APPENDIX. 359 



And underneath is hidden 



In dirt and slush laid low 

 Some brand-new scarlet jacket, 



Just home from Savile Row. 



Meanwhile our fox is travelling on, 



With steady, plodding gait, 

 Twice twenty towling foes behind, 



And before, a doubtful fate. 

 For heavy are the ploughlands. 



Sticky with autumn rains, 

 And sadly through the mud and dirt 



His draggled brush he trains ; 

 And fast his strength is failing. 



His wind is almost gone, 

 And he feels that he is sinking. 



But still he struggles on. 

 For he knows near Hatfield Broad Oak 



A haven of sure rest, 

 And to reach the wished-for stronghold 



He does his level best ; 

 And now he's at the open earth. 



Now he has gone to ground. 

 Now beaten, but yet safe below 



He hears the baying hound. 



" Curse on it !_" mutters Bailey, 

 " I wish they'd stopped the place. 



But for this hole, ere curfew' toll 

 I might have killed a brace." 



During the winter months the Curfew tolls every evening in Harlow. Bailey 



would doubtless hear it at the Kennels. 



