his perch for dawn again,His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch,Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eyeIn the raftered roost as the fox went by.
By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still,By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awokenOver the grass to Water's Oaken,And over the hedge and into rideIn Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.Before the dawn he had loved and fedAnd found a kennel and gone to bedOn a shelf of grass in a thick of gorseThat would bleed a hound and blind a horse.There he slept in the mild west weatherWith his nose and brush well tucked together,He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hearsWith the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.
There he slept in the mild west weatherWith his nose and brush well tucked together.
He slept while the pheasant cock untuckedHis head from his wing, flew down and kukked,While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeledOut of the ash-trees into field.While with great black flags that flogged and paddledThe rooks went out to the plough and straddled,Straddled wide on the moist red cheeseOf the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.Down in the village, men awoke,The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke,The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
He slept while the pheasant cock untuckedHis head from his wing, flew down and kukked,While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeledOut of the ash-trees into field.While with great black flags that flogged and paddledThe rooks went out to the plough and straddled,Straddled wide on the moist red cheeseOf the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.
Down in the village, men awoke,The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke,The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches
The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,And the cocks and hens let out of roost,Windows were opened, mats were beaten,All men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten,But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf,The sleeping fox looked after himself.Deep in his dream he heard the lifeOf the woodland seek for food or wife,The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,Cows in a byre, and distant men,And Condicote church-clock striking ten.At eleven o'clock a boy went past,With a rough-haired terrier following fast.The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yapWoke the fox from out of his nap.
The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,And the cocks and hens let out of roost,Windows were opened, mats were beaten,All men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten,But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf,The sleeping fox looked after himself.
Deep in his dream he heard the lifeOf the woodland seek for food or wife,The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,Cows in a byre, and distant men,And Condicote church-clock striking ten.At eleven o'clock a boy went past,With a rough-haired terrier following fast.The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yapWoke the fox from out of his nap.
The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yapWoke the fox from out of his nap.
He rose and stretched till the claws in his padsStuck hornily out like long black gads,He listened a while, and his nose went roundTo catch the smell of the distant sound.The windward smells came free from taintThey were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.The lee-ward smells were much less certainFor the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.He moved to his right to a clearer space,And all his soul came into his face,Into his eyes and into his nose,As over the hill a murmur rose.His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,He trotted right and lifted a padTrying to test what foes he had.
He rose and stretched till the claws in his padsStuck hornily out like long black gads,He listened a while, and his nose went roundTo catch the smell of the distant sound.
The windward smells came free from taintThey were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.The lee-ward smells were much less certainFor the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.
He moved to his right to a clearer space,And all his soul came into his face,Into his eyes and into his nose,As over the hill a murmur rose.
His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,He trotted right and lifted a padTrying to test what foes he had.
On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drummingWhich sounded like horses quickly coming,It died as the hunt went down the dip,Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,Voices and horses coming nearer,And another noise, of a pit-pat beatOn the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.He sat on his haunches listening hard,While his mind went over the compass card,Men were coming and rest was done,But he still had time to get fit to run;He could outlast horse and outrace hound,But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.Scent was burning, the going goodThe world one lust for a fox's blood,The main earths stopped and the drains put-to,And fifteen miles to the land he knew.But of all the ills, the ill least pleasantWas to run in the light when men were present.Men in the fields to shout and signFor a lift of hounds to a fox's line.Men at the earth at the long point's end,Men at each check and none his friend,Guessing each shift that a fox contrives,But still, needs must when the devil drives.
On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drummingWhich sounded like horses quickly coming,It died as the hunt went down the dip,Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,Voices and horses coming nearer,And another noise, of a pit-pat beatOn the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.
He sat on his haunches listening hard,While his mind went over the compass card,Men were coming and rest was done,But he still had time to get fit to run;He could outlast horse and outrace hound,But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.Scent was burning, the going goodThe world one lust for a fox's blood,The main earths stopped and the drains put-to,And fifteen miles to the land he knew.But of all the ills, the ill least pleasantWas to run in the light when men were present.Men in the fields to shout and signFor a lift of hounds to a fox's line.Men at the earth at the long point's end,Men at each check and none his friend,Guessing each shift that a fox contrives,But still, needs must when the devil drives.
Men at the earth at the long point's end
He readied himself, then a soft horn blew,Then a clear voice carolled "Ed-hoick. Eleu."Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice cryingAnd the crackle of scrub where hounds were trying.
He readied himself, then a soft horn blew,Then a clear voice carolled "Ed-hoick. Eleu."Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice cryingAnd the crackle of scrub where hounds were trying.
He trotted down with his nose intent
Then, the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered,Then another, then more, till his body shivered,He left his kennel and trotted thenceWith his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.He trotted down with his nose intentFor a fox's line to cross his scent,It was only fair (he being a stranger)That the native fox should have the danger.Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,That the pace of his trot began to liftThe blue-winged Judas, a jay, beganSwearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.He hurried his trotting, he now felt frighted,It was his poor body made hounds excited,He felt as he ringed the great wood throughThat he ought to make for the land he knew.Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickenedThen the wood behind was a crash of cryFor the blood in his veins; it made him fly.They were on his line; it was death to stay,He must make for home by the shortest way,But with all this yelling and all this wrathAnd all these devils, how find a path?He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,Watching the woodside, made him shirk.He ringed the wood and looked at the south.What wind there was blew into his mouth.But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicketWas Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.At Dansey's back were a twenty moreWatching the cover and pressing fore.
Then, the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered,Then another, then more, till his body shivered,He left his kennel and trotted thenceWith his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.He trotted down with his nose intentFor a fox's line to cross his scent,It was only fair (he being a stranger)That the native fox should have the danger.Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,That the pace of his trot began to liftThe blue-winged Judas, a jay, beganSwearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.
He hurried his trotting, he now felt frighted,It was his poor body made hounds excited,He felt as he ringed the great wood throughThat he ought to make for the land he knew.
Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickenedThen the wood behind was a crash of cryFor the blood in his veins; it made him fly.
They were on his line; it was death to stay,He must make for home by the shortest way,But with all this yelling and all this wrathAnd all these devils, how find a path?
He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,Watching the woodside, made him shirk.
He ringed the wood and looked at the south.What wind there was blew into his mouth.But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicketWas Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.At Dansey's back were a twenty moreWatching the cover and pressing fore.
The fox drew in
The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.Death was there if he messed the puzzle.There were men without and hounds within,A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,Teeth in cover and death without,Both deaths coming, and no way out.
The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.Death was there if he messed the puzzle.There were men without and hounds within,A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,Teeth in cover and death without,Both deaths coming, and no way out.
His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast,Then horse hooves trampled, then horses' flitchesBurst their way through the hazel switches,Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,And a man, quite near, said "Found, by Gad,"And a man, quite near, said "Now he'll break.Lark's Leybourne Copse is the line he'll take."And the men moved up with their talk and stinkAnd the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.Men whose coming meant death from teethIn a worrying wrench with him beneath.The fox sneaked down by the cover side,(With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide,He took the ditch at the cover-end,He hugged the ditch as his only friend.The blackbird cock with the golden beakGot out of his way with a jabbering shriek,And the shriek told Tom on the raking bayThat for eighteen pence he was gone away.
His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast,Then horse hooves trampled, then horses' flitchesBurst their way through the hazel switches,Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,And a man, quite near, said "Found, by Gad,"And a man, quite near, said "Now he'll break.Lark's Leybourne Copse is the line he'll take."And the men moved up with their talk and stinkAnd the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.Men whose coming meant death from teethIn a worrying wrench with him beneath.
The fox sneaked down by the cover side,(With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide,He took the ditch at the cover-end,He hugged the ditch as his only friend.The blackbird cock with the golden beakGot out of his way with a jabbering shriek,And the shriek told Tom on the raking bayThat for eighteen pence he was gone away.
The blackbird got out of his way with a jabbering shriek
He ran in the hedge in the triple growthOf bramble and hawthorn, glad of both,Till a couple of fields were past, and thenCame the living death of the dread of men.Then, as he listened, he heard a "Hoy,"Tom Dansey's horn and "Awa-wa-woy."Then all hounds crying with all their forces,Then a thundering down of seventy horses.Robin Dawe's horn and halloos of "HeyHark Hollar, Hoik" and "Gone away,""Hark Hollar Hoik," and the smack of a whip,A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip."Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar"; then Robin madePip go crash through the cut-and-laid,Hounds were over and on his lineWith a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.The sound of the nearness sent a floodOf terror of death through the fox's blood.He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,And he went up wind as a racer goes.
He ran in the hedge in the triple growthOf bramble and hawthorn, glad of both,Till a couple of fields were past, and thenCame the living death of the dread of men.
Then, as he listened, he heard a "Hoy,"Tom Dansey's horn and "Awa-wa-woy."Then all hounds crying with all their forces,Then a thundering down of seventy horses.Robin Dawe's horn and halloos of "HeyHark Hollar, Hoik" and "Gone away,""Hark Hollar Hoik," and the smack of a whip,A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip."Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar"; then Robin madePip go crash through the cut-and-laid,Hounds were over and on his lineWith a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.The sound of the nearness sent a floodOf terror of death through the fox's blood.He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,And he went up wind as a racer goes.
The hounds went romping with delight
Bold Robin Dawe was over first,Cheering his hounds on at the burst;The field were spurring to be in it,"Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"Came from Sir Peter on his white.The hounds went romping with delightOver the grass and got together;The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leatherAfter the pack at Myngs's yell;A cry like every kind of bellRang from these rompers as they raced.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 agoniesOf joy, and thirst for blood, and passion.
Bold Robin Dawe was over first,Cheering his hounds on at the burst;The field were spurring to be in it,"Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"Came from Sir Peter on his white.The hounds went romping with delightOver the grass and got together;The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leatherAfter the pack at Myngs's yell;A cry like every kind of bellRang from these rompers as they raced.
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 agoniesOf joy, and thirst for blood, and passion.
Fifth colored plateCourtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York
"Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion."He raced beside his pack to cheer.The field's noise died upon his ear,A faint horn, far behind, blew thinIn cover, lest some hound were in.Then instantly the great grass riseShut 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 God," he said, "how jolly."And there, down hill, two fields ahead,The lolloping red dog-fox spedOver Poor Pastures to the brook.He grasped these things in one swift lookThen dived into the bulfinch heartThrough thorns that ripped his sleeves apartAnd skutched new blood upon his brow."His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"Said Robin, landing with a grunt,"Forrard, my beautifuls."The huntFollowed 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 Godsdown clumps, I take it?""Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.Forrard."
"Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion."He raced beside his pack to cheer.The field's noise died upon his ear,A faint horn, far behind, blew thinIn cover, lest some hound were in.Then instantly the great grass riseShut 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 God," he said, "how jolly."And there, down hill, two fields ahead,The lolloping red dog-fox spedOver Poor Pastures to the brook.He grasped these things in one swift lookThen dived into the bulfinch heartThrough thorns that ripped his sleeves apartAnd skutched new blood upon his brow."His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"Said Robin, landing with a grunt,"Forrard, my beautifuls."
The huntFollowed 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 Godsdown clumps, I take it?""Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.Forrard."
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 Dyke ahead,His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him,Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him,That poet chap who thinks he rides."Hugh Colway's mare made straking stridesAcross the grass, the Colonel next:Then Squire volleying oaths and vext,Fighting his hunter for refusing:Bell Ridden like a cutter cruisingSailing the grass, 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 damns";Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.Bennett with devils in his wameChewing 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 snatch 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 eyesThe run up hill had winded them.They saw the Yell Brook like a gemBlue in the grass a short mile on,They heard faint cries, but hounds were goneA good eight fields and out of sightExcept a rippled glimmer whiteGoing away with dying cheeringAnd scarlet flappings disappearing,And scattering horses going, going,Going like mad, White Rabbit snowingFar on ahead, a loose horse taking,Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
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 Dyke ahead,His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him,Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him,That poet chap who thinks he rides."Hugh Colway's mare made straking stridesAcross the grass, the Colonel next:Then Squire volleying oaths and vext,Fighting his hunter for refusing:Bell Ridden like a cutter cruisingSailing the grass, 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 damns";Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.Bennett with devils in his wameChewing 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 snatch 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 eyesThe run up hill had winded them.
They saw the Yell Brook like a gemBlue in the grass a short mile on,They heard faint cries, but hounds were goneA good eight fields and out of sightExcept a rippled glimmer whiteGoing away with dying cheeringAnd scarlet flappings disappearing,And scattering horses going, going,Going like mad, White Rabbit snowingFar on ahead, a loose horse taking,Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
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.
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.
He faced the fence and put her through itShielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him.
At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on,Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,Where many of the riders slowedTo tittup down a grassy lane,Which led as hounds led in the mainAnd gave no danger of a fall.There, as they tittupped 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.No sense in crawling here like worms.Come, let me past and let me start,This fox is running like a hart,And this is going to be a run.Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it."He faced the fence and put her through itShielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him,The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.
At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on,Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,Where many of the riders slowedTo tittup down a grassy lane,Which led as hounds led in the mainAnd gave no danger of a fall.There, as they tittupped 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.No sense in crawling here like worms.Come, let me past and let me start,This fox is running like a hart,And this is going to be a run.Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it."He faced the fence and put her through itShielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him,The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded.His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.
The kestrel cruising over meadowWatched the hunt gallop on his shadow,Wee figures, almost at a stand,Crossing the multi-coloured land,Slow as a shadow on a dial.
The kestrel cruising over meadowWatched the hunt gallop on his shadow,Wee figures, almost at a stand,Crossing the multi-coloured land,Slow as a shadow on a dial.
Some horses, swerving at a trial
Some horses, swerving at a trial,Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.The mud about the gates was dunched.Like German cheese; men pushed for places,And kicked the mud into the facesOf those who made them room to pass.The half-mile's gallop on the grass,Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.
Some horses, swerving at a trial,Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.The mud about the gates was dunched.Like German cheese; men pushed for places,And kicked the mud into the facesOf those who made them room to pass.The half-mile's gallop on the grass,Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.
At gates they bunched
"His point's the Banner Barton Wood.""That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this.""You're right in that; by Jove it is.""An up-wind travelling fox, by George.""They say Tom viewed him at the forge.""Well, let me pass and let's be on."They crossed the lane to Tolderton,The hill-marl died to valley clay,And there before them ran the greyYell Water, swirling as it ran,The Yell Brook of the hunting man.The hunters eyed it and were grim.They saw the water snaking slimAhead, like silver; they could see(Each man) his pollard willow treeFirming the bank, they felt their horsesCatch the gleam's hint and gather forces;They heard the men behind draw near.Each horse was trembling as a spearTrembles in hand when tense to hurl,They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.The willow-roots like water-snakes;The beaten holes the ratten makes,They heard the water's rush; they heardHugh Colway's mare come like a bird;A faint cry from the hounds ahead,Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,The sick hope that the bank be staunch,Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.Maroon across, Sir Peter's whiteDown but pulled up, Tom over, HughMud to the hat but over, too,Well splashed by Squire who was in.With draggled pink stuck close to skin,The Squire leaned from bank and hauledHis mired horse's rein; he bawledFor help from each man racing by."What, help you pull him out? Not I.What made you pull him in?" they said.Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream."Ock Gurney in a cloud of steamStood by his dripping cob and wrungThe taste of brook mud from his tongueAnd scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean."Lord, what a crowner we've a been,This jumping brook's a mucky job."He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob.Now sir, let me." He turned to SquireAnd cleared his hunter from the mireBy skill and sense and strength of arm.
"His point's the Banner Barton Wood.""That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this.""You're right in that; by Jove it is.""An up-wind travelling fox, by George.""They say Tom viewed him at the forge.""Well, let me pass and let's be on."
They crossed the lane to Tolderton,The hill-marl died to valley clay,And there before them ran the greyYell Water, swirling as it ran,The Yell Brook of the hunting man.The hunters eyed it and were grim.They saw the water snaking slimAhead, like silver; they could see(Each man) his pollard willow treeFirming the bank, they felt their horsesCatch the gleam's hint and gather forces;They heard the men behind draw near.Each horse was trembling as a spearTrembles in hand when tense to hurl,They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.The willow-roots like water-snakes;The beaten holes the ratten makes,They heard the water's rush; they heardHugh Colway's mare come like a bird;A faint cry from the hounds ahead,Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,The sick hope that the bank be staunch,Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.Maroon across, Sir Peter's whiteDown but pulled up, Tom over, HughMud to the hat but over, too,Well splashed by Squire who was in.
With draggled pink stuck close to skin,The Squire leaned from bank and hauledHis mired horse's rein; he bawledFor help from each man racing by."What, help you pull him out? Not I.What made you pull him in?" they said.Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream."Ock Gurney in a cloud of steamStood by his dripping cob and wrungThe taste of brook mud from his tongueAnd scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean."Lord, what a crowner we've a been,This jumping brook's a mucky job."He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob.Now sir, let me." He turned to SquireAnd cleared his hunter from the mireBy skill and sense and strength of arm.