The Project Gutenberg eBook, I Run with the Fox, by Mona Gould This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org ** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below ** ** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ** Title: I Run with the Fox Author: Mona Gould Release Date: November 15, 2010 [eBook #34329] Language: English ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I RUN WITH THE FOX*** Copyright (C) 1946 by the Estate of Mona Gould. I Run With the Fox By Mona Gould Toronto The Macmillan Company Of Canada Limited 1946 Copyright, Canada, 1946 by The Macmillan Company of Canada Limited All rights reserved - no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper. Printed in Canada by Le Soleil Limitee, Quebec. Frontespiece: For "Mook" (Lt.-Col. Howard McTavish, Royal Canadian Engineers, killed in action, Dieppe, 1942) In proud and loving remembrance This was my brother At Dieppe, Quietly a hero Who gave his life Like a gift, Withholding nothing. His youth... his Love... His enjoyment of being alive... His future, like a book With half the pages still uncut -- This was my brother At Dieppe -- The one who built me a doll house When I was seven, Complete to the last small picture frame, Nothing forgotten. He was awfully good at fixing things, At stepping into the breach when he was needed. That's what he did at Dieppe; He was needed. And even death must have been a little shamed At has eagerness. Mona Gould Acknowledgement: Acknowledgment is made to Saturday Night, Gossip, Chatelaine, Canadian Poetry Magazine, Canadian Home Journal and The Montrealer, in whose pages many of these poems have appeared. Contents I Run With the Fox Memory Sharp Gift Shop Window Sire Communion Loud Silence He Will Not Go Unremembered Bagpipes Skirl in Heaven How'd Ya Do! Big Day Prayer, In a Hospital So Fair a Season Spring Comes to a Small Town For a Brown Dog Right out of Pickwick Man is a Lonely One This Bitter Brew It Was Tall in the Forest Child ... Waiting in a Drawing Room Stars and the Dead The Old Lady and the Cat This Green Weather-Vane Noel Immortality Release I Run With the Fox Better to be proud and hunted Than to ride with the Pink Coats. Better than the smell of warm blood after a quick kill, Bitter and bright the scent of hidden fern. Though the heart fail in the panting side And the eye be clouded with straining after the deep copse Still is there thrill in flight -- Soft are oak leaves under the swift feet. Sweet are the distant notes of the hunter's horn And the hounds' baying, Sweet to the trembling ears of the hidden and hunted. I run with the fox! Memory Sharp It has come to this... my darling... With the years gone over, With the truth acknowledged You are not coming back. It is entering a room Where the curtains are drawn, Where dust lies heavy On the table top. Sudden -- your name -- scrawled in the gloom -- And the mouth gone dry, And the heart stopped! Gift Shop Window Apple Annie, ancient and weather-beaten Her amazing garments huddled about her, Bent almost double to peer in the window -- She stood on the one foot... and then on the other And nodded her head like a great dark crow. Her old lips moved in some mumbo-jumbo But what she said was her own dark secret. The wine-glasses winked in their pewter holders, A bewildering array of costume jewellery Of filigreed ivory and cornflower crystal Was spread like the spoils of a pirate frigate For Apple Annie's remote appraisal. Some place, far back in the mind's recess The hunger for Beauty stirred in sleep. A little smile, like a secret fragment Of dimly-remembered and lost delight Moved, like the stir of a small frail fan On a face that was wrinkled and dim with age. With a hesitant gesture, desire engendered, Her old hands fluttered against the pane Twisted and gnarled... and pitifully empty... Fluttered ... and moved ... and were still again! Sire My mother was a lady With hair like silk And eyes like gentians And a skin like milk. But my father loved laughter And the flowing bowl -- And his eyes were dark mischief -- "Rest his soul!" My mother often stopped me From having fun With the echo of her proper "It isn't done!" But I'd feel my father's hand As he'd rough my hair Saying "black... and rebellious. We're a bold, bad pair!"' And now I'm woman grown With a son - ah me! Who am I to tell him What the "score" should be! Communion The rain falls down silverly On the dark night. Oh, but the air is soft to touch And your face white. This is for remembering, For putting away in the mind's pocket Like a shell - or a treasured stone, found at the beach-- This touch - this kiss - this heart turning toward heart -- This is for remembering When you are beyond reach. Words, at best, are like thistledown. Let us be quiet, then. Give me your hand! You are my friend, and my love till the world ends -- You understand! Loud Silence This is loud silence, This bewildering space Untenanted by you. It has the ugly face Of loneliness! Hush... foolish heart ... You have been here before -- This is your blood That rusts upon the door! He Will Not Go Unremembered (For Sir Charles G. D. Roberts) Into fire, and air, And finally soft and subtle ash This clay In which bright Beauty burned, Became articulate And lived a little while. He will not go unremembered. Small boys, Belly-flat on floor Will pad with him Down wooded ways Where creatures of the forest Are realer than the room And its four quite solid walls. Young girls Will pore with shining eyes Over verse that sings Of life... and beauty. He will not go unremembered Who served his Muse With faithful plying pen. This, his bright spark of lovely immortality Struck from the cycle of his life and work... He will not go unremembered! Bagpipes Skirl in Heaven Ah ... not irreverent this... For I am very sure The bagpipes skirl in Heaven! You see ... 'twould not be Heaven ... for him ... Without his native music -- Dear to his heart... Called up at will, Shrill ... and sweet Defiant as all "get out" ... Remembered past death! And angels ... Yes, even angels Must smile to see him marching by Brave in his kilt ... His head thrown back His "Plaidie" streaming in the wind. Who could be sad for one so young and fair, Immortal as a god, who gave his life With never a backward glance? Ah.. . not irreverent this, When bagpipes skirl in Heaven! Howd'Ya Do! When we were very small children In kindergarten We used to play a game. It was called "Howd'ya do, my Partner". And you bowed, each to the other, And clasped hands, And solemnly went round in a circle Which ended with a triumphant, rollicking skip! It's the strangest thing -- Looking back from so many years I can still remember distinctly That the only little boy I'd skip with Had eyes exactly like yours! I can remember stamping my foot And being unspeakably difficult When the teacher tried to persuade me That another little boy would do. That's one of the most important features Of that particular game -- Another little boy won't do! Big Bay This is fall So I moust remember Big Bay And the nets drying on the dock And the birches stripped for winter And wine in the sun! There were scarlet berries Maybe they were bittersweet, And all the ferns Were tobacco-coloured. Some places you long for With a physical longing. It is like that with Big Bay, Now... in October! Prayer, In a Hospital Dear God ... let him play games For a little while, yet! Let his hands curve to a hockey stick And the thrust of a canoe paddle. Let him dive like a young arrow Into clean water. But, dear God Let him play games! ... I have been to a Military Hospital. I have talked to Mike ... Mike isn't much older. His two boots hang at the foot of his bed. Two carefully "dubbined" boots. But Mike doesn't need two boots. He just had a leg taken off. He was cut down at Dieppe. He was fourteen months in prison camp in Germany. "O, yes ... they looked after us good enough -- But they had to tend their own wounded, first... And there were so damn many of us!" I talked to John, After I got over the first shock. John has both arms off... well above the elbow. They call him "Arms" in the hospital ward. It's sort of a grim... institutional joke. John has an eye out, too -- The new glass one doesn't match his own eye. "Are you married... or single... John?" I managed. "Single," he said ... "Oh yes, ... single." He said it, thankfully, Like a l-o-n-g sigh -- Like the sigh a child gives Who has cried himself to sleep. A hand grenade exploded in John's two hands. It was the last thing he'll ever hold - in his two hands! And then there was Fred. Fred got his at Sicily. He'd been training for three and one half years And he was in on the Big Push... three weeks! Sure... it was shrapnel. Took an eye out... and gave him a bum leg. He had a picture of his English bride... "Coming out to Canada, by God! Next month -- if they'll let her. Pretty good-looking guy Wasn't I... in the wedding picture?" You're doggone right! But it made a fellow so damn mad! Three and one half years' training To "get into it" -- for three weeks. And then ... hospitals ... One after the other ... For God-knows-how-long. It made a guy so damn mad! Mac hasn't any arms, now, either. "How did he blow his nose?" -- Well ... he could laugh at that feeble crack, And even give it serious consideration. "By Gosh! --- I don't think I've had a cold Since I got `knocked off' in Italy." Mac is married. He'd even had some leave Out of "this here" hospital. Getting ready for artificial arms, now. Has to "stay put" for a while, yet ... Oh, it takes quite a while, This business of making a man Makeshift-whole, again! (Wonderful how a guy can pick up a book in his teeth -- Smoke a cigarette, even -- with a little help!) Further down the line there's a chap with no nose. And a very young, fair-haired boy So badly burned That you couldn't identify a feature But his bright blue eyes. Bright ... and hard ... and sharp... On the look-out for pity. (Don't let your lips quiver In front of the young, fair-haired boy. Don't look at him with tears in your eyes -- Can't you see how he feels?) Going out, there are wheelchairs -- Doors opening on to rooms Where wisps of men like grey shadows Lie, curled up against their pillows. The hospital smell clings to your skin, To your palate. You breathe it... taste it... Stifle, in it! Dear God! Let him play games For a little while, yet! Let him laugh out loud And run like a young god In the path of the sun. I have been to a Military Hospital And I know there is nothing we can give To Mike and John, and Freddie and Mac That will make up for their Gethsemane. There is nothing! Glass eyes are not enough! Artificial limbs are not a fair exchange... Dear God... let him play games For a little while, yet! So Fair a Season How could he tell them There was a sleek small vixen With a silken pelt Who held his heart in thrall? How could he tell them when that call Came down the wind His bones were thinn'd With longing, And he turned his back On the pack? Even he couldn't tell the strange enchanted reason Why fall should suddenly be so fair a season! Spring Comes to a Small Town The pool players That all winter long have lingered lazily over the green-topped tables Half-somnolent in the cloud of cigarette smoke, Are seen lounging at precarious angles Against the nearest tobacconist's windows. Teen-age boys and girls link arms, and Roller-skate on the paved streets, Shoulders touching; and laughter like a living thing between them. Later, in the summer they will dance on Saturday evenings Under gaudy Chinese lanterns. And the prophecy of spring will be fulfilled. A short stout lady bustles off her doorstep Broom in hand To do a little sweeping; Her knitted suit fits closely Like the sleek, green plumage of a plump soft bird. Babies... babies -- everywhere Bouncing busily in their prams -- Eyes like bits of rain-washed sky... And everyone exclaiming as they ride past "Isn't he a darling!" Old, old gentlemen taking little walks, Their canes tapping the sidewalk More and more confidently. You can see how they feel about the sun, It's a downright comfort! Everything looks suddenly clean and shining. The lettuce in the fruit-shop window has a fresh-cut look Like an accidental bouquet; It suddenly becomes imperative to speak to someone And it doesn't matter in the least If a perfect stranger goes white with surprise When you tell them "It's a lovely day!"... In no uncertain terms. Spring comes to a small town In rather a special sort of way! After all, she can't add an awful lot to Fifth Avenue, But there's room for just her kind of glamour On Main Street! For a Brown Dog And the rusted spade turned in the dark earth And we committed his body to the dust -- His little brown dog's body That three minutes before Had jumped for joy And emitted joyous barks. (But you couldn't go out and shoot the motorist Who had run over him... Especially when it was a woman Who had shed appropriate tears!) Only, you could burn inside with a fierce flame Because he wouldn't come running to you Any more With a grin on his face And his funny little plume of a tail Frantic with love! The rusted spade turned in the dark earth And something of you went into the ground With the little brown dog's body! Right out of Pickwick Right out of Pickwick! You would have said: His quaint neat figure Rotund, but tapered. His trousers looked to be always peg-top, Narrowing down to his shining foot gear. His woollen vests were from far-famed Bond Street, Checked, and horsey and dear to his heart. You might have thought him a figure for laughter; You might have laughed and said "Humpty Dumpty!" If you hadn't known him, and hadn't loved him He was Uncle Reg to the young and the old -- He was Uncle Reg and his heart was gold... He'd been a Banker for many years And then he'd retired, to the laughter and tears Of nursing his mother... delicate... old... But precious to him. She thought him a bold Brave knight, who chose to stay at her side. You hardly saw him, when she first died! When Kathie, his niece, married the mayor -- A tall young Scotsman with sandy hair -- In his high silk hat, that sat "just so", Old Uncle Reg was a regular Beau. His cravat was faultess, his dignity sweet... From his topper top, to his gleaming feet! ... On birthdays, in fine Spencerian hand A letter would come. The words were grand And the style heroic. In dark green ink Uncle Reg would say, "I think You the fairest lady this side of the sea Who wears her birthdays with gaiety. You have my wishes for scores and scores." And the letters were signed "Admiringly, Yours." There'd come a bottle of fine liqueur At Christmas. A gift was always the best With a label. He thought it a very test Of friendship. You thought a person was dear and fine So you gave him your choicest, rarest wine! He was at his best when the lights were high And laughter gleamed in the dancer's eye; He never would ask for your hand outright, But would seek your partner, and there in sight Would ask permission to squire you round In a waltz; he was light as a blowing feather! His conversation was always whether The party was fun for you. Compliments came to his lips more swift Than the dancing music's whirling lift. He was no relation to us, by blood... He was "Uncle" because of the great warm flood Of affection. We adopted him right from the time we met... And he's Uncle Reg in our memory yet. And there's never a birthday or Christmas night When the candles burn high and the eyes are bright But a gentle whimsical courtly ghost Sits at our table. We miss him most Anniversary times! "Right out of Pickwick," you would have said, If you'd seen hire strolling along the street, His neat small figure against the sky. But Uncle Reg was a symbol, too Of the way the Quality used to do What was expected. He knew the rules And he carried them out, to the last fine letter. Somewhere I think his dear small ghost Treads a gay measure ... murmuring, "Most Sweet gracious lady ..." to some slim shade Who finds him a gallant entrancing Blade! Man is a Lonely One Man is a lonely one. How close he huddles to his hearth and house, Walks quiet as a mouse Down echoing streets... Gathers about him neighbours, Friends, Puts up with being bored While endless, pointless stories Roll from indifferent lips. He does not like to wake In an empty house. His spouse is his retreat from single-ness, His friendly bosom that will take him in And quiet his awareness, Lull him to comfort and insentient peace; Build tender walls about his shivering self; Gather within the crescent of her arms The core of his alarms. Man is a lonely one. He builds himself a shelter from the night, Turns himself inward where the lamplight falls, Takes comfort in the stoutness of four walls. Only when he strides out to face a gun Suddenly... strickenly, bravely He is one! War breaks his shell, and spews him forth alone Into a world most savagely his own! This Bitter Brew This is a bitter brew Mixed with my own hand, I recall how the herbs grew Flowering over the land. How the wind blew sweet And your eyes held the sun, And this need grew in my heart That will never be quite done. A cloud furled like midnight Covered the rising sea And slipt like a raven shadow Bitterly over me. You knew the sudden knowledge That filled my heart with fear And stood against the darkness As long as you were here! It Was Tall in the Forest (Browning Island, Muskoka) It was tall in the forest This morning... The trees were on tiptoe With their shoulders hunched, And every daisy lifted its frill Skyward. Down the lane between the trees I was a sudden giant! "Ho!" I said to a tree toad Who crossed my path, "Out of the way... Small Fry... The world is tall to-day And walking on long legs! Ho!" I said to the Small Flat One, "Out of the way!" Child ... Waiting in a Drawing-Room Her room reminded me Of a rich, dark fruit-cake. There was a "plum-iness" about it... A claret sort of aura. Nervous as a witch On a sea of red carpet I sat on the edge Of a high-backed chair, Longing to hide behind the grave grey portieres Or run like a rabbit From her step on the stair! Stars and the Dead Stars and the dead Are faithful; These, you may set your clock by; Promise to meet at such-and-such a time, And such a place -- The living can keep face With no such constancy. Look on this thing With disenchanted eyes -- Do not expect the living In such wise! The Old Lady and the Cat! At the very top storey the old lady sat Telling her love to a smoky grey cat. In a high, dark, old house like a tenement place. There were twinkles of merriment touching her face. With a few bits of bread for the pigeons to eat She sat in her eyrie above the dark street; And the language she spoke to the cat and the birds Was half made of poetry, half made of words. She was something remembered from tales you'd been told Of witchcraft and crones when you weren't very old. From beneath those high eaves in the middle of town A page from your childhood looked piquantly down! This Green This is the newest green As if an unseen Leprechaun Rushing across the lawn Had tipped his hand! Every tree Is filigree. There is a brush of colour In the hedges. The Scillas and the tulip spears Conspire against you. Tenderness runs like bright fire Along the evening. Turn quickly, if this thing can get you down... This green... this little love, that wraps the town! Weather-Vane When I was small And it would rain Against the widest window-pane I'd press my face and taste despair -- And streaked with woe I'd cry "Unfair!" Useless to say The clouds would pass The lovely rain would green the grass, Would drench the lilacs, Wash the world. My heart was small and tense And curl'd Tight as a snail... Only the smell of sun on clover Could make me glad the rain was over, Could set me free to walk enchanted The fresh, bright lanes; Geared like a weather-vane am I By what goes on in yonder sky! Noel Christmas to a little girl When she is small, Means a toy tea-set Or a beautiful doll, Or a little grey muff With a matching fur Beautiful beyond words These... to her! Christmas to a woman grown Is different again. It's all tangled crazily With mistletoe and men, With stardust and flowers And tunes for dancing feet, And packets out of jewellers' Marked "My sweet!" But best of all, later on... Best of all three... It's children's eyes by candlelight Around the tree! Immortal We may be now a sphere apart And yet I find you in my heart As warm and live, as once you were. A little stir, like candle flame Still touches me. Your very name Can call you up to quicken me To trembling silence. You may be To all intents and purposes As far away as yon bright star That pricks the midnight. Very far A love can be... and yet... and yet... There is no way I may forget Your essence. The "you" That walked my nights and days I carry with me, deep inside, As much a part of me as eyes Or hands or lips -- or sudden laughter! How sweet to know there is no death, Not in the heart, that is... A breath Of shaken longing and you come To company me. And I am dumb With this bright knowledge Certain ... sure... This then is deathless -- Does endure! Release The bird in my breast That long had lain Ruffled of feather, Drenched with rain, Rises to fly. You've set him free To sing himself Right out of me! ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I RUN WITH THE FOX*** ******* This file should be named 34329-8.txt or 34329-8.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/4/3/2/34329 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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