.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42677
   :PG.Title: Fires - Book I
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-09
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
   :DC.Title: Fires - Book I
              The Stone, and Other Tales
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover1.jpg

==============
FIRES - BOOK I
==============

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      FIRES

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      BOOK I
      THE STONE, AND OTHER TALES

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      BY

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      WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

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      LONDON
      ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET
      M CM XII  

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      *BY THE SAME WRITER*
      DAILY BREAD (1910)
      WOMENKIND (1912)

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      TO
      GEORGE CLAUSEN
      A TRIBUTE

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   |  Snug in my easy chair,
   |  I stirred the fire to flame.
   |  Fantastically fair,
   |  The flickering fancies came.
   |  Born of hearts desire:
   |  Amber woodland streaming;
   |  Topaz islands dreaming;
   |  Sunset-cities gleaming,
   |  Spire on burning spire;
   |  Ruddy-windowed taverns;
   |  Sunshine-spilling wines;
   |  Crystal-lighted caverns
   |  Of Golconda's mines;
   |  Summers, unreturning;
   |  Passion's crater yearning;
   |  Troy, the ever-burning;
   |  Shelley's lustral pyre;
   |  Dragon-eyes, unsleeping;
   |  Witches' cauldrons leaping;
   |  Golden galleys sweeping
   |  Out from sea-walled Tyre:
   |  Fancies, fugitive and fair,
   |  Flashed with singing through the air;
   |  Till, dazzled by the drowsy glare,
   |  I shut my eyes to heat and light;
   |  And saw, in sudden night,
   |  Crouched in the dripping dark,
   |  With steaming shoulders stark,
   |  The man who hews the coal to feed my fire.

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   CONTENTS

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   `The Stone`_
   `The Wife`_
   `The Machine`_
   `The Lodestar`_
   `The Shop`_
   `Flannan Isle`_
   `The Brothers`_
   `The Blind Rower`_
   `The Flute`_

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*Thanks are due to the editors of* THE ENGLISH REVIEW,
THE POETRY REVIEW *and* THE SPECTATOR *for leave to
reprint some of these tales*.

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.. _`THE STONE`:

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   FIRES

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   THE STONE

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..

   |  "And will you cut a stone for him,
   |  To set above his head?
   |  And will you cut a stone for him--
   |  A stone for him?" she said.

   |  Three days before, a splintered rock
   |  Had struck her lover dead--
   |  Had struck him in the quarry dead,
   |  Where, careless of the warning call,
   |  He loitered, while the shot was fired--
   |  A lively stripling, brave and tall,
   |  And sure of all his heart desired...
   |  A flash, a shock,
   |  A rumbling fall...
   |  And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
   |  A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
   |  And still as any stone he lay,
   |  With eyes that saw the end of all.

   |  I went to break the news to her:
   |  And I could hear my own heart beat
   |  With dread of what my lips might say
   |  But, some poor fool had sped before;
   |  And, flinging wide her father's door,
   |  Had blurted out the news to her,
   |  Had struck her lover dead for her,
   |  Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
   |  Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
   |  And dropped it at her feet:
   |  Then hurried on his witless way,
   |  Scarce knowing she had heard.

   |  And when I came, she stood, alone
   |  A woman, turned to stone:
   |  And, though no word at all she said,
   |  I knew that all was known.

   |  Because her heart was dead,
   |  She did not sigh nor moan,
   |  His mother wept:
   |  She could not weep.
   |  Her lover slept:
   |  She could not sleep.
   |  Three days, three nights,
   |  She did not stir:
   |  Three days, three nights,
   |  Were one to her,
   |  Who never closed her eyes
   |  From sunset to sunrise,
   |  From dawn to evenfall:
   |  Her tearless, staring eyes,
   |  That, seeing naught, saw all.

   |  The fourth night when I came from work,
   |  I found her at my door.
   |  "And will you cut a stone for him?"

   |  She said: and spoke no more:
   |  But followed me, as I went in,
   |  And sank upon a chair;
   |  And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
   |  With still, unseeing stare.
   |  And, as she waited patiently,
   |  I could not bear to feel
   |  Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
   |  Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
   |  Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
   |  And curdled the warm blood in me,
   |  Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
   |  And pierced my marrow like cold steel.

   |  And so I rose, and sought a stone;
   |  And cut it, smooth and square:
   |  And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
   |  Beside me, in her chair.
   |  Night after night, by candlelight,
   |  I cut her lover's name:
   |  Night after night, so still and white,
   |  And like a ghost she came;
   |  And sat beside me, in her chair;
   |  And watched with eyes aflame.

   |  She eyed each stroke;
   |  And hardly stirred:
   |  She never spoke
   |  A single word:
   |  And not a sound or murmur broke
   |  The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.

   |  With still eyes ever on my hands,
   |  With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
   |  My wincing, overwearied hands,
   |  She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
   |  And silent, indrawn breath:
   |  And every stroke my chisel cut,
   |  Death cut still deeper in her heart:
   |  The two of us were chiselling,
   |  Together, I and death.

   |  And when at length the job was done,
   |  And I had laid the mallet by,
   |  As if, at last, her peace were won,
   |  She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,
   |  Passed slowly through the open door:
   |  And never crossed my threshold more.

   |  Next night I laboured late, alone,
   |  To cut her name upon the stone.





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.. _`THE WIFE`:

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   THE WIFE

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..

   |  That night, she dreamt that he had died,
   |  As they were sleeping, side by side:
   |  And she awakened in affright,
   |  To think of him, so cold and white:
   |  And, when she turned her eyes to him,
   |  The tears of dream had made them dim;
   |  And, for a while, she could not see
   |  That he was sleeping quietly.
   |  But, as she saw him lying there,
   |  The moonlight on his curly hair,
   |  With happy face and even breath,
   |  Although she thought no more of death;
   |  And it was very good to rest
   |  Her trembling hand on his calm breast,
   |  And feel the warm and breathing life;
   |  And know that she was still his wife;
   |  Yet, in his bosom's easy stir,
   |  She felt a something trouble her;
   |  And wept again, she knew not why;
   |  And thought it would be good to die--
   |  To sink into the deep, sweet rest,
   |  Her hand upon his quiet breast.

   |  She slept: and when she woke again,
   |  A bird was at the window-pane,
   |  A wild-eyed bird, with wings of white
   |  That fluttered in the cold moonlight,
   |  As though for very fear of night;
   |  And flapped the pane, as if afraid:
   |  Yet, not a sound the white wings made.
   |  Her eyes met those beseeching eyes;
   |  And then she felt she needs must rise,
   |  To let the poor, wild creature in
   |  To find the rest it sought to win.
   |  She rose; and set the casement wide;
   |  And caught the murmur of the tide;
   |  And saw, afar, the mounded graves
   |  About the church beside the waves:
   |  The huddled headstones gleaming white
   |  And ghostly in the cold moonlight.

   |  The bird flew straightway to the bed;
   |  And hovered o'er the husband's head,
   |  And circled thrice above his head,
   |  Three times above his dreaming head:
   |  And, as she watched it, flying round
   |  She wondered that it made no sound;
   |  And, while she wondered, it was gone:
   |  And cold and white, the moonlight shone
   |  Upon her husband, sleeping there;
   |  And turned to silver his gold hair;
   |  And paled like death his ruddy face.
   |  Then, creeping back into her place,
   |  She lay beside him in the bed:
   |  But, if she closed her eyes, with dread
   |  She saw that wild bird's eyes that burned
   |  Through her shut eyelids, though she turned
   |  Her blessings over in her heart,
   |  That peace might come: and with a start,
   |  If she but drowsed, or dreamt of rest,
   |  She felt that wild beak in her breast.
   |  So, wearying for the time to rise,
   |  She watched, till dawn was in the skies.

   |  Her husband woke: but not a word
   |  She told him of the strange, white bird:
   |  But, as at breakfast-time, she took
   |  The pan of porridge from the crook;
   |  And all was ready to begin;
   |  A neighbour gossip hurried in;
   |  And told the news, that Phoebe Wright
   |  Had died in childbirth in the night.
   |  The husband neither spoke, nor stirred,
   |  But sat as one who, having heard,
   |  May never hearken to a word
   |  From any living lips again;
   |  And, heedless of the tongues of men,
   |  Hears, in a silence, dread and deep,
   |  The dead folk talking in their sleep.
   |  His porridge stood till it was cold:
   |  And as he sat, his face grew old;
   |  And all his yellow hair turned white,
   |  As it had looked to her last night,
   |  When it was drenched with cold moonlight.
   |  And she knew all: yet never said
   |  A word to him about the dead;
   |  Or pestered him to take his meat:
   |  But, sitting silent in her seat,
   |  She left him quiet with his heart
   |  To thoughts in which she had no part;
   |  Until he rose to go about
   |  His daily work; and staggered out.
   |  And all that day, her eyes were dim
   |  That she had borne no child to him.

   |  Days passed: and then, one evening late,
   |  As she came by the churchyard-gate,
   |  She saw him, near the new-made grave:
   |  And, with a lifted head and brave,
   |  She hurried home, lest he should know
   |  That she had looked upon his woe.
   |  And when they sat beside the fire,
   |  Although it seemed he could not tire
   |  Of gazing on the glowing coal,
   |  And though a fire was in her soul;
   |  She sat beside him with a smile,
   |  Lest he should look on her, the while,
   |  And wonder what could make her sad
   |  When all the world but him was glad.
   |  But, not a word to her he said:
   |  And silently they went to bed.

   |  She never closed her eyes that night:
   |  And she was stirring, ere the light;
   |  And while her husband lay at rest,
   |  She left his side, and quickly dressed;
   |  And stole downstairs, as though in fear
   |  That he should chance to wake, and hear.
   |  And still the stars were burning bright,
   |  As she passed out into the night;
   |  And all the dewy air was sweet
   |  With flowers that grew about her feet,
   |  Where he, for her, when they were wed,
   |  Had digged and sown a wallflower-bed:
   |  And on the rich, deep, mellow scent
   |  A gust of memories came and went,
   |  As, dreaming of those old glad hours,
   |  She stooped to pluck a bunch of flowers,
   |  To lay upon the flowerless grave
   |  That held his heart beside the wave.
   |  Though, like a troop of ghosts in white,
   |  The headstones watched in cold starlight,
   |  As, by the dead girl's grave she knelt,
   |  No fear in her full heart she felt:
   |  But hurried home, when she had laid
   |  Her offering on the turf, afraid
   |  That he should wake, and find her gone:
   |  And still the stars in heaven shone,
   |  When into bed again she crept,
   |  And lay beside him, while he slept
   |  And when day came, upon his hair,
   |  The warm light fell: and young and fair,
   |  He looked again to her kind eyes
   |  That watched him till 'twas time to rise.

   |  And, every day, as he went by
   |  The churchyard-gate with downcast eye,
   |  He saw fresh blooms upon the grave
   |  That held his heart beside the wave:
   |  And, wondering, he was glad to find
   |  That any living soul was kind
   |  To that dead girl who died the death
   |  Of shame for his sake: and the breath
   |  Of those fresh flowers to him was sweet,
   |  As he trudged home with laggard feet,
   |  Still wondering who could be her friend.

   |  He never knew, until the end,
   |  When, in the churchyard by the wave,
   |  He stood beside another grave:
   |  And, as the priest's last words were said,
   |  He turned, and lifting up his head,
   |  He saw the bunch of flowers was dead
   |  Upon the dead girl's grave; and felt
   |  The truth shoot through his heart, and melt
   |  The frost of icy bitterness,
   |  And flood his heart with warm distress:
   |  And, kneeling by his dead wife's grave,
   |  To her, at last, her hour he gave.

   |  That night, she dreamt he, too, had died,
   |  And they were sleeping, side by side.





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.. _`THE MACHINE`:

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   THE MACHINE

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..

   |  Since Thursday he'd been working overtime,
   |  With only three short hours for food and sleep,
   |  When no sleep came, because of the dull beat
   |  Of his fagged brain; and he could scarcely eat.
   |  And now, on Saturday, when he was free,
   |  And all his fellows hurried home to tea,
   |  He was so dazed that he could hardly keep
   |  His hands from going through the pantomime
   |  Of keeping-even sheets in his machine--
   |  The sleek machine that, day and night,
   |  Fed with paper, virgin white,
   |  Through those glaring, flaring hours
   |  In the incandescent light,
   |  Printed children's picture-books--
   |  Red and yellow, blue and green,
   |  With sunny fields and running brooks,
   |  Ships at sea, and golden sands,
   |  Queer white towns in Eastern lands,
   |  Tossing palms on coral strands--
   |  Until at times the clank and whirr and click,
   |  And shimmer of white paper turned him sick;
   |  And though at first the colours made him glad,
   |  They soon were dancing in his brain like mad;
   |  And kept on flaring through his burning head:
   |  Now, in a flash, the workshop, flaming red;
   |  Now blazing green; now staring blue;
   |  And then the yellow glow too well he knew:
   |  Until the sleek machine, with roar and glare,
   |  Began to take him in a dazzling snare;
   |  When, fascinated, with a senseless stare,
   |  It drew him slowly towards it, till his hair
   |  Was caught betwixt the rollers; but his hand,
   |  Almost before his brain could understand,
   |  Had clutched the lever; and the wheels were stopped
   |  Just in the nick of time; though now he dropped,
   |  Half-senseless on the littered workshop floor:
   |  And he'd lain dazed a minute there or more,
   |  When his machine-girl helped him to a seat.
   |  But soon again he was upon his feet,
   |  And tending that unsatisfied machine;
   |  And printing pictures, red and blue and green,
   |  Until again the green and blue and red
   |  Went jigging in a riot through his head;
   |  And, wildest of the raging rout,
   |  The blinding, screeching, racking yellow--
   |  A crazy devil of a fellow--
   |  O'er all the others seemed to shout.
   |  For hands must not be idle when the year
   |  Is getting through, and Christmas drawing near,
   |  With piles on piles of picture-books to print
   |  For people who spend money without stint:
   |  And, while they're paying down their liberal gold,
   |  Guess little what is bought, and what is sold.

   |  But he, at last, was free till Monday, free
   |  To sleep, to eat, to dream, to sulk, to walk,
   |  To laugh, to sing, to whistle, or to talk ...
   |  If only, through his brain, unceasingly,
   |  The wheels would not keep whirring, while the smell--
   |  The oily smell of thick and sticky glaze
   |  Clung to his nostrils, till 'twas hard to tell
   |  If he were really out in the fresh air;
   |  And still before his eyes, the blind, white glare,
   |  And then the colours dancing in his head,
   |  A maddening maze of yellow, blue and red.
   |  So, on he wandered in a kind of daze,
   |  Too racked with sleeplessness to think of bed
   |  Save as a hell, where you must toss and toss,
   |  With colours shooting in insane criss-cross
   |  Before wide, prickling, gritty, sleepless eyes.

   |  But, as he walked along the darkening street,
   |  Too tired to rest, and far too spent to eat,
   |  The swish and patter of the passing feet,
   |  The living, human murmur, and keen cries,
   |  The deep, cool shadows of the coming night,
   |  About quick-kindling jets of clustered light;
   |  And the fresh breathing of the rain-washed air,
   |  Brought something of sweet healing to his mind;
   |  And, though he trailed along as if half-blind,
   |  Yet often on the pavement he would stop
   |  To gaze at goods displayed within a shop;
   |  And wonder, in a dull and lifeless way,
   |  What they had cost, and who'd the price to pay.
   |  But those two kinds of shop which, as a boy,
   |  Had been to him a never-failing joy,
   |  The bookshop and the fruitshop, he passed by,
   |  As if their colours seared his wincing eye;
   |  For still he feared the yellow, blue and red
   |  Would start that devils' dancing in his head.
   |  And soon, through throngs of people, almost gay
   |  To be let loose from work, he pushed his way;
   |  And ripples of their careless laughter stole
   |  Like waves of cooling waters through his soul,
   |  While sometimes he would lift his aching eyes,
   |  And see a child's face, flushed with proud surprise,
   |  As, gripping both its parents' hands quite tight,
   |  It found itself in fairylands of light,
   |  Walking with grown-up people through the night:
   |  Then, turning, with a shudder he would see
   |  Poor painted faces, leering frightfully,
   |  And so drop back from heaven again to hell.

   |  And then, somehow, though how he scarce could tell,
   |  He found that he was walking through the throng,
   |  Quite happy, with a young girl at his side--
   |  A young girl apple-cheeked and eager-eyed;
   |  And her frank, friendly chatter seemed a song
   |  To him, who ne'er till now had heard life sing.
   |  And youth within him kindled quick and strong,
   |  As he drank in that careless chattering.
   |  And now she told to him how she had come
   |  From some far Northern Isle to earn her bread;
   |  And in a stuffy office all day long,
   |  In shiny ledgers, with a splitting head,
   |  She added dazzling figures till they danced,
   |  And tied themselves in wriggling knots, and pranced,
   |  And scrambled helter-skelter o'er the page:
   |  And, though it seemed already quite an age
   |  Since she had left her home, from end to end
   |  Of this big town she had not any friend:
   |  At times she almost dreaded she'd go dumb,
   |  With not a soul to speak to; for, at home
   |  In her own Island, she knew everyone...
   |  No strangers there! save when the tinkers came,
   |  With pots and pans aglinting in the sun--
   |  You saw the tin far off, like glancing flame,
   |  As all about the Island they would roam....
   |  Then, of themselves at home, there were six brothers,
   |  Five sisters, with herself, besides the others--
   |  Two homeless babes, whom, having lost their mothers,
   |  Her mother'd taken in among her own...
   |  And she in all her life had hardly known
   |  Her mother with no baby at her breast...
   |  She'd always sing to hush them all to sleep;
   |  And sang, too, for the dancing, sang to keep
   |  The feet in time and tune; and still sang best,
   |  Clean best of all the singers of the Isle.
   |  And as she talked of home, he saw her smile,
   |  With happy, far-off gaze; and then as though
   |  In wonder how she'd come to chatter so
   |  To this pale, grave-eyed boy, she paused, half shy;
   |  And then she laughed, with laughter clear and true;
   |  And looked into his eyes; and he laughed too,
   |  And they were happy, hardly knowing why.

   |  And now he told her of his life, and how
   |  He too had been nigh friendless, until now.
   |  And soon he talked to her about his work;
   |  But, when he spoke of it, as with a jerk,
   |  The light dropped from his eyes.  He seemed to slip
   |  Once more in the machine's relentless grip;
   |  And hear again the clank and whirr and click;
   |  And see the dancing colours and the glare;
   |  Until his dizzy brain again turned sick:
   |  And seeing him look round with vacant air,
   |  Fierce pity cut her to the very quick;
   |  And as her eyes with keen distress were filled,
   |  She touched his hand; and soon her kind touch stilled
   |  The agony: and so, to bring him ease,
   |  She told more of that Isle in Northern seas,
   |  Where she was born, and of the folks at home:
   |  And how, all night, you heard the wash of foam...
   |  Sometimes, on stormy nights, against the pane
   |  The sousing spray would rattle just like rain;
   |  And oft the high-tides scoured the threshold clean...

   |  And, as she talked, he saw the sea-light glint
   |  In her dark eyes: and then the sleek machine
   |  Lost hold on him at last; and ceased to print:
   |  And in his eyes there sprang a kindred light,
   |  As, hand in hand, they wandered through the night.





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.. _`THE LODESTAR`:

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   THE LODESTAR

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..

   |  From hag to hag, o'er miles of quaking moss,
   |  Benighted, in an unknown countryside,
   |  Among gaunt hills, the stars my only guide;
   |  Bewildered by peat-waters, black and deep,
   |  Wherein the mocking stars swam; spent for sleep;
   |  O'er-wearied by long trudging; at a loss
   |  Which way to turn for shelter from the night;
   |  I struggled on, until, my head grown light
   |  From utter weariness, I almost sank
   |  To rest among the tussocks, soft and dank,
   |  Drowsing, half-dazed, and murmuring: it were best
   |  To stray no further: but, to lie at rest,
   |  Beneath the cold, white stars, for evermore:
   |  When, suddenly, I came across
   |  A runnel oozing from the moss;
   |  And knew that, if I followed where it led,
   |  'Twould bring me to a valley, in the end,
   |  Where there'd be houses, and, perhaps, a bed.

   |  And so, the little runnel was my friend;
   |  And as I walked beside its path, at first
   |  It kept a friendly silence; then it burst
   |  Into a friendly singing, as it rambled,
   |  Among big boulders, down a craggy steep,
   |  'Mid bracken, nigh breast-deep,
   |  Through which I scrambled,
   |  Half-blind and numb for sleep,
   |  Until it seemed that I could strive no more:
   |  When, startled by a startled sheep,
   |  Looking down, I saw a track--
   |  A stony trackway, dimly white,
   |  Disappearing in the night,
   |  Across a waste of heather, burnt and black.
   |  And so, I took it, mumbling o'er and o'er,
   |  In witlessness of weariness,
   |  And featherheaded foolishness:
   |  A track must lead, at sometime, to a door.

   |  And, trudging to this senseless tune,
   |  That kept on drumming in my head,
   |  I followed where the pathway led;
   |  But, all too soon,
   |  It left the ling, and nigh was lost
   |  Among the bent that glimmered grey
   |  About my sore-bewildered way:
   |  But when, at length, it crossed
   |  A brawling burn, I saw, afar,
   |  A cottage window light--
   |  A star, but no cold, heavenly star--
   |  A warm red star of welcome in the night.

   |  Far off, it burned upon the black hillside,
   |  Sole star of earth in all that waste so wide:
   |  A little human lantern in the night,
   |  Yet, more to me than all the bright
   |  Unfriendly stars of heaven, so cold and white.

   |  And, as it dimly shone,
   |  Though towards it I could only go
   |  With stumbling step and slow,
   |  It quickened in my heart a kindred glow;
   |  And seemed to draw me on
   |  That last rough mile or so,
   |  Now seen, now hidden, when the track
   |  Dipped down into a slack,
   |  And all the earth again was black:
   |  And from the unseen fern,
   |  Grey ghost of all bewildered things,
   |  An owl brushed by me on unrustling wings,
   |  And gave me quite a turn,
   |  And sent a shiver through my hair.

   |  Then, again, more fair
   |  Flashed the friendly light,
   |  Beckoning through the night,
   |  A golden, glowing square,
   |  Growing big and clearer,
   |  As I drew slowly nearer,
   |  With eager, stumbling feet;
   |  And snuffed the homely reek of peat:
   |  And saw, above me, lone and high,
   |  A cottage, dark against the sky--
   |  A candle shining on the window-sill.

   |  With thankful heart, I climbed the hill;
   |  And stood, at last, before
   |  The dark and unknown door,
   |  Wondering if food and shelter lay behind,
   |  And what the welcome I should find,
   |  Whether kindly, or unkind:
   |  But I had scarcely knocked, to learn my fate,
   |  When the latch lifted, and the door swung wide
   |  On creaking hinges; and I saw, inside,
   |  A frail old woman, very worn and white,
   |  Her body all atremble in the light,
   |  Who gazed with strange, still eyes into the night,
   |  As though she did not see me, but looked straight
   |  Beyond me, to some unforgotten past:
   |  And I was startled when she said at last,
   |  With strange, still voice: "You're welcome, though you're late."

   |  And then, an old man, nodding in a chair,
   |  Beside the fire, awoke with sleepy stare;
   |  And rose in haste; and led her to a seat,
   |  Beside the cosy hearth of glowing peat;
   |  And muttered to me, as he took her hand:
   |  "It's queer, it's queer, that she, to-night, should stand,
   |  Who has not stood alone for fifteen year.
   |  Though I heard nothing, she was quick to hear.
   |  I must have dozed; but she has been awake,
   |  And listening for your footstep since daybreak:
   |  For she was certain you would come to-day;
   |  Aye, she was sure, for all that I could say:
   |  Talk as I might, she would not go to bed,
   |  Till you should come.  Your supper has been spread
   |  This long while: you'll be ready for your meat."
   |  With that he beckoned me to take a seat
   |  Before the table, lifting from the crook
   |  The singing kettle; while, with far-off look,
   |  As though she neither saw nor heard,
   |  His wife sat gazing at the glowing peat.

   |  So, wondering sorely, I sat down to eat;
   |  And yet she neither spoke, nor stirred;
   |  But in her high-backed chair sat bolt-upright,
   |  With still grey eyes; and tumbled hair, as white
   |  As fairy-cotton, straggling o'er her brow,
   |  And hung in wisps about her wasted cheek.
   |  But, when I'd finished, and drew near the fire,
   |  She suddenly turned round to speak,
   |  Her old eyes kindling with a tense desire.
   |  Her words came tremblingly: "You'll tell me now
   |  What news you bring of him, my son?"  Amazed,
   |  I met that searching and love-famished look:
   |  And then the old man, seeing I was dazed,
   |  Made shift to swing aside the kettle crook;
   |  And muttered in my ear:
   |  "John Netherton, his name:" and as I gazed
   |  Into the peat that broke in clear blue flame,
   |  Remembrance flashed upon me with the name;
   |  And I slipped back in memory twenty year--
   |  Back to the fo'c'sle of a villainous boat;
   |  And once again in that hot hell I lay,
   |  Watching the smoky lantern duck and sway,
   |  As though in steamy stench it kept afloat...
   |  The fiery fangs of fever at my throat;
   |  And my poor broken arm, ill-set,
   |  A bar of white-hot iron at my side:
   |  And, as I lay, with staring eyes pricked wide,
   |  Throughout eternities of agony,
   |  I saw a big, black shadow stoop o'er me;
   |  And felt a cool hand touch my brow, and wet
   |  My cracking lips: and sank in healing sleep:
   |  And when I rose from that unfathomed deep,
   |  I saw the youngest of that rascal crew
   |  Beside my bunk; and heard his name; and knew
   |  'Twas he who'd brought me ease: but, soon, ashore,
   |  We parted; and I never saw him more;
   |  Though, some while after, in another place,
   |  I heard he'd perished in a drunken brawl...

   |  And now the old man touched me, to recall
   |  My wandering thoughts; and breathed again the name
   |  And I looked up into the mother's face
   |  That burned before me with grey eyes aflame.
   |  And so I told her how I'd met her son;
   |  And of the kindly things that he had done.
   |  And as I spoke her quivering spirit drank
   |  The news that it had thirsted for so long;
   |  And for a flashing moment gay and strong
   |  Life flamed in her old eyes, then slowly sank.
   |  "And he was happy when you saw him last?"
   |  She asked: and I was glad to answer, "Yes."
   |  Then all sat dreaming without stir or sound,
   |  As gradually she sank into the past,
   |  With eyes that looked beyond all happiness,
   |  Beyond all earthly trouble and distress,
   |  Into some other world than ours.  The thread
   |  That long had held the straining life earthbound
   |  Was loosed at last: her eyes grew dark: her head
   |  Drooped slowly on her breast; and she was dead.

   |  The old man at her side spoke not a word,
   |  As we arose, and bore her to the bed;
   |  And laid her on the clean, white quilt at rest
   |  With calm hands folded on her quiet breast.
   |  And, hour by hour, he hardly even stirred,
   |  Crouching beside me in the ingle-seat;
   |  And staring, staring at the still red glow:
   |  But, only when the fire was burning low,
   |  He rose to bring fresh peat;
   |  And muttered with dull voice and slow:
   |  "This fire has ne'er burned out through all these years--
   |  Not since the hearthstone first was set--
   |  And that is nigh two hundred year ago.
   |  My father's father built this house; and I...
   |  I thought my son..." and then he gave a sigh;
   |  And as he stooped, his wizened cheek was wet
   |  With slowly-trickling tears.
   |  And now he hearkened, while an owl's keen cry
   |  Sang through the silence, as it fluttered nigh
   |  The cottage-window, dazzled by the light,
   |  Then back, with fainter hootings, into night.

   |  But, when the fresh peats broke into a blaze,
   |  He watched it with a steady, dry-eyed gaze;
   |  And spoke once more: "And he, dead, too!
   |  You did not tell her; but I knew ... I knew!"

   |  And now came all the tale of their distress:
   |  Their only son, in wanton waywardness,
   |  Had left them, nearly thirty year ago;
   |  And they had never had a word from him
   |  In all that time... the reckless blow
   |  Of his unkindness struck his mother low...
   |  Her hair, as ruddy as the fern
   |  In late September by a moorland burn,
   |  Had shrivelled rimy-white
   |  In one short summer's night:
   |  And they had looked, and looked for his return...
   |  His mother set for him at every meal,
   |  And kept his bed well-aired ... the knife and fork
   |  I'd used were John's ... but, as all hope grew dim,
   |  She sickened, dwindling feebler every day:
   |  Though, when it seemed that she must pass away,
   |  She grew more confident that, ere she passed,
   |  A stranger would bring news to her, at last,
   |  Of her lost son.  "And when I woke in bed
   |  Beside her, as the dawn was burning red,
   |  She turned to me, with sleepless eyes, and said:
   |  'The news will come, to-day.'"

   |  He spoke no more: and silent in my seat,
   |  With burning eyes upon the burning peat,
   |  I pondered on this strangest of strange things
   |  That had befallen in my vagrant life:
   |  And how, at last, my idle wanderings
   |  Had brought me to this old man and his wife.
   |  And as I brooded o'er the blaze,
   |  I thought with awe of that steadfast desire
   |  Which, unto me unknown,
   |  Had drawn me through long years, by such strange ways,
   |  From that dark fo'c'sle to this cottage-fire.

   |  And now, at last, quite spent, I dropped asleep:
   |  And slumbered long and deep:
   |  And when I waked, the peats were smouldering white
   |  Upon the white hearthstone:
   |  And over heath and bent dawn kindled bright
   |  Beyond dark ridges in a rosy fleece:
   |  While from the little window morning light
   |  Fell on her face, made holy with the peace
   |  That passeth understanding; and was shed
   |  In tender beams upon the low-bowed head
   |  Of that old man, forlorn beside the bed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SHOP`:

.. class:: center large

   THE SHOP

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, went the bell,
   |  As I pushed in; and, once again, the smell
   |  Of groceries, and news-sheets freshly-printed,
   |  That always greeted me when I looked in
   |  To buy my evening-paper: but, to-night,
   |  I wondered not to see the well-known face,
   |  With kind, brown eyes, and ever-friendly smile,
   |  Behind the counter; and to find the place
   |  Deserted at this hour, and not a light
   |  In either window.  Waiting there, a while,
   |  Though wondering at what change these changes hinted,
   |  I yet was grateful for the quiet gloom--
   |  Lit only by a gleam from the back-room,
   |  And, here and there, a glint of glass and tin--
   |  So pleasant, after all the flare and din
   |  And hubbub of the foundry: and my eyes,
   |  Still tingling from the smoke, were glad to rest
   |  Upon the ordered shelves, so neatly dressed
   |  That, even in the dusk, they seemed to tell
   |  No little of the hand that kept them clean,
   |  And of the head that sorted things so well
   |  That naught of waste or worry could be seen,
   |  And kept all sweet with ever-fresh supplies.

   |  And, as I thought upon her quiet way,
   |  Wondering what could have got her, that she'd left
   |  The shop, unlit, untended, and bereft
   |  Of her kind presence, overhead I heard
   |  A tiptoe creak, as though somebody stirred,
   |  With careful step, across the upper floor:
   |  Then all was silent, till the back-room door
   |  Swung open; and her husband hurried in.
   |  He feared he'd kept me, waiting in the dark;
   |  And he was sorry: but his wife who served
   |  The customers at night-time usually--
   |  While he made up the ledger after tea,
   |  Was busy, when I ... Well, to tell the truth,
   |  They were in trouble, for their little son
   |  Had come in ill from school ... the doctor said
   |  Pneumonia ... they'd been putting him to bed:
   |  Perhaps, I'd heard them, moving overhead,
   |  For boards would creak, and creak, for all your care.
   |  They hoped the best; for he was young; and youth
   |  Could come through much; and all that could be done
   |  Would be ... then he stood, listening, quite unnerved,
   |  As though he heard a footstep on the stair,
   |  Though I heard nothing: but at my remark
   |  About the fog and sleet, he turned,
   |  And answered quickly, as there burned
   |  In his brown eyes an eager flame:
   |  The raw and damp were much to blame:
   |  If but his son might breathe West-country air!
   |  A certain Cornish village he could name
   |  Was just the place; if they could send him there,
   |  And only for a week, he'd come back stronger...
   |  And then, again, he listened: and I took
   |  My paper, and went, afraid to keep him longer;
   |  And left him standing with that haggard look.

   |  Next night, as I pushed in, there was no tinkle:
   |  And, glancing up, I saw the bell was gone;
   |  Although, in either window, the gas shone;
   |  And I was greeted by a cheery twinkle
   |  Of burnished tins and bottles from the shelves:
   |  And now, I saw the father busy there
   |  Behind the counter, cutting with a string
   |  A bar of soap up for a customer,
   |  With weary eyes, and jerky, harassed air,
   |  As if his mind were hardly on the task:
   |  And when 'twas done, and parcelled up for her,
   |  And she had gone; he turned to me, and said:
   |  He thought that folks might cut their soap themselves.
   |  'Twas nothing much ... but any little thing,
   |  At such a time ... And, having little doubt
   |  The boy was worse, I did not like to ask;
   |  So picked my paper up, and hurried out.

   |  And, all next day, amid the glare and clang
   |  And clatter of the workshop, his words rang;
   |  And kept on ringing, in my head a-ring;
   |  But any little thing ... at such a time...
   |  And kept on chiming to the anvils' chime:
   |  But any little thing ... at such a time...
   |  And they were hissed and sputtered in the sizzle
   |  Of water on hot iron: little thing...
   |  At such a time: and, when I left, at last,
   |  The smoke and steam; and walked through the cold drizzle,
   |  The lumbering of the 'buses as they passed
   |  Seemed full of it; and to the passing feet,
   |  The words kept patter, patter, with dull beat.

   |  I almost feared to turn into their street,
   |  Lest I should find the blinds down in the shop:
   |  And, more than once, I'd half-a-mind to stop,
   |  And buy my paper from the yelling boys,
   |  Who darted all about with such a noise
   |  That I half-wondered, in a foolish way,
   |  How they could shriek so, knowing that the sound
   |  Must worry children, lying ill in bed...
   |  Then, thinking even they must earn their bread,
   |  As I earned mine, and scarce as noisily!
   |  I wandered on; and very soon I found
   |  I'd followed where my thoughts had been all day.
   |  And stood before the shop, relieved to see
   |  The gases burning, and no window-blind
   |  Of blank foreboding.  With an easier mind,
   |  I entered slowly; and was glad to find
   |  The father by the counter, 'waiting me,
   |  With paper ready and a cheery face.
   |  Yes! yes! the boy was better ... took the turn,
   |  Last night, just after I had left the place.
   |  He feared that he'd been short and cross last night.
   |  But, when a little child was suffering,
   |  It worried you ... and any little thing,
   |  At such a moment, made you cut up rough:
   |  Though, now that he was going on all right...
   |  Well, he'd have patience, now, to be polite!
   |  And, soon as ever he was well enough,
   |  The boy should go to Cornwall for a change--
   |  Should go to his own home; for he, himself,
   |  Was Cornish, born and bred, his wife as well:
   |  And still his parents lived in the old place--
   |  A little place, as snug as snug could be...
   |  Where apple-blossom dipped into the sea...
   |  Perhaps, to strangers' ears, that sounded strange--
   |  But not to any Cornishman who knew
   |  How sea and land ran up into each other;
   |  And how, all round each wide, blue estuary,
   |  The flowers were blooming to the waters' edge:
   |  You'd come on blue-bells like a sea of blue...
   |  But they would not be out for some while yet...
   |  'Twould be primroses, blowing everywhere,
   |  Primroses, and primroses, and primroses...
   |  You'd never half-know what primroses were,
   |  Unless you'd seen them growing in the West;
   |  But, having seen, would never more forget.
   |  Why, every bank, and every lane and hedge
   |  Was just one blaze of yellow; and the smell,
   |  When the sun shone upon them, after wet...
   |  And his eyes sparkled, as he turned to sell
   |  A penny loaf and half-an-ounce of tea
   |  To a poor child, who waited patiently,
   |  With hacking cough that tore her hollow chest:
   |  And, as she went out, clutching tight the change,
   |  He muttered to himself: It's strange, it's strange
   |  That little ones should suffer so....  The light
   |  Had left his eyes: but, when he turned to me,
   |  I saw a flame leap in them, hot and bright.
   |  I'd like to take them all, he said, to-night!

   |  And, in the workshop, all through the next day,
   |  The anvils had another tune to play...
   |  Primroses, and primroses, and primroses:
   |  The bellows puffing out: It's strange, it's strange
   |  That little ones should suffer so...
   |  And now, my hammer, at a blow:
   |  I'd like to take them all, to-night!
   |  And, in the clouds of steam, and white-hot glow,
   |  I seemed to see primroses everywhere,
   |  Primroses, and primroses, and primroses.

   |  And, each night after that, I heard the boy
   |  Was mending quickly; and would soon be well:
   |  Till one night I was startled by the bell:
   |  Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, loud and clear;
   |  And tried to hush it, lest the lad should hear.
   |  But, when the father saw me clutch the thing,
   |  He said, the boy had missed it yesterday;
   |  And wondered why he could not hear it ring;
   |  And wanted it; and had to have his way.
   |  And then, with brown eyes burning with deep joy,
   |  He told me, that his son was going West--
   |  Was going home ... the doctor thought, next week,
   |  He'd be quite well enough: the way was long;
   |  But trains were quick; and he would soon be there
   |  And on the journey he'd have every care,
   |  His mother being with him ... it was best,
   |  That she should go: for he would find it strange,
   |  The little chap, at first ... she needed change...
   |  And, when they'd had a whiff of Western air!
   |  'Twould cost a deal; and there was naught to spare
   |  But, what was money, if you hadn't health:
   |  And, what more could you buy, if you'd the wealth...
   |  Yes! 'twould be lonely for himself, and rough;
   |  Though, on the whole, he'd manage well enough:
   |  He'd have a lot to do: and there was naught
   |  Like work to keep folk cheerful: when the hand
   |  Was busy, you had little time for thought;
   |  And thinking was the mischief ... and 'twas grand
   |  To know that they'd be happy.  Then the bell
   |  Went tinkle-tinkle; and he turned to sell.

   |  One night he greeted me with face that shone,
   |  Although the eyes were wistful; they were gone--
   |  Had gone this morning, he was glad to say:
   |  And, though 'twas sore work, setting them away,
   |  Still, 'twas the best for them ... and they would be
   |  Already in the cottage by the sea...
   |  He spoke no more of them; but turned his head;
   |  And said he wondered if the price of bread...
   |  And, as I went again into the night,
   |  I saw his eyes were glistening in the light.

   |  And, two nights after that, he'd got a letter:
   |  And all was well: the boy was keeping better;
   |  And was as happy as a child could be,
   |  All day with the primroses and the sea,
   |  And pigs!  Of all the wonders of the West,
   |  His mother wrote, he liked the pigs the best.
   |  And now the father laughed until the tears
   |  Were in his eyes, and chuckled: Aye! he knew!
   |  Had he not been a boy there once, himself?
   |  He'd liked pigs, too, when he was his son's years.
   |  And then, he reached a half-loaf from the shelf;
   |  And twisted up a farthing's worth of tea,
   |  And farthing's worth of sugar, for the child,
   |  The same poor child who waited patiently,
   |  Still shaken by a hacking, racking cough.

   |  And, all next day, the anvils rang with jigs:
   |  The bellows roared and rumbled with loud laughter,
   |  Until it seemed the workshop had gone wild,
   |  And it would echo, echo, ever after
   |  The tune the hammers tinkled on and off,
   |  A silly tune of primroses and pigs...
   |  Of all the wonders of the West
   |  He liked the pigs, he liked the pigs the best!

   |  Next night, as I went in, I caught
   |  A strange, fresh smell.  The postman had just brought
   |  A precious box from Cornwall, and the shop
   |  Was lit with primroses, that lay atop
   |  A Cornish pasty, and a pot of cream:
   |  And, as, with gentle hands, the father lifted
   |  The flowers his little son had plucked for him,
   |  He stood a moment in a far-off dream,
   |  As though in glad remembrances he drifted
   |  On Western seas: and, as his eyes grew dim,
   |  He stooped, and buried them in deep, sweet bloom
   |  Till, hearing, once again, the poor child's cough,
   |  He served her hurriedly, and sent her off,
   |  Quite happily, with thin hands filled with flowers.
   |  And, as I followed to the street, the gloom
   |  Was starred with primroses; and many hours
   |  The strange, shy flickering surprise
   |  Of that child's keen, enchanted eyes
   |  Lit up my heart, and brightened my dull room.

   |  Then, many nights the foundry kept me late
   |  With overtime; and I was much too tired
   |  To go round by the shop; but made for bed
   |  As straight as I could go: until one night
   |  We'd left off earlier, though 'twas after eight,
   |  I thought I'd like some news about the boy.
   |  I found the shop untended; and the bell
   |  Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkled all in vain.
   |  And then I saw, through the half-curtained pane,
   |  The back-room was a very blaze of joy:
   |  And knew the mother and son had come safe back.
   |  And, as I slipped away, now all was well,
   |  I heard the boy shriek out, in shrill delight:
   |  "And, father, all the little pigs were black!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FLANNAN ISLE`:

.. class:: center large

   FLANNAN ISLE

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "Though three men dwell on Flannan Isle
   |  To keep the lamp alight,
   |  As we steered under the lee, we caught
   |  No glimmer through the night."

   |  A passing ship at dawn had brought
   |  The news; and quickly we set sail,
   |  To find out what strange thing might ail
   |  The keepers of the deep-sea light.

   |  The Winter day broke blue and bright,
   |  With glancing sun and glancing spray,
   |  As o'er the swell our boat made way,
   |  As gallant as a gull in flight.

   |  But, as we neared the lonely Isle;
   |  And looked up at the naked height;
   |  And saw the lighthouse towering white,
   |  With blinded lantern, that all night
   |  Had never shot a spark
   |  Of comfort through the dark,
   |  So ghostly in the cold sunlight
   |  It seemed, that we were struck the while
   |  With wonder all too dread for words.

   |  And, as into the tiny creek
   |  We stole beneath the hanging crag,
   |  We saw three queer, black, ugly birds--
   |  Too big, by far, in my belief,
   |  For guillemot or shag--
   |  Like seamen sitting bolt-upright
   |  Upon a half-tide reef:
   |  But, as we neared, they plunged from sight,
   |  Without a sound, or spurt of white.

   |  And still too mazed to speak,
   |  We landed; and made fast the boat;
   |  And climbed the track in single file,
   |  Each wishing he was safe afloat,
   |  On any sea, however far,
   |  So it be far from Flannan Isle:
   |  And still we seemed to climb, and climb,
   |  As though we'd lost all count of time,
   |  And so must climb for evermore.
   |  Yet, all too soon, we reached the door--
   |  The black, sun-blistered lighthouse-door,
   |  That gaped for us ajar.

   |  As, on the threshold, for a spell,
   |  We paused, we seemed to breathe the smell
   |  Of limewash and of tar,
   |  Familiar as our daily breath,
   |  As though 'twere some strange scent of death
   |  And so, yet wondering, side by side,
   |  We stood a moment, still tongue-tied:
   |  And each with black foreboding eyed
   |  The door, ere we should fling it wide,
   |  To leave the sunlight for the gloom:
   |  Till, plucking courage up, at last,
   |  Hard on each other's heels we passed,
   |  Into the living-room.

   |  Yet, as we crowded through the door,
   |  We only saw a table, spread
   |  For dinner, meat and cheese and bread;
   |  But, all untouched; and no one there:
   |  As though, when they sat down to eat,
   |  Ere they could even taste,
   |  Alarm had come; and they in haste
   |  Had risen and left the bread and meat:
   |  For at the table-head a chair
   |  Lay tumbled on the floor.

   |  We listened; but we only heard
   |  The feeble cheeping of a bird
   |  That starved upon its perch:
   |  And, listening still, without a word,
   |  We set about our hopeless search.

   |  We hunted high, we hunted low;
   |  And soon ransacked the empty house;
   |  Then o'er the Island, to and fro,
   |  We ranged, to listen and to look
   |  In every cranny, cleft or nook
   |  That might have hid a bird or mouse:
   |  But, though we searched from shore to shore,
   |  We found no sign in any place:
   |  And soon again stood face to face
   |  Before the gaping door:
   |  And stole into the room once more
   |  As frightened children steal.

   |  Aye: though we hunted high and low,
   |  And hunted everywhere,
   |  Of the three men's fate we found no trace
   |  Of any kind in any place,
   |  But a door ajar, and an untouched meal,
   |  And an overtoppled chair.

   |  And, as we listened in the gloom
   |  Of that forsaken living-room---
   |  A chill clutch on our breath--
   |  We thought how ill-chance came to all
   |  Who kept the Flannan Light:
   |  And how the rock had been the death
   |  Of many a likely lad:
   |  How six had come to a sudden end,
   |  And three had gone stark mad:
   |  And one whom we'd all known as friend
   |  Had leapt from the lantern one still night,
   |  And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall:
   |  And long we thought
   |  On the three we sought,
   |  And of what might yet befall.

   |  Like curs, a glance has brought to heel,
   |  We listened, flinching there:
   |  And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal,
   |  And the overtoppled chair.

   |  We seemed to stand for an endless while,
   |  Though still no word was said,
   |  Three men alive on Flannan Isle,
   |  Who thought, on three men dead.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BROTHERS`:

.. class:: center large

   THE BROTHERS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  All morning they had quarrelled, as they worked,
   |  A little off their fellows, in the pit:
   |  Dick growled at Robert; Robert said Dick shirked:
   |  And when the roof, dropt more than they had reckoned,
   |  Began to crack and split,
   |  Though both rushed like a shot to set
   |  The pit-props in their places,
   |  Each said the other was to blame,
   |  When, all secure, with flushed and grimy faces,
   |  They faced each other for a second.
   |  All morning they had quarrelled: yet,
   |  Neither had breathed her name.

   |  Again they turned to work:
   |  And in the dusty murk
   |  Of that black gallery
   |  Which ran out three miles underneath the sea,
   |  There was no sound at all,
   |  Save whispering creak of roof and wall.
   |  And crack of coal, and tap of pick,
   |  And now and then a rattling fall:
   |  While Robert worked on steadily, but Dick
   |  In fits and starts, with teeth clenched tight,
   |  And dark eyes flashing in his lamp's dull light.

   |  And when he paused, nigh spent, to wipe the sweat
   |  From off his dripping brow: and Robert turned
   |  To fling some idle jibe at him, the spark
   |  Of anger, smouldering in him, flared and burned--
   |  Though all his body quivered, wringing-wet--
   |  Till that black hole
   |  To him blazed red,
   |  As if the very coal
   |  Had kindled underfoot and overhead:
   |  Then, gripping tight his pick,
   |  He rushed upon his brother:
   |  But Robert, turning quick,
   |  Leapt up, and now they faced each other.

   |  They faced each other: Dick with arm upraised,
   |  In act to strike, and murder in his eyes....
   |  When, suddenly, with noise of thunder,
   |  The earth shook round them, rumbling o'er and under;
   |  And Dick saw Robert, lying at his feet:
   |  As, close behind, the gallery crashed in:
   |  And almost at his heel, earth gaped asunder.
   |  By black disaster dazed,
   |  His wrath died; and he dropped the pick;
   |  And staggered, dizzily and terror-sick.
   |  But, when the dust and din
   |  Had settled to a stillness, dread as death:
   |  And he once more could draw his breath;
   |  He gave a little joyful shout
   |  To find the lamps had not gone out.

   |  And on his knees he fell
   |  Beside his brother, buried in black dust:
   |  And, full of tense misgiving,
   |  He lifted him, and thrust
   |  A knee beneath his head; and cleared
   |  The dust from mouth and nose: but could not tell
   |  Awhile if he were dead or living.
   |  Too fearful to know what he feared,
   |  He fumbled at the open shirt,
   |  And felt till he could feel the heart,
   |  Still beating with a feeble beat:
   |  And then he saw the closed lids part,
   |  And saw the nostrils quiver;
   |  And knew his brother lived, though sorely hurt.

   |  Again he staggered to his feet,
   |  And fetched his water-can, and wet
   |  The ashy lips, and bathed the brow,
   |  Until his brother sat up with a shiver,
   |  And gazed before him with a senseless stare
   |  And dull eyes strangely set.
   |  Too well Dick knew that now
   |  They must not linger there,
   |  Cut off from all their mates, to be o'ertaken
   |  In less than no time by the deadly damp,
   |  So, picking up his lamp,
   |  He made his brother rise;
   |  Then took him by the arm,
   |  And shook him, till he'd shaken
   |  An inkling of the danger and alarm
   |  Into those dull, still eyes:
   |  Then dragged him, and half-carried him, in haste,
   |  To reach the airway, where 'twould still be sweet
   |  When all the gallery was foul with gas:
   |  But, soon as they had reached it, they were faced
   |  By a big fall of roof they could not pass;
   |  And found themselves cut off from all retreat,
   |  On every hand, by that black shining wall;
   |  With naught to do but sit and wait
   |  Till rescue came, if rescue came at all,
   |  And did not come too late.

   |  And, in the fresher airway, light came back
   |  To Robert's eyes, although he never spoke:
   |  And not a sound the deathly quiet broke,
   |  As they sat staring at that wall of black--
   |  As, in the glimmer of the dusky lamp,
   |  They sat and wondered, wondered if the damp--
   |  The stealthy after-damp that creeping, creeping,
   |  Takes strong lads by the throat, and drops them sleeping,
   |  To wake no more for any woman's weeping--
   |  Would steal upon them, ere the rescue came....
   |  And if the rescuers would find them sitting,
   |  Would find them sitting cold....
   |  Then, as they sat and wondered, like a flame
   |  One thought burned up both hearts:
   |  Still, neither breathed her name.

   |  And now their thoughts dropped back into the pit,
   |  And through the league-long gallery went flitting
   |  With speed no fall could hold:
   |  They wondered how their mates had fared:
   |  If they'd been struck stone-dead,
   |  Or if they shared
   |  Like fate with them, or reached the shaft,
   |  Unhurt, and only scared,
   |  Before disaster overtook them:
   |  And then, although their courage ne'er forsook them,
   |  They wondered once again if they must sit
   |  Awaiting death ... but knowing well
   |  That even for a while to dwell
   |  On such like thoughts will drive a strong man daft:
   |  They shook themselves until their thoughts ran free
   |  Along the drift, and clambered in the cage;
   |  And in a trice were shooting up the shaft:
   |  But when their thoughts had come to the pithead,
   |  And found the fearful people gathered there,
   |  Beneath the noonday sun,
   |  Bright-eyed with terror, blinded by despair,
   |  Dick rose, and with his chalk wrote on the wall,
   |  This message for their folk:
   |  "We can't get any further, 12, noonday"--
   |  And signed both names; and, when he'd done,
   |  Though neither of them spoke,
   |  They both seemed easier in a way,
   |  Now that they'd left a word,
   |  Though nothing but a scrawl.

   |  And silent still they sat,
   |  And never stirred:
   |  And Dick's thoughts dwelt on this and that:
   |  How, far above their heads, upon the sea
   |  The sun was shining merrily,
   |  And in its golden glancing
   |  The windy waves were dancing:
   |  And how he'd slipt that morning on his way:
   |  And how on Friday, when he drew his pay,
   |  He'd buy a blanket for his whippet, Nell;
   |  He felt dead certain she would win the race,
   |  On Saturday ... though you could never tell,
   |  There were such odds against her ... but his face
   |  Lit up as though, even now, he saw her run,
   |  A little slip of lightning, in the sun:
   |  While Robert's thoughts were ever on the match
   |  His team was booked to play on Saturday;
   |  He placed the field, and settled who should play
   |  The centre-forward; for he had a doubt
   |  Will Burn was scarcely up to form, although...

   |  Just then, the lamp went slowly out.

   |  Still, neither stirred,
   |  Nor spoke a word;
   |  Though either's breath came quickly, with a catch.

   |  And now again one thought
   |  Set both their hearts afire
   |  In one fierce flame
   |  Of quick desire:
   |  Though neither breathed her name.

   |  Then Dick stretched out his hand; and caught
   |  His brother's arm; and whispered in his ear:
   |  "Bob, lad, there's naught to fear ...
   |  And, when we're out, lad, you and she shall wed."

   |  Bob gripped Dick's hand; and then no more was said,
   |  As, slowly, all about them rose
   |  The deadly after-damp; but close
   |  They sat together, hand in hand.
   |  Then their minds wandered; and Dick seemed to stand
   |  And shout till he was hoarse
   |  To speed his winning whippet down the course ...
   |  And Robert, with the ball
   |  Secure within his oxter charged ahead
   |  Straight for the goal, and none could hold,
   |  Though many tried a fall.

   |  Then dreaming they were lucky boys in bed,
   |  Once more, and lying snugly by each other:
   |  Dick, with his arms clasped tight about his brother,
   |  Whispered with failing breath
   |  Into the ear of death:
   |  "Come, Robert, cuddle closer, lad, it's cold."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLIND ROWER`:

.. class:: center large

   THE BLIND ROWER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  And since he rowed his father home,
   |  His hand has never touched an oar.
   |  All day, he wanders on the shore,
   |  And hearkens to the swishing foam.
   |  Though blind from birth, he still could row
   |  As well as any lad with sight;
   |  And knew strange things that none may know
   |  Save those who live without the light.

   |  When they put out that Summer eve
   |  To sink the lobster-pots at sea,
   |  The sun was crimson in the sky;
   |  And not a breath was in the sky,
   |  The brooding, thunder-laden sky,
   |  That, heavily and wearily,
   |  Weighed down upon the waveless sea
   |  That scarcely seemed to heave.

   |  The pots were safely sunk; and then
   |  The father gave the word for home:
   |  He took the tiller in his hand,
   |  And, in his heart already home,
   |  He brought her nose round towards the land,
   |  To steer her straight for home.

   |  He never spoke,
   |  Nor stirred again:
   |  A sudden stroke,
   |  And he lay dead,
   |  With staring eyes, and lips of lead.

   |  The son rowed on, and nothing feared:
   |  And sometimes, merrily,
   |  He lifted up his voice, and sang,
   |  Both high and low,
   |  And loud and sweet:
   |  For he was ever gay at sea,
   |  And ever glad to row,
   |  And rowed as only blind men row:
   |  And little did the blind lad know
   |  That death was at his feet:
   |  For still he thought his father steered;
   |  Nor knew that he was all alone
   |  With death upon the open sea.
   |  So merrily, he rowed, and sang;
   |  And, strangely on the silence rang
   |  That lonely melody,
   |  As, through the livid, brooding gloom,
   |  By rock and reef, he rowed for home--
   |  The blind man rowed the dead man home.

   |  But, as they neared the shore,
   |  He rested on his oar:
   |  And, wondering that his father kept
   |  So very quiet in the stern;
   |  He laughed, and asked him if he slept;
   |  And vowed he heard him snore just now.
   |  Though, when his father spoke no word,
   |  A sudden fear upon him came:
   |  And, crying on his father's name,
   |  With flinching heart, he heard
   |  The water lapping on the shore;
   |  And all his blood ran cold, to feel
   |  The shingle grate beneath the keel:
   |  And stretching over towards the stern,
   |  His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

   |  But, help was near at hand;
   |  And safe he came to land:
   |  Though none has ever known
   |  How he rowed in, alone,
   |  And never touched a reef.
   |  Some say they saw the dead man steer--
   |  The dead man steer the blind man home--
   |  Though, when they found him dead,
   |  His hand was cold as lead.

   |  So, ever restless, to and fro,
   |  In every sort of weather,
   |  The blind lad wanders on the shore,
   |  And hearkens to the foam.
   |  His hand has never touched an oar,
   |  Since they came home together--
   |  The blind, who rowed his father home--
   |  The dead, who steered his blind son home.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FLUTE`:

.. class:: center large

   THE FLUTE

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "Good-night!" he sang out cheerily:
   |  "Good-night!" and yet again: "Good-night!"

   |  And I was gay that night to be
   |  Once more in my clean countryside,
   |  Among the windy hills and wide.
   |  Six days of city slush and mud,
   |  Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel,
   |  Made me rejoice again to feel
   |  The tingling frost that fires the blood,
   |  And sets life burning keen and bright;
   |  And down the ringing road to stride
   |  The eager swinging stride that braces
   |  The straining thews from hip to heel:
   |  To breathe again the wind that sweeps
   |  Across the grassy, Northern steeps,
   |  From crystal deeps and starry spaces.

   |  And I was glad again to hear
   |  The old man's greeting of good cheer:
   |  For every night for many a year
   |  At that same corner we had met,
   |  Summer and Winter, dry and wet:
   |  And though I never once had heard
   |  The old man speak another word,
   |  His cheery greeting at the bend
   |  Seemed like the welcome of a friend.

   |  But, as we neared to-night, somehow,
   |  I felt that he would stop and speak:
   |  Though he went by: and when I turned,
   |  I saw him standing in the road,
   |  And looking back, with hand to brow,
   |  As if to shade old eyes, grown weak
   |  Awaiting the long sleep they'd earned:
   |  Though, as again towards him I strode,
   |  A friendly light within them burned.
   |  And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke
   |  With shaking head, and voice that broke:
   |  "I've missed you these last nights," he said
   |  "And I have not so many now
   |  That I can miss friends easily...
   |  Aye: friends grow scarce, as you grow old:
   |  And roads are rough: and winds are cold:
   |  And when you feel you're losing hold,
   |  Life does not go too merrily."
   |  And then he stood with nodding head,
   |  And spoke no more.  And so I told
   |  How I had been, six days and nights,
   |  Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights.
   |  And now, as though my voice had stirred
   |  His heart to speech, he told right out,
   |  With quickening eye and quavering word,
   |  The things I care to hear about,
   |  The little things that make up life:
   |  How he'd been lonesome, since his wife
   |  Had died, some thirty year ago:
   |  And how he trudged three mile or so
   |  To reach the farmstead where he worked,
   |  And three mile back to his own door...
   |  For he dwelt outby on the moor:
   |  And every day the distance irked
   |  More sorely still his poor, old bones;
   |  And all the road seemed strewn with stones
   |  To trip you up, when you were old--
   |  When you were old, and friends were few:
   |  How, since the farmstead had been sold,
   |  The master and the men were new,
   |  All save himself; and they were young;
   |  And Mistress had a raspy tongue:
   |  So, often, he would hardly speak
   |  A friendly word from week to week
   |  With any soul.  Old friends had died,
   |  Or else had quit the countryside:
   |  And, since his wife was taken, he
   |  Had lived alone, this thirty year:
   |  And there were few who cared to hear
   |  An old man's jabber ... and too long
   |  He'd kept me, standing in the cold,
   |  With his long tongue, and such a song
   |  About himself!  And I would be...

   |  I put my arm through his; and turned
   |  To go upon his way with him:
   |  And once again that warm light burned
   |  In those old eyes, so weak and dim:
   |  While, with thin, piping voice, he told
   |  How much it meant to him each night
   |  To change a kindly word with me:
   |  To think that he'd at least one friend
   |  Who'd maybe miss him, in the end.

   |  Then, as we walked, he said no more:
   |  And, silent, in the starry light,
   |  Across the wide, sweet-smelling bent,
   |  Between the grass and stars we went
   |  In quiet, friendly company:
   |  And, all the way, we only heard
   |  A chirrup where some partridge stirred,
   |  And ran before us through the grass,
   |  To hide his head till we should pass.

   |  At length, we reached the cottage-door:
   |  But, when I stopped, and turned to go,
   |  His words came falteringly and slow:
   |  If I would step inside, and rest,
   |  I'd be right welcome: not a guest
   |  Had crossed his threshold, thirty year...
   |  He'd naught but bread and cheese and beer
   |  To offer me ... but, I'd know best...

   |  He spoke with hand upon the latch;
   |  And, when I answered, opened wide
   |  The cottage-door; and stepped inside;
   |  And, as I followed, struck a match,
   |  And lit a tallow-dip: and stirred
   |  The banked-up peats into a glow:
   |  And then with shuffling step and slow
   |  He moved about: and soon had set
   |  Two mugs of beer, and bread and cheese:
   |  And while we made a meal off these,
   |  The old man never spoke a word;
   |  But, brooding in the ingle-seat,
   |  With eyes upon the kindling peat,
   |  He seemed awhile to quite forget
   |  He was not sitting by himself
   |  To-night, like any other night;
   |  When, as, in the dim candle-light,
   |  I glanced around me, with surprise
   |  I saw, upon the rafter-shelf,
   |  A flute, nigh hidden in the shade.

   |  And when I asked him if he played,
   |  The light came back into his eyes:
   |  Aye, aye, he sometimes piped a bit,
   |  But not so often since she died.
   |  And then, as though old memories lit
   |  His poor, old heart, and made it glad,
   |  He told how he, when quite a lad,
   |  Had taught himself: and they would play
   |  On penny whistles all the day--
   |  He and the miller's son, beside
   |  The millpool, chirping all they knew,
   |  Till they could whistle clean and true:
   |  And how, when old enough to earn,
   |  They both saved up to buy a flute;
   |  And they had played it, turn for turn:
   |  But, Jake was dead, this long while back...
   |  Ah! if I'd only heard him toot,
   |  I'd know what music meant.  Aye, aye...
   |  He'd play me something, by-and-bye;
   |  Though he was naught to Jake ... and now
   |  His breath was scant, and fingering slack...
   |  He used to play to her at night
   |  The melodies that she liked best,
   |  While she worked on: she'd never rest
   |  By daylight, or by candle-light...
   |  And then, with hand upon his brow,
   |  He brooded, quiet in his chair,
   |  With eyes upon the red peat-glare;
   |  Until, at length, he roused himself,
   |  And reached the flute down from the shelf;
   |  And, carrying it outside the door,
   |  I saw him take a can, and pour
   |  Fresh water through the instrument,
   |  To make it sweet of tone, he said.
   |  Then, in his seat, so old and bent,
   |  With kindling eyes, and swaying head,
   |  He played the airs he used to play
   |  To please his wife, before she died:
   |  And as I watched his body sway
   |  In time and tune, from side to side,
   |  So happy, playing, and to please
   |  With old familiar melodies,
   |  His eyes grew brighter and more bright,
   |  As though they saw some well-loved sight:
   |  And, following his happy gaze,
   |  I turned, and saw, without amaze,
   |  A woman standing, young and fair,
   |  With hazel eyes, and thick brown hair
   |  Brushed smoothly backward from the brow,
   |  Beside the table that but now,
   |  Save for the empty mugs, was bare.
   |  Upon it she had spread a sheet:
   |  And stood there, ironing a shirt,
   |  Her husband's, as he played to her
   |  Her favourite tunes, so old and sweet.
   |  I watched her move with soundless stir;
   |  Then stand with listening eyes, and hold
   |  The iron near her glowing cheek,
   |  Lest it, too hot, should do some hurt,
   |  And she, so careful not to burn
   |  The well-darned shirt, so worn and old.
   |  Then, something seemed to make me turn
   |  To look on the old man again:
   |  And, as I looked, the playing stopped;
   |  And now I saw that he had dropped
   |  Into his brooding mood once more,
   |  With eyes again grown dull and weak.
   |  He seemed the oldest of old men
   |  Who grope through life with sight worn dim
   |  And, even as I looked at him,
   |  Too full of tender awe to speak,
   |  I knew once more the board was bare,
   |  With no young woman standing there
   |  With hazel eyes and thick, brown hair;
   |  And I, in vain, for her should seek,
   |  If I but sought this side death's door.

   |  And so, at last, I rose, and took
   |  His hand: and as he clasped mine tight,
   |  I saw again that friendly look
   |  Fill his old weary eyes with light,
   |  And wish me, without words, good-night
   |  And in my heart, that look glowed bright
   |  Till I reached home across the moor.

   |  And, at the corner of the lane,
   |  Next night, I heard the old voice cry
   |  In greeting, as I struggled by,
   |  Head-down against the wind and rain.
   |  And so each night, until one day,
   |  His master chanced across my way:
   |  But, when I spoke of him, he said:
   |  Did I not know the man was dead,
   |  And had been dead a week or so?
   |  One morn he'd not turned up to work;
   |  And never having known him shirk;
   |  And hearing that he lived alone;
   |  He thought it best himself to go
   |  And see what ailed: and coming there,
   |  He found the old man in his chair,
   |  Stone-dead beside the cold hearthstone.
   |  It must be full a week, or more...
   |  Aye, just two weeks, come Saturday,
   |  He'd found him; but he must have died
   |  O'ernight--(the night I heard him play!)
   |  And they had found, dropt by his side,
   |  A broken flute upon the floor.

   |  Yet, every night, his greeting still
   |  At that same corner of the hill,
   |  Summer and Winter, wet or dry,
   |  'Neath cloud, or moon, or cold starlight,
   |  Is waiting there to welcome me:
   |  And ever as I hurry by,
   |  The old voice sings out cheerily:
   |  "Good-night!" and yet again, "Good-night!"

   |  1910-1911.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

   LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
   DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::