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 whipper-snapper." "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." [Illustration: The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray, The glistening horses pressing on, * * * * * And all the hurry to arrive, Were beautiful, like Spring alive.] "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 pass't, 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." [Illustration: Reynard the fox]