Part 4 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow]

Quick trotting after Major Howe Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow, A smiling silent man whose brain Knew all of every secret pain In every man and woman there.

Their inmost lives were all laid bare To him, because he touched their lives When strong emotions sharp as knives Brought out what sort of soul each was.

As secret as the graveyard gra.s.s He was, as he had need to be.

At some time he had had to see Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask, Sans lying even, when to ask Probed a tamed spirit into truth.

Richard, his son, a jolly youth Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's, As merry as a yearling is In maytime in a clover patch.

He was a gallant chick to hatch Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind, With all his father's love of mind And greater force to give it act.

To see him when the scrum was packt, Heave, playing forward, was a sight.

His tackling was the crowd's delight In many a danger close to goal.

The pride in the three quarter's soul Dropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.

He was as steady as a bollard, And gallant as a skysail yard.

He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.

In good St. Thomas' Hospital, He was the crown imperial Of all the scholars of his year.

The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir, Came all on foot in corduroys, Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys, d.i.c.k, Hal and Charles, whose father died.

(Will Masemore shot him in the side By accident at Masemore Farm.

A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm In getting through a hedge; his gun Was not half-c.o.c.ked, so it was done And those three boys left fatherless.) Their gaitered legs were in a mess With good red mud from twenty ditches Hal's face was plastered like his breeches, d.i.c.k chewed a twig of juniper.

They kept at distance from the stir Their loss had made them lads apart.

Next came the Colway's pony cart From Coln St. Evelyn's with the party, Hugh Colway jovial, bold and hearty, And Polly Colway's brother, John (Their horses had been both sent on) And Polly Colway drove them there.

Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair.

The grey mare killed her at the brook Down Seven Springs Mead at Water Hook, Just one month later, poor sweet woman.

THE SAILOR

Her brother was a rat-faced Roman, Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea, Commander in the _Canace_, Able to drive a horse, or s.h.i.+p, Or crew of men, without a whip By will, as long as they could go.

His face would wrinkle, row on row, From mouth to hair-roots when he laught He looked ahead as though his craft Were with him still, in dangerous channels.

He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels Into the pony-cart and mounted.

Six foiled attempts the watchers counted, The horses being bickering things, That so much scarlet made like kings, Such sidling and such pawing and s.h.i.+fting.

THE MERCHANT'S SON

When Hugh was up his mare went drifting Sidelong and feeling with her heels For horses' legs and poshay wheels, While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.

Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.

He was a rich town-merchant's son, A wise and kind man fond of fun, Who loved to have a troop of friends At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends, And troops of children in for tea, He gloried in a Christmas Tree.

And Polly was his heart's best treasure, And Polly was a golden pleasure To everyone, to see or hear.

Poor Polly's dying struck him queer, He was a darkened man thereafter, Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter And be so gentle it was strange Even to see. Life loves to change.

Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold The shutters up, the hunters sold, And green mould damps the locked front door.

But this was still a month before, And Polly, golden in the chaise, Still smiled, and there were golden days, Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.

SPORTSMAN