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 [Illustration: He smiled and nodded and saluted to those who hailed him]