Reynard the Fox Part 4

[Ill.u.s.tration: Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow]

Quick trotting after Major Howe Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow, A smiling silent man whose brain Knew all of every secret pain In every man and woman there.

Their inmost lives were all laid bare To him, because he touched their lives When strong emotions sharp as knives Brought out what sort of soul each was.

As secret as the graveyard gra.s.s He was, as he had need to be.

At some time he had had to see Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask, Sans lying even, when to ask Probed a tamed spirit into truth.

Richard, his son, a jolly youth Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's, As merry as a yearling is In maytime in a clover patch.

He was a gallant chick to hatch Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind, With all his father's love of mind And 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 delight In many a danger close to goal.

The pride in the three quarter's soul Dropped, 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 imperial Of all the scholars of his year.

The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir, Came all on foot in corduroys, Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys, d.i.c.k, Hal and Charles, whose father died.

(Will Masemore shot him in the side By accident at Masemore Farm.

A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm In getting through a hedge; his gun Was not half-c.o.c.ked, so it was done And those three boys left fatherless.) Their gaitered legs were in a mess With good red mud from twenty ditches Hal's face was plastered like his breeches, d.i.c.k chewed a twig of juniper.

They kept at distance from the stir Their loss had made them lads apart.

Next came the Colway's pony cart From 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 brook Down Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook, Just one month later, poor sweet woman.

THE SAILOR

Her brother was a rat-faced Roman, Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea, Commander in the _Canace_, Able to drive a horse, or ship, Or crew of men, without a whip By will, as long as they could go.

His face would wrinkle, row on row, From mouth to hair-roots when he laught He looked ahead as though his craft Were with him still, in dangerous channels.

He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels Into 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.

THE MERCHANT'S SON

When Hugh was up his mare went drifting Sidelong and feeling with her heels For 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 friends At 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 pleasure To everyone, to see or hear.

Poor Polly's dying struck him queer, He was a darkened man thereafter, Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter And be so gentle it was strange Even to see. Life loves to change.

Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold The 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.

SPORTSMAN

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 course Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.

All sport, from b.l.o.o.d.y war to c.r.a.ps, Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler; They nick-named him "the mug-beguiler,"

For Billy lived too much with horses In coper's yards and sharper's courses, To lack the sharper-coper streak.

He did not turn the other cheek When struck (as English Christians do), He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew, And many a time his knuckles bled Against 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 glove And 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 snowing And tackled anything that came.

[Ill.u.s.tration: All sport, from b.l.o.o.d.y war to c.r.a.ps, 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 bra.s.s) and such a manner It flaunted from her like a banner.

Her father was Tom See the trainer; She rode a lovely earth-disdainer Which she and Billy wished to sell.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Behind them rode her daughter Bell]

Behind them rode her daughter Bell, A strange shy lovely girl whose face Was sweet with thought and proud with race, And bright with joy at riding there.

She was as good as blowing air But 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 be In loving lovely helpless things.

The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings, Came, with two friends, a set of six.

Ed Manor with his c.o.c.kerel chicks, n.o.b, Cob and Bunny as they called them, (G.o.d help the school or rule which galled them; They carried head) and friends from town.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings]

Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down.

He once had been a famous bat, He had that stroke, "the Manor-pat,"

Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.

He once scored twenty in an over, But now he cricketed no more.

He purpled in the face and swore At all three sons, and trained, and told Long tales of cricketing of old, When he alone had saved his side.

Drink made it doubtful if he lied, Drink purpled him, he could not face The fences now, nor go the pace He brought his friends to meet; no more.

His big son n.o.b, at whom he swore, Swore back at him, for n.o.b was surly, Tall, shifty, sullen-smiling, burly, Quite fearless, built with such a jaw That no man's rule could be his law Nor any woman's son his master.

Boxing he relished. He could plaster All those who boxed out Tencombe way.

A front tooth had been knocked away Two days before, which put his mouth A little to the east of south.

And put a venom in his laughter.

Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter; Just past eighteen, while n.o.b was twenty.

n.o.b had no nerves but Cob had plenty So Cobby went where n.o.bby led.

He had no brains inside his head, Was fearless, just like n.o.b, but put Some clog of folly round his foot, Where n.o.b put will of force or fraud; He spat aside and muttered Gawd When vext; he took to whiskey kindly And loved and followed n.o.bby blindly, And rode as in the saddle born.

Bun looked upon the two with scorn.