Reynard the Fox Part 12

The three black firs of the Ship stood still On the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill, The fox looked back as he slackened past The scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.

VIEW HALLOO

There they were coming, mute but swift, A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift, A white horse rising, a dark horse flying, And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.

Stormc.o.c.k leading, his stern spear-straight, Racing as though for a piece of plate, Little speck hors.e.m.e.n field on field; Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed

[Ill.u.s.tration: A white horse rising, a dark horse flying.]

At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic, Back went Stormc.o.c.k and up went Antic, Up went Skylark as Antic sped It was zest to blood how they carried head.

Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by, Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.

The fox knew well, that before they tore him, They should try their speed on the downs before him, There were three more miles to the Wan d.y.k.e Hill, But his heart was high, that he beat them still.

The wind of the downland charmed his bones So off he went for the Sa.r.s.en Stones.

The moan of the three great firs in the wind, And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind, Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breath On the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death; Larks scattered up; the peewits feeding Rose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.

The hare leaped up from her form and swerved Swift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.

On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinking Cried sweet, as though wind blown gla.s.s were c.h.i.n.king.

Behind came thudding and loud halloo Or a cry from hounds as they came to view.

The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs, Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues, In a three mile more he would reach the haven In the Wan d.y.k.e croaked on by the raven, In a three mile more he would make his berth On the hard cool floor of a Wan d.y.k.e earth, Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier, With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.

In a three mile more he would reach his dream, So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.

Like a rocket shot to a ship ash.o.r.e, The lean red bolt of his body tore, Like a ripple of wind running swift on gra.s.s, Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past, Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing, When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing, Like the April snake whipping back to sheath, Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath, Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping, Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping, Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift, With his shadow beside like spinning drift.

Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails, Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails, Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps, And none but the tumbling peewit weeps, Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner, Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece, Where all winds hurry and none brings peace, Then down, on the mile-long green decline Where the turf's like spring and the air's like wine, Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan d.y.k.e Hill.

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

On he went with a galloping rally Past Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley, The blood in his veins went romping high, "Get on, on, on to the earth or die."

The air of the downs went purely past, Till he felt the glory of going fast, Till the terror of death, though there indeed, Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed; He was romping away from hounds and hunt, He had Wan d.y.k.e Hill and his earth in front, In a one mile more when his point was made, He would rest in safety from dog or spade; Nose between paws he would hear the shout Of the "gone to earth" to the hounds without, The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.

Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding, He would hear the horn call hounds away, And rest in peace till another day.

In one mile more he would lie at rest So for one mile more he would go his best.

He reached the dip at the long droop's end And he took what speed he had still to spend.

So down past Maesbury beech clump grey, That would not be green till the end of May, Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder, Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder, Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's Thorn To Thirty Acre all thin with corn.

As he raced the corn towards Wan d.y.k.e Brook, The pack had view of the way he took, Robin hallooed from the downland's crest, He capped them on till they did their best.

The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brink Was raced as quick as a man can think.

And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling, The fox first felt that the pace was telling, His body and lungs seemed all grown old, His legs less certain, his heart less bold, The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper, The thud in the blood of his body deeper, His pride in his speed, his joy in the race Were withered away, for what use was pace?

He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.

Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.

Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged, And his fur felt sick and his chest was tagged With taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead, It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.

Down he went to the brook and over, Out of the corn and into the clover, Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains, Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes, Then up the hill that the Wan d.y.k.e rings Where the Sa.r.s.en Stones stand grand like kings.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged]

Seven Sa.r.s.ens of granite grim, As he ran them by they looked at him; As he leaped the lip of their earthen paling The hounds were gaining and he was failing.

He pa.s.sed the Sa.r.s.ens, he left the spur, He pressed up hill to the blasted fir, He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered; "He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."

At the second attempt he cleared the fence, He turned half right where the gorse was dense, He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.

He was past his best, but his earth was near.

He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp, The steep green wall of the dead men's camp, He sidled up it and scampered down To the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.

Within, as he reached that soft green turf, The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf, Desolate ramparts rose up steep, On either side, for the ghosts to keep.

He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren, Close grown with moss which the wind made barren, He pa.s.sed the spring where the rushes spread, And there in the stones was his earth ahead.

One last short burst upon failing feet, There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet, Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.

The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.

LAST HOPE

[Ill.u.s.tration: A mask]

With hounds at head so close behind He had to run as he changed his mind.

This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but still There was one earth more on the Wan d.y.k.e Hill.

A rabbit burrow a furlong on, He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.

Though his death seemed near he did not blench He upped his brush and he ran the trench.

He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble, Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.

Down in the valley of that dark gash The wind-withered gra.s.ses looked like ash.

Trickles of stones and earth fell down In that dark valley of dead men's town.

A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers, From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.

He heard no noise from the hounds behind But the hill-wind moaning like something blind.

He turned the bend in the hill and there Was his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare, But there with a gun tucked under his arm Was young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm, With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbit Into a net which was set to nab it.

And young Jack Cole peered over the wall And loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"

The terrier pup attacked with a will, So the fox swerved right and away down hill.

Down from the ramp of the d.y.k.e he ran To the brackeny patch where the gorse began, Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hid The line he took from the eyes of Sid He swerved down wind and ran like a hare For the wind-blown spinney below him there.

He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark (There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark) He saw no more of the terrier pup.

But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.

He crossed the spinney with ears intent For the cry of hounds on the way he went, His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now, He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now, He was past his perfect, his strength was failing, His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.

He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town, That in one mile more they would have him down.

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

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