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The Last Hockey

by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

After A. T.

So for the last great Hockey of the Hills,

- Damsel v. Dame - by ruder cynics called

The Tournament of the Dead Dignities,

We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens,

Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass

Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged

In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife

And temporary Widow, - know you not,

Such trifles are the merest commonplace

In loftier contours? - Twenty-two in all

They numbered, and none other trod the field

Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge

It was to keep fair order in the lists,

And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.

O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!

Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave

Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn

With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved

Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit;

Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss

The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee

Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came

The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise,

The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin,

The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note

Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere

The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms

Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise

Of ladies, who in session to the West

Sat with the light behind them, self-approved.

Fortune with equal favour poised the scale,

And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard

'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!' - She, oh she,

One whom myself had picked from out the crowd

Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair,

Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave

On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.

The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks

Gave passage; once again she smote, again

Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared

The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal,

Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell

Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote

She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew;

And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.

For Susan, while she clove a devious course,

Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal,

And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came

The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad

The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she,

Heaving with unaccustomed exercise,

Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair,

Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe

In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured

The desperate whistle. Once again, and he,

Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last,

So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin,

That had he stood reverse-wise on his head,

Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.

Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose

A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise

Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank,

Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought,

Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail

Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw,

Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful,

That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd

Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end.

Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee

In Susan's litter; and they tended him

With curious tendance; and they drowned his views

On Susan, and the tourney, and the place

Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled

Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call

It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran: -

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick,

The little stick he leapt at in the lists

Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk

Of crescent span, that spreads on every side

A thousand hues, all flushing into one.

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came,

The woman with her ash, and lo the wound!

But we will make a bandage for the limb,

And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool,

And embrocations for the hurts of man.

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed;

With our own ears we heard him, and we knew

There dwelt an iron nature in the grain!

The splintering ash was cloven on his limb;

His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'

So passed that stout but choleric knight away;

And we, by certain wandering instincts led,

Made for a small pavilion, where we found

Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower

Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board.

And entering, here we lingered, and discussed

The what not, and the viands, and in time

Drew to the tourney, giving each his views; -

But mostly wondering what the coolies thought

To see these ladies of the Ruling Race,

'Yoked in all exercise of noble end,'

And Public Exhibition. Was it wise?

Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?

And here indeed we left it, for the shades

Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day

Brake from the hills, and down the path we went,

Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.