The Boar of the Year
Dull-white on the slate of his hide ran a spear-scar from shoulder to chine:
And a pig that is marked by the spear is seldom the sweetest of swine.
When he stopped in the shade of the reh-grass that fringes the river-bed's marge,
The lift of his rust-red back-bristles had warned us: Look out for the charge!
And we got it! Right wheel, best foot foremost—with a quick sickle-sweep of the head
That missed the off-hock of my pony and tore through a tussock instead,
He made for the next horse's belly—the jungle-pig's deadliest trick—
And he caught the spear full in the shoulder, and the bamboo broke short at the nick:
Then the prettiest mare in the Province let out with her ever-quick heels,
And the sound of the Ancient his death-grunt was drowned in her feminine squeals!
And which of the Houses got first-spear? With sorrow unfeigned be it said,
I jabbed at his quarters and missed, and—I rode for the Black and the Red;
And he for the Black and the Yellow, and his was the first and last spear
That ended the hunt by the river, and won you the Boar of the Year.
25
