162 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



They cried, " 'Tis Ben as sure as sin — his shoulders and 

 his cheery grin ; 

 And yon's the wood the hounds are in, 

 My soul — my life — I'll lay ! " 

 Then spurred they o'er the space between, 

 And naught could stay or hold : 

 Beyond the turf-land sound and green yawned a morass 

 obscure, unclean. 

 Loathly, and dank, and cold ; 

 But into it plunged Harbottle, Sillitoe, 

 Griggs and Briggs and Buller-Brovvn, and Grumby 

 on the grey. 



And tho' the rank slough sucked and clogged, they 

 wallowed, floundered, dragged and flogged. 

 Until triumphant, waterlogged, 

 Unsavoury men were they ; 

 Smothered in slime from spurs to stocks, 

 Unflinching, keen as — mules. 

 No sign of huntsman, hound or fox : naught but a rural 

 letter-box, 

 Erect, regardant, gules. 

 Came dreadful words from Harbottle, Sillitoe, 

 Griggs and Briggs and Buller-Brown, and Grumby 

 on the grey. 

 ******* 



A crimson smoulder in the West ; the last late crow had 

 won to rest ; 

 A breath of ice that gripped the chest — 

 And freezing died the day. 

 A hoof-struck flint-spark lit the gloam, 

 A shivering horn-shake rang ; 



