Reynard the Fox Part 2

Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn, With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in And had a sip of gin and stout To help the jockey's sweatings out.

"Rare day for scent," the jockey said.

A pony, like a feather bed On four short sticks, took place aside.

The little girl who rode astride Watched everything with eyes that glowed With glory in the horse she rode.

At half-past ten, some lads on foot Came to be beaters to a shoot Of 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 ground And teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch."

"Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch.

What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad?

s.e.x quarts the lot last year we had.

They'd ought to give us seven this.

Seek, Susan; what a betch it is."

THE CLERGYMAN

[Ill.u.s.tration: The clergyman from Condicote]

A pommle cob came trotting up, Round-bellied like a drinking-cup, Bearing on back a pommle man Round-bellied like a drinking-can.

The clergyman from Condicote.

His face was scarlet from his trot, His white hair bobbed about his head As halos do round clergy dead.

He asked Tom Copp, "How long to wait?"

His loose mouth opened like a gate To pa.s.s 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 speckles Of sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles) Came after him and stood apart Beside 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 coil Too beautiful for time to spoil.

They talked in undertones together Not 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 do Than 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 shrike Yet sweet-voiced as a piping flute; Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot, Red, with an angry, puzzled face And 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 bone Made people call him Twenty Stone.

He was the man who stood a pull At Tencombe with the Jersey bull And brought the bull back to his stall.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 d.o.g.g.i.n', ant her?"

"A lot on 'em," said Ellen, "look There'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 hack Came t.i.ttup, like a cup and ball.

One saw the sun, moon, stars, and all The 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 larks Hunted bright Molly for a smile But were not worth their quarry's while.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Second colored plate _Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York_]

Two eyegla.s.sed gunners dressed in tweed Came with a spaniel on a lead And 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 root From 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 speck And splash of mud from many a fall Got as he picked the slippery ball Heeled out behind a breaking scrum.

He grinned at people, but was dumb, Not like these lousy foreigners.

The otter-hounds and harriers From G.o.dstow to the Wye all knew him.

THE PARSON

And with him came the stock which grew him-- The parson and his sporting wife, She was a stout one, full of life With red, quick, kindly, manly face.

She held the knave, queen, king, and ace In 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 inclined To cry aloud his jolly mind To everyone, in jolly terms.

He did not talk of churchyard worms, But of our privilege as dust To box a lively bout with l.u.s.t Ere 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 G.o.d, 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 clover To hear "Hen left, hare right, c.o.c.k over,"

At woodside, when the leaves are brown.

Some grey cathedral in a town Where drowsy bells toll out the time To shaven closes sweet with lime, And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortar All summer on the Norman Dortar, Was certain some day to be his.

Nor would a mitre go amiss To him, because he governed well.

His voice was like the tenor bell When services were said and sung.

And he had read in many a tongue, Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.

"JILL AND JOAN"

Two bright young women, nothing meek, Rode up on bicycles and propped Their wheels in such wise that they dropped To bring the parson's son to aid.

Their cycling suits were tailor-made, Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.

The colour and the zest of wine Were 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 tennis The silver-cigarette-case-prize.