The Last Hockey

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.