Thomas Hardy

Squire Hooper

Hooper was ninety. One September dawn
He sent a messenger
For his physician, who asked thereupon
What ailed the sufferer
Which he might circumvent, and promptly bid begone.

‘Doctor, I summoned you,’ the squire replied –
‘Pooh-pooh me though you may –
To ask what’s happened to me – burst inside,
It seems – not much, I’d say –
But awkward with a house-full here for a shoot to-day.’

And he described the symptoms. With bent head
The listener looked grave.
‘H’m. . . . You’re a dead man in six hours,’ he said. –
‘I speak out, since you are brave –
And best ’tis you should know, that last things may be sped.’

‘Right,’ said the squire. ‘And now comes – what to do?
One thing: on no account
Must I now spoil the sport I’ve asked them to –
My guests are paramount –
They must scour scrub and stubble; and big bags bring as due.’

He downed to breakfast, and bespoke his guests: –
‘I find I have to go
An unexpected journey, and it rests
With you, my friends, to show
The shoot can go off gaily, whether I’m there or no.’

Thus blandly spoke he; and to the fields they went,
And Hooper up the stair.
They had a glorious day; and stiff and spent
Returned as dusk drew near. –
‘Gentlemen,’ said the doctor, ‘he’s not back as meant,

To his deep regret!’ – So they took leave, each guest
Observing: ‘I dare say
Business detains him in the town: ’tis best
We should no longer stay
Just now. We’ll come again anon;’ and they went their way.

Meeting two men in the obscurity
Shouldering a box a thin
Cloth-covering wrapt, one sportsman cried: ‘Damn me,
I thought them carrying in,
At first, a coffin; till I knew it could not be.’