  Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm, Keeping the spinney on his right. Hounds raced him here with all their might Along the short firm grass, like fire. The cowman viewed him from the byre Lolloping on, six fields ahead, Then hounds, still carrying such a head, It made him stare, then Rob on Pip, Sailing the great grass like a ship, Then grand Maroon in all his glory Sweeping his strides, his great chest hoary With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl. They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl, They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill, And viewed him there. The line he took Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook, Going like fun and hounds like mad. Tom glanced to see what friends he had Still within sight, before he turned The ridge's shoulder; he discerned, One field away, young Cothill sailing Easily up. Pete Gurney failing, Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter, Bill waiting on the mare to beat her, Sal Ridden skirting to the right. A horse, with stirrups flashing bright Over his head at every stride, Looked like the Major's; Tom espied Far back, a scarlet speck of man Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed, Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed Clumsy, but with the strength of ten. Then black and brown and scarlet men, Brown horses, white and black and grey Scattered a dozen fields away. The shoulder shut the scene away. Sixth colored plate Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops, All wet red clay where a horse's foot Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root. The fox raced on, on the headlands firm, Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm, He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw. Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field Where a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled, With a bay horse near and a white horse leading, And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding. He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop The stilts and swear at the team to stop. The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs Crying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs." A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean Arose from his wallet, nosing keen; With a rushing swoop they were on his track, Putting chest to stubble to bite his back. He swerved from his line with the curs at heel, With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him, While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him." The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt, And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt, Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash. The loitering water, flooded full, It was wrinkled over with Arab script Of eddies that twisted up and slipt. The stepping stones had a rush about them So the fox plunged in and swam without them. He swerved from his line with the curs at heel He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow, He wrung his coat from his draggled bones And romped away for the Sarsen Stones. A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back, Made sure that his scent had failed the pack, For the red clay, good for corn and roses, Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses. He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree, He wriggled a shake and padded slow, Not sure if the hounds were on or no. A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds, The ploughman had raised his hat for sign, And the hounds were lifted and on his line. He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook, And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took," And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver, Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour. The fox went off while the hounds made halt, And the horses breathed and the field found fault, But the whimpering rose to a crying crash Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat, And the green blades bent to the fox's feet And the cry rose keen not far behind Of the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind. Reynard the fox The fox was strong, he was full of running, He could run for an hour and then be cunning, But the cry behind him made him chill, They were nearer now and they meant to kill. They meant to run him until his blood Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud, And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging. Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty, With nothing but teeth against the thirty. And all the way to that blinding end He would meet with men and have none his friend. Men to holloa and men to run him, With stones to stagger and yells to stun him, Men to head him, with whips to beat him, Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him. And all the way, that wild high crying, To cold his blood with the thought of dying, The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder, Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under. For the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill. As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church, A christening party left the porch, They stood stock still as he pounded by, They wished him luck but they thought he'd die. The toothless babe in his long white coat Looked delicate meat, the fox took note; But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger, Made him put on steam till he went a stinger. Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste, With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste, The fur on his chest blown dry with the air, Over the Waste where the ganders grazed, The long swift lilt of his loping lazed, His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher, He saw his point, and his eyes took fire. The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren, Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren. The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth, And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth. He had rabbitted there long months before, The earths were deep and his need was sore, The way was new, but he took a vearing, And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing. Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean, Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green; And up Midwinter to King of Spain. Old Joe at digging his garden grounds, Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds? O lord, my back, to be young again, 'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain. O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet. Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat. And there be redcoat, and there they gallop. Thur go a browncoat down a wallop. Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly. Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by, Go by like thunder, go by like blasting, With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting. Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying. Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying. (As I was digging) as fast as fast. He's only been gone a minute by; A girt dark dog as pert as pye." Ellen and Susan came out scattering Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering; They saw the pack come head to foot Running like racers nearly mute; Robin and Dansey quartering near, All going gallop like startled deer. A half dozen flitting scarlets shewing In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing. Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane, It emptied the bar of the King of Spain. Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter, Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter, Out they came from the sawdust floor, They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor." The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks, With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks, Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line Of the larch-wood smelling of turpentine. Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky, A sadness breathing with one long sigh, Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes, As he entered the wood he heard the smacks, Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe, He swerved to the left to a broad green ride, Where a boy made him rush for the further side. He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road, But there were the timberers come to load. Two timber carts and a couple of carters With straps round their knees instead of garters. He swerved to the right, straight down the wood, The carters watched him, the boy hallooed. He leaped from the larch wood into tillage, The cobbler's garden of Barton village. The cobbler bent at his wooden foot, Beating sprigs in a broken boot; He scowled at his work for his sight was dim. His face was dingy, his lips were grey, From primming sparrowbills day by day; As he turned his boot he heard a noise At his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys." He saw his cat nip up on the shed, Where her back arched up till it touched her head, He saw his rabbit race round and round Its little black box three feet from ground. His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch, "That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search." He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath, When he saw a fox in his garden path. The fox swerved left and scrambled out He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling, And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing, Across the plough at the top of bent, Through the heaped manure to kill his scent, Over to Aldams, up to Cappells, Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples, Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres, Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears, Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak, Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke, Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green, Where the wind-washed steeple stood serene With its golden bird still sailing air, Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare, And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship. |
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