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John Masefield - Reynard the Fox - Part 1
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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 drums ticked without crooks, 
Straight, without over-tread 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-cocked, 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, cock and feather;
Their colours like the English weather, 
Magpie and hare, and badger pye, 
Like minglings in a double dye, 
Some smutty-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. 
    
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 thick-set 
For jockeying, so left it soon. 
Now he was whip and rode Maroon. 
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 grass, 
Where scent would hang like breath on glass). 
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 passion 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 cocks 
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 passion 
To suit his present huntsman`s fashion.
    
The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round, 
He sometimes called a favourite hound 
Gently, to see the creature turn, 
Look happy up and wag his stern. 
He smiled and nodded and saluted 
To those who hailed him, as it suited, 
And patted Pip`s, his hunter`s neck. 
His new pink was without a speck. 
He was a red-faced smiling fellow, 
His voice clear tenor, full and mellow, 
His eyes, all fire, were black and small. 
He had been smashed in many a fall. 
His eyebrow had a white curved mark 
Left by the bright shoe of The Lark 
Down in a ditch by Seven Springs. 
His coat had all been trod to strings, 
His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken, 
Being jumped on down at Water`s Oaken 
The time his horse came down and rolled. 
His face was of the country mould 
Such as the mason sometimes cutted 
On English moulding-ends which jutted 
Out of the church walls, centuries since. 
And as you never know the quince, 
How good he is, until you try, 
So, in Dawe`s face, what met the eye 
Was only part; what lay behind 
Was English character and mind, 
Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling 
(Most shy, most clever in concealing 
Its depth) for beauty of all sorts, 
Great manliness and love of sports, 
A grave, wise thoughtfulness and truth, 
A merry fun outlasting youth, 
A courage terrible to see, 
And mercy for his enemy. 
He had a clean-shaved face, but kept 
A hedge of whisker neatly clipt, 
A narrow strip or picture-frame 
(Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same), 
Under his chin from ear to ear.
    
But now the resting hounds gave cheer, 
Joyful and Arrogant and Catch-him 
Smelt the glad news and ran to snatch him; 
The Master`s dogcart turned the bend. 
Damsel and Skylark knew their friend, 
A thrill ran through the pack like fire 
And little whimpers ran in quire. 
The horses cocked and pawed and whickered,
Young Cothill `s chaser kicked and bickered 
And stood on end and struck out sparks, 
Joyful and Catch-him sang like larks.
There was the Master in the trap, 
Clutching old Roman in his lap, 
Old Roman, crazy for his brothers, 
And putting frenzy in the others, 
To set them at the dogcart wheels, 
With thrusting heads and little squeals. 
    
The Master put old Roman by, 
And eyed the thrusters heedfully. 
He called a few pet hounds and fed 
Three special friends with scraps of bread, 
Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strode 
Through all those clamourers in the road, 
Saluted friends, looked round the crowd, 
Saw Harridew`s three girls and bowed, 
Then took White Rabbit from the groom. 
    
He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe; 
Past sixty now, though hearty still, 
A living picture of good-will, 
An old, grave soldier, sweet and kind, 
A courtier with a knightly mind, 
Who felt whatever thing he thought. 
His face was scarred, for he had fought 
Five wars for us. Within his face 
Courage and power had their place, 
Rough energy, decision, force. 
He smiled about him from his horse. 
He had a welcome and salute 
For all, on horse or wheel or foot, 
Whatever kind of life each followed. 
His tanned, drawn cheeks looked old and hollowed, 
But still his bright blue eyes were young, 
And when the pack crashed into tongue, 
And stanch White Rabbit shook like fire, 
He sent him at it like a flier, 
And lived with hounds while horses could 
    
They`m lying in the Ghost Heath Wood, 
Sir Peter," said an earth-stopper, 
(Old Baldy Hill), "you`ll find `em there. 
‘Z I come`d across I smell `em plain. 
There`s one up back, down Tuttock`s drain, 
But, Lord, it`s just a bog, the Tuttocks, 
Hounds would be swallered to the buttocks. 
Heath Wood, Sir Peter`s best to draw." 
    
Sir Peter gave two minutes` law 
For Kingston Challow and his daughter; 
He said, "They`re late. We`ll start the slaughter. 
Ghost Heath, then, Dansey. We`ll be going." 
    
Now, at his word, the tide was flowing. 
Off went Maroon, off went the hounds, 
Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds, 
Across soft turf with dead leaves cleaving 
And hillocks that the mole was heaving, 
Mild going to those trotting feet. 
After the scarlet coats the meet 
Came clopping up the grass in spate; 
They poached the trickle at the gate, 
Their horses` feet sucked at the mud, 
Excitement in the horses` blood. 
Cocked forward every ear and eye, 
They quivered as the hounds went by, 
They trembled when they first trod grass, 
They would not let another pass, 
They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.
The wind was westerly but still, 
The sky a high fair-weather cloud, 
Like meadows ridge-and-furrow ploughed, 
Just glinting sun but scarcely moving. 
Blackbirds and thrushes thought of loving, 
Catkins were out; the day seemed tense 
It was so still. At every fence 
Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern. 
White-violet leaves showed at the burn. 
    
Young Cothill let his chaser go 
Round Chols Elm Field a turn or so 
To soothe his edge. The riders went 
Chatting and laughing and content 
In groups of two or three together; 
The hounds, a flock of shaking feather, 
Bobbed on ahead, past Chols Elm Cop, 
The horses` shoes went clip-a-clop, 
Along the stony cart-track there, 
The little spinney was all bare, 
But in the earth-moist winter day 
The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray, 
The glistening horses pressing on, 
The brown-faced lads, Bill, Dick and John, 
And all the hurry to arrive, 
Were beautiful like spring alive.
    
The hounds melted away with Master, 
The tanned lads ran, the field rode faster, 
The chatter joggled in the throats 
Of riders bumping by like boats, 
"We really ought to hunt a bye day." 
"Fine day for scent," "A fly or die day." 
"They chopped a bagman in the check, 
He had a collar round his neck." 
"Old Ridden`s girl`s a pretty flapper." 
"That Vaughan`s a cad, the whippersnapper."
"I tell` ee, lads, I seed` em plain 
Down in the Rough at Shifford`s Main,
Old Squire stamping like a Duke, 
So red with blood I thought he`d puke 
In appleplexie, as they do. 
Miss Jane stood just as white as dew 
And heard him out in just white heat, 
And then she trimmed him down a treat. 
About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie 
(She`d be a pretty peach to marry)."
   
"Her`ll draw up-wind, so us`ll go
Down by the furze, we`ll see `em so." 
    
"Look, there they go, lad!" 
There they went, 
Across the brook and up the bent, 
Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride, 
Along Ghost Heath to cover side. 
The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack, 
Turf scatters tossed behind each back, 
Some horses blowing with a whinny, 
A jam of horses in the spinney, 
Close to the ride-gate; leather straining, 
Saddles all creaking, men complaining, 
Chaffing each other as they past, 
On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast. 
    
Now as they neared the Ghost Heath Wood 
Some riders grumbled, "What`s the good? 
It`s shot all day and poached all night. 
We shall draw blank and lose the light, 
And lose the scent and lose the day. 
Why can`t he draw Hope Goneaway, 
Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this? 
There`s no fox here, there never is." 
    
But as he trotted up to cover 
Robin was watching to discover 
What chance there was, and many a token 
Told him that though no hound had spoken, 
Most of them stirred to something there. 
The old hounds` muzzles searched the air, 
Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth 
From foxes which had crossed the Heath 
Not very many hours before. 
"We`ll find," he said, "I`ll bet, a score." 
   
Along Ghost Heath they trotted well, 
The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell, 
The shaken brambles scattered drops, 
Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse, 
Cracking the twigs down with their knockings 
And planing out of sight with cockings; 
A scut or two lopped white to bramble. 
    
And now they gathered to the gamble 
At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down. 
The hounds went crackling through the brown 
Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost. 
The wood stood silent in its host 
Of halted trees all winter bare. 
The boughs, like veins that suck the air,
Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred, 
There came no song from any bird; 
The darkness of the wood stood still 
Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill. 
    
The whips crept to the sides to view, 
The Master gave the nod, and "Leu, 
Leu in. Ed-hoick, ed-hoick. Leu in ! 
Went Robin, cracking through the whin 
And through the hedge-gap into cover. 
The binders crashed as hounds went over, 
And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose. 
Then up went stern and down went nose, 
And Robin`s cheerful tenor cried, 
Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride: 
"Oh, wind him! beauties, push him out, 
Yooi, on to him, Yahout, Yahout, 
Oh, push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him!” 
The beauties burst the scrub to find him; 
They nosed the warren’s clipped green lawn, 
The bramble and the broom were drawn, 
The covert`s northern end was blank. 
They turned to draw along the bank 
Through thicker cover than the Rough, 
Through three-and-four-year understuff 
Where Robin`s forearm screened his eyes; 
"Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries. 
"Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughter 
Fall`n from his horn, brought whimpers after, 
For ends of scents were everywhere. 
He said, "This Hope`s a likely lair, 
And there`s his billets, grey and furred. 
And George, he`s moving, there`s a bird." 
   * 
A blue uneasy jay was chacking 
(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking) 
From tree to tree, as in pursuit, 
He said, "That`s it. There’s fox afoot. 
And there, they`re feathering, there she speaks. 
Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks, 
Hark there to Daffodil, hark, hark!" 
The mild horn`s note, the soft-flaked spark 
Of music fell on that rank scent. 
From heart to wild heart magic went. 
The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose. 
"Daffodil has it. There she goes. 
Oh, hark to her!" With wild high crying 
From frantic hearts the hounds went flying 
To Daffodil, for that rank taint. 
A waft of it came warm but faint
In Robin`s mouth, and faded so. 
"First find a fox, then let him go," 
Cried Robin Dawe. "For any sake 
Ring, Charley, till you`re fit to break." 
He cheered his beauties like a lover,
And charged beside them into cover.
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