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. "COVER" 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, "O wind him, beauties, push him out, Yooi, onto him, Yahout, Yahout, O 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. [Illustration: And now they gathered to the gamble At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down.] 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 Faln 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."