At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on, Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road, Where many of the riders slowed To tittup down a grassy lane, Which led as hounds led in the main And gave no danger of a fall. There, as they tittupped one and all, Big Twenty Stone came scattering by, His great mare made the hoof-casts fly. "By leave," he cried. "Come on. Come up, This fox is running like a tup; Let's leave this lane and get to terms. No sense in crawling here like worms. Come, let me past and let me start, This fox is running like a hart, And this is going to be a run. Come on. I want to see the fun. Thanky. By leave. Now, Maiden; do it." He faced the fence and put her through it Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him, The crashing blackthorn closed behind him. Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded. His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded. THE RUN The kestrel cruising over meadow Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow, Wee figures, almost at a stand, Crossing the multi-coloured land, Slow as a shadow on a dial. [Illustration: Some horses, swerving at a trial] Some horses, swerving at a trial, Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched. The mud about the gates was dunched. Like German cheese; men pushed for places, And kicked the mud into the faces Of those who made them room to pass. The half-mile's gallop on the grass, Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood. [Illustration: At gates they bunched] "His point's the Banner Barton Wood." "That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this." "You're right in that; by Jove it is." "An up-wind travelling fox, by George." "They say Tom viewed him at the forge." "Well, let me pass and let's be on." They crossed the lane to Tolderton, The hill-marl died to valley clay, And there before them ran the grey Yell Water, swirling as it ran, The Yell Brook of the hunting man. The hunters eyed it and were grim. They saw the water snaking slim Ahead, like silver; they could see (Each man) his pollard willow tree Firming the bank, they felt their horses Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces; They heard the men behind draw near. Each horse was trembling as a spear Trembles in hand when tense to hurl, They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl. The willow-roots like water-snakes; The beaten holes the ratten makes, They heard the water's rush; they heard Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird; A faint cry from the hounds ahead, Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread, Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch, The sick hope that the bank be staunch, Then Souse, with Souse to left and right. Maroon across, Sir Peter's white Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh Mud to the hat but over, too, Well splashed by Squire who was in.