CHECKED

Through the withered oak's wind-crouching tops

He saw men's scarlet above the copse,

He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slacken

In the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.

He felt that the unseen link which bound

His spine to the nose of the leading hound,

Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knew

Which way to follow nor what to do;

That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,

They had ceased to run, they had come to check,

They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.

The terrier's chase had killed his scent.

He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,

He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,

But there came no cry from a new attack,

His heart grew steady, his breath came back.

He left the spinney and ran its edge,

By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,

Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,

Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadow

Over the track called Godsdown Road,

To the great grass heave of the gods’ abode,

He was moving now upon land he knew

Up Clench Royal and Morton Tew,

The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,

High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,

Land he had roved on night by night,

For hot blood suckage or furry bite,

The threat of the hounds behind was gone;

He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.

While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,

Robin on Pip came heaving up,

And found his pack spread out at check.

“I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,”

He said, “You see? He's spoiled our sport.

He's killed the scent.” He broke off short,

And stared at hounds and at the valley.

No jay or magpie gave a rally

Down in the copse, no circling rooks

Rose over fields; old Joyful's looks

Were doubtful in the gorse, the pack

Quested both up and down and back.

He watched each hound for each small sign.

They tried, but could not hit the line,

The scent was gone. The field took place

Out of the way of hounds. The pace

Had tailed them out; though four remained:

Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stained

Red from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,

Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.

The Colonel with Marauder beat.

They turned towards a thud of feet;

Dansey, and then young Cothill came

( His chestnut mare was galloped tame ).

“There's Copse, a field behind,” he said.

“Those last miles put them all to bed.

They're strung along the downs like flies.”

Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise.

“Thank God, a check,” they said, “at last.”

“They cannot own it; you must cast,”

Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,

Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drew

Up wind, down hill, by spinney side.

They tried the brambled ditch; they tried

The swamp, all choked with bright green grass

And clumps of rush and pools like glass,

Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.

They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,

But no hound spoke to it or feathered.

The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,

The men mopped brows. “An hour's hard run.

Ten miles,” they said, “we must have done.

It's all of six from Colston's Gorses.”

The lucky got their second horses.

The time ticked by. “He's lost,” they muttered.

A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.

Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.

They drew down wind along the bank,

( The Wan Way ) on the hill's south spur,

Grown with dwarf oak and juniper

Like dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.

The seepings made the ground one soak.

They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.

Then Robin shifted in his seat

Watching for signs, but no signs shewed.

“I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,

Beyond the spinney,” Robin said.

Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.

Beyond the copse a great grass fallow

Stretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,

A rolling grass where hounds grew keen.

“Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,”

Said Robin, eager at their joy.

“Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.

They're on to him.”