Reynard the Fox Part 6

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ock Gurney and old Pete were there]

Ock Gurney and old Pete were there, Riding their bonny cobs and swearing.

Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing, A horse-rosette, red, white and blue.

Their cheeks were brown as any brew, And every comer to the meet Said "h.e.l.lo, Ock," or "Morning, Pete; Be you a going to a wedding?"

"Why, noa," they said, "we'm going a bedding; Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock?"

Pete Gurney was a l.u.s.ty c.o.c.k Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale, A dairy-farmer in the vale, Much like a robin in the face, Much character in little s.p.a.ce, With little eyes like burning coal.

His mouth was like a slit or hole In leather that was seamed and lined.

He had the russet-apple mind That betters as the weather worsen.

He was a manly English person, Kind to the core, brave, merry, true; One grief he had, a grief still new, That former Parson joined with Squire In putting down the Playing Quire, In church, and putting organ in.

"Ah, boys, that was a pious din That Quire was; a pious praise The noise was that we used to raise; I and my serpent, George with his'n, On Easter Day in He is Risen, Or blessed Christmas in Venite; And how the trombone came in mighty, In Alleluias from the heart.

Pious, for each man played his part, Not like 'tis now." Thus he, still sore For changes forty years before, When all (that could) in time and tune, Blew trumpets to the newe moon.

He was a bachelor, from choice.

He and his nephew farmed the Boyce Prime pasture land for thirty cows.

Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house, And jolly were the three together.

Ock had a face like summer weather, A broad red sun, split by a smile.

He mopped his forehead all the while, And said "By d.a.m.n," and "Ben't us, Unk?"

His eyes were close and deeply sunk.

He cursed his hunter like a lover, "Now blast your soul, my dear, give over.

Woa, now, my pretty, d.a.m.n your eyes."

Like Pete he was of middle size, Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder, He stood a wrestle like a boulder, He had a back for pitching hay.

His singing voice was like a bay.

In talk he had a sideways spit, Each minute, to refresh his wit.

He cracked Brazil nuts with his teeth.

He challenged Cobbett of the Heath (Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost.

Hunting was what he loved the most, Next to his wife and Uncle Pete.

With beer to drink and cheese to eat, And rain in May to fill the gra.s.ses, This life was not a dream that pa.s.ses To Ock, but like the summer flower.

THE HOUNDS

But now the clock had struck the hour, And round the corner, down the road The bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowed With three black k.n.o.bs upon its spine; Three bobbing black-caps in a line.

A glimpse of scarlet at the gap Showed underneath each bobbing cap, And at the corner by the gate, One heard Tom Dansey give a rate, "Hep, Drop it, Jumper; have a care,"

There came a growl, half-rate, half-swear, A spitting crack, a tuneful whimper And sweet religion entered Jumper.

There was a general turn of faces, The men and horses shifted places, And round the corner came the hunt, Those feathery things, the hounds, in front, Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying, Smiling at people, shoving, playing, Nosing to children's faces, waving Their feathery sterns, and all behaving, One eye to Dansey on Maroon.

Their padding cat-feet beat a tune, And though they trotted up so quiet Their noses brought them news of riot, Wild smells of things with living blood, Hot smells, against the grippers good, Of weasel, rabbit, cat and hare, Whose feet had been before them there, Whose taint still tingled every breath; But Dansey on Maroon was death, So, though their noses roved, their feet Larked and trit-trotted to the meet.

Bill Tall and Ell and Mirtie Key (Aged fourteen years between the three) Were flooded by them at the bend, They thought their little lives would end, For grave sweet eyes looked into theirs, Cold noses came, and clean short hairs And tails all crumpled up like ferns, A sea of moving heads and sterns, All round them, brushing coat and dress; One paused, expecting a caress.

The children shrank into each other, Shut eyes, clutched tight and shouted "Mother"

With mouths wide open, catching tears.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A sea of moving heads and sterns, All round them, brushing coat and dress.]

Sharp Mrs. Tall allayed their fears, "Err out the road, the dogs won't hurt 'ee.

There now, you've cried your faces dirty.

More cleaning up for me to do.

What? Cry at dogs, great lumps like you?"

She licked her handkerchief and smeared Their faces where the dirt appeared.

The hunt trit-trotted to the meeting, Tom Dansey touching cap to greeting, Slow-lifting crop-thong to the rim, No hunter there got more from him Except some brightening of the eye.

He halted at the c.o.c.k and Pye, The hounds drew round him on the green, Arrogant, Daffodil and Queen, Closest, but all in little s.p.a.ce.

Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace, Yawning, or tilting nose in quest, All stood and looked about with zest, They were uneasy as they waited.

Their sires and dams had been well-mated, They were a lovely pack for looks; Their forelegs drumsticked without crooks, Straight, without overtread or bend, Muscled to gallop to the end, With neat feet round as any cat's.

Great chested, muscled in the slats, Bright, clean, short-coated, broad in shoulder, With stag-like eyes that seemed to smoulder.

The heads well-c.o.c.ked, the clean necks strong; Brows broad, ears close, the muzzles long; And all like racers in the thighs; Their noses exquisitely wise, Their minds being memories of smells; Their voices like a ring of bells; Their sterns all spirit, c.o.c.k and feather; Their colours like the English weather, Magpie and hare, and badger-pye, Like minglings in a double dye, Some s.m.u.tty-nosed, some tan, none bald; Their manners were to come when called, Their flesh was sinew knit to bone, Their courage like a banner blown.

Their joy, to push him out of cover, And hunt him till they rolled him over.

They were as game as Robert Dover.

THE WHIP

Tom Dansey was a famous whip Trained as a child in horsemanship.

Entered, as soon as he was able, As boy at Caunter's racing stable; There, like the other boys, he slept In stall beside the horse he kept, Snug in the straw; and Caunter's stick Brought morning to him all too quick.

He learned the high quick gingery ways Of thoroughbreds; his stable days Made him a rider, groom and vet.

He promised to be too thickset For jockeying, so left it soon.

Now he was whip and rode Maroon.

[Ill.u.s.tration: His chief delight Was hunting fox from noon to night.]

He was a small, lean, wiry man With sunk cheeks weathered to a tan Scarred by the spikes of hawthorn sprays Dashed thro', head down, on going days, In haste to see the line they took.

There was a beauty in his look, It was intent. His speech was plain.

Maroon's head, reaching to the rein, Had half his thought before he spoke.

His "gone away," when foxes broke, Was like a bell. His chief delight Was hunting fox from noon to night.

His pleasure lay in hounds and horses, He loved the Seven Springs water-courses, Those flashing brooks (in good sound gra.s.s, Where scent would hang like breath on gla.s.s).

He loved the English countryside; The wine-leaved bramble in the ride, The lichen on the apple-trees, The poultry ranging on the lees, The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover, His wife's green grave at Mitcheldover, Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw.

Under his hide his heart was raw With joy and pity of these things.

The second whip was Kitty Myngs, Still but a lad but keen and quick (Son of old Myngs who farmed the Wick), A horse-mouthed lad who knew his work.

He rode the big black horse, the Turk, And longed to be a huntsman bold.

He had the horse-look, sharp and old, With much good-nature in his face.

His pa.s.sion was to go the pace His blood was crying for a taming.

He was the Devil's chick for gaming, He was a rare good lad to box.

He sometimes had a main of c.o.c.ks Down at the Flags. His job with hounds At present kept his blood in bounds From rioting and running hare.

Tom Dansey made him have a care.

He worshipped Dansey heart and soul.

To be a huntsman was his goal.

To be with hounds, to charge full tilt Blackthorns that made the gentry wilt Was his ambition and his hope.

He was a hot colt needing rope, He was too quick to speak his pa.s.sion To suit his present huntsman's fashion.

THE HUNTSMAN