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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:15 -0700 |
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diff --git a/556-h/556-h.htm b/556-h/556-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d90e745 --- /dev/null +++ b/556-h/556-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11003 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Rewards and Fairies, by Rudyard Kipling + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rewards and Fairies, by Rudyard Kipling + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> +<tr> +<td> +THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES, THERE IS +AN IMPROVED ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK <big><b><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32772/32772-h/32772-h.htm"> +[ #32772 ]</a></b></big> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rewards and Fairies + +Author: Rudyard Kipling + +Release Date: November 28, 2009 [EBook #556] +Last Updated: October 7, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REWARDS AND FAIRIES *** + + + + +Produced by Jo Churcher, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + REWARDS AND FAIRIES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Rudyard Kipling + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A Charm </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Introduction </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> COLD IRON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Cold Iron </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> GLORIANA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Gloriana </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Looking-Glass </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE WRONG THING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> A Truthful Song </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> The Wrong Thing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> King Henry VII and the Shipwrights </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> MARKLAKE WITCHES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The Way Through the Woods </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Marklake Witches </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Brookland Road </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Run of the Downs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> The Knife and the Naked Chalk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Song of the Men’s Side </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> BROTHER SQUARE-TOES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Philadelphia </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Brother Square-Toes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> IF— </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> ‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> A St Helena Lullaby </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> ‘A Priest in Spite of Himself’ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> ‘Poor Honest Men’ </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE CONVERSION OF ST WILFRID </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Eddi’s Service </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> The Conversion of St Wilfrid </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Song of the Red War-Boat </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> An Astrologer’s Song </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> A Doctor of Medicine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> ‘Our Fathers of Old’ </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> SIMPLE SIMON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Thousandth Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Simple Simon </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> Frankie’s Trade </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> THE TREE OF JUSTICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Ballad of Minepit Shaw </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> The Tree of Justice </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> A Carol </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + A Charm + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Take of English earth as much + As either hand may rightly clutch. + In the taking of it breathe + Prayer for all who lie beneath— + Not the great nor well-bespoke, + But the mere uncounted folk + Of whose life and death is none + Report or lamentation. + Lay that earth upon thy heart, + And thy sickness shall depart! + + It shall sweeten and make whole + Fevered breath and festered soul; + It shall mightily restrain + Over-busy hand and brain; + it shall ease thy mortal strife + ‘Gainst the immortal woe of life, + Till thyself restored shall prove + By what grace the Heavens do move. + + Take of English flowers these— + Spring’s full-faced primroses, + Summer’s wild wide-hearted rose, + Autumn’s wall-flower of the close, + And, thy darkness to illume, + Winter’s bee-thronged ivy-bloom. + Seek and serve them where they bide + From Candlemas to Christmas-tide, + For these simples used aright + Shall restore a failing sight. + + These shall cleanse and purify + Webbed and inward-turning eye; + These shall show thee treasure hid, + Thy familiar fields amid, + At thy threshold, on thy hearth, + Or about thy daily path; + And reveal (which is thy need) + Every man a King indeed! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Introduction + </h2> + <p> + Once upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, living in the English + country, had the good fortune to meet with Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow, + alias Nick o’ Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the last survivor in + England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their proper name, of course, + is ‘The People of the Hills’. This Puck, by means of the magic of Oak, + Ash, and Thorn, gave the children power + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To see what they should see and hear what they should hear, + Though it should have happened three thousand year. +</pre> + <p> + The result was that from time to time, and in different places on the farm + and in the fields and in the country about, they saw and talked to some + rather interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a Knight of the + Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a Roman Legion stationed in + England, another a builder and decorator of King Henry VII’s time; and so + on and so forth; as I have tried to explain in a book called PUCK OF + POOK’S HILL. + </p> + <p> + A year or so later, the children met Puck once more, and though they were + then older and wiser, and wore boots regularly instead of going barefooted + when they got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever, and introduced + them to more people of the old days. + </p> + <p> + He was careful, of course, to take away their memory of their walks and + conversations afterwards, but otherwise he did not interfere; and Dan and + Una would find the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or woods. + </p> + <p> + In the stories that follow I am trying to tell something about those + people. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COLD IRON + </h2> + <p> + When Dan and Una had arranged to go out before breakfast, they did not + remember that it was Midsummer Morning. They only wanted to see the otter + which, old Hobden said, had been fishing their brook for weeks; and early + morning was the time to surprise him. As they tiptoed out of the house + into the wonderful stillness, the church clock struck five. Dan took a few + steps across the dew-blobbed lawn, and looked at his black footprints. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think we ought to be kind to our poor boots,’ he said. ‘They’ll get + horrid wet.’ + </p> + <p> + It was their first summer in boots, and they hated them, so they took them + off, and slung them round their necks, and paddled joyfully over the + dripping turf where the shadows lay the wrong way, like evening in the + East. The sun was well up and warm, but by the brook the last of the night + mist still fumed off the water. They picked up the chain of otter’s + footprints on the mud, and followed it from the bank, between the weeds + and the drenched mowing, while the birds shouted with surprise. Then the + track left the brook and became a smear, as though a log had been dragged + along. + </p> + <p> + They traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the mill-sluice to the Forge, + round Hobden’s garden, and then up the slope till it ran out on the short + turf and fern of Pook’s Hill, and they heard the cock-pheasants crowing in + the woods behind them. + </p> + <p> + ‘No use!’ said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound. ‘The dew’s drying off, + and old Hobden says otters’ll travel for miles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure we’ve travelled miles.’ Una fanned herself with her hat. ‘How + still it is! It’s going to be a regular roaster.’ She looked down the + valley, where no chimney yet smoked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hobden’s up!’ Dan pointed to the open door of the Forge cottage. ‘What + d’you suppose he has for breakfast?’ ‘One of them. He says they eat good + all times of the year,’ Una jerked her head at some stately pheasants + going down to the brook for a drink. + </p> + <p> + A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their bare feet, yapped, + and trotted off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, Mus’ Reynolds—Mus’ Reynolds’—Dan was quoting from old + Hobden,—‘if I knowed all you knowed, I’d know something.’ [See ‘The + Winged Hats’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] + </p> + <p> + I say,’—Una lowered her voice—‘you know that funny feeling of + things having happened before. I felt it when you said “Mus’ Reynolds.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So did I,’ Dan began. ‘What is it?’ + </p> + <p> + They faced each other, stammering with excitement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait a shake! I’ll remember in a minute. Wasn’t it something about a fox—last + year? Oh, I nearly had it then!’ Dan cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘Be quiet!’ said Una, prancing excitedly. ‘There was something happened + before we met the fox last year. Hills! Broken Hills—the play at the + theatre—see what you see—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I remember now,’ Dan shouted. ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face—Pook’s + Hill—Puck’s Hill—Puck!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I remember, too,’ said Una. ‘And it’s Midsummer Day again!’ The young + fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked out, chewing a green-topped rush. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good Midsummer Morning to you! Here’s a happy meeting,’ said he. They + shook hands all round, and asked questions. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve wintered well,’ he said after a while, and looked them up and + down. ‘Nothing much wrong with you, seemingly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They’ve put us into boots,’ said Una. ‘Look at my feet—they’re all + pale white, and my toes are squidged together awfully.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—boots make a difference.’ Puck wriggled his brown, square, + hairy foot, and cropped a dandelion flower between the big toe and the + next. + </p> + <p> + ‘I could do that—last year,’ Dan said dismally, as he tried and + failed. ‘And boots simply ruin one’s climbing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There must be some advantage to them, I suppose,’ said Puck, or folk + wouldn’t wear them. Shall we come this way?’ They sauntered along side by + side till they reached the gate at the far end of the hillside. Here they + halted just like cattle, and let the sun warm their backs while they + listened to the flies in the wood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Little Lindens is awake,’ said Una, as she hung with her chin on the top + rail. ‘See the chimney smoke?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?’ Puck turned to look at the old pink + farmhouse across the little valley. ‘Mrs Vincey’s baking day. Bread should + rise well this weather.’ He yawned, and that set them both yawning. + </p> + <p> + The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in every direction. They + felt that little crowds were stealing past. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t that sound like—er—the People of the Hills?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods before people get + about,’ said Puck, as though he were Ridley the keeper. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As I remember ‘em, the People of the Hills used to make more noise. + They’d settle down for the day rather like small birds settling down for + the night. But that was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh, + me! The deeds that I’ve had act and part in, you’d scarcely believe!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I like that!’ said Dan. ‘After all you told us last year, too!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only, the minute you went away, you made us forget everything,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + Puck laughed and shook his head. ‘I shall this year, too. I’ve given you + seizin of Old England, and I’ve taken away your Doubt and Fear, but your + memory and remembrance between whiles I’ll keep where old Billy Trott kept + his night-lines—and that’s where he could draw ‘em up and hide ‘em + at need. Does that suit?’ He twinkled mischievously. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s got to suit,’ said Una, and laughed. ‘We Can’t magic back at you.’ + She folded her arms and leaned against the gate. ‘Suppose, now, you wanted + to magic me into something—an otter? Could you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not with those boots round your neck.’ ‘I’ll take them off.’ She threw + them on the turf. Dan’s followed immediately. ‘Now!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Less than ever now you’ve trusted me. Where there’s true faith, there’s + no call for magic.’ Puck’s slow smile broadened all over his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what have boots to do with it?’ said Una, perching on the gate. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s Cold Iron in them,’ said Puck, and settled beside her. ‘Nails in + the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ ‘Can’t you feel it does? You wouldn’t like to go back to bare feet + again, same as last year, would you? Not really?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No-o. I suppose I shouldn’t—not for always. I’m growing up, you + know,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you told us last year, in the Long Slip—at the theatre—that + you didn’t mind Cold Iron,’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t; but folks in housen, as the People of the Hills call them, must + be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of Cold + Iron—there’s iron ‘in every man’s house, isn’t there? They handle + Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune’s made or spoilt by + Cold Iron in some shape or other. That’s how it goes with Flesh and Blood, + and one can’t prevent it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite see. How do you mean?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘It would take me some time to tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s ever so long to breakfast,’ said Dan. ‘We looked in the larder + before we came out.’ He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una another, + which they shared with Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s Little Lindens’ baking,’ he said, as his white teeth sunk in it. + ‘I know Mrs Vincey’s hand.’ He ate with a slow sideways thrust and grind, + just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb. The sun + flashed on Little Lindens’ windows, and the cloudless sky grew stiller and + hotter in the valley. + </p> + <p> + ‘AH—Cold Iron,’ he said at last to the impatient children. ‘Folk in + housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow careless about Cold Iron. + They’ll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put it over + the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the Hills slip in, find + the cradle-babe in the corner, and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,’ Una cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Puck firmly. ‘All that talk of changelings is people’s excuse + for their own neglect. Never believe ‘em. I’d whip ‘em at the cart-tail + through three parishes if I had my way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But they don’t do it now,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and some fields never alter. + But the People of the Hills didn’t work any changeling tricks. They’d + tiptoe in and whisper and weave round the cradle-babe in the + chimney-corner—a fag-end of a charm here, or half a spell there—like + kettles singing; but when the babe’s mind came to bud out afterwards, it + would act differently from other people in its station. That’s no + advantage to man or maid. So I wouldn’t allow it with my folks’ babies + here. I told Sir Huon so once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who was Sir Huon?’ Dan asked, and Puck turned on him in quiet + astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir Huon of Bordeaux—he succeeded King Oberon. He had been a bold + knight once, but he was lost on the road to Babylon, a long while back. + Have you ever heard “How many miles to Babylon?”?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ said Dan, flushing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was new. But about tricks on + mortal babies. I said to Sir Huon in the fern here, on just such a morning + as this: “If you crave to act and influence on folk in housen, which I + know is your desire, why don’t you take some human cradle-babe by fair + dealing, and bring him up among yourselves on the far side of Cold Iron—as + Oberon did in time past? Then you could make him a splendid fortune, and + send him out into the world.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Time past is past time,” says Sir Huon. “I doubt if we could do it. For + one thing, the babe would have to be taken without wronging man, woman, or + child. For another, he’d have to be born on the far side of Cold Iron—in + some house where no Cold Iron ever stood; and for yet the third, he’d have + to be kept from Cold Iron all his days till we let him find his fortune. + No, it’s not easy,” he said, and he rode off, thinking. You see, Sir Huon + had been a man once. ‘I happened to attend Lewes Market next Woden’s Day + even, and watched the slaves being sold there—same as pigs are sold + at Robertsbridge Market nowadays. Only, the pigs have rings on their + noses, and the slaves had rings round their necks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of rings?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb thick, just like a + quoit, but with a snap to it for to snap round the slave’s neck. They used + to do a big trade in slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship them to all + parts of Old England, packed in oak sawdust. But, as I was saying, there + was a farmer out of the Weald who had bought a woman with a babe in her + arms, and he didn’t want any encumbrances to her driving his beasts home + for him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Beast himself!’ said Una, and kicked her bare heel on the gate. + </p> + <p> + ‘So he blamed the auctioneer. “It’s none o’ my baby,” the wench puts in. + “I took it off a woman in our gang who died on Terrible Down yesterday.” + “I’ll take it off to the church then,” says the farmer. “Mother Church’ll + make a monk of it, and we’ll step along home.” + </p> + <p> + ‘It was dusk then. He slipped down to St Pancras’ Church, and laid the + babe at the cold chapel door. I breathed on the back of his stooping neck—and—I’ve + heard he never could be warm at any fire afterwards. I should have been + surprised if he could! Then I whipped up the babe, and came flying home + here like a bat to his belfry. + </p> + <p> + ‘On the dewy break of morning of Thor’s own day—just such a day as + this—I laid the babe outside the Hill here, and the People flocked + up and wondered at the sight. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You’ve brought him, then?” Sir Huon said, staring like any mortal man. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes, and he’s brought his mouth with him, too,” I said. The babe was + crying loud for his breakfast. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What is he?” says Sir Huon, when the womenfolk had drawn him under to + feed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Full Moon and Morning Star may know,” I says. “I don’t. By what I could + make out of him in the moonlight, he’s without brand or blemish. I’ll + answer for it that he’s born on the far side of Cold Iron, for he was born + under a shaw on Terrible Down, and I’ve wronged neither man, woman, nor + child in taking him, for he is the son of a dead slave-woman.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“All to the good, Robin,” Sir Huon said. “He’ll be the less anxious to + leave us. Oh, we’ll give him a splendid fortune, and we shall act and + influence on folk in housen as we have always craved.” His Lady came up + then, and drew him under to watch the babe’s wonderful doings.’ ‘Who was + his Lady?’ said Dan. ‘The Lady Esclairmonde. She had been a woman once, + till she followed Sir Huon across the fern, as we say. Babies are no + special treat to me—I’ve watched too many of them—so I stayed + on the Hill. Presently I heard hammering down at the Forge there.‘Puck + pointed towards Hobden’s cottage. ‘It was too early for any workmen, but + it passed through my mind that the breaking day was Thor’s own day. A slow + north-east wind blew up and set the oaks sawing and fretting in a way I + remembered; so I slipped over to see what I could see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what did you see?’ ‘A smith forging something or other out of Cold + Iron. When it was finished, he weighed it in his hand (his back was + towards me), and tossed it from him a longish quoit-throw down the valley. + I saw Cold Iron flash in the sun, but I couldn’t quite make out where it + fell. That didn’t trouble me. I knew it would be found sooner or later by + someone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you know?’ Dan went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I knew the Smith that made it,’ said Puck quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wayland Smith?’ Una suggested. [See ‘Weland’s Sword’ in PUCK OF POOK’S + HILL.] + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I should have passed the time o’ day with Wayland Smith, of course. + This other was different. So’—Puck made a queer crescent in the air + with his finger—‘I counted the blades of grass under my nose till + the wind dropped and he had gone—he and his Hammer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was it Thor then?’ Una murmured under her breath. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who else? It was Thor’s own day.’ Puck repeated the sign. ‘I didn’t tell + Sir Huon or his Lady what I’d seen. Borrow trouble for yourself if that’s + your nature, but don’t lend it to your neighbours. Moreover, I might have + been mistaken about the Smith’s work. He might have been making things for + mere amusement, though it wasn’t like him, or he might have thrown away an + old piece of made iron. One can never be sure. So I held my tongue and + enjoyed the babe. He was a wonderful child—and the People of the + Hills were so set on him, they wouldn’t have believed me. He took to me + wonderfully. As soon as he could walk he’d putter forth with me all about + my Hill here. Fern makes soft falling! He knew when day broke on earth + above, for he’d thump, thump, thump, like an old buck-rabbit in a bury, + and I’d hear him say “Opy!” till some one who knew the Charm let him out, + and then it would be “Robin! Robin!” all round Robin Hood’s barn, as we + say, till he’d found me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The dear!’ said Una. ‘I’d like to have seen him!’ ‘Yes, he was a boy. And + when it came to learning his words—spells and such-like—he’d + sit on the Hill in the long shadows, worrying out bits of charms to try on + passersby. And when the bird flew to him, or the tree bowed to him for + pure love’s sake (like everything else on my Hill), he’d shout, “Robin! + Look—see! Look, see, Robin!” and sputter out some spell or other + that they had taught him, all wrong end first, till I hadn’t the heart to + tell him it was his own dear self and not the words that worked the + wonder. When he got more abreast of his words, and could cast spells for + sure, as we say, he took more and more notice of things and people in the + world. People, of course, always drew him, for he was mortal all through. + </p> + <p> + ‘Seeing that he was free to move among folk in housen, under or over Cold + Iron, I used to take him along with me, night-walking, where he could + watch folk, and I could keep him from touching Cold Iron. That wasn’t so + difficult as it sounds, because there are plenty of things besides Cold + Iron in housen to catch a boy’s fancy. He was a handful, though! I shan’t + forget when I took him to Little Lindens—his first night under a + roof. The smell of the rushlights and the bacon on the beams—they + were stuffing a feather-bed too, and it was a drizzling warm night—got + into his head. Before I could stop him—we were hiding in the + bakehouse—he’d whipped up a storm of wildfire, with flashlights and + voices, which sent the folk shrieking into the garden, and a girl overset + a hive there, and—of course he didn’t know till then such things + could touch him—he got badly stung, and came home with his face + looking like kidney potatoes! ‘You can imagine how angry Sir Huon and Lady + Esclairmonde were with poor Robin! They said the Boy was never to be + trusted with me night-walking any more—and he took about as much + notice of their order as he did of the bee-stings. Night after night, as + soon as it was dark, I’d pick up his whistle in the wet fern, and off we’d + flit together among folk in housen till break of day—he asking + questions, and I answering according to my knowledge. Then we fell into + mischief again!’ Puck shook till the gate rattled. + </p> + <p> + ‘We came across a man up at Brightling who was beating his wife with a bat + in the garden. I was just going to toss the man over his own woodlump when + the Boy jumped the hedge and ran at him. Of course the woman took her + husband’s part, and while the man beat him, the woman scratted his face. + It wasn’t till I danced among the cabbages like Brightling Beacon all + ablaze that they gave up and ran indoors. The Boy’s fine green-and-gold + clothes were torn all to pieces, and he had been welted in twenty places + with the man’s bat, and scratted by the woman’s nails to pieces. He looked + like a Robertsbridge hopper on a Monday morning. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Robin,” said he, while I was trying to clean him down with a bunch of + hay, “I don’t quite understand folk in housen. I went to help that old + woman, and she hit me, Robin!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What else did you expect?” I said. “That was the one time when you might + have worked one of your charms, instead of running into three times your + weight.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I didn’t think,” he says. “But I caught the man one on the head that was + as good as any charm. Did you see it work, Robin?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Mind your nose,” I said. “Bleed it on a dockleaf—not your sleeve, + for pity’s sake.” I knew what the Lady Esclairmonde would say. + </p> + <p> + ‘He didn’t care. He was as happy as a gipsy with a stolen pony, and the + front part of his gold coat, all blood and grass stains, looked like + ancient sacrifices. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course the People of the Hills laid the blame on me. The Boy could do + nothing wrong, in their eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You are bringing him up to act and influence on folk in housen, when + you’re ready to let him go,” I said. “Now he’s begun to do it, why do you + cry shame on me? That’s no shame. It’s his nature drawing him to his + kind.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But we don’t want him to begin that way,” the Lady Esclairmonde said. + “We intend a splendid fortune for him—not your flitter-by-night, + hedge-jumping, gipsy-work.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I don’t blame you, Robin,” says Sir Huon, “but I do think you might look + after the Boy more closely.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ve kept him away from Cold Iron these sixteen years,” I said. “You + know as well as I do, the first time he touches Cold Iron he’ll find his + own fortune, in spite of everything you intend for him. You owe me + something for that.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir Huon, having been a man, was going to allow me the right of it, but + the Lady Esclairmonde, being the Mother of all Mothers, over-persuaded + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“We’re very grateful,” Sir Huon said, “but we think that just for the + present you are about too much with him on the Hill.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Though you have said it,” I said, “I will give you a second chance.” I + did not like being called to account for my doings on my own Hill. I + wouldn’t have stood it even that far except I loved the Boy. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No! No!” says the Lady Esclairmonde. “He’s never any trouble when he’s + left to me and himself. It’s your fault.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You have said it,” I answered. “Hear me! From now on till the Boy has + found his fortune, whatever that may be, I vow to you all on my Hill, by + Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, and by the Hammer of Asa Thor”—again Puck + made that curious double-cut in the air—‘"that you may leave me out + of all your counts and reckonings.” Then I went out’—he snapped his + fingers—‘like the puff of a candle, and though they called and + cried, they made nothing by it. I didn’t promise not to keep an eye on the + Boy, though. I watched him close—close—close! + </p> + <p> + ‘When he found what his people had forced me to do, he gave them a piece + of his mind, but they all kissed and cried round him, and being only a + boy, he came over to their way of thinking (I don’t blame him), and called + himself unkind and ungrateful; and it all ended in fresh shows and plays, + and magics to distract him from folk in housen. Dear heart alive! How he + used to call and call on me, and I couldn’t answer, or even let him know + that I was near!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not even once?’ said Una. ‘If he was very lonely?’ ‘No, he couldn’t,’ + said Dan, who had been thinking. ‘Didn’t you swear by the Hammer of Thor + that you wouldn’t, Puck?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By that Hammer!’ was the deep rumbled reply. Then he came back to his + soft speaking voice. ‘And the Boy was lonely, when he couldn’t see me any + more. He began to try to learn all learning (he had good teachers), but I + saw him lift his eyes from the big black books towards folk in housen all + the time. He studied song-making (good teachers he had too!), but he sang + those songs with his back toward the Hill, and his face toward folk. I + know! I have sat and grieved over him grieving within a rabbit’s jump of + him. Then he studied the High, Low, and Middle Magic. He had promised the + Lady Esclairmonde he would never go near folk in housen; so he had to make + shows and shadows for his mind to chew on.’ ‘What sort of shows?’ said + Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just boy’s Magic as we say. I’ll show you some, some time. It pleased him + for the while, and it didn’t hurt any one in particular except a few men + coming home late from the taverns. But I knew what it was a sign of, and I + followed him like a weasel follows a rabbit. As good a boy as ever lived! + I’ve seen him with Sir Huon and the Lady Esclairmonde stepping just as + they stepped to avoid the track of Cold Iron in a furrow, or walking wide + of some old ash-tot because a man had left his swop-hook or spade there; + and all his heart aching to go straightforward among folk in housen all + the time. Oh, a good boy! They always intended a fine fortune for him—but + they could never find it in their heart to let him begin. I’ve heard that + many warned them, but they wouldn’t be warned. So it happened as it + happened. + </p> + <p> + ‘One hot night I saw the Boy roving about here wrapped in his flaming + discontents. There was flash on flash against the clouds, and rush on rush + of shadows down the valley till the shaws were full of his hounds giving + tongue, and the woodways were packed with his knights in armour riding + down into the water-mists—all his own Magic, of course. Behind them + you could see great castles lifting slow and splendid on arches of + moonshine, with maidens waving their hands at the windows, which all + turned into roaring rivers; and then would come the darkness of his own + young heart wiping out the whole slateful. But boy’s Magic doesn’t trouble + me—or Merlin’s either for that matter. I followed the Boy by the + flashes and the whirling wildfire of his discontent, and oh, but I grieved + for him! Oh, but I grieved for him! He pounded back and forth like a + bullock in a strange pasture—sometimes alone—sometimes + waist-deep among his shadow-hounds—sometimes leading his + shadow-knights on a hawk-winged horse to rescue his shadow-girls. I never + guessed he had such Magic at his command; but it’s often that way with + boys. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just when the owl comes home for the second time, I saw Sir Huon and the + Lady ride down my Hill, where there’s not much Magic allowed except mine. + They were very pleased at the Boy’s Magic—the valley flared with it—and + I heard them settling his splendid fortune when they should find it in + their hearts to let him go to act and influence among folk in housen. Sir + Huon was for making him a great King somewhere or other, and the Lady was + for making him a marvellous wise man whom all should praise for his skill + and kindness. She was very kind-hearted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of a sudden we saw the flashes of his discontents turned back on the + clouds, and his shadow-hounds stopped baying. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s Magic fighting Magic over yonder,” the Lady Esclairmonde cried, + reigning up. “Who is against him?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I could have told her, but I did not count it any of my business to speak + of Asa Thor’s comings and goings. + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you know?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘A slow North-East wind blew up, sawing and fretting through the oaks in a + way I remembered. The wildfire roared up, one last time in one sheet, and + snuffed out like a rushlight, and a bucketful of stinging hail fell. We + heard the Boy walking in the Long Slip—where I first met you. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Here, oh, come here!” said the Lady Esclairmonde, and stretched out her + arms in the dark. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was coming slowly, but he stumbled in the footpath, being, of course, + mortal man. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, what’s this?” he said to himself. We three heard him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hold, lad, hold! ‘Ware Cold Iron!” said Sir Huon, and they two swept + down like nightjars, crying as they rode. + </p> + <p> + ‘I ran at their stirrups, but it was too late. We felt that the Boy had + touched Cold Iron somewhere in the dark, for the Horses of the Hill shied + off, and whipped round, snorting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I judged it was time for me to show myself in my own shape; so I + did. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Whatever it is,” I said, “he has taken hold of it. Now we must find out + whatever it is that he has taken hold of, for that will be his fortune.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Come here, Robin,” the Boy shouted, as soon as he heard my voice. “I + don’t know what I’ve hold of.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“It is in your hands,” I called back. “Tell us if it is hard and cold, + with jewels atop. For that will be a King’s Sceptre.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Not by a furrow-long,” he said, and stooped and tugged in the dark. We + heard him. ‘“Has it a handle and two cutting edges?” I called. “For + that’ll be a Knight’s Sword.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No, it hasn’t,” he says. “It’s neither ploughshare, whittle, hook, nor + crook, nor aught I’ve yet seen men handle.” By this time he was scratting + in the dirt to prise it up. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Whatever it is, you know who put it there, Robin,” said Sir Huon to me, + “or you would not ask those questions. You should have told me as soon as + you knew.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What could you or I have done against the Smith that made it and laid it + for him to find?” I said, and I whispered Sir Huon what I had seen at the + Forge on Thor’s Day, when the babe was first brought to the Hill. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, good-bye, our dreams!” said Sir Huon. “It’s neither sceptre, sword, + nor plough! Maybe yet it’s a bookful of learning, bound with iron clasps. + There’s a chance for a splendid fortune in that sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + ‘But we knew we were only speaking to comfort ourselves, and the Lady + Esclairmonde, having been a woman, said so. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Thur aie! Thor help us!” the Boy called. “It is round, without end, Cold + Iron, four fingers wide and a thumb thick, and there is writing on the + breadth of it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Read the writing if you have the learning,” I called. The darkness had + lifted by then, and the owl was out over the fern again. + </p> + <p> + ‘He called back, reading the runes on the iron: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Few can see + Further forth + Than when the child + Meets the Cold Iron.” + </pre> + <p> + And there he stood, in clear starlight, with a new, heavy, shining + slave-ring round his proud neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Is this how it goes?” he asked, while the Lady Esclairmonde cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That is how it goes,” I said. He hadn’t snapped the catch home yet, + though. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What fortune does it mean for him?” said Sir Huon, while the Boy + fingered the ring. “You who walk under Cold Iron, you must tell us and + teach us.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Tell I can, but teach I cannot,” I said. “The virtue of the Ring is only + that he must go among folk in housen henceforward, doing what they want + done, or what he knows they need, all Old England over. Never will he be + his own master, nor yet ever any man’s. He will get half he gives, and + give twice what he gets, till his life’s last breath; and if he lays aside + his load before he draws that last breath, all his work will go for + naught.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, cruel, wicked Thor!” cried the Lady Esclairmonde. “Ah, look see, all + of you! The catch is still open! He hasn’t locked it. He can still take it + off. He can still come back. Come back!” She went as near as she dared, + but she could not lay hands on Cold Iron. The Boy could have taken it off, + yes. We waited to see if he would, but he put up his hand, and the snap + locked home. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What else could I have done?” said he. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Surely, then, you will do,” I said. “Morning’s coming, and if you three + have any farewells to make, make them now, for, after sunrise, Cold Iron + must be your master.” ‘So the three sat down, cheek by wet cheek, telling + over their farewells till morning light. As good a boy as ever lived, he + was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what happened to him?’ asked Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘When morning came, Cold Iron was master of him and his fortune, and he + went to work among folk in housen. Presently he came across a maid + like-minded with himself, and they were wedded, and had bushels of + children, as the saying is. Perhaps you’ll meet some of his breed, this + year.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ said Una. ‘But what did the poor Lady Esclairmonde do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What can you do when Asa Thor lays the Cold Iron in a lad’s path? She and + Sir Huon were comforted to think they had given the Boy good store of + learning to act and influence on folk in housen. For he was a good boy! + Isn’t it getting on for breakfast-time? I’ll walk with you a piece.’ + </p> + <p> + When they were well in the centre of the bone-dry fern, Dan nudged Una, + who stopped and put on a boot as quickly as she could. ‘Now,’ she said, + ‘you can’t get any Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves from here, and’—she + balanced wildly on one leg—‘I’m standing on Cold Iron. What’ll you + do if we don’t go away?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘E-eh? Of all mortal impudence!’ said Puck, as Dan, also in one boot, + grabbed his sister’s hand to steady himself. He walked round them, shaking + with delight. ‘You think I can only work with a handful of dead leaves? + This comes of taking away your Doubt and Fear! I’ll show you!’ + </p> + <p> + A minute later they charged into old Hobden at his simple breakfast of + cold roast pheasant, shouting that there was a wasps’ nest in the fern + which they had nearly stepped on, and asking him to come and smoke it out. + ‘It’s too early for wops-nests, an’ I don’t go diggin’ in the Hill, not + for shillin’s,’ said the old man placidly. ‘You’ve a thorn in your foot, + Miss Una. Sit down, and put on your t’other boot. You’re too old to be + caperin’ barefoot on an empty stomach. Stay it with this chicken o’ mine.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cold Iron + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Gold is for the mistress—silver for the maid! + Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.’ + ‘Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall, + ‘But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all!’ + + So he made rebellion ‘gainst the King his liege, + Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege— + ‘Nay!’ said the cannoneer on the castle wall, + ‘But Iron—Cold Iron—shall be master of you all!’ + + Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong, + When the cruel cannon-balls laid ‘em all along! + He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall, + And Iron—Cold Iron—was master of it all! + + Yet his King spake kindly (Oh, how kind a Lord!) + ‘What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?’ + ‘Nay!’ said the Baron, ‘mock not at my fall, + For Iron—Cold Iron—is master of men all.’ + + ‘Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown— + Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.’ + ‘As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small, + For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!’ + + Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!) + ‘Here is Bread and here is Wine—sit and sup with me. + Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall + How Iron—Cold Iron—can be master of men all!’ + + He took the Wine and blessed It; He blessed and brake the Bread. + With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said: + ‘Look! These Hands they pierced with nails outside my city wall + Show Iron—Cold Iron—to be master of men all! + + ‘Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong, + Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong. + I forgive thy treason—I redeem thy fall— + For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!’ + + ‘Crowns are for the valiant—sceptres for the bold! + Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold.’ + ‘Nay!’ said the Baron, kneeling in his hall, + ‘But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of men all! + Iron, out of Calvary, is master of men all!’ +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GLORIANA + </h2> + <p> + The Two Cousins + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Valour and Innocence + Have latterly gone hence + To certain death by certain shame attended. + Envy—ah! even to tears!— + The fortune of their years + Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended. + + Scarce had they lifted up + Life’s full and fiery cup, + Than they had set it down untouched before them. + Before their day arose + They beckoned it to close— + Close in destruction and confusion o’er them. + + They did not stay to ask + What prize should crown their task, + Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for; + But passed into eclipse, + Her kiss upon their lips— + Even Belphoebe’s, whom they gave their lives for! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Gloriana + </h2> + <p> + Willow Shaw, the little fenced wood where the hop-poles are stacked like + Indian wigwams, had been given to Dan and Una for their very own kingdom + when they were quite small. As they grew older, they contrived to keep it + most particularly private. Even Phillips, the gardener, told them every + time that he came in to take a hop-pole for his beans, and old Hobden + would no more have thought of setting his rabbit-wires there without + leave, given fresh each spring, than he would have torn down the calico + and marking ink notice on the big willow which said: ‘Grown-ups not + allowed in the Kingdom unless brought.’ + </p> + <p> + Now you can understand their indignation when, one blowy July afternoon, + as they were going up for a potato-roast, they saw somebody moving among + the trees. They hurled themselves over the gate, dropping half the + potatoes, and while they were picking them up Puck came out of a wigwam. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said Una. ‘We thought it was people.’ ‘I saw you + were angry—from your legs,’ he answered with a grin. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s our own Kingdom—not counting you, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s rather why I came. A lady here wants to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What about?’ said Dan cautiously. ‘Oh, just Kingdoms and things. She + knows about Kingdoms.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a lady near the fence dressed in a long dark cloak that hid + everything except her high red-heeled shoes. Her face was half covered by + a black silk fringed mask, without goggles. And yet she did not look in + the least as if she motored. + </p> + <p> + Puck led them up to her and bowed solemnly. Una made the best + dancing-lesson curtsy she could remember. The lady answered with a long, + deep, slow, billowy one. + </p> + <p> + ‘Since it seems that you are a Queen of this Kingdom,’ she said, ‘I can do + no less than acknowledge your sovereignty.’ She turned sharply on staring + Dan. ‘What’s in your head, lad? Manners?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was thinking how wonderfully you did that curtsy,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + She laughed a rather shrill laugh. ‘You’re a courtier already. Do you know + anything of dances, wench—or Queen, must I say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had some lessons, but I can’t really dance a bit,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘You should learn, then.’ The lady moved forward as though she would teach + her at once. ‘It gives a woman alone among men or her enemies time to + think how she shall win or—lose. A woman can only work in man’s + play-time. Heigho!’ She sat down on the bank. + </p> + <p> + Old Middenboro, the lawn-mower pony, stumped across the paddock and hung + his sorrowful head over the fence. + </p> + <p> + ‘A pleasant Kingdom,’ said the lady, looking round. ‘Well enclosed. And + how does your Majesty govern it? Who is your Minister?’ + </p> + <p> + Una did not quite understand. ‘We don’t play that,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Play?’ The lady threw up her hands and laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘We have it for our own, together,’ Dan explained. + </p> + <p> + ‘And d’you never quarrel, young Burleigh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sometimes, but then we don’t tell.’ + </p> + <p> + The lady nodded. ‘I’ve no brats of my own, but I understand keeping a + secret between Queens and their Ministers. Ay de mi! + </p> + <p> + But with no disrespect to present majesty, methinks your realm’ small, and + therefore likely to be coveted by man and beast. For Is example’—she + pointed to Middenboro—‘yonder old horse, with the face of a Spanish + friar—does he never break in?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He can’t. Old Hobden stops all our gaps for us,’ said Una, ‘and we let + Hobden catch rabbits in the Shaw.’ + </p> + <p> + The lady laughed like a man. ‘I see! Hobden catches conies—rabbits—for + himself, and guards your defences for you. Does he make a profit out of + his coney-catching?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We never ask,’ said Una. ‘Hobden’s a particular friend of ours.’ + ‘Hoity-toity!’ the lady began angrily. Then she laughed. ‘But I forget. It + is your Kingdom. I knew a maid once that had a larger one than this to + defend, and so long as her men kept the fences stopped, she asked ‘em no + questions either.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was she trying to grow flowers?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, trees—perdurable trees. Her flowers all withered.’ The lady + leaned her head on her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘They do if you don’t look after them. We’ve got a few. Would you like to + see? I’ll fetch you some.’ Una ran off to the rank grass in the shade + behind the wigwam, and came back with a handful of red flowers. ‘Aren’t + they pretty?’ she said. ‘They’re Virginia stock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Virginia?’ said the lady, and lifted them to the fringe of her mask. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. They come from Virginia. Did your maid ever plant any?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not herself—but her men adventured all over the earth to pluck or + to plant flowers for her crown. They judged her worthy of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And was she?’ said Dan cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quien sabe? [who knows?] But at least, while her men toiled abroad she + toiled in England, that they might find a safe home to come back to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what was she called?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gloriana—Belphoebe—Elizabeth of England.’ Her voice changed + at each word. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean Queen Bess?’ + </p> + <p> + The lady bowed her head a little towards Dan. ‘You name her lightly + enough, young Burleigh. What might you know of her?’ said she. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I—I’ve seen the little green shoes she left at Brickwall + House—down the road, you know. They’re in a glass case—awfully + tiny things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Burleigh, Burleigh!’ she laughed. ‘You are a courtier too soon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But they are,’ Dan insisted. ‘As little as dolls’ shoes. Did you really + know her well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well. She was a—woman. I’ve been at her Court all my life. Yes, I + remember when she danced after the banquet at Brickwall. They say she + danced Philip of Spain out of a brand-new kingdom that day. Worth the + price of a pair of old shoes—hey?’ + </p> + <p> + She thrust out one foot, and stooped forward to look at its broad flashing + buckle. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve heard of Philip of Spain—long-suffering Philip,’ she said, + her eyes still on the shining stones. ‘Faith, what some men will endure at + some women’s hands passes belief! If I had been a man, and a woman had + played with me as Elizabeth played with Philip, I would have—’ She + nipped off one of the Virginia stocks and held it up between finger and + thumb. ‘But for all that’—she began to strip the leaves one by one—‘they + say—and I am persuaded—that Philip loved her.’ She tossed her + head sideways. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘The high heavens forbid that you should, wench!’ She swept the flowers + from her lap and stood up in the rush of shadows that the wind chased + through the wood. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to know about the shoes,’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘So ye shall, Burleigh. So ye shall, if ye watch me. ‘Twill be as good as + a play.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ve never been to a play,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + The lady looked at her and laughed. ‘I’ll make one for you. Watch! You are + to imagine that she—Gloriana, Belphoebe, Elizabeth—has gone on + a progress to Rye to comfort her sad heart (maids are often melancholic), + and while she halts at Brickwall House, the village—what was its + name?’ She pushed Puck with her foot. + </p> + <p> + ‘Norgem,’ he croaked, and squatted by the wigwam. + </p> + <p> + ‘Norgem village loyally entertains her with a masque or play, and a Latin + oration spoken by the parson, for whose false quantities, if I’d made ‘em + in my girlhood, I should have been whipped.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You whipped?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soundly, sirrah, soundly! She stomachs the affront to her scholarship, + makes her grateful, gracious thanks from the teeth outwards, thus’—(the + lady yawned)—‘Oh, a Queen may love her subjects in her heart, and + yet be dog-wearied of ‘em ‘in body and mind—and so sits down’—her + skirts foamed about her as she sat—‘to a banquet beneath Brickwall + Oak. Here for her sins she is waited upon by—What were the young + cockerels’ names that served Gloriana at table?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Frewens, Courthopes, Fullers, Husseys,’ Puck began. + </p> + <p> + She held up her long jewelled hand. ‘Spare the rest! They were the best + blood of Sussex, and by so much the more clumsy in handling the dishes and + plates. Wherefore’—she looked funnily over her shoulder—‘you + are to think of Gloriana in a green and gold-laced habit, dreadfully + expecting that the jostling youths behind her would, of pure jealousy or + devotion, spatter it with sauces and wines. The gown was Philip’s gift, + too! At this happy juncture a Queen’s messenger, mounted and mired, spurs + up the Rye road and delivers her a letter’—she giggled—‘a + letter from a good, simple, frantic Spanish gentleman called—Don + Philip.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That wasn’t Philip, King of Spain?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Truly, it was. ‘Twixt you and me and the bedpost, young Burleigh, these + kings and queens are very like men and women, and I’ve heard they write + each other fond, foolish letters that none of their ministers should + open.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did her ministers ever open Queen Elizabeth’s letters?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Faith, yes! But she’d have done as much for theirs, any day. You are to + think of Gloriana, then (they say she had a pretty hand), excusing herself + thus to the company—for the Queen’s time is never her own—and, + while the music strikes up, reading Philip’s letter, as I do.’ She drew a + real letter from her pocket, and held it out almost at arm’s length, like + the old post-mistress in the village when she reads telegrams. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hm! Hm! Hm! Philip writes as ever most lovingly. He says his Gloriana is + cold, for which reason he burns for her through a fair written page.’ She + turned it with a snap. ‘What’s here? Philip complains that certain of her + gentlemen have fought against his generals in the Low Countries. He prays + her to hang ‘em when they re-enter her realms. (Hm, that’s as may be.) + Here’s a list of burnt shipping slipped between two vows of burning + adoration. Oh, poor Philip! His admirals at sea—no less than three + of ‘em—have been boarded, sacked, and scuttled on their lawful + voyages by certain English mariners (gentlemen, he will not call them), + who are now at large and working more piracies in his American ocean, + which the Pope gave him. (He and the Pope should guard it, then!) Philip + hears, but his devout ears will not credit it, that Gloriana in some + fashion countenances these villains’ misdeeds, shares in their booty, and—oh, + shame!—-has even lent them ships royal for their sinful thefts. + Therefore he requires (which is a word Gloriana loves not), requires that + she shall hang ‘em when they return to England, and afterwards shall + account to him for all the goods and gold they have plundered. A most + loving request! If Gloriana will not be Philip’s bride, she shall be his + broker and his butcher! Should she still be stiff-necked, he writes—see + where the pen digged the innocent paper!—-that he hath both the + means and the intention to be revenged on her. Aha! Now we come to the + Spaniard in his shirt!’ (She waved the letter merrily.) ‘Listen here! + Philip will prepare for Gloriana a destruction from the West—a + destruction from the West—far exceeding that which Pedro de Avila + wrought upon the Huguenots. And he rests and remains, kissing her feet and + her hands, her slave, her enemy, or her conqueror, as he shall find that + she uses him.’ + </p> + <p> + She thrust back the letter under her cloak, and went on acting, but in a + softer voice. ‘All this while—hark to it—the wind blows + through Brickwall Oak, the music plays, and, with the company’s eyes upon + her, the Queen of England must think what this means. She cannot remember + the name of Pedro de Avila, nor what he did to the Huguenots, nor when, + nor where. She can only see darkly some dark motion moving in Philip’s + dark mind, for he hath never written before in this fashion. She must + smile above the letter as though it were good news from her ministers—the + smile that tires the mouth and the poor heart. What shall she do?’ Again + her voice changed. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are to fancy that the music of a sudden wavers away. Chris Hatton, + Captain of her bodyguard, quits the table all red and ruffled, and + Gloriana’s virgin ear catches the clash of swords at work behind a wall. + The mothers of Sussex look round to count their chicks—I mean those + young gamecocks that waited on her. Two dainty youths have stepped aside + into Brickwall garden with rapier and dagger on a private point of honour. + They are haled out through the gate, disarmed and glaring—the lively + image of a brace of young Cupids transformed into pale, panting Cains. + Ahem! Gloriana beckons awfully—thus! They come up for judgement. + Their lives and estates lie at her mercy whom they have doubly offended, + both as Queen and woman. But la! what will not foolish young men do for a + beautiful maid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why? What did she do? What had they done?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hsh! You mar the play! Gloriana had guessed the cause of the trouble. + They were handsome lads. So she frowns a while and tells ‘em not to be + bigger fools than their mothers had made ‘em, and warns ‘em, if they do + not kiss and be friends on the instant, she’ll have Chris Hatton horse and + birch ‘em in the style of the new school at Harrow. (Chris looks sour at + that.) Lastly, because she needed time to think on Philip’s letter burning + in her pocket, she signifies her pleasure to dance with ‘em and teach ‘em + better manners. Whereat the revived company call down Heaven’s blessing on + her gracious head; Chris and the others prepare Brickwall House for a + dance; and she walks in the clipped garden between those two lovely young + sinners who are both ready to sink for shame. They confess their fault. It + appears that midway in the banquet the elder—they were cousins—conceived + that the Queen looked upon him with special favour. The younger, taking + the look to himself, after some words gives the elder the lie. Hence, as + she guessed, the duel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And which had she really looked at?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Neither—except to wish them farther off. She was afraid all the + while they’d spill dishes on her gown. She tells ‘em this, poor chicks—and + it completes their abasement. When they had grilled long enough, she says: + “And so you would have fleshed your maiden swords for me—for me?” + Faith, they would have been at it again if she’d egged ‘em on! but their + swords—oh, prettily they said it!—-had been drawn for her once + or twice already. + </p> + <p> + ‘“And where?” says she. “On your hobby-horses before you were breeched?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“On my own ship,” says the elder. “My cousin was vice-admiral of our + venture in his pinnace. We would not have you think of us as brawling + children.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No, no,” says the younger, and flames like a very Tudor rose. “At least + the Spaniards know us better.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Admiral Boy—Vice-Admiral Babe,” says Gloriana, “I cry your pardon. + The heat of these present times ripens childhood to age more quickly than + I can follow. But we are at peace with Spain. Where did you break your + Queen’s peace?” ‘“On the sea called the Spanish Main, though ‘tis no more + Spanish than my doublet,” says the elder. Guess how that warmed Gloriana’s + already melting heart! She would never suffer any sea to be called Spanish + in her private hearing. + </p> + <p> + ‘“And why was I not told? What booty got you, and where have you hid it? + Disclose,” says she. “You stand in some danger of the gallows for + pirates.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“The axe, most gracious lady,” says the elder, “for we are gentle born.” + He spoke truth, but no woman can brook contradiction. “Hoity-toity!” says + she, and, but that she remembered that she was Queen, she’d have cuffed + the pair of ‘em. “It shall be gallows, hurdle, and dung-cart if I choose.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Had our Queen known of our going beforehand, Philip might have held her + to blame for some small things we did on the seas,” the younger lisps. + </p> + <p> + ‘“As for treasure,” says the elder, “we brought back but our bare lives. + We were wrecked on the Gascons’ Graveyard, where our sole company for + three months was the bleached bones of De Avila’s men.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Gloriana’s mind jumped back to Philip’s last letter. + </p> + <p> + ‘“De Avila that destroyed the Huguenots? What d’you know of him?” she + says. The music called from the house here, and they three turned back + between the yews. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Simply that De Avila broke in upon a plantation of Frenchmen on that + coast, and very Spaniardly hung them all for heretics—eight hundred + or so. The next year Dominique de Gorgues, a Gascon, broke in upon De + Avila’s men, and very justly hung ‘em all for murderers—five hundred + or so. No Christians inhabit there now, says the elder lad, though ‘tis a + goodly land north of Florida.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“How far is it from England?” asks prudent Gloriana. + </p> + <p> + ‘“With a fair wind, six weeks. They say that Philip will plant it again + soon.” This was the younger, and he looked at her out of the corner of his + innocent eye. + </p> + <p> + ‘Chris Hatton, fuming, meets and leads her into Brickwall Hall, where she + dances—thus. A woman can think while she dances—can think. + I’ll show you. Watch!’ + </p> + <p> + She took off her cloak slowly, and stood forth in dove-coloured satin, + worked over with pearls that trembled like running water in the running + shadows of the trees. Still talking—more to herself than to the + children—she swam into a majestical dance of the stateliest + balancings, the naughtiest wheelings and turnings aside, the most + dignified sinkings, the gravest risings, all joined together by the + elaboratest interlacing steps and circles. They leaned forward + breathlessly to watch the splendid acting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would a Spaniard,’ she began, looking on the ground, ‘speak of his + revenge till his revenge were ripe? No. Yet a man who loved a woman might + threaten her ‘in the hope that his threats would make her love him. Such + things have been.’ She moved slowly across a bar of sunlight. ‘A + destruction from the West may signify that Philip means to descend on + Ireland. But then my Irish spies would have had some warning. The Irish + keep no secrets. No—it is not Ireland. Now why—why—why’—the + red shoes clicked and paused—‘does Philip name Pedro Melendez de + Avila, a general in his Americas, unless’—she turned more quickly—unless + he intends to work his destruction from the Americas? Did he say De Avila + only to put her off her guard, or for this once has his black pen betrayed + his black heart? We’—she raised herself to her full height—‘England + must forestall Master Philip. But not openly,’—she sank again—‘we + cannot fight Spain openly—not yet—not yet.’ She stepped three + paces as though she were pegging down some snare with her twinkling + shoe-buckles. ‘The Queen’s mad gentlemen may fight Philip’s poor admirals + where they find ‘em, but England, Gloriana, Harry’s daughter, must keep + the peace. Perhaps, after all, Philip loves her—as many men and boys + do. That may help England. Oh, what shall help England?’ + </p> + <p> + She raised her head—the masked head that seemed to have nothing to + do with the busy feet—and stared straight at the children. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think this is rather creepy,’ said Una with a shiver. ‘I wish she’d + stop.’ + </p> + <p> + The lady held out her jewelled hand as though she were taking some one + else’s hand in the Grand Chain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can a ship go down into the Gascons’ Graveyard and wait there?’ she asked + into the air, and passed on rustling. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s pretending to ask one of the cousins, isn’t she?’ said Dan, and + Puck nodded. + </p> + <p> + Back she came in the silent, swaying, ghostly dance. They saw she was + smiling beneath the mask, and they could hear her breathing hard. + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot lend you any of my ships for the venture; Philip would hear of + it,’ she whispered over her shoulder; ‘but as much guns and powder as you + ask, if you do not ask too—‘Her voice shot up and she stamped her + foot thrice. ‘Louder! Louder, the music in the gallery! Oh, me, but I have + burst out of my shoe!’ + </p> + <p> + She gathered her skirts in each hand, and began a curtsy. ‘You will go at + your own charges,’ she whispered straight before her. ‘Oh, enviable and + adorable age of youth!’ Her eyes shone through the mask-holes. ‘But I warn + you you’ll repent it. Put not your trust in princes—or Queens. + Philip’s ships’ll blow you out of water. You’ll not be frightened? Well, + we’ll talk on it again, when I return from Rye, dear lads.’ + </p> + <p> + The wonderful curtsy ended. She stood up. Nothing stirred on her except + the rush of the shadows. + </p> + <p> + ‘And so it was finished,’ she said to the children. ‘Why d’you not + applaud?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What was finished?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘The dance,’ the lady replied offendedly. ‘And a pair of green shoes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand a bit,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Eh? What did you make of it, young Burleigh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Dan began, ‘but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You never can be—with a woman. But—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I thought Gloriana meant the cousins to go back to the Gascons’ + Graveyard, wherever that was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘’Twas Virginia after-wards. Her plantation of Virginia.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Virginia afterwards, and stop Philip from taking it. Didn’t she say she’d + lend ‘em guns?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Right so. But not ships—then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I thought you meant they must have told her they’d do it off their + own bat, without getting her into a row with Philip. Was I right?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Near enough for a Minister of the Queen. But remember she gave the lads + full time to change their minds. She was three long days at Rye Royal—knighting + of fat Mayors. When she came back to Brickwall, they met her a mile down + the road, and she could feel their eyes burn through her riding-mask. + Chris Hatton, poor fool, was vexed at it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“YOU would not birch them when I gave you the chance,” says she to Chris. + “Now you must get me half an hour’s private speech with ‘em in Brickwall + garden. Eve tempted Adam in a garden. Quick, man, or I may repent!”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was a Queen. Why did she not send for them herself?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + The lady shook her head. ‘That was never her way. I’ve seen her walk to + her own mirror by bye-ends, and the woman that cannot walk straight there + is past praying for. Yet I would have you pray for her! What else—what + else in England’s name could she have done?’ She lifted her hand to her + throat for a moment. ‘Faith,’ she cried, ‘I’d forgotten the little green + shoes! She left ‘em at Brickwall—so she did. And I remember she gave + the Norgem parson—John Withers, was he?—-a text for his sermon—“Over + Edom have I cast out my shoe.” Neat, if he’d understood!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘What about the two cousins?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are as cruel as a woman,’ the lady answered. ‘I was not to blame. I + told you I gave ‘em time to change their minds. On my honour (ay de mi!), + she asked no more of ‘em at first than to wait a while off that coast—the + Gascons’ Graveyard—to hover a little if their ships chanced to pass + that way—they had only one tall ship and a pinnace—only to + watch and bring me word of Philip’s doings. One must watch Philip always. + What a murrain right had he to make any plantation there, a hundred + leagues north of his Spanish Main, and only six weeks from England? By my + dread father’s soul, I tell you he had none—none!’ She stamped her + red foot again, and the two children shrunk back for a second. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nay, nay. You must not turn from me too! She laid it all fairly before + the lads in Brickwall garden between the yews. I told ‘em that if Philip + sent a fleet (and to make a plantation he could not well send less), their + poor little cock-boats could not sink it. They answered that, with + submission, the fight would be their own concern. She showed ‘em again + that there could be only one end to it—quick death on the sea, or + slow death in Philip’s prisons. They asked no more than to embrace death + for my sake. Many men have prayed to me for life. I’ve refused ‘em, and + slept none the worse after; but when my men, my tall, fantastical young + men, beseech me on their knees for leave to die for me, it shakes me—ah, + it shakes me to the marrow of my old bones.’ Her chest sounded like a + board as she hit it. ‘She showed ‘em all. I told ‘em that this was no time + for open war with Spain. If by miracle inconceivable they prevailed + against Philip’s fleet, Philip would hold me accountable. For England’s + sake, to save war, I should e’en be forced (I told ‘em so) to give him up + their young lives. If they failed, and again by some miracle escaped + Philip’s hand, and crept back to England with their bare lives, they must + lie—oh, I told ‘em all—under my sovereign displeasure. She + could not know them, see them, nor hear their names, nor stretch out a + finger to save them from the gallows, if Philip chose to ask it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Be it the gallows, then,” says the elder. (I could have wept, but that + my face was made for the day.) + </p> + <p> + ‘“Either way—any way—this venture is death, which I know you + fear not. But it is death with assured dishonour,” I cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yet our Queen will know in her heart what we have done,” says the + younger. ‘“Sweetheart,” I said. “A queen has no heart.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But she is a woman, and a woman would not forget,” says the elder. “We + will go!” They knelt at my feet. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nay, dear lads—but here!” I said, and I opened my arms to them and + I kissed them. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Be ruled by me,” I said. “We’ll hire some ill-featured old tarry-breeks + of an admiral to watch the Graveyard, and you shall come to Court.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hire whom you please,” says the elder; “we are ruled by you, body and + soul”; and the younger, who shook most when I kissed ‘em, says between his + white lips, “I think you have power to make a god of a man.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Come to Court and be sure of’t,” I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘They shook their heads and I knew—I knew, that go they would. If I + had not kissed them—perhaps I might have prevailed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why did you do it?’ said Una. ‘I don’t think you knew really what + you wanted done.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘May it please your Majesty’—the lady bowed her head low—‘this + Gloriana whom I have represented for your pleasure was a woman and a + Queen. Remember her when you come to your Kingdom.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—did the cousins go to the Gascons’ Graveyard?’ said Dan, as Una + frowned. + </p> + <p> + ‘They went,’ said the lady. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did they ever come back?’ Una began; but—‘Did they stop King + Philip’s fleet?’ Dan interrupted. + </p> + <p> + The lady turned to him eagerly. + </p> + <p> + ‘D’you think they did right to go?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see what else they could have done,’ Dan replied, after thinking + it over. + </p> + <p> + ‘D’you think she did right to send ‘em?’ The lady’s voice rose a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Dan, ‘I don’t see what else she could have done, either—do + you? How did they stop King Philip from getting Virginia?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s the sad part of it. They sailed out that autumn from Rye Royal, + and there never came back so much as a single rope-yarn to show what had + befallen them. The winds blew, and they were not. Does that make you alter + your mind, young Burleigh?’ ‘I expect they were drowned, then. Anyhow, + Philip didn’t score, did he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gloriana wiped out her score with Philip later. But if Philip had won, + would you have blamed Gloriana for wasting those lads’ lives?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. She was bound to try to stop him.’ + </p> + <p> + The lady coughed. ‘You have the root of the matter in you. Were I Queen, + I’d make you Minister.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We don’t play that game,’ said Una, who felt that she disliked the lady + as much as she disliked the noise the high wind made tearing through + Willow Shaw. + </p> + <p> + ‘Play!’ said the lady with a laugh, and threw up her hands affectedly. The + sunshine caught the jewels on her many rings and made them flash till + Una’s eyes dazzled, and she had to rub them. Then she saw Dan on his knees + picking up the potatoes they had spilled at the gate. + </p> + <p> + ‘There wasn’t anybody in the Shaw, after all,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you think + you saw someone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m most awfully glad there isn’t,’ said Una. Then they went on with the + potato-roast. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Looking-Glass + </h2> + <h3> + Queen Bess Was Harry’s daughter! + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old, + Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold. + Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass, + Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass. + The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass + As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was! + + The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair, + There came Queen Mary’s spirit and it stood behind her chair, + Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways you may pass, + But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass. + The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass + As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!’ + + The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore, + There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and it scratched upon the door, + Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, + But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass. + The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass + As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!’ + + The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her head; + She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said: + ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve been, + Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!’ + And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was), + And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass + In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass + More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WRONG THING + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Truthful Song + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE BRICKLAYER: + + I tell this tale, which is strictly true, + just by way of convincing you + How very little since things were made + Things have altered in the building trade. + + A year ago, come the middle o’ March, + We was building flats near the Marble Arch, + When a thin young man with coal-black hair + Came up to watch us working there. + + Now there wasn’t a trick in brick or stone + That this young man hadn’t seen or known; + Nor there wasn’t a tool from trowel to maul + But this young man could use ‘em all! + Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold, + Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold: + ‘Since you with us have made so free, + Will you kindly say what your name might be?’ + + The young man kindly answered them: + ‘It might be Lot or Methusalem, + Or it might be Moses (a man I hate), + Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great. + + ‘Your glazing is new and your plumbing’s strange, + But other-wise I perceive no change, + And in less than a month, if you do as I bid, + I’d learn you to build me a Pyramid.’ + + THE SAILOR: + + I tell this tale, which is stricter true, + just by way of convincing you + How very little since things was made + Things have altered in the shipwright’s trade. + + In Blackwall Basin yesterday + A China barque re-fitting lay, + When a fat old man with snow-white hair + Came up to watch us working there. + + Now there wasn’t a knot which the riggers knew + But the old man made it—and better too; + Nor there wasn’t a sheet, or a lift, or a brace, + But the old man knew its lead and place. + + Then up and spake the caulkyers bold, + Which was packing the pump in the after-hold: + ‘Since you with us have made so free, + Will you kindly tell what your name might be?’ + + The old man kindly answered them: + ‘it might be Japhet, it might be Shem, + Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark), + Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark. + + ‘Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange, + But otherwise I perceive no change, + And in less than a week, if she did not ground, + I’d sail this hooker the wide world round!’ + + BOTH: We tell these tales, which are strictest true, etc. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wrong Thing + </h2> + <p> + Dan had gone in for building model boats; but after he had filled the + schoolroom with chips, which he expected Una to clear away, they turned + him out of doors and he took all his tools up the hill to Mr Springett’s + yard, where he knew he could make as much mess as he chose. Old Mr + Springett was a builder, contractor, and sanitary engineer, and his yard, + which opened off the village street, was always full of interesting + things. At one end of it was a long loft, reached by a ladder, where he + kept his iron-bound scaffold-planks, tins of paints, pulleys, and odds and + ends he had found in old houses. He would sit here by the hour watching + his carts as they loaded or unloaded in the yard below, while Dan gouged + and grunted at the carpenter’s bench near the loft window. Mr Springett + and Dan had always been particular friends, for Mr Springett was so old he + could remember when railways were being made in the southern counties of + England, and people were allowed to drive dogs in carts. + </p> + <p> + One hot, still afternoon—the tar-paper on the roof smelt like ships—Dan, + in his shirt-sleeves, was smoothing down a new schooner’s bow, and Mr + Springett was talking of barns and houses he had built. He said he never + forgot any stick or stone he had ever handled, or any man, woman, or child + he had ever met. Just then he was very proud of the Village Hall at the + entrance of the village, which he had finished a few weeks before. + </p> + <p> + ‘An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, ‘that the Hall will be + my last job top of this mortal earth. I didn’t make ten pounds—no, + nor yet five—out o’ the whole contrac’, but my name’s lettered on + the foundation stone—Ralph Springett, Builder—and the stone + she’s bedded on four foot good concrete. If she shifts any time these five + hundred years, I’ll sure-ly turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon architec’ + so when he come down to oversee my work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did he say?’ Dan was sandpapering the schooner’s port bow. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing. The Hall ain’t more than one of his small jobs for him, but + ‘tain’t small to me, an’ my name is cut and lettered, frontin’ the village + street, I do hope an’ pray, for time everlastin’. You’ll want the little + round file for that holler in her bow. Who’s there?’ Mr Springett turned + stiffly in his chair. + </p> + <p> + A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of the loft. Dan + looked, and saw Hal o’ the Draft’s touzled head beyond them. [See ‘Hal o’ + the Draft’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] + </p> + <p> + ‘Be you the builder of the Village Hall?’ he asked of Mr Springett. + </p> + <p> + ‘I be,’ was the answer. ‘But if you want a job—’ + </p> + <p> + Hal laughed. ‘No, faith!’ he said. ‘Only the Hall is as good and honest a + piece of work as I’ve ever run a rule over. So, being born hereabouts, and + being reckoned a master among masons, and accepted as a master mason, I + made bold to pay my brotherly respects to the builder.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Aa—um!’ Mr Springett looked important. ‘I be a bit rusty, but I’ll + try ye!’ + </p> + <p> + He asked Hal several curious questions, and the answers must have pleased + him, for he invited Hal to sit down. Hal moved up, always keeping behind + the pile of planks so that only his head showed, and sat down on a trestle + in the dark corner at the back of Mr Springett’s desk. He took no notice + of Dan, but talked at once to Mr Springett about bricks, and cement, and + lead and glass, and after a while Dan went on with his work. He knew Mr + Springett was pleased, because he tugged his white sandy beard, and smoked + his pipe in short puffs. The two men seemed to agree about everything, but + when grown-ups agree they interrupt each other almost as much as if they + were quarrelling. Hal said something about workmen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, that’s what I always say,’ Mr Springett cried. ‘A man who can only + do one thing, he’s but next-above-fool to the man that can’t do nothin’. + That’s where the Unions make their mistake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My thought to the very dot.’ Dan heard Hal slap his tight-hosed leg. + ‘I’ve suffered ‘in my time from these same Guilds—Unions, d’you call + ‘em? All their precious talk of the mysteries of their trades—why, + what does it come to?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothin’! You’ve justabout hit it,’ said Mr Springett, and rammed his hot + tobacco with his thumb. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take the art of wood-carving,’ Hal went on. He reached across the planks, + grabbed a wooden mallet, and moved his other hand as though he wanted + something. Mr Springett without a word passed him one of Dan’s broad + chisels. ‘Ah! Wood-carving, for example. If you can cut wood and have a + fair draft of what ye mean to do, a’ Heaven’s name take chisel and maul + and let drive at it, say I! You’ll soon find all the mystery, forsooth, of + wood-carving under your proper hand!’ Whack, came the mallet on the + chisel, and a sliver of wood curled up in front of it. Mr Springett + watched like an old raven. + </p> + <p> + ‘All art is one, man—one!’ said Hal between whacks; ‘and to wait on + another man to finish out—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To finish out your work ain’t no sense,’ Mr Springett cut in. ‘That’s + what I’m always sayin’ to the boy here.’ He nodded towards Dan. ‘That’s + what I said when I put the new wheel into Brewster’s Mill in Eighteen + hundred Seventy-two. I reckoned I was millwright enough for the job ‘thout + bringin’ a man from Lunnon. An’ besides, dividin’ work eats up profits, no + bounds.’ + </p> + <p> + Hal laughed his beautiful deep laugh, and Mr Springett joined in till Dan + laughed too. + </p> + <p> + ‘You handle your tools, I can see,’ said Mr Springett. ‘I reckon, if + you’re any way like me, you’ve found yourself hindered by those—Guilds, + did you call ‘em?—-Unions, we say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You may say so!’ Hal pointed to a white scar on his cheekbone. ‘This is a + remembrance from the Master watching-Foreman of Masons on Magdalen Tower, + because, please you, I dared to carve stone without their leave. They said + a stone had slipped from the cornice by accident.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know them accidents. There’s no way to disprove ‘em. An’ stones ain’t + the only things that slip,’ Mr Springett grunted. Hal went on: + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve seen a scaffold-plank keckle and shoot a too-clever workman thirty + foot on to the cold chancel floor below. And a rope can break—’ + ‘Yes, natural as nature; an’ lime’ll fly up in a man’s eyes without any + breath o’ wind sometimes,’ said Mr Springett. ‘But who’s to show ‘twasn’t + a accident?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who do these things?’ Dan asked, and straightened his back at the bench + as he turned the schooner end-for-end in the vice to get at her counter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Them which don’t wish other men to work no better nor quicker than they + do,’ growled Mr Springett. ‘Don’t pinch her so hard in the vice, Mus’ Dan. + Put a piece o’ rag in the jaws, or you’ll bruise her. More than that’—he + turned towards Hal—‘if a man has his private spite laid up against + you, the Unions give him his excuse for workin’ it off.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well I know it,’ said Hal. + </p> + <p> + ‘They never let you go, them spiteful ones. I knowed a plasterer in + Eighteen hundred Sixty-one—down to the wells. He was a Frenchy—a + bad enemy he was.’ ‘I had mine too. He was an Italian, called Benedetto. I + met him first at Oxford on Magdalen Tower when I was learning my trade-or + trades, I should say. A bad enemy he was, as you say, but he came to be my + singular good friend,’ said Hal as he put down the mallet and settled + himself comfortably. + </p> + <p> + ‘What might his trade have been—plastering’ Mr Springett asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Plastering of a sort. He worked in stucco—fresco we call it. Made + pictures on plaster. Not but what he had a fine sweep of the hand in + drawing. He’d take the long sides of a cloister, trowel on his stuff, and + roll out his great all-abroad pictures of saints and croppy-topped trees + quick as a webster unrolling cloth almost. Oh, Benedetto could draw, but + ‘a was a little-minded man, professing to be full of secrets of colour or + plaster—common tricks, all of ‘em—and his one single talk was + how Tom, Dick or Harry had stole this or t’other secret art from him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that sort,’ said Mr Springett. ‘There’s no keeping peace or making + peace with such. An’ they’re mostly born an’ bone idle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. Even his fellow-countrymen laughed at his jealousy. We two came to + loggerheads early on Magdalen Tower. I was a youngster then. Maybe I spoke + my mind about his work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You shouldn’t never do that.’ Mr Springett shook his head. ‘That sort lay + it up against you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True enough. This Benedetto did most specially. Body o’ me, the man lived + to hate me! But I always kept my eyes open on a plank or a scaffold. I was + mighty glad to be shut of him when he quarrelled with his Guild foreman, + and went off, nose in air, and paints under his arm. But’—Hal leaned + forward—‘if you hate a man or a man hates you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know. You’re everlastin’ running acrost him,’ Mr Springett interrupted. + ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He leaned out of the window, and shouted to a carter who + was loading a cart with bricks. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ain’t you no more sense than to heap ‘em up that way?’ he said. ‘Take an’ + throw a hundred of ‘em off. It’s more than the team can compass. Throw ‘em + off, I tell you, and make another trip for what’s left over. Excuse me, + sir. You was sayin’-’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was saying that before the end of the year I went to Bury to strengthen + the lead-work in the great Abbey east window there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now that’s just one of the things I’ve never done. But I mind there was a + cheap excursion to Chichester in Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an’ I went + an’ watched ‘em leadin’ a won’erful fine window in Chichester Cathedral. I + stayed watchin’ till ‘twas time for us to go back. Dunno as I had two + drinks p’raps, all that day.’ + </p> + <p> + Hal smiled. ‘At Bury, then, sure enough, I met my enemy Benedetto. He had + painted a picture in plaster on the south wall of the Refectory—a + noble place for a noble thing—a picture of Jonah.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! Jonah an’ his whale. I’ve never been as far as Bury. You’ve worked + about a lot,’ said Mr Springett, with his eyes on the carter below. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah and the pompion that + withered. But all that Benedetto had shown was a peevish grey-beard + huggled up in angle-edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden trellis. + This last, being a dead thing, he’d drawn it as ‘twere to the life. But + fierce old Jonah, bared in the sun, angry even to death that his cold + prophecy was disproven—Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing the + children of Nineveh running to mock him—ah, that was what Benedetto + had not drawn!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He better ha’ stuck to his whale, then,’ said Mr Springett. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’d ha’ done no better with that. He draws the damp cloth off the + picture, an’ shows it to me. I was a craftsman too, d’ye see?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“Tis good,” I said, “but it goes no deeper than the plaster.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What?” he said in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Be thy own judge, Benedetto,” I answered. “Does it go deeper than the + plaster?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He reeled against a piece of dry wall. “No,” he says, “and I know it. I + could not hate thee more than I have done these five years, but if I live, + I will try, Hal. I will try.” Then he goes away. I pitied him, but I had + spoken truth. His picture went no deeper than the plaster.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ said Mr Springett, who had turned quite red. ‘You was talkin’ so + fast I didn’t understand what you was drivin’ at. I’ve seen men—good + workmen they was—try to do more than they could do, and—and + they couldn’t compass it. They knowed it, and it nigh broke their hearts + like. You was in your right, o’ course, sir, to say what you thought o’ + his work; but if you’ll excuse me, was you in your duty?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was wrong to say it,’ Hal replied. ‘God forgive me—I was young! + He was workman enough himself to know where he failed. But it all came + evens in the long run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o’ one + Torrigiano—Torrisany we called him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian builder, as vain as a + peacock and as strong as a bull, but, mark you, a master workman. More + than that—he could get his best work out of the worst men.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which it’s a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like him once,’ said Mr + Springett. ‘He used to prod ‘em in the back like with a pointing-trowel, + and they did wonders.’ + </p> + <p> + I’ve seen our Torrisany lay a ‘prentice down with one buffet and raise him + with another—to make a mason of him. I worked under him at building + a chapel in London—a chapel and a tomb for the King.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never knew kings went to chapel much,’ said Mr Springett. ‘But I always + hold with a man—don’t care who he be—seein’ about his own + grave before he dies. ‘Tidn’t the sort of thing to leave to your family + after the will’s read. I reckon ‘twas a fine vault?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the contract for it, as you’d + say. He picked master craftsmen from all parts—England, France, + Italy, the Low Countries—no odds to him so long as they knew their + work, and he drove them like—like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called + us English all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft. + If he misliked any work that a man had done, with his own great hands he’d + rive it out, and tear it down before us all. “Ah, you pig—you + English pig!” he’d scream in the dumb wretch’s face. “You answer me? You + look at me? You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters. I will + teach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!” But when his passion + had blown out, he’d slip his arm round the man’s neck, and impart + knowledge worth gold. ‘Twould have done your heart good, Mus’ Springett, + to see the two hundred of us masons, jewellers, carvers, gilders, + iron-workers and the rest—all toiling like cock-angels, and this mad + Italian hornet fleeing one to next up and down the chapel. Done your heart + good, it would!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe you,’ said Mr Springett. ‘In Eighteen hundred Fifty-four, I + mind, the railway was bein’ made into Hastin’s. There was two thousand + navvies on it—all young—all strong—an’ I was one of ‘em. + Oh, dearie me! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin’ with you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Benedetto? Be sure he was. He followed me like a lover. He painted + pictures on the chapel ceiling—slung from a chair. Torrigiano made + us promise not to fight till the work should be finished. We were both + master craftsmen, do ye see, and he needed us. None the less, I never went + aloft to carve ‘thout testing all my ropes and knots each morning. We were + never far from each other. Benedetto ‘ud sharpen his knife on his sole + while he waited for his plaster to dry—wheet, wheet, wheet. I’d hear + it where I hung chipping round a pillar-head, and we’d nod to each other + friendly-like. Oh, he was a craftsman, was Benedetto, but his hate spoiled + his eye and his hand. I mind the night I had finished the models for the + bronze saints round the tomb; Torrigiano embraced me before all the + chapel, and bade me to supper. I met Benedetto when I came out. He was + slavering in the porch Like a mad dog.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Workin’ himself up to it?’ said Mr Springett. ‘Did he have it in at ye + that night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no. That time he kept his oath to Torrigiano. But I pitied him. Eh, + well! Now I come to my own follies. I had never thought too little of + myself; but after Torrisany had put his arm round my neck, I—I’—Hal + broke into a laugh—‘I lay there was not much odds ‘twixt me and a + cock-sparrow in his pride.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was pretty middlin’ young once on a time,’ said Mr Springett. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then ye know that a man can’t drink and dice and dress fine, and keep + company above his station, but his work suffers for it, Mus’ Springett.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never held much with dressin’ up, but—you’re right! The worst + mistakes I ever made they was made of a Monday morning,’ Mr Springett + answered. ‘We’ve all been one sort of fool or t’other. Mus’ Dan, Mus’ Dan, + take the smallest gouge, or you’ll be spluttin’ her stem works clean out. + Can’t ye see the grain of the wood don’t favour a chisel?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll spare you some of my follies. But there was a man called Brygandyne—Bob + Brygandyne—Clerk of the King’s Ships, a little, smooth, bustling + atomy, as clever as a woman to get work done for nothin’—a won’erful + smooth-tongued pleader. He made much o’ me, and asked me to draft him out + a drawing, a piece of carved and gilt scroll-work for the bows of one of + the King’s Ships—the SOVEREIGN was her name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was she a man-of-war?’ asked Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘She was a warship, and a woman called Catherine of Castile desired the + King to give her the ship for a pleasure-ship of her own. I did not know + at the time, but she’d been at Bob to get this scroll-work done and fitted + that the King might see it. I made him the picture, in an hour, all of a + heat after supper—one great heaving play of dolphins and a Neptune + or so reining in webby-footed sea-horses, and Arion with his harp high + atop of them. It was twenty-three foot long, and maybe nine foot deep—painted + and gilt.’ + </p> + <p> + It must ha’ justabout looked fine,’ said Mr Springett. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the curiosity of it. ‘Twas bad—rank bad. In my conceit I + must needs show it to Torrigiano, in the chapel. He straddles his legs, + hunches his knife behind him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a + sleet-shower. Benedetto was behind him. We were never far apart, I’ve told + you. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That is pig’s work,” says our Master. “Swine’s work. You make any more + such things, even after your fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent + away.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. “It is so bad then, Master?” he + says. “What a pity!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes,” says Torrigiano. “Scarcely you could do things so bad. I will + condescend to show.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no swearing (it was too bad + for that); but good, memorable counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets me + to draft out a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the taste of my + naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron’s sweet stuff if you don’t torture + her, and hammered work is all pure, truthful line, with a reason and a + support for every curve and bar of it. A week at that settled my stomach + handsomely, and the Master let me put the work through the smithy, where I + sweated out more of my foolish pride.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good stuff is good iron,’ said Mr Springett. ‘I done a pair of lodge + gates once in Eighteen hundred Sixty-three.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped away my draft of the + ship’s scroll-work, and would not give it back to me to re-draw. He said + ‘twould do well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me too busied to + remember him. Body o’ me, but I worked that winter upon the gates and the + bronzes for the tomb as I’d never worked before! I was leaner than a lath, + but I lived—I lived then!’ Hal looked at Mr Springett with his wise, + crinkled-up eyes, and the old man smiled back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ouch!’ Dan cried. He had been hollowing out the schooner’s after-deck, + the little gouge had slipped and gashed the ball of his left thumb,—an + ugly, triangular tear. + </p> + <p> + ‘That came of not steadying your wrist,’ said Hal calmly. ‘Don’t bleed + over the wood. Do your work with your heart’s blood, but no need to let it + show.’ He rose and peered into a corner of the loft. + </p> + <p> + Mr Springett had risen too, and swept down a ball of cobwebs from a + rafter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Clap that on,’ was all he said, ‘and put your handkerchief atop. ‘Twill + cake over in a minute. It don’t hurt now, do it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Dan indignantly. ‘You know it has happened lots of times. I’ll + tie it up myself. Go on, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And it’ll happen hundreds of times more,’ said Hal with a friendly nod as + he sat down again. But he did not go on till Dan’s hand was tied up + properly. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + ‘One dark December day—too dark to judge colour—we was all + sitting and talking round the fires in the chapel (you heard good talk + there), when Bob Brygandyne bustles in and—“Hal, you’re sent for,” + he squeals. I was at Torrigiano’s feet on a pile of put-locks, as I might + be here, toasting a herring on my knife’s point. ‘Twas the one English + thing our Master liked—salt herring. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’m busy, about my art,” I calls. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Art?” says Bob. “What’s Art compared to your scroll-work for the + SOVEREIGN? Come.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Be sure your sins will find you out,” says Torrigiano. “Go with him and + see.” As I followed Bob out I was aware of Benedetto, like a black spot + when the eyes are tired, sliddering up behind me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, slips into a doorway, up + stairs, along passages, and at last thrusts me into a little cold room + vilely hung with Flemish tapestries, and no furnishing except a table and + my draft of the SOVEREIGN’s scrollwork. Here he leaves me. Presently comes + in a dark, long-nosed man in a fur cap. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Master Harry Dawe?” said he. + </p> + <p> + ‘“The same,” I says. “Where a plague has Bob Brygandyne gone?” + </p> + <p> + ‘His thin eyebrows surged up in a piece and come down again in a stiff + bar. “He went to the King,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“All one. Where’s your pleasure with me?” I says, shivering, for it was + mortal cold. + </p> + <p> + ‘He lays his hand flat on my draft. “Master Dawe,” he says, “do you know + the present price of gold leaf for all this wicked gilding of yours?” + </p> + <p> + ‘By that I guessed he was some cheese-paring clerk or other of the King’s + Ships, so I gave him the price. I forget it now, but it worked out to + thirty pounds—carved, gilt, and fitted in place. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Thirty pounds!” he said, as though I had pulled a tooth of him. “You + talk as though thirty pounds was to be had for the asking. None the less,” + he says, “your draft’s a fine piece of work.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I’d been looking at it ever since I came in, and ‘twas viler even than I + judged it at first. My eye and hand had been purified the past months, + d’ye see, by my iron work. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I could do it better now,” I said. The more I studied my squabby + Neptunes the less I liked ‘em; and Arion was a pure flaming shame atop of + the unbalanced dolphins. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I doubt it will be fresh expense to draft it again,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Bob never paid me for the first draft. I lay he’ll never pay me for the + second. ‘Twill cost the King nothing if I re-draw it,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s a woman wishes it to be done quickly,” he says. “We’ll stick to + your first drawing, Master Dawe. But thirty pounds is thirty pounds. You + must make it less.” + </p> + <p> + ‘And all the while the faults in my draft fair leaped out and hit me + between the eyes. At any cost, I thinks to myself, I must get it back and + re-draft it. He grunts at me impatiently, and a splendid thought comes to + me, which shall save me. By the same token, It was quite honest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They ain’t always,’ says Mr Springett. ‘How did you get out of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By the truth. I says to Master Fur Cap, as I might to you here, I says, + “I’ll tell you something, since you seem a knowledgeable man. Is the + SOVEREIGN to lie in Thames river all her days, or will she take the high + seas?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh,” he says quickly, “the King keeps no cats that don’t catch mice. She + must sail the seas, Master Dawe. She’ll be hired to merchants for the + trade. She’ll be out in all shapes o’ weathers. Does that make any odds?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, then,” says I, “the first heavy sea she sticks her nose into’ll + claw off half that scroll-work, and the next will finish it. If she’s + meant for a pleasure-ship give me my draft again, and I’ll porture you a + pretty, light piece of scroll-work, good cheap. If she’s meant for the + open—sea, pitch the draft into the fire. She can never carry that + weight on her bows.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He looks at me squintlings and plucks his under-lip. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Is this your honest, unswayed opinion?” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Body o’ me! Ask about!” I says. “Any seaman could tell you ‘tis true. + I’m advising you against my own profit, but why I do so is my own + concern.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Not altogether “, he says. “It’s some of mine. You’ve saved me thirty + pounds, Master Dawe, and you’ve given me good arguments to use against a + willful woman that wants my fine new ship for her own toy. We’ll not have + any scroll-work.” His face shined with pure joy. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then see that the thirty pounds you’ve saved on it are honestly paid the + King,” I says, “and keep clear o’ women-folk.” I gathered up my draft and + crumpled it under my arm. “If that’s all you need of me I’ll be gone,” I + says. “I’m pressed.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He turns him round and fumbles in a corner. “Too pressed to be made a + knight, Sir Harry?” he says, and comes at me smiling, with three-quarters + of a rusty sword. + </p> + <p> + ‘I pledge you my Mark I never guessed it was the King till that moment. I + kneeled, and he tapped me on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,” he says, and, in the same breath, “I’m + pressed, too,” and slips through the tapestries, leaving me like a stuck + calf. + </p> + <p> + ‘It come over me, in a bitter wave like, that here was I, a master + craftsman, who had worked no bounds, soul or body, to make the King’s tomb + and chapel a triumph and a glory for all time; and here, d’ye see, I was + made knight, not for anything I’d slaved over, or given my heart and guts + to, but expressedly because I’d saved him thirty pounds and a + tongue-lashing from Catherine of Castille—she that had asked for the + ship. That thought shrivelled me with insides while I was folding away my + draft. On the heels of it—maybe you’ll see why—I began to grin + to myself. I thought of the earnest simplicity of the man—the King, + I should say—because I’d saved him the money; his smile as though + he’d won half France! I thought of my own silly pride and foolish + expectations that some day he’d honour me as a master craftsman. I thought + of the broken-tipped sword he’d found behind the hangings; the dirt of the + cold room, and his cold eye, wrapped up in his own concerns, scarcely + resting on me. Then I remembered the solemn chapel roof and the bronzes + about the stately tomb he’d lie in, and—d’ye see?—-the + unreason of it all—the mad high humour of it all—took hold on + me till I sat me down on a dark stair-head in a passage, and laughed till + I could laugh no more. What else could I have done? + </p> + <p> + ‘I never heard his feet behind me—he always walked like a cat—but + his arm slid round my neck, pulling me back where I sat, till my head lay + on his chest, and his left hand held the knife plumb over my heart—Benedetto! + Even so I laughed—the fit was beyond my holding—laughed while + he ground his teeth in my ear. He was stark crazed for the time. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Laugh,” he said. “Finish the laughter. I’ll not cut ye short. Tell me + now”—he wrenched at my head—“why the King chose to honour you,—you—you—you + lickspittle Englishman? I am full of patience now. I have waited so long.” + Then he was off at score about his Jonah in Bury Refectory, and what I’d + said of it, and his pictures in the chapel which all men praised and none + looked at twice (as if that was my fault!), and a whole parcel of words + and looks treasured up against me through years. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ease off your arm a little,” I said. “I cannot die by choking, for I am + just dubbed knight, Benedetto.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Tell me, and I’ll confess ye, Sir Harry Dawe, Knight. There’s a long + night before ye. Tell,” says he. + </p> + <p> + ‘So I told him—his chin on my crown—told him all; told it as + well and with as many words as I have ever told a tale at a supper with + Torrigiano. I knew Benedetto would understand, for, mad or sad, he was a + craftsman. I believed it to be the last tale I’d ever tell top of mortal + earth, and I would not put out bad work before I left the Lodge. All art’s + one art, as I said. I bore Benedetto no malice. My spirits, d’ye see, were + catched up in a high, solemn exaltation, and I saw all earth’s vanities + foreshortened and little, laid out below me like a town from a cathedral + scaffolding. I told him what befell, and what I thought of it. I gave him + the King’s very voice at “Master Dawe, you’ve saved me thirty pounds!”; + his peevish grunt while he looked for the sword; and how the badger-eyed + figures of Glory and Victory leered at me from the Flemish hangings. Body + o’ me, ‘twas a fine, noble tale, and, as I thought, my last work on earth. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That is how I was honoured by the King,” I said. “They’ll hang ye for + killing me, Benedetto. And, since you’ve killed in the King’s Palace, + they’ll draw and quarter you; but you’re too mad to care. Grant me, + though, ye never heard a better tale.” ‘He said nothing, but I felt him + shake. My head on his chest shook; his right arm fell away, his left + dropped the knife, and he leaned with both hands on my shoulder—shaking—shaking! + I turned me round. No need to put my foot on his knife. The man was + speechless with laughter—honest craftsman’s mirth. The first time + I’d ever seen him laugh. You know the mirth that cuts off the very breath, + while ye stamp and snatch at the short ribs? That was Benedetto’s case. + </p> + <p> + ‘When he began to roar and bay and whoop in the passage, I haled him out + into the street, and there we leaned against the wall and had it all over + again—waving our hands and wagging our heads—till the watch + came to know if we were drunk. + </p> + <p> + ‘Benedetto says to ‘em, solemn as an owl: “You have saved me thirty + pounds, Mus’ Dawe,” and off he pealed. In some sort we were mad-drunk—I + because dear life had been given back to me, and he because, as he said + afterwards, because the old crust of hatred round his heart was broke up + and carried away by laughter. His very face had changed too. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hal,” he cries, “I forgive thee. Forgive me too, Hal. Oh, you English, + you English! Did it gall thee, Hal, to see the rust on the dirty sword? + Tell me again, Hal, how the King grunted with joy. Oh, let us tell the + Master.” + </p> + <p> + ‘So we reeled back to the chapel, arms round each other’s necks, and when + we could speak—he thought we’d been fighting—we told the + Master. Yes, we told Torrigiano, and he laughed till he rolled on the new + cold pavement. Then he knocked our heads together. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah, you English!” he cried. “You are more than pigs. You are English. + Now you are well punished for your dirty fishes. Put the draft in the + fire, and never do so any more. You are a fool, Hal, and you are a fool, + Benedetto, but I need your works to please this beautiful English King.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“And I meant to kill Hal,” says Benedetto. “Master, I meant to kill him + because the English King had made him a knight.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah!” says the Master, shaking his finger. “Benedetto, if you had killed + my Hal, I should have killed you—in the cloister. But you are a + craftsman too, so I should have killed you like a craftsman, very, very + slowly—in an hour, if I could spare the time!” That was Torrigiano—the + Master!’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Springett sat quite still for some time after Hal had finished. Then he + turned dark red; then he rocked to and fro; then he coughed and wheezed + till the tears ran down his face. Dan knew by this that he was laughing, + but it surprised Hal at first. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mr Springett, ‘but I was thinkin’ of some stables I + built for a gentleman in Eighteen hundred Seventy-four. They was stables + in blue brick—very particular work. Dunno as they weren’t the best + job which ever I’d done. But the gentleman’s lady—she’d come from + Lunnon, new married—she was all for buildin’ what was called a + haw-haw—what you an’ me ‘ud call a dik—right acrost his park. + A middlin’ big job which I’d have had the contract of, for she spoke to me + in the library about it. But I told her there was a line o’ springs just + where she wanted to dig her ditch, an’ she’d flood the park if she went + on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Were there any springs at all?’ said Hal. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bound to be springs everywhere if you dig deep enough, ain’t there? But + what I said about the springs put her out o’ conceit o’ diggin’ haw-haws, + an’ she took an’ built a white tile dairy instead. But when I sent in my + last bill for the stables, the gentleman he paid it ‘thout even lookin’ at + it, and I hadn’t forgotten nothin’, I do assure you. More than that, he + slips two five-pound notes into my hand in the library, an’ “Ralph,” he + says—he allers called me by name—“Ralph,” he says, “you’ve + saved me a heap of expense an’ trouble this autumn.” I didn’t say nothin’, + o’ course. I knowed he didn’t want any haws-haws digged acrost his park no + more’n I did, but I never said nothin’. No more he didn’t say nothin’ + about my blue-brick stables, which was really the best an’ honestest piece + o’ work I’d done in quite a while. He give me ten pounds for savin’ him a + hem of a deal o’ trouble at home. I reckon things are pretty much alike, + all times, in all places.’ + </p> + <p> + Hal and he laughed together. Dan couldn’t quite understand what they + thought so funny, and went on with his work for some time without + speaking. + </p> + <p> + When he looked up, Mr Springett, alone, was wiping his eyes with his + green-and-yellow pocket-handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bless me, Mus’ Dan, I’ve been asleep,’ he said. ‘An’ I’ve dreamed a dream + which has made me laugh—laugh as I ain’t laughed in a long day. I + can’t remember what ‘twas all about, but they do say that when old men + take to laughin’ in their sleep, they’re middlin’ ripe for the next world. + Have you been workin’ honest, Mus’ Dan?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ra-ather,’ said Dan, unclamping the schooner from the vice. ‘And look how + I’ve cut myself with the small gouge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye-es. You want a lump o’ cobwebs to that,’ said Mr Springett. ‘Oh, I see + you’ve put it on already. That’s right, Mus’ Dan.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + King Henry VII and the Shipwrights + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Harry our King in England from London town is gone, + And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the countie of Suthampton. + For there lay the MARY OF THE TOWER, his ship of war so strong, + And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong. + + He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where he would go + (But only my Lord of Arundel), and meanly did he show, + In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might him mark; + With his frieze hood and cloak about, he looked like any clerk. + He was at Hamull on the Hoke about the hour of the tide, + And saw the MARY haled into dock, the winter to abide, + With all her tackle and habiliments which are the King his own; + But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her to the bone. + + They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of a trusty tree, + And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of weather at sea. + But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it might go, + To maken beds for their own wives and little children also. + + There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath the deck, + Crying: ‘Good felawes, come and see! The ship is nigh a wreck! + For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so fierce and fell, + Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass pott as well!’ + + With that he set the pott on his head and hied him up the hatch, + While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they might snatch; + All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good, + He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on to the mud. + + ‘I have taken plank and rope and nail, without the King his leave, + After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer a thief. + Nay, never lift up thy hand at me! There’s no clean hands in the trade. + Steal in measure,’ quo’ Brygandyne. ‘There’s measure in all things made!’ + + ‘Gramercy, yeoman!’ said our King. ‘Thy counsel liketh me.’ + And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled whistles three. + Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down, + And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry Suthampton town. + + They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the kettles in their hands, + And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King’s commands. + But ‘Since ye have made your beds,’ said the King, ‘ye needs must lie + thereon. + For the sake of your wives and little ones—felawes, get you gone!’ + + When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips, + Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his ships. + ‘Nay, never lift up thy hands to me—there’s no clean hands in the trade. + But steal in measure,’ said Harry our King. ‘There’s measure in all things + made!’ + + God speed the ‘Mary of the Tower,’ the ‘Sovereign’ and ‘Grace Dieu,’ + The ‘Sweepstakes’ and the ‘Mary Fortune,’ and the ‘Henry of Bristol’ too! + All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours stand, + That they may keep measure with Harry our King and peace in Engeland! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARKLAKE WITCHES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Way Through the Woods + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They shut the road through the woods + Seventy years ago. + Weather and rain have undone it again, + And now you would never know + There was once a road through the woods + Before they planted the trees. + It is underneath the coppice and heath, + And the thin anemones. + Only the keeper sees + That, where the ring-dove broods, + And the badgers roll at ease, + There was once a road through the woods. + + Yet, if you enter the woods + Of a summer evening late, + When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools + Where the otter whistles his mate + (They fear not men in the woods + Because they see so few), + You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet + And the swish of a skirt in the dew, + Steadily cantering through + The misty solitudes, + As though they perfectly knew + The old lost road through the woods... + But there is no road through the woods! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Marklake Witches + </h2> + <p> + When Dan took up boat-building, Una coaxed Mrs Vincey, the farmer’s wife + at Little Lindens, to teach her to milk. Mrs Vincey milks in the pasture + in summer, which is different from milking in the shed, because the cows + are not tied up, and until they know you they will not stand still. After + three weeks Una could milk Red Cow or Kitty Shorthorn quite dry, without + her wrists aching, and then she allowed Dan to look. But milking did not + amuse him, and it was pleasanter for Una to be alone in the quiet pastures + with quiet-spoken Mrs Vincey. So, evening after evening, she slipped + across to Little Lindens, took her stool from the fern-clump beside the + fallen oak, and went to work, her pail between her knees, and her head + pressed hard into the cow’s flank. As often as not, Mrs Vincey would be + milking cross Pansy at the other end of the pasture, and would not come + near till it was time to strain and pour off. + </p> + <p> + Once, in the middle of a milking, Kitty Shorthorn boxed Una’s ear with her + tail. + </p> + <p> + ‘You old pig!’ said Una, nearly crying, for a cow’s tail can hurt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you tie it down, child?’ said a voice behind her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off—and this is what + she’s done!’ Una looked round, expecting Puck, and saw a curly-haired + girl, not much taller than herself, but older, dressed in a curious + high-waisted, lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a high hunched collar + and a deep cape and a belt fastened with a steel clasp. She wore a yellow + velvet cap and tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop. Her cheeks + were pale except for two pretty pink patches in the middle, and she talked + with little gasps at the end of her sentences, as though she had been + running. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t milk so badly, child,’ she said, and when she smiled her teeth + showed small and even and pearly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you milk?’ Una asked, and then flushed, for she heard Puck’s chuckle. + </p> + <p> + He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding Kitty Short-horn’s tail. + ‘There isn’t much,’ he said, ‘that Miss Philadelphia doesn’t know about + milk—or, for that matter, butter and eggs. She’s a great housewife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ said Una. ‘I’m sorry I can’t shake hands. Mine are all milky; but + Mrs Vincey is going to teach me butter-making this summer.’ ‘Ah! I’m going + to London this summer,’ the girl said, ‘to my aunt in Bloomsbury.’ She + coughed as she began to hum, ‘“Oh, what a town! What a wonderful + metropolis!” + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve got a cold,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Only my stupid cough. But it’s vastly better than it was last winter. + It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D’you like doctors, + child?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know any,’ Una replied. ‘But I’m sure I shouldn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,’ the girl laughed, for + Una frowned. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not a child, and my name’s Una,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mine’s Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I’m Squire + Bucksteed’s daughter—over at Marklake yonder.’ She jerked her little + round chin towards the south behind Dallington. ‘Sure-ly you know + Marklake?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,’ said Una. ‘It’s awfully pretty. + I like all those funny little roads that don’t lead anywhere.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They lead over our land,’ said Philadelphia stiffly, ‘and the coach road + is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went to the + Assize Ball at Lewes last year.’ She spun round and took a few dancing + steps, but stopped with her hand to her side. + </p> + <p> + ‘It gives me a stitch,’ she explained. ‘No odds. ‘Twill go away in London + air. That’s the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me. D’you hate + the French, chi—Una?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I hate French, of course, but I don’t mind Ma’m’selle. She’s rather + decent. Is Rene your French governess?’ + </p> + <p> + Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no! Rene’s a French prisoner—on parole. That means he’s promised + not to escape till he has been properly exchanged for an Englishman. He’s + only a doctor, so I hope they won’t think him worth exchanging. My uncle + captured him last year in the FERDINAND privateer, off Belle Isle, and he + cured my uncle of a r-r-raging toothache. Of course, after that we + couldn’t let him lie among the common French prisoners at Rye, and so he + stays with us. He’s of very old family—a Breton, which is nearly + next door to being a true Briton, my father says—and he wears his + hair clubbed—not powdered. Much more becoming, don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what you’re—’ Una began, but Puck, the other side of + the pail, winked, and she went on with her milking. ‘He’s going to be a + great French physician when the war is over. He makes me bobbins for my + lace-pillow now—he’s very clever with his hands; but he’d doctor our + people on the Green if they would let him. Only our Doctor—Doctor + Break—says he’s an emp—or imp something—worse than + imposter. But my Nurse says—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nurse! You’re ever so old. What have you got a nurse for?’ Una finished + milking, and turned round on her stool as Kitty Shorthorn grazed off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I can’t get rid of her. Old Cissie nursed my mother, and she says + she’ll nurse me till she dies. The idea! She never lets me alone. She + thinks I’m delicate. She has grown infirm in her understanding, you know. + Mad—quite mad, poor Cissie!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really mad?’ said Una. ‘Or just silly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Crazy, I should say—from the things she does. Her devotion to me is + terribly embarrassing. You know I have all the keys of the Hall except the + brewery and the tenants’ kitchen. I give out all stores and the linen and + plate.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How jolly! I love store-rooms and giving out things.’ + </p> + <p> + Ah, it’s a great responsibility, you’ll find, when you come to my age. + Last year Dad said I was fatiguing myself with my duties, and he actually + wanted me to give up the keys to old Amoore, our housekeeper. I wouldn’t. + I hate her. I said, “No, sir. I am Mistress of Marklake Hall just as long + as I live, because I’m never going to be married, and I shall give out + stores and linen till I die!” + </p> + <p> + And what did your father say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I threatened to pin a dishclout to his coat-tail. He ran away. Every + one’s afraid of Dad, except me.’ Philadelphia stamped her foot. ‘The idea! + If I can’t make my own father happy in his own house, I’d like to meet the + woman that can, and—and—I’d have the living hide off her!’ + </p> + <p> + She cut with her long-thonged whip. It cracked like a pistol-shot across + the still pasture. Kitty Shorthorn threw up her head and trotted away. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ Philadelphia said; ‘but it makes me furious. Don’t + you hate those ridiculous old quizzes with their feathers and fronts, who + come to dinner and call you “child” in your own chair at your own table?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t always come to dinner, said Una, ‘but I hate being called + “child.” Please tell me about store-rooms and giving out things.’ + </p> + <p> + Ah, it’s a great responsibility—particularly with that old cat + Amoore looking at the lists over your shoulder. And such a shocking thing + happened last summer! Poor crazy Cissie, my Nurse that I was telling you + of, she took three solid silver tablespoons.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Took! But isn’t that stealing?’ Una cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hsh!’ said Philadelphia, looking round at Puck. ‘All I say is she took + them without my leave. I made it right afterwards. So, as Dad says—and + he’s a magistrate-, it wasn’t a legal offence; it was only compounding a + felony. + </p> + <p> + ‘It sounds awful,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was. My dear, I was furious! I had had the keys for ten months, and + I’d never lost anything before. I said nothing at first, because a big + house offers so many chances of things being mislaid, and coming to hand + later. “Fetching up in the lee-scuppers,” my uncle calls it. But next week + I spoke to old Cissie about it when she was doing my hair at night, and + she said I wasn’t to worry my heart for trifles!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it like ‘em?’ Una burst out. ‘They see you’re worried over + something that really matters, and they say, “Don’t worry”; as if that did + any good!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I quite agree with you, my dear; quite agree with you! I told Ciss the + spoons were solid silver, and worth forty shillings, so if the thief were + found, he’d be tried for his life.’ ‘Hanged, do you mean?’ Una said. + </p> + <p> + ‘They ought to be; but Dad says no jury will hang a man nowadays for a + forty-shilling theft. They transport ‘em into penal servitude at the + uttermost ends of the earth beyond the seas, for the term of their natural + life. I told Cissie that, and I saw her tremble in my mirror. Then she + cried, and caught hold of my knees, and I couldn’t for my life understand + what it was all about,—she cried so. Can you guess, my dear, what + that poor crazy thing had done? It was midnight before I pieced it + together. She had given the spoons to Jerry Gamm, the Witchmaster on the + Green, so that he might put a charm on me! Me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Put a charm on you? Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s what I asked; and then I saw how mad poor Cissie was! You know + this stupid little cough of mine? It will disappear as soon as I go to + London. She was troubled about that, and about my being so thin, and she + told me Jerry had promised her, if she would bring him three silver + spoons, that he’d charm my cough away and make me plump—“flesh up,” + she said. I couldn’t help laughing; but it was a terrible night! I had to + put Cissie into my own bed, and stroke her hand till she cried herself to + sleep. What else could I have done? When she woke, and I coughed—I + suppose I can cough in my own room if I please—she said that she’d + killed me, and asked me to have her hanged at Lewes sooner than send her + to the uttermost ends of the earth away from me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How awful! What did you do, Phil?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do? I rode off at five in the morning to talk to Master Jerry, with a new + lash on my whip. Oh, I was furious! Witchmaster or no Witchmaster, I meant + to—’ + </p> + <p> + Ah! what’s a Witchmaster?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A master of witches, of course. I don’t believe there are witches; but + people say every village has a few, and Jerry was the master of all ours + at Marklake. He has been a smuggler, and a man-of-war’s man, and now he + pretends to be a carpenter and joiner—he can make almost anything—but + he really is a white wizard. He cures people by herbs and charms. He can + cure them after Doctor Break has given them up, and that’s why Doctor + Break hates him so. He used to make me toy carts, and charm off my warts + when I was a child.’ Philadelphia spread out her hands with the delicate + shiny little nails. ‘It isn’t counted lucky to cross him. He has his ways + of getting even with you, they say. But I wasn’t afraid of Jerry! I saw + him working in his garden, and I leaned out of my saddle and + double-thonged him between the shoulders, over the hedge. Well, my dear, + for the first time since Dad gave him to me, my Troubadour (I wish you + could see the sweet creature!) shied across the road, and I spilled out + into the hedge-top. Most undignified! Jerry pulled me through to his side + and brushed the leaves off me. I was horribly pricked, but I didn’t care. + “Now, Jerry,” I said, “I’m going to take the hide off you first, and send + you to Lewes afterwards. You well know why.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh!” he said, and he sat down among his bee-hives. “Then I reckon you’ve + come about old Cissie’s business, my dear.” “I reckon I justabout have,” I + said. “Stand away from these hives. I can’t get at you there.” “That’s why + I be where I be,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Phil, I don’t hold + with bein’ flogged before breakfast, at my time o’ life.” He’s a huge big + man, but he looked so comical squatting among the hives that—I know + I oughtn’t to—I laughed, and he laughed. I always laugh at the wrong + time. But I soon recovered my dignity, and I said, “Then give me back what + you made poor Cissie steal!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Your pore Cissie,” he said. “She’s a hatful o’ trouble. But you shall + have ‘em, Miss Phil. They’re all ready put by for you.” And, would you + believe it, the old sinner pulled my three silver spoons out of his dirty + pocket, and polished them on his cuff. “Here they be,” he says, and he + gave them to me, just as cool as though I’d come to have my warts charmed. + That’s the worst of people having known you when you were young. But I + preserved my composure. “Jerry,” I said, “what in the world are we to do? + If you’d been caught with these things on you, you’d have been hanged.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I know it,” he said. “But they’re yours now.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But you made my Cissie steal them,” I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That I didn’t,” he said. “Your Cissie, she was pickin’ at me an’ + tarrifyin’ me all the long day an’ every day for weeks, to put a charm on + you, Miss Phil, an’ take away your little spitty cough.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes. I knew that, Jerry, and to make me flesh-up!” I said. “I’m much + obliged to you, but I’m not one of your pigs!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah! I reckon she’ve been talking to you, then,” he said. “Yes, she give + me no peace, and bein’ tarrified—for I don’t hold with old women—I + laid a task on her which I thought ‘ud silence her. I never reckoned the + old scrattle ‘ud risk her neckbone at Lewes Assizes for your sake, Miss + Phil. But she did. She up an’ stole, I tell ye, as cheerful as a tinker. + You might ha’ knocked me down with any one of them liddle spoons when she + brung ‘em in her apron.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Do you mean to say, then, that you did it to try my poor Cissie?” I + screamed at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What else for, dearie?” he said. “I don’t stand in need of + hedge-stealings. I’m a freeholder, with money in the bank; and now I won’t + trust women no more! Silly old besom! I do beleft she’d ha’ stole the + Squire’s big fob-watch, if I’d required her.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then you’re a wicked, wicked old man,” I said, and I was so angry that I + couldn’t help crying, and of course that made me cough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jerry was in a fearful taking. He picked me up and carried me into his + cottage—it’s full of foreign curiosities—and he got me + something to eat and drink, and he said he’d be hanged by the neck any day + if it pleased me. He said he’d even tell old Cissie he was sorry. That’s a + great comedown for a Witchmaster, you know. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was ashamed of myself for being so silly, and I dabbed my eyes and + said, “The least you can do now is to give poor Ciss some sort of a charm + for me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes, that’s only fair dealings,” he said. “You know the names of the + Twelve Apostles, dearie? You say them names, one by one, before your open + window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day fasting. But mind + you, ‘twixt every name you draw in your breath through your nose, right + down to your pretty liddle toes, as long and as deep as you can, and let + it out slow through your pretty liddle mouth. There’s virtue for your + cough in those names spoke that way. And I’ll give you something you can + see, moreover. Here’s a stick of maple, which is the warmest tree in the + wood.”’ ‘That’s true,’ Una interrupted. ‘You can feel it almost as warm as + yourself when you touch it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s cut one inch long for your every year,” Jerry said. “That’s sixteen + inches. You set it in your window so that it holds up the sash, and thus + you keep it, rain or shine, or wet or fine, day and night. I’ve said words + over it which will have virtue on your complaints.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t any complaints, Jerry,” I said. “It’s only to please Cissie.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I know that as well as you do, dearie,” he said. And—and that was + all that came of my going to give him a flogging. I wonder whether he made + poor Troubadour shy when I lashed at him? Jerry has his ways of getting + even with people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder,’ said Una. ‘Well, did you try the charm? Did it work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What nonsense! I told Rene about it, of course, because he’s a doctor. + He’s going to be a most famous doctor. That’s why our doctor hates him. + Rene said, “Oho! Your Master Gamm, he is worth knowing,” and he put up his + eyebrows—like this. He made joke of it all. He can see my window + from the carpenter’s shed, where he works, and if ever the maple stick + fell down, he pretended to be in a fearful taking till I propped the + window up again. He used to ask me whether I had said my Apostles + properly, and how I took my deep breaths. Oh yes, and the next day, though + he had been there ever so many times before, he put on his new hat and + paid Jerry Gamm a visit of state—as a fellow-physician. Jerry never + guessed Rene was making fun of him, and so he told Rene about the sick + people in the village, and how he cured them with herbs after Doctor Break + had given them up. Jerry could talk smugglers’ French, of course, and I + had taught Rene plenty of English, if only he wasn’t so shy. They called + each other Monsieur Gamm and Mosheur Lanark, just like gentlemen. I + suppose it amused poor Rene. He hasn’t much to do, except to fiddle about + in the carpenter’s shop. He’s like all the French prisoners—always + making knickknacks; and Jerry had a little lathe at his cottage, and so—and + so—Rene took to being with Jerry much more than I approved of. The + Hall is so big and empty when Dad’s away, and I will not sit with old + Amoore—she talks so horridly about every one—specially about + Rene. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was rude to Rene, I’m afraid; but I was properly served out for it. One + always is. You see, Dad went down to Hastings to pay his respects to the + General who commanded the brigade there, and to bring him to the Hall + afterwards. Dad told me he was a very brave soldier from India—he + was Colonel of Dad’s Regiment, the Thirty-third Foot, after Dad left the + Army, and then he changed his name from Wesley to Wellesley, or else the + other way about; and Dad said I was to get out all the silver for him, and + I knew that meant a big dinner. So I sent down to the sea for early + mackerel, and had such a morning in the kitchen and the store-rooms. Old + Amoore nearly cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘However, my dear, I made all my preparations in ample time, but the fish + didn’t arrive—it never does—and I wanted Rene to ride to + Pevensey and bring it himself. He had gone over to Jerry, of course, as he + always used, unless I requested his presence beforehand. I can’t send for + Rene every time I want him. He should be there. Now, don’t you ever do + what I did, child, because it’s in the highest degree unladylike; but—but + one of our Woods runs up to Jerry’s garden, and if you climb—it’s + ungenteel, but I can climb like a kitten—there’s an old hollow oak + just above the pigsty where you can hear and see everything below. + Truthfully, I only went to tell Rene about the mackerel, but I saw him and + Jerry sitting on the seat playing with wooden toy trumpets. So I slipped + into the hollow, and choked down my cough, and listened. Rene had never + shown me any of these trumpets.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trumpets? Aren’t you too old for trumpets?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘They weren’t real trumpets, because Jerry opened his short-collar, and + Rene put one end of his trumpet against Jerry’s chest, and put his ear to + the other. Then Jerry put his trumpet against Rene’s chest, and listened + while Rene breathed and coughed. I was afraid I would cough too. + </p> + <p> + ‘“This hollywood one is the best,” said Jerry. “‘Tis won’erful like + hearin’ a man’s soul whisperin’ in his innards; but unless I’ve a buzzin’ + in my ears, Mosheur Lanark, you make much about the same kind o’ noises as + old Gaffer Macklin—but not quite so loud as young Copper. It sounds + like breakers on a reef—a long way off. Comprenny?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Perfectly,” said Rene. “I drive on the breakers. But before I strike, I + shall save hundreds, thousands, millions perhaps, by my little trumpets. + Now tell me what sounds the old Gaffer Macklin have made in his chest, and + what the young Copper also.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Jerry talked for nearly a quarter of an hour about sick people in the + village, while Rene asked questions. Then he sighed, and said, “You + explain very well, Monsieur Gamm, but if only I had your opportunities to + listen for myself! Do you think these poor people would let me listen to + them through my trumpet—for a little money? No?”—Rene’s as + poor as a church mouse. + </p> + <p> + ‘“They’d kill you, Mosheur. It’s all I can do to coax ‘em to abide it, and + I’m Jerry Gamm,” said Jerry. He’s very proud of his attainments. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then these poor people are alarmed—No?” said Rene. + </p> + <p> + ‘“They’ve had it in at me for some time back because o’ my tryin’ your + trumpets on their sick; and I reckon by the talk at the alehouse they + won’t stand much more. Tom Dunch an’ some of his kidney was drinkin’ + themselves riot-ripe when I passed along after noon. Charms an’ mutterin’s + an’ bits o’ red wool an’ black hens is in the way o’ nature to these + fools, Mosheur; but anything likely to do ‘em real service is devil’s work + by their estimation. If I was you, I’d go home before they come.” Jerry + spoke quite quietly, and Rene shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I am prisoner on parole, Monsieur Gamm,” he said. “I have no home.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Now that was unkind of Rene. He’s often told me that he looked on England + as his home. I suppose it’s French politeness. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then we’ll talk o’ something that matters,” said Jerry. “Not to name no + names, Mosheur Lanark, what might be your own opinion o’ some one who + ain’t old Gaffer Macklin nor young Copper? Is that person better or + worse?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Better—for time that is,” said Rene. He meant for the time being, + but I never could teach him some phrases. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I thought so too,” said Jerry. “But how about time to come?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Rene shook his head, and then he blew his nose. You don’t know how odd a + man looks blowing his nose when you are sitting directly above him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ve thought that too,” said Jerry. He rumbled so deep I could scarcely + catch. “It don’t make much odds to me, because I’m old. But you’re young, + Mosheur—you’re young,” and he put his hand on Rene’s knee, and Rene + covered it with his hand. I didn’t know they were such friends. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Thank you, mon ami,” said Rene. “I am much oblige. Let us return to our + trumpet-making. But I forget”—he stood up—“it appears that you + receive this afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t see into Gamm’s Lane from the oak, but the gate opened, and fat + little Doctor Break stumped in, mopping his head, and half-a-dozen of our + people following him, very drunk. + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to have seen Rene bow; he does it beautifully. + </p> + <p> + ‘“A word with you, Laennec,” said Doctor Break. “Jerry has been practising + some devilry or other on these poor wretches, and they’ve asked me to be + arbiter.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Whatever that means, I reckon it’s safer than asking you to be doctor,” + said Jerry, and Tom Dunch, one of our carters, laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That ain’t right feeling of you, Tom,” Jerry said, “seeing how clever + Doctor Break put away your thorn in the flesh last winter.” Tom’s wife had + died at Christmas, though Doctor Break bled her twice a week. Doctor Break + danced with rage. + </p> + <p> + ‘“This is all beside the mark,” he said. “These good people are willing to + testify that you’ve been impudently prying into God’s secrets by means of + some papistical contrivance which this person”—he pointed to poor + Rene—“has furnished you with. Why, here are the things themselves!” + Rene was holding a trumpet in his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then all the men talked at once. They said old Gaffer Macklin was dying + from stitches in his side where Jerry had put the trumpet—they + called it the devil’s ear-piece; and they said it left round red + witch-marks on people’s skins, and dried up their lights, and made ‘em + spit blood, and threw ‘em into sweats. Terrible things they said. You + never heard such a noise. I took advantage of it to cough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rene and Jerry were standing with their backs to the pigsty. Jerry + fumbled in his big flap pockets and fished up a pair of pistols. You ought + to have seen the men give back when he cocked his. He passed one to Rene. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Wait! Wait!” said Rene. “I will explain to the doctor if he permits.” He + waved a trumpet at him, and the men at the gate shouted, “Don’t touch it, + Doctor! Don’t lay a hand to the thing.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Come, come!” said Rene. “You are not so big fool as you pretend. No?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Doctor Break backed toward the gate, watching Jerry’s pistol, and Rene + followed him with his trumpet, like a nurse trying to amuse a child, and + put the ridiculous thing to his ear to show how it was used, and talked of + la Gloire, and l’Humanite, and la Science, while Doctor Break watched + jerry’s pistol and swore. I nearly laughed aloud. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now listen! Now listen!” said Rene. “This will be moneys in your + pockets, my dear confrere. You will become rich.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then Doctor Break said something about adventurers who could not earn an + honest living in their own country creeping into decent houses and taking + advantage of gentlemen’s confidence to enrich themselves by base + intrigues. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rene dropped his absurd trumpet and made one of his best bows. I knew he + was angry from the way he rolled his “r’s.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ver-r-ry good,” said he. “For that I shall have much pleasure to kill + you now and here. Monsieur Gamm,”—another bow to Jerry—“you + will please lend him your pistol, or he shall have mine. I give you my + word I know not which is best; and if he will choose a second from his + friends over there”—another bow to our drunken yokels at the gate—“we + will commence.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s fair enough,” said Jerry. “Tom Dunch, you owe it to the Doctor to + be his second. Place your man.” ‘“No,” said Tom. “No mixin’ in gentry’s + quarrels for me.” And he shook his head and went out, and the others + followed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hold on,” said Jerry. “You’ve forgot what you set out to do up at the + alehouse just now. You was goin’ to search me for witch-marks; you was + goin’ to duck me in the pond; you was goin’ to drag all my bits o’ sticks + out o’ my little cottage here. What’s the matter with you? Wouldn’t you + like to be with your old woman tonight, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + ‘But they didn’t even look back, much less come. They ran to the village + alehouse like hares. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No matter for these canaille,” said Rene, buttoning up his coat so as + not to show any linen. All gentlemen do that before a duel, Dad says—and + he’s been out five times. “You shall be his second, Monsieur Gamm. Give + him the pistol.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Doctor Break took it as if it was red-hot, but he said that if Rene + resigned his pretensions in certain quarters he would pass over the + matter. Rene bowed deeper than ever. + </p> + <p> + ‘“As for that,” he said, “if you were not the ignorant which you are, you + would have known long ago that the subject of your remarks is not for any + living man.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what the subject of his remarks might have been, but he + spoke in a simply dreadful voice, my dear, and Doctor Break turned quite + white, and said Rene was a liar; and then Rene caught him by the throat, + and choked him black. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, my dear, as if this wasn’t deliciously exciting enough, just + exactly at that minute I heard a strange voice on the other side of the + hedge say, “What’s this? What’s this, Bucksteed?” and there was my father + and Sir Arthur Wesley on horseback in the lane; and there was Rene + kneeling on Doctor Break, and there was I up in the oak, listening with + all my ears. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must have leaned forward too much, and the voice gave me such a start + that I slipped. I had only time to make one jump on to the pigsty roof—another, + before the tiles broke, on to the pigsty wall—and then I bounced + down into the garden, just behind Jerry, with my hair full of bark. + Imagine the situation!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I can!’ Una laughed till she nearly fell off the stool. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dad said, “Phil—a—del—phia!” and Sir Arthur Wesley + said, “Good Ged” and Jerry put his foot on the pistol Rene had dropped. + But Rene was splendid. He never even looked at me. He began to untwist + Doctor Break’s neckcloth as fast as he’d twisted it, and asked him if he + felt better. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What’s happened? What’s happened?” said Dad. + </p> + <p> + ‘“A fit!” said Rene. “I fear my confrere has had a fit. Do not be alarmed. + He recovers himself. Shall I bleed you a little, my dear Doctor?” Doctor + Break was very good too. He said, “I am vastly obliged, Monsieur Laennec, + but I am restored now.” And as he went out of the gate he told Dad it was + a syncope—I think. Then Sir Arthur said, “Quite right, Bucksteed. + Not another word! They are both gentlemen.” And he took off his cocked hat + to Doctor Break and Rene. + </p> + <p> + ‘But poor Dad wouldn’t let well alone. He kept saying, “Philadelphia, what + does all this mean?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, sir,” I said, “I’ve only just come down. As far as I could see, it + looked as though Doctor Break had had a sudden seizure.” That was quite + true—if you’d seen Rene seize him. Sir Arthur laughed. “Not much + change there, Bucksteed,” he said. “She’s a lady—a thorough lady.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Heaven knows she doesn’t look like one,” said poor Dad. “Go home, + Philadelphia.” + </p> + <p> + ‘So I went home, my dear—don’t laugh so!—-right under Sir + Arthur’s nose—a most enormous nose—feeling as though I were + twelve years old, going to be whipped. Oh, I beg your pardon, child!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right,’ said Una. ‘I’m getting on for thirteen. I’ve never been + whipped, but I know how you felt. All the same, it must have been funny!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Funny! If you’d heard Sir Arthur jerking out, “Good Ged, Bucksteed!” + every minute as they rode behind me; and poor Dad saying, ‘“‘Pon my + honour, Arthur, I can’t account for it!” Oh, how my cheeks tingled when I + reached my room! But Cissie had laid out my very best evening dress, the + white satin one, vandyked at the bottom with spots of morone foil, and the + pearl knots, you know, catching up the drapery from the left shoulder. I + had poor mother’s lace tucker and her coronet comb.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you lucky!’ Una murmured. ‘And gloves?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘French kid, my dear’—Philadelphia patted her shoulder—‘and + morone satin shoes and a morone and gold crape fan. That restored my calm. + Nice things always do. I wore my hair banded on my forehead with a little + curl over the left ear. And when I descended the stairs, en grande tenue, + old Amoore curtsied to me without my having to stop and look at her, + which, alas! is too often the case. Sir Arthur highly approved of the + dinner, my dear: the mackerel did come in time. We had all the Marklake + silver out, and he toasted my health, and he asked me where my little + bird’s-nesting sister was. I know he did it to quiz me, so I looked him + straight in the face, my dear, and I said, “I always send her to the + nursery, Sir Arthur, when I receive guests at Marklake Hall.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, how chee—clever of you. What did he say?’ Una cried. ‘He said, + “Not much change there, Bucksteed. Ged, I deserved it,” and he toasted me + again. They talked about the French and what a shame it was that Sir + Arthur only commanded a brigade at Hastings, and he told Dad of a battle + in India at a place called Assaye. Dad said it was a terrible fight, but + Sir Arthur described it as though it had been a whist-party—I + suppose because a lady was present.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you were the lady. I wish I’d seen you,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you had, child. I had such a triumph after dinner. Rene and Doctor + Break came in. They had quite made up their quarrel, and they told me they + had the highest esteem for each other, and I laughed and said, “I heard + every word of it up in the tree.” You never saw two men so frightened in + your life, and when I said, “What was ‘the subject of your remarks,’ + Rene?” neither of them knew where to look. Oh, I quizzed them + unmercifully. They’d seen me jump off the pigsty roof, remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what was the subject of their remarks?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Doctor Break said it was a professional matter, so the laugh was + turned on me. I was horribly afraid it might have been something + unladylike and indelicate. But that wasn’t my triumph. Dad asked me to + play on the harp. Between just you and me, child, I had been practising a + new song from London—I don’t always live in trees—for weeks; + and I gave it them for a surprise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What was it?’ said Una. ‘Sing it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“I have given my heart to a flower.” Not very difficult fingering, but + r-r-ravishing sentiment.’ + </p> + <p> + Philadelphia coughed and cleared her throat. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve a deep voice for my age and size,’ she explained. ‘Contralto, you + know, but it ought to be stronger,’ and she began, her face all dark + against the last of the soft pink sunset: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘I have given my heart to a flower, + Though I know it is fading away, + Though I know it will live but an hour + And leave me to mourn its decay! +</pre> + <p> + ‘Isn’t that touchingly sweet? Then the last verse—I wish I had my + harp, dear—goes as low as my register will reach.‘She drew in her + chin, and took a deep breath: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Ye desolate whirlwinds that rave, + I charge you be good to my dear! + She is all—she is all that I have, + And the time of our parting is near!’ +</pre> + <p> + ‘Beautiful!’ said Una. ‘And did they like it?’ ‘Like it? They were + overwhelmed—accables, as Rene says. My dear, if I hadn’t seen it, I + shouldn’t have believed that I could have drawn tears, genuine tears, to + the eyes of four grown men. But I did! Rene simply couldn’t endure it! + He’s all French sensibility. He hid his face and said, “Assez, + Mademoiselle! C’est plus fort que moi! Assez!” And Sir Arthur blew his + nose and said, “Good Ged! This is worse than Assaye!” While Dad sat with + the tears simply running down his cheeks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what did Doctor Break do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He got up and pretended to look out of the window, but I saw his little + fat shoulders jerk as if he had the hiccoughs. That was a triumph. I never + suspected him of sensibility.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I wish I’d seen! I wish I’d been you,’ said Una, clasping her hands. + Puck rustled and rose from the fern, just as a big blundering cock-chafer + flew smack against Una’s cheek. + </p> + <p> + When she had finished rubbing the place, Mrs Vincey called to her that + Pansy had been fractious, or she would have come long before to help her + strain and pour off. ‘It didn’t matter,’ said Una; ‘I just waited. Is that + old Pansy barging about the lower pasture now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Mrs Vincey, listening. ‘It sounds more like a horse being + galloped middlin’ quick through the woods; but there’s no road there. I + reckon it’s one of Gleason’s colts loose. Shall I see you up to the house, + Miss Una?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gracious, no! thank you. What’s going to hurt me?’ said Una, and she put + her stool away behind the oak, and strolled home through the gaps that old + Hobden kept open for her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Brookland Road + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I was very well pleased with what I knowed, + I reckoned myself no fool— + Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road + That turned me back to school. + + Low down—low down! + Where the liddle green lanterns shine— + Oh! maids, I’ve done with ‘ee all but one, + And she can never be mine! + ‘Twas right in the middest of a hot June night, + With thunder duntin’ round, + And I seed her face by the fairy light + That beats from off the ground. + + She only smiled and she never spoke, + She smiled and went away; + But when she’d gone my heart was broke, + And my wits was clean astray. + + Oh! Stop your ringing and let me be— + Let be, O Brookland bells! + You’ll ring Old Goodman * out of the sea, + Before I wed one else! + + Old Goodman’s farm is rank sea sand, + And was this thousand year; + But it shall turn to rich plough land + Before I change my dear! + + Oh! Fairfield Church is water-bound + From Autumn to the Spring; + But it shall turn to high hill ground + Before my bells do ring! + + Oh! leave me walk on the Brookland Road, + In the thunder and warm rain— + Oh! leave me look where my love goed + And p’raps I’ll see her again! + Low down—low down! + Where the liddle green lanterns shine— + Oh! maids, I’ve done with ‘ee all but one, + And she can never be mine! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *Earl Godwin of the Goodwin Sands(?) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Run of the Downs + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Weald is good, the Downs are best— + I’ll give you the run of ‘em, East to West. + Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill, + They were once and they are still. + Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry + Go back as far as sums’ll carry. + Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring, + They have looked on many a thing; + And what those two have missed between ‘em + I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen ‘em. + Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down + Knew Old England before the Crown. + Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood + Knew Old England before the Flood. + And when you end on the Hampshire side— + Butser’s old as Time and Tide. + The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn, + You be glad you are Sussex born! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Knife and the Naked Chalk + </h2> + <p> + The children went to the seaside for a month, and lived in a flint village + on the bare windy chalk Downs, quite thirty miles away from home. They + made friends with an old shepherd, called Mr Dudeney, who had known their + Father when their Father was little. He did not talk like their own people + in the Weald of Sussex, and he used different names for farm things, but + he understood how they felt, and let them go with him. He had a tiny + cottage about half a mile from the village, where his wife made mead from + thyme honey, and nursed sick lambs in front of a coal fire, while Old Jim, + who was Mr Dudeney’s sheep-dog’s father, lay at the door. They brought up + beef bones for Old Jim (you must never give a sheep-dog mutton bones), and + if Mr Dudeney happened to be far in the Downs, Mrs Dudeney would tell the + dog to take them to him, and he did. + </p> + <p> + One August afternoon when the village water-cart had made the street smell + specially townified, they went to look for their shepherd as usual, and, + as usual, Old Jim crawled over the doorstep and took them in charge. The + sun was hot, the dry grass was very slippery, and the distances were very + distant. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s Just like the sea,’ said Una, when Old Jim halted in the shade of a + lonely flint barn on a bare rise. ‘You see where you’re going, and—you + go there, and there’s nothing between.’ + </p> + <p> + Dan slipped off his shoes. ‘When we get home I shall sit in the woods all + day,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whuff!’ said Old Jim, to show he was ready, and struck across a long + rolling stretch of turf. Presently he asked for his beefbone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not yet,’ said Dan. ‘Where’s Mr Dudeney? Where’s Master?’ Old Jim looked + as if he thought they were mad, and asked again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you give it him,’ Una cried. ‘I’m not going to be left howling in a + desert.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Show, boy! Show!’ said Dan, for the Downs seemed as bare as the palm of + your hand. + </p> + <p> + Old Jim sighed, and trotted forward. Soon they spied the blob of Mr + Dudeney’s hat against the sky a long way off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Right! All right!’ said Dan. Old Jim wheeled round, took his bone + carefully between his blunted teeth, and returned to the shadow of the old + barn, looking just like a wolf. The children went on. Two kestrels hung + bivvering and squealing above them. A gull flapped lazily along the white + edge of the cliffs. The curves of the Downs shook a little in the heat, + and so did Mr Dudeney’s distant head. + </p> + <p> + They walked toward it very slowly and found themselves staring into a + horseshoe-shaped hollow a hundred feet deep, whose steep sides were laced + with tangled sheep-tracks. The flock grazed on the flat at the bottom, + under charge of Young Jim. Mr Dudeney sat comfortably knitting on the edge + of the slope, his crook between his knees. They told him what Old Jim had + done. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, he thought you could see my head as soon as he did. The closeter you + be to the turf the more you see things. You look warm-like,’ said Mr + Dudeney. + </p> + <p> + ‘We be,’ said Una, flopping down. ‘And tired.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Set beside o’ me here. The shadow’ll begin to stretch out in a little + while, and a heat-shake o’ wind will come up with it that’ll overlay your + eyes like so much wool.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We don’t want to sleep,’ said Una indignantly; but she settled herself as + she spoke, in the first strip of early afternoon shade. + </p> + <p> + ‘O’ course not. You come to talk with me same as your father used. He + didn’t need no dog to guide him to Norton Pit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, he belonged here,’ said Dan, and laid himself down at length on the + turf. + </p> + <p> + ‘He did. And what beats me is why he went off to live among them messy + trees in the Weald, when he might ha’ stayed here and looked all about + him. There’s no profit to trees. They draw the lightning, and sheep + shelter under ‘em, and so, like as not, you’ll lose a half-score ewes + struck dead in one storm. Tck! Your father knew that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trees aren’t messy.’ Una rose on her elbow. ‘And what about firewood? I + don’t like coal.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eh? You lie a piece more uphill and you’ll lie more natural,’ said Mr + Dudeney, with his provoking deaf smile. ‘Now press your face down and + smell to the turf. That’s Southdown thyme which makes our Southdown mutton + beyond compare, and, my mother told me, ‘twill cure anything except broken + necks, or hearts. I forget which.’ + </p> + <p> + They sniffed, and somehow forgot to lift their cheeks from the soft thymy + cushions. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t get nothing like that in the Weald. Watercress, maybe?’ said Mr + Dudeney. + </p> + <p> + ‘But we’ve water—brooks full of it—where you paddle in hot + weather,’ Una replied, watching a yellow-and-violet-banded snail-shell + close to her eye. + </p> + <p> + ‘Brooks flood. Then you must shift your sheep—let alone foot-rot + afterward. I put more dependence on a dew-pond any day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How’s a dew-pond made?’ said Dan, and tilted his hat over his eyes. Mr + Dudeney explained. + </p> + <p> + The air trembled a little as though it could not make up its mind whether + to slide into the Pit or move across the open. But it seemed easiest to go + downhill, and the children felt one soft puff after another slip and sidle + down the slope in fragrant breaths that baffed on their eyelids. The + little whisper of the sea by the cliffs joined with the whisper of the + wind over the grass, the hum of insects in the thyme, the ruffle and + rustle of the flock below, and a thickish mutter deep in the very chalk + beneath them. Mr Dudeney stopped explaining, and went on with his + knitting. They were roused by voices. The shadow had crept halfway down + the steep side of Norton Pit, and on the edge of it, his back to them, + Puck sat beside a half-naked man who seemed busy at some work. The wind + had dropped, and in that funnel of ground every least noise and movement + reached them like whispers up a water-Pipe. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is clever,’ said Puck, leaning over. ‘How truly you shape it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but what does The Beast care for a brittle flint tip? Bah!’ The man + flicked something contemptuously over his shoulder. It fell between Dan + and Una—a beautiful dark-blue flint arrow-head still hot from the + maker’s hand. + </p> + <p> + The man reached for another stone, and worked away like a thrush with a + snail-shell. + </p> + <p> + ‘Flint work is fool’s work,’ he said at last. ‘One does it because one + always did it; but when it comes to dealing with The Beast—no good!’ + He shook his shaggy head. ‘The Beast was dealt with long ago. He has + gone,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’ll be back at lambing time. I know him.’ He chipped very carefully, + and the flints squeaked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not he. Children can lie out on the Chalk now all day through and go home + safe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can they? Well, call The Beast by his True Name, and I’ll believe it,’ + the man replied. ‘Surely!’ Puck leaped to his feet, curved his hands round + his mouth and shouted: ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ + </p> + <p> + Norton Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides—‘Wuff!’ Wuff!’ + like Young jim’s bark. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see? You hear?’ said Puck. ‘Nobody answers. Grey Shepherd is gone. + Feet-in-the-Night has run off. There are no more wolves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wonderful!’ The man wiped his forehead as though he were hot. ‘Who drove + him away? You?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Many men through many years, each working in his own country. Were you + one of them?’ Puck answered. + </p> + <p> + The man slid his sheepskin cloak to his waist, and without a word pointed + to his side, which was all seamed and blotched with scars. His arms, too, + were dimpled from shoulder to elbow with horrible white dimples. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see,’ said Puck. ‘It is The Beast’s mark. What did you use against + him?’ ‘Hand, hammer, and spear, as our fathers did before us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So? Then how’—Puck twitched aside the man’s dark-brown cloak—‘how + did a Flint-worker come by that? Show, man, show!’ He held out his little + hand. + </p> + <p> + The man slipped a long dark iron knife, almost a short sword, from his + belt, and after breathing on it, handed it hilt-first to Puck, who took it + with his head on one side, as you should when you look at the works of a + watch, squinted down the dark blade, and very delicately rubbed his + forefinger from the point to the hilt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good!’ said he, in a surprised tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘It should be. The Children of the Night made it,’ the man answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘So I see by the iron. What might it have cost you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This!’ The man raised his hand to his cheek. Puck whistled like a Weald + starling. + </p> + <p> + ‘By the Great Rings of the Chalk!’ he cried. ‘Was that your price? Turn + sunward that I may see better, and shut your eye.’ He slipped his hand + beneath the man’s chin and swung him till he faced the children up the + slope. They saw that his right eye was gone, and the eyelid lay shrunk. + Quickly Puck turned him round again, and the two sat down. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was for the sheep. The sheep are the people,’ said the man, in an + ashamed voice. ‘What else could I have done? You know, Old One.’ + </p> + <p> + Puck sighed a little fluttering sigh. ‘Take the knife. I listen.’ The man + bowed his head, drove the knife into the turf, and while it still quivered + said: ‘This is witness between us that I speak the thing that has been. + Before my Knife and the Naked Chalk I speak. Touch!’ + </p> + <p> + Puck laid a hand on the hilt. It stopped shaking. The children wriggled a + little nearer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am of the People of the Worked Flint. I am the one son of the Priestess + who sells the Winds to the Men of the Sea. I am the Buyer of the Knife—the + Keeper of the People,’ the man began, in a sort of singing shout. ‘These + are my names in this country of the Naked Chalk, between the Trees and the + Sea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yours was a great country. Your names are great too,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘One cannot feed some things on names and songs.’ The man hit himself on + the chest. ‘It is better—always better—to count one’s children + safe round the fire, their Mother among them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ahai!’ said Puck. ‘I think this will be a very old tale.’ ‘I warm myself + and eat at any fire that I choose, but there is no one to light me a fire + or cook my meat. I sold all that when I bought the Magic Knife for my + people. It was not right that The Beast should master man. What else could + I have done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hear. I know. I listen,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘When I was old enough to take my place in the Sheepguard, The Beast + gnawed all our country like a bone between his teeth. He came in behind + the flocks at watering-time, and watched them round the Dew-ponds; he + leaped into the folds between our knees at the shearing; he walked out + alongside the grazing flocks, and chose his meat on the hoof while our + boys threw flints at him; he crept by night ‘into the huts, and licked the + babe from between the mother’s hands; he called his companions and pulled + down men in broad daylight on the Naked Chalk. No—not always did he + do so! This was his cunning! He would go away for a while to let us forget + him. A year—two years perhaps—we neither smelt, nor heard, nor + saw him. When our flocks had increased; when our men did not always look + behind them; when children strayed from the fenced places; when our women + walked alone to draw water—back, back, back came the Curse of the + Chalk, Grey Shepherd, Feet-in-the-Night—The Beast, The Beast, The + Beast! + </p> + <p> + ‘He laughed at our little brittle arrows and our poor blunt spears. He + learned to run in under the stroke of the hammer. I think he knew when + there was a flaw in the flint. Often it does not show till you bring it + down on his snout. Then—Pouf!—-the false flint falls all to + flinders, and you are left with the hammer-handle in your fist, and his + teeth in your flank! I have felt them. At evening, too, in the dew, or + when it has misted and rained, your spear-head lashings slack off, though + you have kept them beneath your cloak all day. You are alone—but so + close to the home ponds that you stop to tighten the sinews with hands, + teeth, and a piece of driftwood. You bend over and pull—so! That is + the minute for which he has followed you since the stars went out. “Aarh!” + he “Wurr-aarh!” he says.’ (Norton Pit gave back the growl like a pack of + real wolves.) ‘Then he is on your right shoulder feeling for the vein in + your neck, and—perhaps your sheep run on without you. To fight The + Beast is nothing, but to be despised by The Beast when he fights you—that + is like his teeth in the heart! Old One, why is it that men desire so + greatly, and can do so little?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do not know. Did you desire so much?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘I desired to master The Beast. It is not right that The Beast should + master man. But my people were afraid. Even, my Mother, the Priestess, was + afraid when I told her what I desired. We were accustomed to be afraid of + The Beast. When I was made a man, and a maiden—she was a Priestess—waited + for me at the Dew-ponds, The Beast flitted from off the Chalk. Perhaps it + was a sickness; perhaps he had gone to his Gods to learn how to do us new + harm. But he went, and we breathed more freely. The women sang again; the + children were not so much guarded; our flocks grazed far out. I took mine + yonder’—he pointed inland to the hazy line of the Weald—‘where + the new grass was best. They grazed north. I followed till we were close + to the Trees’—he lowered his voice—‘close there where the + Children of the Night live.’ He pointed north again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, now I remember a thing,’ said Puck. ‘Tell me, why did your people + fear the Trees so extremely?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because the Gods hate the Trees and strike them with lightning. We can + see them burning for days all along the Chalk’s edge. Besides, all the + Chalk knows that the Children of the Night, though they worship our Gods, + are magicians. When a man goes into their country, they change his spirit; + they put words into his mouth; they make him like talking water. But a + voice in my heart told me to go toward the north. While I watched my sheep + there I saw three Beasts chasing a man, who ran toward the Trees. By this + I knew he was a Child of the Night. We Flint-workers fear the Trees more + than we fear The Beast. He had no hammer. He carried a knife like this + one. A Beast leaped at him. He stretched out his knife. The Beast fell + dead. The other Beasts ran away howling, which they would never have done + from a Flint-worker. The man went in among the Trees. I looked for the + dead Beast. He had been killed in a new way—by a single deep, clean + cut, without bruise or tear, which had split his bad heart. Wonderful! So + I saw that the man’s knife was magic, and I thought how to get it,—thought + strongly how to get it. + </p> + <p> + ‘When I brought the flocks to the shearing, my Mother the Priestess asked + me, “What is the new thing which you have seen and I see in your face?” I + said, “It is a sorrow to me”; and she answered, “All new things are + sorrow. Sit in my place, and eat sorrow.” I sat down in her place by the + fire, where she talks to the ghosts in winter, and two voices spoke in my + heart. One voice said, “Ask the Children of the Night for the Magic Knife. + It is not fit that The Beast should master man.” I listened to that voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘One voice said, “If you go among the Trees, the Children of the Night + will change your spirit. Eat and sleep here.” The other voice said, “Ask + for the Knife.” I listened to that voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I said to my Mother in the morning, “I go away to find a thing for the + people, but I do not know whether I shall return in my own shape.” She + answered, “Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am your + Mother.” + </p> + <p> + ‘True,’ said Puck. ‘The Old Ones themselves cannot change men’s mothers + even if they would.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us thank the Old Ones! I spoke to my Maiden, the Priestess who waited + for me at the Dew-ponds. She promised fine things too.’ The man laughed. + ‘I went away to that place where I had seen the magician with the knife. I + lay out two days on the short grass before I ventured among the Trees. I + felt my way before me with a stick. I was afraid of the terrible talking + Trees. I was afraid of the ghosts in the branches; of the soft ground + underfoot; of the red and black waters. I was afraid, above all, of the + Change. It came!’ + </p> + <p> + They saw him wipe his forehead once again, and his strong back-muscles + quivered till he laid his hand on the knife-hilt. + </p> + <p> + ‘A fire without a flame burned in my head; an evil taste grew in my mouth; + my eyelids shut hot over my eyes; my breath was hot between my teeth, and + my hands were like the hands of a stranger. I was made to sing songs and + to mock the Trees, though I was afraid of them. At the same time I saw + myself laughing, and I was very sad for this fine young man, who was + myself. Ah! The Children of the Night know magic.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think that is done by the Spirits of the Mist. They change a man, if he + sleeps among them,’ said Puck. ‘Had you slept in any mists?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—but I know it was the Children of the Night. After three days I + saw a red light behind the Trees, and I heard a heavy noise. I saw the + Children of the Night dig red stones from a hole, and lay them in fires. + The stones melted like tallow, and the men beat the soft stuff with + hammers. I wished to speak to these men, but the words were changed in my + mouth, and all I could say was, “Do not make that noise. It hurts my + head.” By this I knew that I was bewitched, and I clung to the Trees, and + prayed the Children of the Night to take off their spells. They were + cruel. They asked me many questions which they would never allow me to + answer. They changed my words between my teeth till I wept. Then they led + me into a hut and covered the floor with hot stones and dashed water on + the stones, and sang charms till the sweat poured off me like water. I + slept. When I waked, my own spirit—not the strange, shouting thing—was + back in my body, and I was like a cool bright stone on the shingle between + the sea and the sunshine. The magicians came to hear me—women and + men—each wearing a Magic Knife. Their Priestess was their Ears and + their Mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘I spoke. I spoke many words that went smoothly along like sheep in order + when their shepherd, standing on a mound, can count those coming, and + those far off getting ready to come. I asked for Magic Knives for my + people. I said that my people would bring meat, and milk, and wool, and + lay them in the short grass outside the Trees, if the Children of the + Night would leave Magic Knives for our people to take away. They were + pleased. Their Priestess said, “For whose sake have you come?” I answered, + “The sheep are the people. If The Beast kills our sheep, our people die. + So I come for a Magic Knife to kill The Beast.” + </p> + <p> + ‘She said, “We do not know if our God will let us trade with the people of + the Naked Chalk. Wait till we have asked.” + </p> + <p> + ‘When they came back from the Question-place (their Gods are our Gods), + their Priestess said, “The God needs a proof that your words are true.” I + said, “What is the proof?” She said, “The God says that if you have come + for the sake of your people you will give him your right eye to be put + out; but if you have come for any other reason you will not give it. This + proof is between you and the God. We ourselves are sorry.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I said, “This is a hard proof. Is there no other road?” + </p> + <p> + ‘She said, “Yes. You can go back to your people with your two eyes in your + head if you choose. But then you will not get any Magic Knives for your + people.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I said, “It would be easier if I knew that I were to be killed.” + </p> + <p> + ‘She said, “Perhaps the God knew this too. See! I have made my knife hot.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I said, “Be quick, then!” With her knife heated in the flame she put out + my right eye. She herself did it. I am the son of a Priestess. She was a + Priestess. It was not work for any common man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True! Most true,’ said Puck. ‘No common man’s work that. And, + afterwards?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Afterwards I did not see out of that eye any more. I found also that a + one eye does not tell you truly where things are. Try it!’ + </p> + <p> + At this Dan put his hand over one eye, and reached for the flint + arrow-head on the grass. He missed it by inches. ‘It’s true,’ he whispered + to Una. ‘You can’t judge distances a bit with only one eye.’ + </p> + <p> + Puck was evidently making the same experiment, for the man laughed at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know it is so,’ said he. ‘Even now I am not always sure of my blow. I + stayed with the Children of the Night till my eye healed. They said I was + the son of Tyr, the God who put his right hand in a Beast’s mouth. They + showed me how they melted their red stone and made the Magic Knives of it. + They told me the charms they sang over the fires and at the beatings. I + can sing many charms.’ Then he began to laugh like a boy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was thinking of my journey home,’ he said, ‘and of the surprised Beast. + He had come back to the Chalk. I saw him—I smelt his lairs as soon + as ever I left the Trees. He did not know I had the Magic Knife—I + hid it under my cloak—the Knife that the Priestess gave me. Ho! Ho! + That happy day was too short! See! A Beast would wind me. “Wow!” he would + say. “Here is my Flint-worker!” He would come leaping, tail in air; he + would roll; he would lay his head between his paws out of merriness of + heart at his warm, waiting meal. He would leap—and, oh, his eye in + mid-leap when he saw—when he saw the knife held ready for him! It + pierced his hide as a rush pierces curdled milk. Often he had no time to + howl. I did not trouble to flay any beasts I killed. Sometimes I missed my + blow. Then I took my little flint hammer and beat out his brains as he + cowered. He made no fight. He knew the Knife! But The Beast is very + cunning. Before evening all The Beasts had smelt the blood on my knife, + and were running from me like hares. They knew! Then I walked as a man + should—the Master of The Beast! + </p> + <p> + ‘So came I back to my Mother’s house. There was a lamb to be killed. I cut + it in two halves with my knife, and I told her all my tale. She said, + “This is the work of a God.” I kissed her and laughed. I went to my Maiden + who waited for me at the Dew-ponds. There was a lamb to be killed. I cut + it in two halves with my knife, and told her all my tale. She said, “It is + the work of a God.” I laughed, but she pushed me away, and being on my + blind side, ran off before I could kiss her. I went to the Men of the + Sheepguard at watering-time. There was a sheep to be killed for their + meat. I cut it in two halves with my knife, and told them all my tale. + They said, “It is the work of a God.” I said, “We talk too much about + Gods. Let us eat and be happy, and tomorrow I will take you to the + Children of the Night, and each man will find a Magic Knife.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I was glad to smell our sheep again; to see the broad sky from edge to + edge, and to hear the sea. I slept beneath the stars in my cloak. The men + talked among themselves. + </p> + <p> + ‘I led them, the next day, to the Trees, taking with me meat, wool, and + curdled milk, as I had promised. We found the Magic Knives laid out on the + grass, as the Children of the Night had promised. They watched us from + among the Trees. Their Priestess called to me and said, “How is it with + your people?” I said “Their hearts are changed. I cannot see their hearts + as I used to.” She said, “That is because you have only one eye. Come to + me and I will be both your eyes.” But I said, “I must show my people how + to use their knives against The Beast, as you showed me how to use my + knife.” I said this because the Magic Knife does not balance like the + flint. She said, “What you have done, you have done for the sake of a + woman, and not for the sake of your people.” I asked of her, “Then why did + the God accept my right eye, and why are you so angry?” She answered, + “Because any man can lie to a God, but no man can lie to a woman. And I am + not angry with you. I am only very sorrowful for you. Wait a little, and + you will see out of your one eye why I am sorry.” So she hid herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I went back with my people, each one carrying his Knife, and making it + sing in the air—tssee-sssse. The Flint never sings. It mutters—ump-ump. + The Beast heard. The Beast saw. He knew! Everywhere he ran away from us. + We all laughed. As we walked over the grass my Mother’s brother—the + Chief on the Men’s Side—he took off his Chief’s necklace of yellow + sea-stones.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How? Eh? Oh, I remember! Amber,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘And would have put them on my neck. I said, “No, I am content. What does + my one eye matter if my other eye sees fat sheep and fat children running + about safely?” My Mother’s brother said to them, “I told you he would + never take such things.” Then they began to sing a song in the Old Tongue—The + Song of Tyr. I sang with them, but my Mother’s brother said, “This is your + song, O Buyer of the Knife. Let us sing it, Tyr.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Even then I did not understand, till I saw that—that no man stepped + on my shadow; and I knew that they thought me to be a God, like the God + Tyr, who gave his right hand to conquer a Great Beast.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By the Fire in the Belly of the Flint was that so?’ Puck rapped out. + </p> + <p> + ‘By my Knife and the Naked Chalk, so it was! They made way for my shadow + as though it had been a Priestess walking to the Barrows of the Dead. I + was afraid. I said to myself, “My Mother and my Maiden will know I am not + Tyr.” But still I was afraid, with the fear of a man who falls into a + steep flint-pit while he runs, and feels that it will be hard to climb + out. + </p> + <p> + ‘When we came to the Dew-ponds all our people were there. The men showed + their knives and told their tale. The sheep guards also had seen The Beast + flying from us. The Beast went west across the river in packs—howling! + He knew the Knife had come to the Naked Chalk at last—at last! He + knew! So my work was done. I looked for my Maiden among the Priestesses. + She looked at me, but she did not smile. She made the sign to me that our + Priestesses must make when they sacrifice to the Old Dead in the Barrows. + I would have spoken, but my Mother’s brother made himself my Mouth, as + though I had been one of the Old Dead in the Barrows for whom our Priests + speak to the people on Midsummer Mornings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I remember. Well I remember those Midsummer Mornings!’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I went away angrily to my Mother’s house. She would have knelt + before me. Then I was more angry, but she said, “Only a God would have + spoken to me thus, a Priestess. A man would have feared the punishment of + the Gods.” I looked at her and I laughed. I could not stop my unhappy + laughing. They called me from the door by the name of Tyr himself. A young + man with whom I had watched my first flocks, and chipped my first arrow, + and fought my first Beast, called me by that name in the Old Tongue. He + asked my leave to take my Maiden. His eyes were lowered, his hands were on + his forehead. He was full of the fear of a God, but of me, a man, he had + no fear when he asked. I did not kill him. I said, “Call the maiden.” She + came also without fear—this very one that had waited for me, that + had talked with me, by our Dew-ponds. Being a Priestess, she lifted her + eyes to me. As I look on a hill or a cloud, so she looked at me. She spoke + in the Old Tongue which Priestesses use when they make prayers to the Old + Dead in the Barrows. She asked leave that she might light the fire in my + companion’s house—and that I should bless their children. I did not + kill her. I heard my own voice, little and cold, say, “Let it be as you + desire,” and they went away hand in hand. My heart grew little and cold; a + wind shouted in my ears; my eye darkened. I said to my Mother, “Can a God + die?” I heard her say, “What is it? What is it, my son?” and I fell into + darkness full of hammer-noises. I was not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, poor—poor God!’ said Puck. ‘And your wise Mother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She knew. As soon as I dropped she knew. When my spirit came back I heard + her whisper in my ear, “Whether you live or die, or are made different, I + am your Mother.” That was good—better even than the water she gave + me and the going away of the sickness. Though I was ashamed to have fallen + down, yet I was very glad. She was glad too. Neither of us wished to lose + the other. There is only the one Mother for the one son. I heaped the fire + for her, and barred the doors, and sat at her feet as before I went away, + and she combed my hair, and sang. + </p> + <p> + ‘I said at last, “What is to be done to the people who say that I am Tyr?” + </p> + <p> + ‘She said, “He who has done a God-like thing must bear himself like a God. + I see no way out of it. The people are now your sheep till you die. You + cannot drive them off.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I said, “This is a heavier sheep than I can lift.” She said, “In time it + will grow easy. In time perhaps you will not lay it down for any maiden + anywhere. Be wise—be very wise, my son, for nothing is left you + except the words, and the songs, and the worship of a God.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, poor God!’ said Puck. ‘But those are not altogether bad things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know they are not; but I would sell them all—all—all for + one small child of my own, smearing himself with the ashes of our own + house-fire.’ + </p> + <p> + He wrenched his knife from the turf, thrust it into his belt and stood up. + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet, what else could I have done?’ he said. ‘The sheep are the + people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a very old tale,’ Puck answered. ‘I have heard the like of it not + only on the Naked Chalk, but also among the Trees—under Oak, and + Ash, and Thorn.’ + </p> + <p> + The afternoon shadows filled all the quiet emptiness of Norton Pit. The + children heard the sheep-bells and Young jim’s busy bark above them, and + they scrambled up the slope to the level. + </p> + <p> + ‘We let you have your sleep out,’ said Mr Dudeney, as the flock scattered + before them. ‘It’s making for tea-time now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Look what I’ve found, said Dan, and held up a little blue flint + arrow-head as fresh as though it had been chipped that very day. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ said Mr Dudeney, ‘the closeter you be to the turf the more you’re + apt to see things. I’ve found ‘em often. Some says the fairies made ‘em, + but I says they was made by folks like ourselves—only a goodish time + back. They’re lucky to keep. Now, you couldn’t ever have slept—not + to any profit—among your father’s trees same as you’ve laid out on + Naked Chalk—could you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One doesn’t want to sleep in the woods,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then what’s the good of ‘em?’ said Mr Dudeney. ‘Might as well set in the + barn all day. Fetch ‘em ‘long, Jim boy!’ + </p> + <p> + The Downs, that looked so bare and hot when they came, were full of + delicious little shadow-dimples; the smell of the thyme and the salt mixed + together on the south-west drift from the still sea; their eyes dazzled + with the low sun, and the long grass under it looked golden. The sheep + knew where their fold was, so Young Jim came back to his master, and they + all four strolled home, the scabious-heads swishing about their ankles, + and their shadows streaking behind them like the shadows of giants. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Men’s Side + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once we feared The Beast—when he followed us we ran, + Ran very fast though we knew + It was not right that The Beast should master Man; + But what could we Flint-workers do? + The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears— + Grinned at the hammers that we made; + But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife— + And this is the Buyer of the Blade! + + Room for his shadow on the grass—let it pass! + To left and right—stand clear! + This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid! + This is the great God Tyr! + + Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan, + For he knew it was not right + (And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man; + So he went to the Children of the Night. + He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake. + When he begged for the Knife they said: + ‘The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!’ + And that was the price he paid. + + Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead—run ahead! + Shout it so the Women’s Side can hear! + This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid! + This is the great God Tyr! + + Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk, + As far as we can see them and beyond. + We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep + Tally at the shearing-pond. + + We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please, + We can sleep after meals in the sun; + For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade, + Feet-in-the-Night have run! + Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!), + Devil-in-the-Dusk has run! + + Then: + Room for his shadow on the grass—let it pass! + To left and right—stand clear! + This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid! + This is the great God Tyr! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BROTHER SQUARE-TOES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Philadelphia + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, + You mustn’t take my stories for a guide. + There’s little left indeed of the city you will read of, + And all the folk I write about have died. + Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand, + Or remember what his cunning and his skill did. + And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zinnendorf, + Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded. + + It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis + (Never say I didn’t give you warning). + In Seventeen Ninety-three ‘twas there for all to see, + But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning. + + If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, + You mustn’t go by everything I’ve said. + Bob Bicknell’s Southern Stages have been laid aside for ages, + But the Limited will take you there instead. + Toby Hirte can’t be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen, + North Second Street—no matter when you call; + And I fear you’ll search in vain for the wash-house down the lane + Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball. + + It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden + (Never say I didn’t give you warning). + In Seventeen Ninety-four ‘twas a famous dancing-floor— + But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning. + + If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, + You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel. + You needn’t try your luck at Epply’s or the ‘Buck,’ + Though the Father of his Country liked them well. + It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos, + Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed—so + You must treat as out-of-date the story I relate + Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so. + + He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Luther + (Never say I didn’t give you warning). + In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) alive, + But he’s not in Philadelphia this morning. + If you’re off to Philadelphia this morning, + And wish to prove the truth of what I say, + I pledge my word you’ll find the pleasant land behind + Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way. + Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the cat-bird sings his tune; + Still Autumn sets the maple-forest blazing. + Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-compelling musk; + Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing. + They are there, there, there with Earth immortal + (Citizens, I give you friendly warning). + The things that truly last when men and times have passed, + They are all in Pennsylvania this morning! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Brother Square-Toes + </h2> + <p> + It was almost the end of their visit to the seaside. They had turned + themselves out of doors while their trunks were being packed, and strolled + over the Downs towards the dull evening sea. The tide was dead low under + the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled waves grieved along the sands up + the coast to Newhaven and down the coast to long, grey Brighton, whose + smoke trailed out across the Channel. + </p> + <p> + They walked to The Gap, where the cliff is only a few feet high. A + windlass for hoisting shingle from the beach below stands at the edge of + it. The Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an old ship’s + figurehead of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall. ‘This time + tomorrow we shall be at home, thank goodness,’ said Una. ‘I hate the sea!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe it’s all right in the middle,’ said Dan. ‘The edges are the + sorrowful parts.’ + </p> + <p> + Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, levelled his telescope + at some fishing-boats, shut it with a click and walked away. He grew + smaller and smaller along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of white + chalk every few yards show the path even on the darkest night. ‘Where’s + Cordery going?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Half-way to Newhaven,’ said Dan. ‘Then he’ll meet the Newhaven coastguard + and turn back. He says if coastguards were done away with, smuggling would + start up at once.’ + </p> + <p> + A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye— + On Telscombe Tye at night it was— + She saw the smugglers riding by, + A very pretty sight it was!’ +</pre> + <p> + Feet scrabbled on the flinty path. A dark, thin-faced man in very neat + brown clothes and broad-toed shoes came up, followed by Puck. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Three Dunkirk boats was standin’ in!’ +</pre> + <p> + the man went on. ‘Hssh!’ said Puck. ‘You’ll shock these nice young + people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! Shall I? Mille pardons!’ He shrugged his shoulders almost up to his + ears—spread his hands abroad, and jabbered in French. ‘No + comprenny?’ he said. ‘I’ll give it you in Low German.’ And he went off in + another language, changing his voice and manner so completely that they + hardly knew him for the same person. But his dark beady-brown eyes still + twinkled merrily in his lean face, and the children felt that they did not + suit the straight, plain, snuffy-brown coat, brown knee-breeches, and + broad-brimmed hat. His hair was tied ‘in a short pigtail which danced + wickedly when he turned his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha’ done!’ said Puck, laughing. ‘Be one thing or t’other, Pharaoh—French + or English or German—no great odds which.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but it is, though,’ said Una quickly. ‘We haven’t begun German yet, + and—and we’re going back to our French next week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Aren’t you English?’ said Dan. ‘We heard you singing just now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Aha! That was the Sussex side o’ me. Dad he married a French girl out o’ + Boulogne, and French she stayed till her dyin’ day. She was an Aurette, of + course. We Lees mostly marry Aurettes. Haven’t you ever come across the + saying: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Aurettes and Lees, + Like as two peas. + What they can’t smuggle, + They’ll run over seas’? +</pre> + <p> + ‘Then, are you a smuggler?’ Una cried; and, ‘Have you smuggled much?’ said + Dan. + </p> + <p> + Mr Lee nodded solemnly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind you,’ said he, ‘I don’t uphold smuggling for the generality o’ + mankind—mostly they can’t make a do of it—but I was brought up + to the trade, d’ye see, in a lawful line o’ descent on’—he waved + across the Channel—‘on both sides the water. ‘Twas all in the + families, same as fiddling. The Aurettes used mostly to run the stuff + across from Boulogne, and we Lees landed it here and ran it up to London + Town, by the safest road.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then where did you live?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t ever live too close to your business in our trade. We kept + our little fishing smack at Shoreham, but otherwise we Lees was all honest + cottager folk—at Warminghurst under Washington—Bramber way—on + the old Penn estate.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ said Puck, squatted by the windlass. ‘I remember a piece about the + Lees at Warminghurst, I do: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst + That wasn’t a gipsy last and first. +</pre> + <p> + I reckon that’s truth, Pharaoh.’ + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh laughed. ‘Admettin’ that’s true,’ he said, ‘my gipsy blood must be + wore pretty thin, for I’ve made and kept a worldly fortune.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By smuggling?’ Dan asked. ‘No, in the tobacco trade.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t mean to say you gave up smuggling just to go and be a + tobacconist!’ Dan looked so disappointed they all had to laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry; but there’s all sorts of tobacconists,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘How + far out, now, would you call that smack with the patch on her foresail?’ + He pointed to the fishing-boats. + </p> + <p> + ‘A scant mile,’ said Puck after a quick look. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just about. It’s seven fathom under her—clean sand. That was where + Uncle Aurette used to sink his brandy kegs from Boulogne, and we fished + ‘em up and rowed ‘em into The Gap here for the ponies to run inland. One + thickish night in January of ‘Ninety-three, Dad and Uncle Lot and me came + over from Shoreham in the smack, and we found Uncle Aurette and the + L’Estranges, my cousins, waiting for us in their lugger with New Year’s + presents from Mother’s folk in Boulogne. I remember Aunt Cecile she’d sent + me a fine new red knitted cap, which I put on then and there, for the + French was having their Revolution in those days, and red caps was all the + fashion. Uncle Aurette tells us that they had cut off their King Louis’ + head, and, moreover, the Brest forts had fired on an English man-o’-war. + The news wasn’t a week old. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That means war again, when we was only just getting used to the peace,” + says Dad. “Why can’t King George’s men and King Louis’ men do on their + uniforms and fight it out over our heads?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Me too, I wish that,” says Uncle Aurette. “But they’ll be pressing + better men than themselves to fight for ‘em. The press-gangs are out + already on our side. You look out for yours.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ll have to bide ashore and grow cabbages for a while, after I’ve run + this cargo; but I do wish”—Dad says, going over the lugger’s side + with our New Year presents under his arm and young L’Estrange holding the + lantern—“I just do wish that those folk which make war so easy had + to run one cargo a month all this winter. It ‘ud show ‘em what honest work + means.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, I’ve warned ye,” says Uncle Aurette. “I’ll be slipping off now + before your Revenue cutter comes. Give my love to Sister and take care o’ + the kegs. It’s thicking to southward.” ‘I remember him waving to us and + young Stephen L’Estrange blowing out the lantern. By the time we’d fished + up the kegs the fog came down so thick Dad judged it risky for me to row + ‘em ashore, even though we could hear the ponies stamping on the beach. So + he and Uncle Lot took the dinghy and left me in the smack playing on my + fiddle to guide ‘em back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Presently I heard guns. Two of ‘em sounded mighty like Uncle Aurette’s + three-pounders. He didn’t go naked about the seas after dark. Then come + more, which I reckoned was Captain Giddens in the Revenue cutter. He was + open-handed with his compliments, but he would lay his guns himself. I + stopped fiddling to listen, and I heard a whole skyful o’ French up in the + fog—and a high bow come down on top o’ the smack. I hadn’t time to + call or think. I remember the smack heeling over, and me standing on the + gunwale pushing against the ship’s side as if I hoped to bear her off. + Then the square of an open port, with a lantern in it, slid by in front of + my nose. I kicked back on our gunwale as it went under and slipped through + that port into the French ship—me and my fiddle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gracious!’ said Una. ‘What an adventure!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t anybody see you come in?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘There wasn’t any one there. I’d made use of an orlop-deck port—that’s + the next deck below the gun-deck, which by rights should not have been + open at all. The crew was standing by their guns up above. I rolled on to + a pile of dunnage in the dark and I went to sleep. When I woke, men was + talking all round me, telling each other their names and sorrows just like + Dad told me pressed men used to talk in the last war. Pretty soon I made + out they’d all been hove aboard together by the press-gangs, and left to + sort ‘emselves. The ship she was the Embuscade, a thirty-six-gun + Republican frigate, Captain Jean Baptiste Bompard, two days out of Le + Havre, going to the United States with a Republican French Ambassador of + the name of Genet. They had been up all night clearing for action on + account of hearing guns in the fog. Uncle Aurette and Captain Giddens must + have been passing the time o’ day with each other off Newhaven, and the + frigate had drifted past ‘em. She never knew she’d run down our smack. + Seeing so many aboard was total strangers to each other, I thought one + more mightn’t be noticed; so I put Aunt Cecile’s red cap on the back of my + head, and my hands in my pockets like the rest, and, as we French say, I + circulated till I found the galley. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What! Here’s one of ‘em that isn’t sick!” says a cook. “Take his + breakfast to Citizen Bompard.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I carried the tray to the cabin, but I didn’t call this Bompard + “Citizen.” Oh no! “Mon Capitaine” was my little word, same as Uncle + Aurette used to answer in King Louis’ Navy. Bompard, he liked it. He took + me on for cabin servant, and after that no one asked questions; and thus I + got good victuals and light work all the way across to America. He talked + a heap of politics, and so did his officers, and when this Ambassador + Genet got rid of his land-stomach and laid down the law after dinner, a + rooks’ parliament was nothing compared to their cabin. I learned to know + most of the men which had worked the French Revolution, through waiting at + table and hearing talk about ‘em. One of our forecas’le six-pounders was + called Danton and t’other Marat. I used to play the fiddle between ‘em, + sitting on the capstan. Day in and day out Bompard and Monsieur Genet + talked o’ what France had done, and how the United States was going to + join her to finish off the English in this war. Monsieur Genet said he’d + justabout make the United States fight for France. He was a rude common + man. But I liked listening. I always helped drink any healths that was + proposed—specially Citizen Danton’s who’d cut off King Louis’ head. + An all-Englishman might have been shocked—but that’s where my French + blood saved me. + </p> + <p> + ‘It didn’t save me from getting a dose of ship’s fever though, the week + before we put Monsieur Genet ashore at Charleston; and what was left of me + after bleeding and pills took the dumb horrors from living ‘tween decks. + The surgeon, Karaguen his name was, kept me down there to help him with + his plasters—I was too weak to wait on Bompard. I don’t remember + much of any account for the next few weeks, till I smelled lilacs, and I + looked out of the port, and we was moored to a wharf-edge and there was a + town o’ fine gardens and red-brick houses and all the green leaves o’ + God’s world waiting for me outside. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What’s this?” I said to the sick-bay man—Old Pierre Tiphaigne he + was. “Philadelphia,” says Pierre. “You’ve missed it all. We’re sailing + next week.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I just turned round and cried for longing to be amongst the laylocks. + </p> + <p> + ‘“If that’s your trouble,” says old Pierre, “you go straight ashore. + None’ll hinder you. They’re all gone mad on these coasts—French and + American together. ‘Tisn’t my notion o’ war.” Pierre was an old King Louis + man. + </p> + <p> + ‘My legs was pretty tottly, but I made shift to go on deck, which it was + like a fair. The frigate was crowded with fine gentlemen and ladies + pouring in and out. They sung and they waved French flags, while Captain + Bompard and his officers—yes, and some of the men—speechified + to all and sundry about war with England. They shouted, “Down with + England!”—“Down with Washington!”—“Hurrah for France and the + Republic!” I couldn’t make sense of it. I wanted to get out from that + crunch of swords and petticoats and sit in a field. One of the gentlemen + said to me, “Is that a genuine cap o’ Liberty you’re wearing?” ‘Twas Aunt + Cecile’s red one, and pretty near wore out. “Oh yes!” I says, “straight + from France.” “I’ll give you a shilling for it,” he says, and with that + money in my hand and my fiddle under my arm I squeezed past the entry-port + and went ashore. It was like a dream—meadows, trees, flowers, birds, + houses, and people all different! I sat me down in a meadow and fiddled a + bit, and then I went in and out the streets, looking and smelling and + touching, like a little dog at a fair. Fine folk was setting on the white + stone doorsteps of their houses, and a girl threw me a handful of laylock + sprays, and when I said “Merci” without thinking, she said she loved the + French. They all was the fashion in the city. I saw more tricolour flags + in Philadelphia than ever I’d seen in Boulogne, and every one was shouting + for war with England. A crowd o’ folk was cheering after our French + Ambassador—that same Monsieur Genet which we’d left at Charleston. + He was a-horseback behaving as if the place belonged to him—and + commanding all and sundry to fight the British. But I’d heard that before. + I got into a long straight street as wide as the Broyle, where gentlemen + was racing horses. I’m fond o’ horses. Nobody hindered ‘em, and a man told + me it was called Race Street o’ purpose for that. Then I followed some + black niggers, which I’d never seen close before; but I left them to run + after a great, proud, copper-faced man with feathers in his hair and a red + blanket trailing behind him. A man told me he was a real Red Indian called + Red Jacket, and I followed him into an alley-way off Race Street by Second + Street, where there was a fiddle playing. I’m fond o’ fiddling. The Indian + stopped at a baker’s shop—Conrad Gerhard’s it was—and bought + some sugary cakes. Hearing what the price was I was going to have some + too, but the Indian asked me in English if I was hungry. “Oh yes!” I says. + I must have looked a sore scrattel. He opens a door on to a staircase and + leads the way up. We walked into a dirty little room full of flutes and + fiddles and a fat man fiddling by the window, in a smell of cheese and + medicines fit to knock you down. I was knocked down too, for the fat man + jumped up and hit me a smack in the face. I fell against an old spinet + covered with pill-boxes and the pills rolled about the floor. The Indian + never moved an eyelid. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pick up the pills! Pick up the pills!” the fat man screeches. + </p> + <p> + ‘I started picking ‘em up—hundreds of ‘em—meaning to run out + under the Indian’s arm, but I came on giddy all over and I sat down. The + fat man went back to his fiddling. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Toby!” says the Indian after quite a while. “I brought the boy to be + fed, not hit.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What?” says Toby, “I thought it was Gert Schwankfelder.” He put down his + fiddle and took a good look at me. “Himmel!” he says. “I have hit the + wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why are you not the new boy? Why are you + not Gert Schwankfelder?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I don’t know,” I said. “The gentleman in the pink blanket brought me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Says the Indian, “He is hungry, Toby. Christians always feed the hungry. + So I bring him.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You should have said that first,” said Toby. He pushed plates at me and + the Indian put bread and pork on them, and a glass of Madeira wine. I told + him I was off the French ship, which I had joined on account of my mother + being French. That was true enough when you think of it, and besides I saw + that the French was all the fashion in Philadelphia. Toby and the Indian + whispered and I went on picking up the pills. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You like pills—eh?” says Toby. “No,” I says. “I’ve seen our ship’s + doctor roll too many of em.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ho!” he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. “What’s those?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Calomel,” I says. “And t’other’s senna.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Right,” he says. “One week have I tried to teach Gert Schwankfelder the + difference between them, yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?” he says. + He’d just seen my kit on the floor. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh yes!” says I. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oho!” he says. “What note is this?” drawing his bow across. + </p> + <p> + ‘He meant it for A, so I told him it was. + </p> + <p> + ‘“My brother,” he says to the Indian. “I think this is the hand of + Providence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves any + more he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you think.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The Indian looked me over whole minutes—there was a musical clock + on the wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked + me over all the while they did it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good,” he says at last. “This boy is good.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good, then,” says Toby. “Now I shall play my fiddle and you shall sing + your hymn, brother. Boy, go down to the bakery and tell them you are young + Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in Davy jones’s locker. If you + ask any questions you shall hear from me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I left ‘em singing hymns and I went down to old Conrad Gerhard. He wasn’t + at all surprised when I told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder that was. + He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the back-yard without a word, + and she washed me and she cut my hair to the edge of a basin, and she put + me to bed, and oh! how I slept—how I slept in that little room + behind the oven looking on the flower garden! I didn’t know Toby went to + the Embuscade that night and bought me off Dr Karaguen for twelve dollars + and a dozen bottles of Seneca Oil. Karaguen wanted a new lace to his coat, + and he reckoned I hadn’t long to live; so he put me down as “discharged + sick.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I like Toby,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who was he?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Apothecary Tobias Hirte,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘One Hundred and Eighteen, + Second Street—the famous Seneca Oil man, that lived half of every + year among the Indians. But let me tell my tale my own way, same as his + brown mare used to go to Lebanon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why did he keep her in Davy Jones’s locker?’ Dan asked. ‘That was + his joke. He kept her under David Jones’s hat shop in the “Buck” tavern + yard, and his Indian friends kept their ponies there when they visited + him. I looked after the horses when I wasn’t rolling pills on top of the + old spinet, while he played his fiddle and Red Jacket sang hymns. I liked + it. I had good victuals, light work, a suit o’ clean clothes, a plenty + music, and quiet, smiling German folk all around that let me sit in their + gardens. My first Sunday, Toby took me to his church in Moravian Alley; + and that was in a garden too. The women wore long-eared caps and + handkerchiefs. They came in at one door and the men at another, and there + was a brass chandelier you could see your face in, and a nigger-boy to + blow the organ bellows. I carried Toby’s fiddle, and he played pretty much + as he chose all against the organ and the singing. He was the only one + they let do it, for they was a simple-minded folk. They used to wash each + other’s feet up in the attic to keep ‘emselves humble: which Lord knows + they didn’t need.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How very queer!’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve met many and seen much,’ he said; ‘but I + haven’t yet found any better or quieter or forbearinger people than the + Brethren and Sistern of the Moravian Church in Philadelphia. Nor will I + ever forget my first Sunday—the service was in English that week—with + the smell of the flowers coming in from Pastor Meder’s garden where the + big peach tree is, and me looking at all the clean strangeness and + thinking of ‘tween decks on the Embuscade only six days ago. Being a boy, + it seemed to me it had lasted for ever, and was going on for ever. But I + didn’t know Toby then. As soon as the dancing clock struck midnight that + Sunday—I was lying under the spinet—I heard Toby’s fiddle. + He’d just done his supper, which he always took late and heavy. “Gert,” + says he, “get the horses. Liberty and Independence for Ever! The flowers + appear upon the earth, and the time of the singing of birds is come. We + are going to my country seat in Lebanon.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I rubbed my eyes, and fetched ‘em out of the “Buck” stables. Red Jacket + was there saddling his, and when I’d packed the saddle-bags we three rode + up Race Street to the Ferry by starlight. So we went travelling. It’s a + kindly, softly country there, back of Philadelphia among the German towns, + Lancaster way. Little houses and bursting big barns, fat cattle, fat + women, and all as peaceful as Heaven might be if they farmed there. Toby + sold medicines out of his saddlebags, and gave the French war-news to folk + along the roads. Him and his long-hilted umberell was as well known as the + stage-coaches. He took orders for that famous Seneca Oil which he had the + secret of from Red Jacket’s Indians, and he slept in friends’ farmhouses, + but he would shut all the windows; so Red Jacket and me slept outside. + There’s nothing to hurt except snakes—and they slip away quick + enough if you thrash in the bushes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’d have liked that!’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’d no fault to find with those days. In the cool o’ the morning the + cat-bird sings. He’s something to listen to. And there’s a smell of wild + grape-vine growing in damp hollows which you drop into, after long rides + in the heat, which is beyond compare for sweetness. So’s the puffs out of + the pine woods of afternoons. Come sundown, the frogs strike up, and later + on the fireflies dance in the corn. Oh me, the fireflies in the corn! We + were a week or ten days on the road, tacking from one place to another—such + as Lancaster, Bethlehem-Ephrata—“thou Bethlehem-Ephrata.” No odds—I + loved the going about. And so we jogged ‘into dozy little Lebanon by the + Blue Mountains, where Toby had a cottage and a garden of all fruits. He + come north every year for this wonderful Seneca Oil the Seneca Indians + made for him. They’d never sell to any one else, and he doctored ‘em with + von Swieten pills, which they valued more than their own oil. He could do + what he chose with them, and, of course, he tried to make them Moravians. + The Senecas are a seemly, quiet people, and they’d had trouble enough from + white men—American and English—during the wars, to keep ‘em in + that walk. They lived on a Reservation by themselves away off by their + lake. Toby took me up there, and they treated me as if I was their own + blood brother. Red Jacket said the mark of my bare feet in the dust was + just like an Indian’s and my style of walking was similar. I know I took + to their ways all over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Maybe the gipsy drop in your blood helped you?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sometimes I think it did,’ Pharaoh went on. ‘Anyhow, Red Jacket and + Cornplanter, the other Seneca chief, they let me be adopted into the + tribe. It’s only a compliment, of course, but Toby was angry when I showed + up with my face painted. They gave me a side-name which means “Two + Tongues,” because, d’ye see, I talked French and English. + </p> + <p> + ‘They had their own opinions (I’ve heard ‘em) about the French and the + English, and the Americans. They’d suffered from all of ‘em during the + wars, and they only wished to be left alone. But they thought a heap of + the President of the United States. Cornplanter had had dealings with him + in some French wars out West when General Washington was only a lad. His + being President afterwards made no odds to ‘em. They always called him Big + Hand, for he was a large-fisted man, and he was all of their notion of a + white chief. Cornplanter ‘ud sweep his blanket round him, and after I’d + filled his pipe he’d begin—“In the old days, long ago, when braves + were many and blankets were few, Big Hand said-” If Red Jacket agreed to + the say-so he’d trickle a little smoke out of the corners of his mouth. If + he didn’t, he’d blow through his nostrils. Then Cornplanter ‘ud stop and + Red Jacket ‘ud take on. Red Jacket was the better talker of the two. I’ve + laid and listened to ‘em for hours. Oh! they knew General Washington well. + Cornplanter used to meet him at Epply’s—the great dancing-place in + the city before District Marshal William Nichols bought it. They told me + he was always glad to see ‘em, and he’d hear ‘em out to the end if they + had anything on their minds. They had a good deal in those days. I came at + it by degrees, after I was adopted into the tribe. The talk up in Lebanon + and everywhere else that summer was about the French war with England and + whether the United States ‘ud join in with France or make a peace treaty + with England. Toby wanted peace so as he could go about the Reservation + buying his oils. But most of the white men wished for war, and they was + angry because the President wouldn’t give the sign for it. The newspaper + said men was burning Guy Fawkes images of General Washington and yelling + after him in the streets of Philadelphia. You’d have been astonished what + those two fine old chiefs knew of the ins and outs of such matters. The + little I’ve learned of politics I picked up from Cornplanter and Red + Jacket on the Reservation. Toby used to read the Aurora newspaper. He was + what they call a “Democrat,” though our Church is against the Brethren + concerning themselves with politics.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hate politics, too,’ said Una, and Pharaoh laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I might ha’ guessed it,’ he said. ‘But here’s something that isn’t + politics. One hot evening late in August, Toby was reading the newspaper + on the stoop and Red Jacket was smoking under a peach tree and I was + fiddling. Of a sudden Toby drops his Aurora. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I am an oldish man, too fond of my own comforts,” he says. “I will go to + the Church which is in Philadelphia. My brother, lend me a spare pony. I + must be there tomorrow night.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good!” says Red Jacket, looking at the sun. “My brother shall be there. + I will ride with him and bring back the ponies.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I went to pack the saddle-bags. Toby had cured me of asking questions. He + stopped my fiddling if I did. Besides, Indians don’t ask questions much + and I wanted to be like ‘em. + </p> + <p> + ‘When the horses were ready I jumped up. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Get off,” says Toby. “Stay and mind the cottage till I come back. The + Lord has laid this on me, not on you. I wish He hadn’t.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He powders off down the Lancaster road, and I sat on the doorstep + wondering after him. When I picked up the paper to wrap his fiddle-strings + in, I spelled out a piece about the yellow fever being in Philadelphia so + dreadful every one was running away. I was scared, for I was fond of Toby. + We never said much to each other, but we fiddled together, and music’s as + good as talking to them that understand.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Toby die of yellow fever?’ Una asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not him! There’s justice left in the world still. He went down to the + City and bled ‘em well again in heaps. He sent back word by Red Jacket + that, if there was war or he died, I was to bring the oils along to the + City, but till then I was to go on working in the garden and Red Jacket + was to see me do it. Down at heart all Indians reckon digging a squaw’s + business, and neither him nor Cornplanter, when he relieved watch, was a + hard task-Master. We hired a nigger-boy to do our work, and a lazy + grinning runagate he was. When I found Toby didn’t die the minute he + reached town, why, boylike, I took him off my mind and went with my + Indians again. Oh! those days up north at Canasedago, running races and + gambling with the Senecas, or bee-hunting ‘in the woods, or fishing in the + lake.’ Pharaoh sighed and looked across the water. ‘But it’s best,’ he + went on suddenly, ‘after the first frosts. You roll out o’ your blanket + and find every leaf left green over night turned red and yellow, not by + trees at a time, but hundreds and hundreds of miles of ‘em, like sunsets + splattered upside down. On one of such days—the maples was flaming + scarlet and gold, and the sumach bushes were redder—Cornplanter and + Red Jacket came out in full war-dress, making the very leaves look silly: + feathered war-bonnets, yellow doeskin leggings, fringed and tasselled, red + horse-blankets, and their bridles feathered and shelled and beaded no + bounds. I thought it was war against the British till I saw their faces + weren’t painted, and they only carried wrist-whips. Then I hummed “Yankee + Doodle” at ‘em. They told me they was going to visit Big Hand and find out + for sure whether he meant to join the French in fighting the English or + make a peace treaty with England. I reckon those two would ha’ gone out on + the war-path at a nod from Big Hand, but they knew well, if there was war + ‘twixt England and the United States, their tribe ‘ud catch it from both + parties same as in all the other wars. They asked me to come along and + hold the ponies. That puzzled me, because they always put their ponies up + at the “Buck” or Epply’s when they went to see General Washington in the + city, and horse-holding is a nigger’s job. Besides, I wasn’t exactly + dressed for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘D’you mean you were dressed like an Indian?’ Dan demanded. + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh looked a little abashed. ‘This didn’t happen at Lebanon,’ he said, + ‘but a bit farther north, on the Reservation; and at that particular + moment of time, so far as blanket, hair-band, moccasins, and sunburn went, + there wasn’t much odds ‘twix’ me and a young Seneca buck. You may laugh’—he + smoothed down his long-skirted brown coat—‘but I told you I took to + their ways all over. I said nothing, though I was bursting to let out the + war-whoop like the young men had taught me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, and you don’t let out one here, either,’ said Puck before Dan could + ask. ‘Go on, Brother Square-toes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We went on.’ Pharaoh’s narrow dark eyes gleamed and danced. ‘We went on—forty, + fifty miles a day, for days on end—we three braves. And how a great + tall Indian a-horse-back can carry his war-bonnet at a canter through + thick timber without brushing a feather beats me! My silly head was banged + often enough by low branches, but they slipped through like running elk. + We had evening hymn-singing every night after they’d blown their + pipe-smoke to the quarters of heaven. Where did we go? I’ll tell you, but + don’t blame me if you’re no wiser. We took the old war-trail from the end + of the Lake along the East Susquehanna through the Nantego country, right + down to Fort Shamokin on the Senachse river. We crossed the Juniata by + Fort Granville, got into Shippensberg over the hills by the Ochwick trail, + and then to Williams Ferry (it’s a bad one). From Williams Ferry, across + the Shanedore, over the Blue Mountains, through Ashby’s Gap, and so + south-east by south from there, till we found the President at the back of + his own plantations. I’d hate to be trailed by Indians in earnest. They + caught him like a partridge on a stump. After we’d left our ponies, we + scouted forward through a woody piece, and, creeping slower and slower, at + last if my moccasins even slipped Red Jacket ‘ud turn and frown. I heard + voices—Monsieur Genet’s for choice—long before I saw anything, + and we pulled up at the edge of a clearing where some niggers in + grey-and-red liveries were holding horses, and half-a-dozen gentlemen—but + one was Genet—were talking among felled timber. I fancy they’d come + to see Genet a piece on his road, for his portmantle was with him. I hid + in between two logs as near to the company as I be to that old windlass + there. I didn’t need anybody to show me Big Hand. He stood up, very still, + his legs a little apart, listening to Genet, that French Ambassador, which + never had more manners than a Bosham tinker. Genet was as good as ordering + him to declare war on England at once. I had heard that clack before on + the Embuscade. He said he’d stir up the whole United States to have war + with England, whether Big Hand liked it or not. + </p> + <p> + ‘Big Hand heard him out to the last end. I looked behind me, and my two + chiefs had vanished like smoke. Says Big Hand, “That is very forcibly put, + Monsieur Genet—” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Citizen—citizen!” the fellow spits in. “I, at least, am a + Republican!” + </p> + <p> + “Citizen Genet,” he says, “you may be sure it will receive my fullest + consideration.” This seemed to take Citizen Genet back a piece. He rode + off grumbling, and never gave his nigger a penny. No gentleman! + </p> + <p> + ‘The others all assembled round Big Hand then, and, in their way, they + said pretty much what Genet had said. They put it to him, here was France + and England at war, in a manner of speaking, right across the United + States’ stomach, and paying no regards to any one. The French was + searching American ships on pretence they was helping England, but really + for to steal the goods. The English was doing the same, only t’other way + round, and besides searching, they was pressing American citizens into + their Navy to help them fight France, on pretence that those Americans was + lawful British subjects. His gentlemen put this very clear to Big Hand. It + didn’t look to them, they said, as though the United States trying to keep + out of the fight was any advantage to her, because she only catched it + from both French and English. They said that nine out of ten good + Americans was crazy to fight the English then and there. They wouldn’t say + whether that was right or wrong; they only wanted Big Hand to turn it over + in his mind. He did—for a while. I saw Red Jacket and Cornplanter + watching him from the far side of the clearing, and how they had slipped + round there was another mystery. Then Big Hand drew himself up, and he let + his gentlemen have it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hit ‘em?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, nor yet was it what you might call swearing. He—he blasted ‘em + with his natural speech. He asked them half-a-dozen times over whether the + United States had enough armed ships for any shape or sort of war with any + one. He asked ‘em, if they thought she had those ships, to give him those + ships, and they looked on the ground, as if they expected to find ‘em + there. He put it to ‘em whether, setting ships aside, their country—I + reckon he gave ‘em good reasons—whether the United States was ready + or able to face a new big war; she having but so few years back wound up + one against England, and being all holds full of her own troubles. As I + said, the strong way he laid it all before ‘em blasted ‘em, and when he’d + done it was like a still in the woods after a storm. A little man—but + they all looked little—pipes up like a young rook in a blowed-down + nest, “Nevertheless, General, it seems you will be compelled to fight + England.” Quick Big Hand wheeled on him, “And is there anything in my past + which makes you think I am averse to fighting Great Britain?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Everybody laughed except him. “Oh, General, you mistake us entirely!” + they says. “I trust so,” he says. “But I know my duty. We must have peace + with England.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“At any price?” says the man with the rook’s voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘“At any price,” says he, word by word. “Our ships will be searched—our + citizens will be pressed, but—” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then what about the Declaration of Independence?” says one. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Deal with facts, not fancies,” says Big Hand. “The United States are in + no position to fight England.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But think of public opinion,” another one starts up. “The feeling in + Philadelphia alone is at fever heat.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He held up one of his big hands. “Gentlemen,” he says—slow he + spoke, but his voice carried far—“I have to think of our country. + Let me assure you that the treaty with Great Britain will be made though + every city in the Union burn me in effigy.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“At any price?” the actor-like chap keeps on croaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘“The treaty must be made on Great Britain’s own terms. What else can I + do?” ‘He turns his back on ‘em and they looked at each other and slinked + off to the horses, leaving him alone: and then I saw he was an old man. + Then Red Jacket and Cornplanter rode down the clearing from the far end as + though they had just chanced along. Back went Big Hand’s shoulders, up + went his head, and he stepped forward one single pace with a great deep + Hough! so pleased he was. That was a statelified meeting to behold—three + big men, and two of ‘em looking like jewelled images among the spattle of + gay-coloured leaves. I saw my chiefs’ war-bonnets sinking together, down + and down. Then they made the sign which no Indian makes outside of the + Medicine Lodges—a sweep of the right hand just clear of the dust and + an inbend of the left knee at the same time, and those proud eagle + feathers almost touched his boot-top.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did it mean?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mean!’ Pharaoh cried. ‘Why it’s what you—what we—it’s the + Sachems’ way of sprinkling the sacred corn-meal in front of—oh! it’s + a piece of Indian compliment really, and it signifies that you are a very + big chief. + </p> + <p> + ‘Big Hand looked down on ‘em. First he says quite softly, “My brothers + know it is not easy to be a chief.” Then his voice grew. “My children,” + says he, “what is in your minds?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Says Cornplanter, “We came to ask whether there will be war with King + George’s men, but we have heard what our Father has said to his chiefs. We + will carry away that talk in our hearts to tell to our people.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No,” says Big Hand. “Leave all that talk behind—it was between + white men only—but take this message from me to your people—‘There + will be no war.’” + </p> + <p> + ‘His gentlemen were waiting, so they didn’t delay him-, only Cornplanter + says, using his old side-name, “Big Hand, did you see us among the timber + just now?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Surely,” says he. “You taught me to look behind trees when we were both + young.” And with that he cantered off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back on our ponies again and a + half-hour along the home-trail. Then Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, “We + will have the Corn-dance this year. There will be no war.” And that was + all there was to it.’ + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh stood up as though he had finished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Puck, rising too. ‘And what came out of it in the long run?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me get at my story my own way,’ was the answer. ‘Look! it’s later than + I thought. That Shoreham smack’s thinking of her supper.’ The children + looked across the darkening Channel. A smack had hoisted a lantern and + slowly moved west where Brighton pier lights ran out in a twinkling line. + When they turned round The Gap was empty behind them. + </p> + <p> + ‘I expect they’ve packed our trunks by now,’ said Dan. ‘This time tomorrow + we’ll be home.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IF— + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you can keep your head when all about you + Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; + If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, + But make allowance for their doubting too; + If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, + Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, + Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, + And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; + + If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; + If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim, + If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster + And treat those two impostors just the same; + If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken + Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, + Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, + And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools; + + If you can make one heap of all your winnings + And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, + And lose, and start again at your beginnings + And never breathe a word about your loss; + If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew + To serve your turn long after they are gone, + And so hold on when there is nothing in you + Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ + + If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, + Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, + If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, + If all men count with you, but none too much; + If you can fill the unforgiving minute + With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, + Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, + And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A St Helena Lullaby + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How far is St Helena from a little child at play? + What makes you want to wander there with all the world between? + Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away. + (No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!) + + How far is St Helena from a fight in Paris street? + I haven’t time to answer now—the men are falling fast. + The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat + (If you take the first step you will take the last!) + + How far is St Helena from the field at Austerlitz? + You couldn’t hear me if I told—so loud the cannons roar. + But not so far for people who are living by their wits. + (‘Gay go up’ means ‘gay go down’ the wide world o’er!) + + How far is St Helena from an Emperor of France? + I cannot see—I cannot tell—the crowns they dazzle so. + The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance. + (After open weather you may look for snow!) + + How far is St Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar? + A longish way—a longish way—with ten year more to run. + It’s South across the water underneath a setting star. + (What you cannot finish you must leave undone!) + + How far is St Helena from the Beresina ice? + An ill way—a chill way—the ice begins to crack. + But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice. + (When you can’t go forward you must e’en come back!) + + How far is St Helena from the field of Waterloo? + A near way—a clear way—the ship will take you soon. + A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do. + (Morning never tries you till the afternoon!) + + How far from St Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace? + That no one knows—that no one knows—and no one ever will. + But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face, + And after all your trapesings, child, lie still! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘A Priest in Spite of Himself’ + </h2> + <p> + The day after they came home from the sea-side they set out on a tour of + inspection to make sure everything was as they had left it. Soon they + discovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-gaps with stakes + and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up the hedges where the blackberries + were setting. + </p> + <p> + ‘It can’t be time for the gipsies to come along,’ said Una. ‘Why, it was + summer only the other day!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s smoke in Low Shaw!’ said Dan, sniffing. ‘Let’s make sure!’ + </p> + <p> + They crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue smoke that leaned + above the hollow of Low Shaw which lies beside the King’s Hill road. It + used to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, and you can look + straight down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought so,’ Dan whispered, as they came up to the fence at the edge of + the larches. A gipsy-van—not the show-man’s sort, but the old black + kind, with little windows high up and a baby-gate across the door—was + getting ready to leave. A man was harnessing the horses; an old woman + crouched over the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; and a + girl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking, + thin dog snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old woman put it + carefully in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back inside the van + and tossed her a paper parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and they + smelt singed feathers. + </p> + <p> + ‘Chicken feathers!’ said Dan. ‘I wonder if they are old Hobden’s.’ + </p> + <p> + Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the girl’s feet, the old woman + fanned the fire with her hat, while the man led the horses up to the + shafts, They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ said the girl. ‘I’ll teach you!’ She beat the dog, who seemed to + expect it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t do that,’ Una called down. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know what I’m beating him for?’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘For not seeing us,’ said Dan. ‘He was standing right in the smoke, and + the wind was wrong for his nose, anyhow.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl stopped beating the dog, and the old woman fanned faster than + ever. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve fanned some of your feathers out of the fire,’ said Una. ‘There’s + a tail-feather by that chestnut-tot.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What of it?’ said the old woman, as she grabbed it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, nothing!’ said Dan. ‘Only I’ve heard say that tail-feathers are as + bad as the whole bird, sometimes.’ + </p> + <p> + That was a saying of Hobden’s about pheasants. Old Hobden always burned + all feather and fur before he sat down to eat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come on, mother,’ the man whispered. The old woman climbed into the van, + and the horses drew it out of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road. + </p> + <p> + The girl waved her hands and shouted something they could not catch. + </p> + <p> + ‘That was gipsy for “Thank you kindly, Brother and Sister,”’ said Pharaoh + Lee. + </p> + <p> + He was standing behind them, his fiddle under his arm. ‘Gracious, you + startled me!’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘You startled old Priscilla Savile,’ Puck called from below them. ‘Come + and sit by their fire. She ought to have put it out before they left.’ + </p> + <p> + They dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una raked the ashes + together, Dan found a dead wormy oak branch that burns without flame, and + they watched the smoke while Pharaoh played a curious wavery air. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s what the girl was humming to the baby,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know it,’ he nodded, and went on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai! Luludia! + Ai Luludia!’ +</pre> + <p> + He passed from one odd tune to another, and quite forgot the children. At + last Puck asked him to go on with his adventures in Philadelphia and among + the Seneca Indians. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m telling it,’ he said, staring straight in front of him as he played. + ‘Can’t you hear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Maybe, but they can’t. Tell it aloud,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, and began: + </p> + <p> + ‘I’d left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home with me after Big Hand + had said that there wouldn’t be any war. That’s all there was to it. We + believed Big Hand and we went home again—we three braves. When we + reached Lebanon we found Toby at the cottage with his waistcoat a foot too + big for him—so hard he had worked amongst the yellow-fever people. + He beat me for running off with the Indians, but ‘twas worth it—I + was glad to see him,—and when we went back to Philadelphia for the + winter, and I was told how he’d sacrificed himself over sick people in the + yellow fever, I thought the world and all of him. No, I didn’t neither. + I’d thought that all along. That yellow fever must have been something + dreadful. Even in December people had no more than begun to trinkle back + to town. Whole houses stood empty and the niggers was robbing them out. + But I can’t call to mind that any of the Moravian Brethren had died. It + seemed like they had just kept on with their own concerns, and the good + Lord He’d just looked after ‘em. That was the winter—yes, winter of + ‘Ninety-three—the Brethren bought a stove for the church. Toby spoke + in favour of it because the cold spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought + stove-heat not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which always + brought hickory coal foot-warmers to service and wouldn’t speak either + way. They ended by casting the Lot for it, which is like pitch-and-toss. + After my summer with the Senecas, church-stoves didn’t highly interest me, + so I took to haunting round among the French emigres which Philadelphia + was full of. My French and my fiddling helped me there, d’ye see. They + come over in shiploads from France, where, by what I made out, every one + was killing every one else by any means, and they spread ‘emselves about + the city—mostly in Drinker’s Alley and Elfrith’s Alley—and + they did odd jobs till times should mend. But whatever they stooped to, + they were gentry and kept a cheerful countenance, and after an evening’s + fiddling at one of their poor little proud parties, the Brethren seemed + old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goos didn’t like my fiddling + for hire, but Toby said it was lawful in me to earn my living by + exercising my talents. He never let me be put upon. + </p> + <p> + ‘In February of ‘Ninety-four—No, March it must have been, because a + new Ambassador called Faucher had come from France, with no more manners + than Genet the old one—in March, Red Jacket came in from the + Reservation bringing news of all kind friends there. I showed him round + the city, and we saw General Washington riding through a crowd of folk + that shouted for war with England. They gave him quite rough music, but he + looked ‘twixt his horse’s ears and made out not to notice. His stirrup + brished Red Jacket’s elbow, and Red Jacket whispered up, “My brother knows + it is not easy to be a chief.” Big Hand shot just one look at him and + nodded. Then there was a scuffle behind us over some one who wasn’t + hooting at Washington loud enough to please the people. We went away to be + out of the fight. Indians won’t risk being hit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do they do if they are?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Kill, of course. That’s why they have such proper manners. Well, then, + coming home by Drinker’s Alley to get a new shirt which a French Vicomte’s + lady was washing to take the stiff out of (I’m always choice in my + body-linen) a lame Frenchman pushes a paper of buttons at us. He hadn’t + long landed in the United States, and please would we buy. He sure-ly was + a pitiful scrattel—his coat half torn off, his face cut, but his + hands steady; so I knew it wasn’t drink. He said his name was Peringuey, + and he’d been knocked about in the crowd round the Stadt—Independence + Hall. One thing leading to another we took him up to Toby’s rooms, same as + Red Jacket had taken me the year before. The compliments he paid to Toby’s + Madeira wine fairly conquered the old man, for he opened a second bottle + and he told this Monsieur Peringuey all about our great stove dispute in + the church. I remember Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goos dropped ‘in, and + although they and Toby were direct opposite sides regarding stoves, yet + this Monsieur Peringuey he made ‘em feel as if he thought each one was in + the right of it. He said he had been a clergyman before he had to leave + France. He admired at Toby’s fiddling, and he asked if Red Jacket, sitting + by the spinet, was a simple Huron. Senecas aren’t Hurons, they’re + Iroquois, of course, and Toby told him so. Well, then, in due time he + arose and left in a style which made us feel he’d been favouring us, + instead of us feeding him. I’ve never seen that so strong before—in + a man. We all talked him over but couldn’t make head or tail of him, and + Red Jacket come out to walk with me to the French quarter where I was due + to fiddle at a party. Passing Drinker’s Alley again we saw a naked window + with a light in it, and there sat our button-selling Monsieur Peringuey + throwing dice all alone, right hand against left. + </p> + <p> + ‘Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, “Look at his face!” + </p> + <p> + ‘I was looking. I protest to you I wasn’t frightened like I was when Big + Hand talked to his gentlemen. I—I only looked, and I wondered that + even those dead dumb dice ‘ud dare to fall different from what that face + wished. It—it was a face! + </p> + <p> + ‘“He is bad,” says Red Jacket. “But he is a great chief. The French have + sent away a great chief. I thought so when he told us his lies. Now I + know.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call round for me + afterwards and we’d have hymn-singing at Toby’s as usual. “No,” he says. + “Tell Toby I am not Christian tonight. All Indian.” He had those fits + sometimes. I wanted to know more about Monsieur Peringuey, and the emigre + party was the very place to find out. It’s neither here nor there, of + course, but those French emigre parties they almost make you cry. The men + that you bought fruit of in Market Street, the hairdressers and + fencing-masters and French teachers, they turn back again by candlelight + to what they used to be at home, and you catch their real names. There + wasn’t much room in the washhouse, so I sat on top of the copper and + played ‘em the tunes they called for—“Si le Roi m’avait donne,” and + such nursery stuff. They cried sometimes. It hurt me to take their money + afterwards, indeed it did. And there I found out about Monsieur Peringuey. + He was a proper rogue too! None of ‘em had a good word for him except the + Marquise that kept the French boarding-house on Fourth Street. I made out + that his real name was the Count Talleyrand de Perigord—a priest + right enough, but sorely come down in the world. He’d been King Louis’ + Ambassador to England a year or two back, before the French had cut off + King Louis’ head; and, by what I heard, that head wasn’t hardly more than + hanging loose before he’d run back to Paris and prevailed on Danton, the + very man which did the murder, to send him back to England again as + Ambassador of the French Republic! That was too much for the English, so + they kicked him out by Act of Parliament, and he’d fled to the Americas + without money or friends or prospects. I’m telling you the talk in the + washhouse. Some of ‘em was laughing over it. Says the French Marquise, “My + friends, you laugh too soon. That man ‘ll be on the winning side before + any of us.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I did not know you were so fond of priests, Marquise,” says the Vicomte. + His lady did my washing, as I’ve told you. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I have my reasons,” says the Marquise. “He sent my uncle and my two + brothers to Heaven by the little door,”—that was one of the emigre + names for the guillotine. “He will be on the winning side if it costs him + the blood of every friend he has in the world.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then what does he want here?” says one of ‘em. “We have all lost our + game.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“My faith!” says the Marquise. “He will find out, if any one can, whether + this canaille of a Washington means to help us to fight England. Genet” + (that was my Ambassador in the Embuscade) “has failed and gone off + disgraced; Faucher” (he was the new man) “hasn’t done any better, but our + Abbe will find out, and he will make his profit out of the news. Such a + man does not fall.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“He begins unluckily,” says the Vicomte. “He was set upon today in the + street for not hooting your Washington.” They all laughed again, and one + remarks, “How does the poor devil keep himself?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He must have slipped in through the washhouse door, for he flits past me + and joins ‘em, cold as ice. + </p> + <p> + ‘“One does what one can,” he says. “I sell buttons. And you, Marquise?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I?”—she waves her poor white hands all burned—“I am a cook—a + very bad one—at your service, Abbe. We were just talking about you.” + </p> + <p> + They didn’t treat him like they talked of him. They backed off and stood + still. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I have missed something, then,” he says. “But I spent this last hour + playing—only for buttons, Marquise—against a noble savage, the + veritable Huron himself.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You had your usual luck, I hope?” she says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Certainly,” he says. “I cannot afford to lose even buttons in these + days.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then I suppose the child of nature does not know that your dice are + usually loaded, Father Tout-a-tous,” she continues. I don’t know whether + she meant to accuse him of cheating. He only bows. ‘“Not yet, Mademoiselle + Cunegonde,” he says, and goes on to make himself agreeable to the rest of + the company. And that was how I found out our Monsieur Peringuey was Count + Charles Maurice Talleyrand de Perigord.’ + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh stopped, but the children said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve heard of him?’ said Pharaoh. + </p> + <p> + Una shook her head. ‘Was Red Jacket the Indian he played dice with?’ Dan + asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was. Red Jacket told me the next time we met. I asked if the lame man + had cheated. Red Jacket said no—he had played quite fair and was a + master player. I allow Red Jacket knew. I’ve seen him, on the Reservation, + play himself out of everything he had and in again. Then I told Red Jacket + all I’d heard at the party concerning Talleyrand. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I was right,” he says. “I saw the man’s war-face when he thought he was + alone. That’s why I played him. I played him face to face. He’s a great + chief. Do they say why he comes here?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“They say he comes to find out if Big Hand makes war against the + English,” I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Red Jacket grunted. “Yes,” he says. “He asked me that too. If he had been + a small chief I should have lied. But he is a great chief. He knew I was a + chief, so I told him the truth. I told him what Big Hand said to + Cornplanter and me in the clearing—‘There will be no war.’ I could + not see what he thought. I could not see behind his face. But he is a + great chief. He will believe.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Will he believe that Big Hand can keep his people back from war?” I + said, thinking of the crowds that hooted Big Hand whenever he rode out. + </p> + <p> + ‘“He is as bad as Big Hand is good, but he is not as strong as Big Hand,” + says Red Jacket. “When he talks with Big Hand he will feel this in his + heart. The French have sent away a great chief. Presently he will go back + and make them afraid.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Now wasn’t that comical? The French woman that knew him and owed all her + losses to him; the Indian that picked him up, cut and muddy on the street, + and played dice with him; they neither of ‘em doubted that Talleyrand was + something by himself—appearances notwithstanding.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And was he something by himself?’ asked Una. + </p> + <p> + Pharaoh began to laugh, but stopped. ‘The way I look at it,’ he said, + ‘Talleyrand was one of just three men in this world who are quite by + themselves. Big Hand I put first, because I’ve seen him.’ ‘Ay,’ said Puck. + ‘I’m sorry we lost him out of Old England. Who d’you put second?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Talleyrand: maybe because I’ve seen him too,’ said Pharaoh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s third?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Boney—even though I’ve seen him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whew!’ said Puck. ‘Every man has his own weights and measures, but that’s + queer reckoning.’ ‘Boney?’ said Una. ‘You don’t mean you’ve ever met + Napoleon Bonaparte?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There, I knew you wouldn’t have patience with the rest of my tale after + hearing that! But wait a minute. Talleyrand he come round to Hundred and + Eighteen in a day or two to thank Toby for his kindness. I didn’t mention + the dice-playing, but I could see that Red Jacket’s doings had made + Talleyrand highly curious about Indians—though he would call him the + Huron. Toby, as you may believe, was all holds full of knowledge + concerning their manners and habits. He only needed a listener. The + Brethren don’t study Indians much till they join the Church, but Toby knew + ‘em wild. So evening after evening Talleyrand crossed his sound leg over + his game one and Toby poured forth. Having been adopted into the Senecas + I, naturally, kept still, but Toby ‘ud call on me to back up some of his + remarks, and by that means, and a habit he had of drawing you on in talk, + Talleyrand saw I knew something of his noble savages too. Then he tried a + trick. Coming back from an emigre party he turns into his little shop and + puts it to me, laughing like, that I’d gone with the two chiefs on their + visit to Big Hand. I hadn’t told. Red Jacket hadn’t told, and Toby, of + course, didn’t know. ‘Twas just Talleyrand’s guess. “Now,” he says, “my + English and Red Jacket’s French was so bad that I am not sure I got the + rights of what the President really said to the unsophisticated Huron. Do + me the favour of telling it again.” I told him every word Red Jacket had + told him and not one word more. I had my suspicions, having just come from + an emigre party where the Marquise was hating and praising him as usual. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Much obliged,” he said. “But I couldn’t gather from Red Jacket exactly + what the President said to Monsieur Genet, or to his American gentlemen + after Monsieur Genet had ridden away.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw Talleyrand was guessing again, for Red Jacket hadn’t told him a + word about the white men’s pow-wow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why hadn’t he?’ Puck asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because Red Jacket was a chief. He told Talleyrand what the President had + said to him and Cornplanter; but he didn’t repeat the talk, between the + white men, that Big Hand ordered him to leave behind. ‘Oh!’ said Puck. ‘I + see. What did you do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘First I was going to make some sort of tale round it, but Talleyrand was + a chief too. So I said, “As soon as I get Red Jacket’s permission to tell + that part of the tale, I’ll be delighted to refresh your memory, Abbe.” + What else could I have done? + </p> + <p> + ‘“Is that all?” he says, laughing. “Let me refresh your memory. In a month + from now I can give you a hundred dollars for your account of the + conversation.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Make it five hundred, Abbe,” I says. ‘“Five, then,” says he. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That will suit me admirably,” I says. “Red Jacket will be in town again + by then, and the moment he gives me leave I’ll claim the money.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He had a hard fight to be civil, but he come out smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Monsieur,” he says, “I beg your pardon as sincerely as I envy the noble + Huron your loyalty. Do me the honour to sit down while I explain.” + </p> + <p> + ‘There wasn’t another chair, so I sat on the button-box. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was a clever man. He had got hold of the gossip that the President + meant to make a peace treaty with England at any cost. He had found out—from + Genet, I reckon, who was with the President on the day the two chiefs met + him. He’d heard that Genet had had a huff with the President and had + ridden off leaving his business at loose ends. What he wanted—what + he begged and blustered to know—was just the very words which the + President had said to his gentlemen after Genet had left, concerning the + peace treaty with England. He put it to me that in helping him to those + very words I’d be helping three great countries as well as mankind. The + room was as bare as the palm of your hand, but I couldn’t laugh at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’m sorry,” I says, when he wiped his forehead. “As soon as Red Jacket + gives permission—” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You don’t believe me, then?” he cuts in. ‘“Not one little, little word, + Abbe,” I says; “except that you mean to be on the winning side. Remember, + I’ve been fiddling to all your old friends for months.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then his temper fled him and he called me names. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Wait a minute, ci-devant,” I says at last. “I am half English and half + French, but I am not the half of a man. I will tell thee something the + Indian told me. Has thee seen the President?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh yes!” he sneers. “I had letters from the Lord Lansdowne to that + estimable old man.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then,” I says, “thee will understand. The Red Skin said that when thee + has met the President thee will feel in thy heart he is a stronger man + than thee.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Go!” he whispers. “Before I kill thee, go.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He looked like it. So I left him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did he want to know so badly?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘The way I look at it is that if he had known for certain that Washington + meant to make the peace treaty with England at any price, he’d ha’ left + old Faucher fumbling about in Philadelphia while he went straight back to + France and told old Danton—“It’s no good your wasting time and hopes + on the United States, because she won’t fight on our side—that I’ve + proof of!” Then Danton might have been grateful and given Talleyrand a + job, because a whole mass of things hang on knowing for sure who’s your + friend and who’s your enemy. Just think of us poor shop-keepers, for + instance.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Red Jacket let you tell, when he came back?’ Una asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. He said, “When Cornplanter and I ask you what Big Hand + said to the whites you can tell the Lame Chief. All that talk was left + behind in the timber, as Big Hand ordered. Tell the Lame Chief there will + be no war. He can go back to France with that word.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Talleyrand and me hadn’t met for a long time except at emigre parties. + When I give him the message he just shook his head. He was sorting buttons + in the shop. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I cannot return to France with nothing better than the word of an + unsophisticated savage,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hasn’t the President said anything to you?” I asked him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“He has said everything that one in his position ought to say, but—but + if only I had what he said to his Cabinet after Genet rode off I believe I + could change Europe—the world, maybe.” ‘“I’m sorry,” I says. “Maybe + you’ll do that without my help.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He looked at me hard. “Either you have unusual observation for one so + young, or you choose to be insolent,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It was intended for a compliment,” I says. “But no odds. We’re off in a + few days for our summer trip, and I’ve come to make my good-byes.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I go on my travels too,” he says. “If ever we meet again you may be sure + I will do my best to repay what I owe you.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Without malice, Abbe, I hope,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“None whatever,” says he. “Give my respects to your adorable Dr Pangloss” + (that was one of his side-names for Toby) “and the Huron.” I never could + teach him the difference betwixt Hurons and Senecas. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then Sister Haga came in for a paper of what we call “pilly buttons,” and + that was the last I saw of Talleyrand in those parts.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But after that you met Napoleon, didn’t you?’ said Una. ‘Wait Just a + little, dearie. After that, Toby and I went to Lebanon and the + Reservation, and, being older and knowing better how to manage him, I + enjoyed myself well that summer with fiddling and fun. When we came back, + the Brethren got after Toby because I wasn’t learning any lawful trade, + and he had hard work to save me from being apprenticed to Helmbold and + Geyer the printers. ‘Twould have ruined our music together, indeed it + would. And when we escaped that, old Mattes Roush, the leather-breeches + maker round the corner, took a notion I was cut out for skin-dressing. But + we were rescued. Along towards Christmas there comes a big sealed letter + from the Bank saying that a Monsieur Talleyrand had put five hundred + dollars—a hundred pounds—to my credit there to use as I + pleased. There was a little note from him inside—he didn’t give any + address—to thank me for past kindnesses and my believing in his + future, which he said was pretty cloudy at the time of writing. I wished + Toby to share the money. I hadn’t done more than bring Talleyrand up to + Hundred and Eighteen. The kindnesses were Toby’s. But Toby said, “No! + Liberty and Independence for ever. I have all my wants, my son.” So I gave + him a set of new fiddle-strings, and the Brethren didn’t advise us any + more. Only Pastor Meder he preached about the deceitfulness of riches, and + Brother Adam Goos said if there was war the English ‘ud surely shoot down + the Bank. I knew there wasn’t going to be any war, but I drew the money + out and on Red Jacket’s advice I put it into horse-flesh, which I sold to + Bob Bicknell for the Baltimore stage-coaches. That way, I doubled my money + inside the twelvemonth.’ ‘You gipsy! You proper gipsy!’ Puck shouted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not? ‘Twas fair buying and selling. Well, one thing leading to + another, in a few years I had made the beginning of a worldly fortune and + was in the tobacco trade.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ said Puck, suddenly. ‘Might I inquire if you’d ever sent any news to + your people in England—or in France?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘O’ course I had. I wrote regular every three months after I’d made money + in the horse trade. We Lees don’t like coming home empty-handed. If it’s + only a turnip or an egg, it’s something. Oh yes, I wrote good and plenty + to Uncle Aurette, and—Dad don’t read very quickly—Uncle used + to slip over Newhaven way and tell Dad what was going on in the tobacco + trade.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aurettes and Lees— + Like as two peas. +</pre> + <p> + Go on, Brother Square-toes,’ said Puck. Pharaoh laughed and went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘Talleyrand he’d gone up in the world same as me. He’d sailed to France + again, and was a great man in the Government there awhile, but they had to + turn him out on account of some story about bribes from American shippers. + All our poor emigres said he was surely finished this time, but Red Jacket + and me we didn’t think it likely, not unless he was quite dead. Big Hand + had made his peace treaty with Great Britain, just as he said he would, + and there was a roaring trade ‘twixt England and the United States for + such as ‘ud take the risk of being searched by British and French + men-o’-war. Those two was fighting, and just as his gentlemen told Big + Hand ‘ud happen—the United States was catching it from both. If an + English man-o’-war met an American ship he’d press half the best men out + of her, and swear they was British subjects. Most of ‘em was! If a + Frenchman met her he’d, likely, have the cargo out of her, swearing it was + meant to aid and comfort the English; and if a Spaniard or a Dutchman met + her—they was hanging on to England’s coat-tails too—Lord only + knows what they wouldn’t do! It came over me that what I wanted in my + tobacco trade was a fast-sailing ship and a man who could be French, + English, or American at a pinch. Luckily I could lay my hands on both + articles. So along towards the end of September in the year ‘Ninety-nine I + sailed from Philadelphia with a hundred and eleven hogshead o’ good + Virginia tobacco, in the brig BERTHE AURETTE, named after Mother’s maiden + name, hoping ‘twould bring me luck, which she didn’t—and yet she + did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where was you bound for?’ Puck asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Er—any port I found handiest. I didn’t tell Toby or the Brethren. + They don’t understand the ins and outs of the tobacco trade.’ + </p> + <p> + Puck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece of wood with his bare + foot. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s easy for you to sit and judge,’ Pharaoh cried. ‘But think o’ what we + had to put up with! We spread our wings and run across the broad Atlantic + like a hen through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by an English + frigate, three days out. He sent a boat alongside and pressed seven able + seamen. I remarked it was hard on honest traders, but the officer said + they was fighting all creation and hadn’t time to argue. The next English + frigate we escaped with no more than a shot in our quarter. Then we was + chased two days and a night by a French privateer, firing between squalls, + and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which made him sheer off had the + impudence to press another five of our men. That’s how we reached to the + chops of the Channel. Twelve good men pressed out of thirty-five; an + eighteen-pound shot-hole close beside our rudder; our mainsail looking + like spectacles where the Frenchman had hit us—and the Channel + crawling with short-handed British cruisers. Put that in your pipe and + smoke it next time you grumble at the price of tobacco! + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to get at our leaks, a + French lugger come swooping at us out o’ the dusk. We warned him to keep + away, but he fell aboard us, and up climbed his Jabbering red-caps. We + couldn’t endure any more—indeed we couldn’t. We went at ‘em with all + we could lay hands on. It didn’t last long. They was fifty odd to our + twenty-three. Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses thrown down and some one + bellowed for the sacri captain. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Here I am!” I says. “I don’t suppose it makes any odds to you thieves, + but this is the United States brig BERTHE AURETTE.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“My aunt!” the man says, laughing. “Why is she named that?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Who’s speaking?” I said. ‘Twas too dark to see, but I thought I knew the + voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L’Estrange,” he sings out, and then I was + sure. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh!” I says. “It’s all in the family, I suppose, but you have done a + fine day’s work, Stephen.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it to my face. He was young + L’Estrange, my full cousin, that I hadn’t seen since the night the smack + sank off Telscombe Tye—six years before. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Whew!” he says. “That’s why she was named for Aunt Berthe, is it? What’s + your share in her, Pharaoh?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Only half owner, but the cargo’s mine.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s bad,” he says. “I’ll do what I can, but you shouldn’t have fought + us.” ‘“Steve,” I says, “you aren’t ever going to report our little + fall-out as a fight! Why, a Revenue cutter ‘ud laugh at it!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“So’d I if I wasn’t in the Republican Navy,” he says. “But two of our men + are dead, d’ye see, and I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to the Prize + Court at Le Havre.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Will they condemn my ‘baccy?” I asks. + </p> + <p> + ‘“To the last ounce. But I was thinking more of the ship. She’d make a + sweet little craft for the Navy if the Prize Court ‘ud let me have her,” + he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I knew there was no hope. I don’t blame him—a man must + consider his own interests, but nigh every dollar I had was in ship or + cargo, and Steve kept on saying, “You shouldn’t have fought us.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that being the one time + we did want a British ship to rescue us, why, o’ course we never saw one. + My cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he’d no right + to rush alongside in the face o’ the United States flag, but we couldn’t + get over those two men killed, d’ye see, and the Court condemned both ship + and cargo. They was kind enough not to make us prisoners—only + beggars—and young L’Estrange was given the BERTHE AURETTE to re-arm + into the French Navy. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ll take you round to Boulogne,” he says. “Mother and the rest’ll be + glad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette. Or + you can ship with me, like most o’ your men, and take a turn at King + George’s loose trade. There’s plenty pickings,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘Crazy as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ve had my allowance of pickings and stealings,” I says. “Where are + they taking my tobacco?” ‘Twas being loaded on to a barge. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,” he says. “Neither you nor I will ever + touch a penny of that money.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Get me leave to go with it,” I says. “I’ll see if there’s justice to be + gotten out of our American Ambassador.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s not much justice in this world,” he says, “without a Navy.” But + he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That + tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched + bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as well + as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty. Outside + o’ that they were the reasonablest o’ God’s creatures. They never even + laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river, along in November, which the + French had christened Brumaire. They’d given new names to all the months, + and after such an outrageous silly piece o’ business as that, they wasn’t + likely to trouble ‘emselves with my rights and wrongs. They didn’t. The + barge was laid up below Notre Dame church in charge of a caretaker, and he + let me sleep aboard after I’d run about all day from office to office, + seeking justice and fair dealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. + None heeded me. Looking back on it I can’t rightly blame ‘em. I’d no + money, my clothes was filthy mucked; I hadn’t changed my linen in weeks, + and I’d no proof of my claims except the ship’s papers, which, they said, + I might have stolen. The thieves! The door-keeper to the American + Ambassador—for I never saw even the Secretary—he swore I spoke + French a sight too well for an American citizen. Worse than that—I + had spent my money, d’ye see, and I—I took to fiddling in the + streets for my keep; and—and, a ship’s captain with a fiddle under + his arm—well, I don’t blame ‘em that they didn’t believe me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I come back to the barge one day—late in this month Brumaire it was—fair + beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he’d lit a fire in a bucket and + was grilling a herring. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I can’t eat,” I says. “I can’t do any more. It’s stronger than I am.” + ‘“Bah!” he says. “Nothing’s stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less + than two years ago I was blown up in the Orient in Aboukir Bay, but I + descended again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now,” he says. + He wasn’t much to look at, for he’d only one leg and one eye, but the + cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. “That’s worse than a + hundred and eleven hogshead of ‘baccy,” he goes on. “You’re young, too! + What wouldn’t I give to be young in France at this hour! There’s nothing + you couldn’t do,” he says. “The ball’s at your feet—kick it!” he + says. He kicks the old fire-bucket with his peg-leg. “General Buonaparte, + for example!” he goes on. “That man’s a babe compared to me, and see what + he’s done already. He’s conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy—oh! + half Europe!” he says, “and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out + to St Cloud down the river here—don’t stare at the river, you young + fool!—-and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he + makes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He’ll be King, too, in + the next three turns of the capstan—King of France, England, and the + world! Think o’ that!” he shouts, “and eat your herring.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I says something about Boney. If he hadn’t been fighting England I + shouldn’t have lost my ‘baccy—should I? + </p> + <p> + ‘“Young fellow,” says Maingon, “you don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + ‘We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it. + ‘“That’s the man himself,” says Maingon. “He’ll give ‘em something to + cheer for soon.” He stands at the salute. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Who’s t’other in black beside him?” I asks, fairly shaking all over. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah! he’s the clever one. You’ll hear of him before long. He’s that + scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“It is!” I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after + the carriage calling, “Abbe, Abbe!” + </p> + <p> + ‘A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I + had sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped—and there + just was a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I + wouldn’t have struck up “Si le Roi m’avait donne Paris la grande ville!” I + thought it might remind him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That is a good omen!” he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he + looks straight at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Abbe—oh, Abbe!” I says. “Don’t you remember Toby and Hundred and + Eighteen Second Street?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard at + the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into the + house, and they slammed the door in the crowd’s face. ‘“You go there,” + says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where I catched my first + breath since I’d left the barge. Presently I heard plates rattling next + door—there were only folding doors between—and a cork drawn. + “I tell you,” some one shouts with his mouth full, “it was all that sulky + ass Sieyes’ fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred saved the + situation.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Did it save your coat?” says Talleyrand. “I hear they tore it when they + threw you out. Don’t gasconade to me. You may be in the road of victory, + but you aren’t there yet.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I guessed t’other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at + Talleyrand. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You forget yourself, Consul,” says Talleyrand, “or rather you remember + yourself—Corsican.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pig!” says Boney, and worse. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Emperor!” says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of + all. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew + open and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his pistol + before I could stand up. + </p> + <p> + “General,” says Talleyrand to him, “this gentleman has a habit of catching + us canaille en deshabille. Put that thing down.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was master. Talleyrand + takes my hand—“Charmed to see you again, Candide,” he says. “How is + the adorable Dr Pangloss and the noble Huron?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“They were doing very well when I left,” I said. “But I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Do you sell buttons now?” he says, and fills me a glass of wine off the + table. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Madeira,” says he. “Not so good as some I have drunk.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You mountebank!” Boney roars. “Turn that out.” (He didn’t even say + “man,” but Talleyrand, being gentle born, just went on.) + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pheasant is not so good as pork,” he says. “You will find some at that + table if you will do me the honour to sit down. Pass him a clean plate, + General.” And, as true as I’m here, Boney slid a plate along just like a + sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned little man, as nervous + as a cat—and as dangerous. I could feel that. + </p> + <p> + ‘“And now,” said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg over his sound one, + “will you tell me your story?” ‘I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly + everything from the time he left me the five hundred dollars in + Philadelphia, up to my losing ship and cargo at Le Havre. Boney began by + listening, but after a bit he dropped into his own thoughts and looked at + the crowd sideways through the front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to + him when I’d done. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Eh? What we need now,” says Boney, “is peace for the next three or four + years.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Quite so,” says Talleyrand. “Meantime I want the Consul’s order to the + Prize Court at Le Havre to restore my friend here his ship.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nonsense!” says Boney. “Give away an oak-built brig of two hundred and + seven tons for sentiment? Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy + with ten—no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours. Is she + strong enough to bear a long twelve forward?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Now I could ha’ sworn he’d paid no heed to my talk, but that wonderful + head-piece of his seemingly skimmed off every word of it that was useful + to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah, General!” says Talleyrand. “You are a magician—a magician + without morals. But the brig is undoubtedly American, and we don’t want to + offend them more than we have.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Need anybody talk about the affair?” he says. He didn’t look at me, but + I knew what was in his mind—just cold murder because I worried him; + and he’d order it as easy as ordering his carriage. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You can’t stop ‘em,” I said. “There’s twenty-two other men besides me.” + I felt a little more ‘ud set me screaming like a wired hare. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Undoubtedly American,” Talleyrand goes on. “You would gain something if + you returned the ship—with a message of fraternal good-will—published + in the MONITEUR” (that’s a French paper like the Philadelphia AURORA). + </p> + <p> + ‘“A good idea!” Boney answers. “One could say much in a message.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“It might be useful,” says Talleyrand. “Shall I have the message + prepared?” He wrote something in a little pocket ledger. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes—for me to embellish this evening. The MONITEUR will publish it + tonight.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Certainly. Sign, please,” says Talleyrand, tearing the leaf out. + </p> + <p> + ‘“But that’s the order to return the brig,” says Boney. “Is that + necessary? Why should I lose a good ship? Haven’t I lost enough ships + already?” ‘Talleyrand didn’t answer any of those questions. Then Boney + sidled up to the table and jabs his pen into the ink. Then he shies at the + paper again: “My signature alone is useless,” he says. “You must have the + other two Consuls as well. Sieyes and Roger Ducos must sign. We must + preserve the Laws.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“By the time my friend presents it,” says Talleyrand, still looking out + of window, “only one signature will be necessary.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Boney smiles. “It’s a swindle,” says he, but he signed and pushed the + paper across. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le Havre,” says + Talleyrand, “and he will give you back your ship. I will settle for the + cargo myself. You have told me how much it cost. What profit did you + expect to make on it?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him that I’d set out to + run it into England without troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn’t + rightly set bounds to my profits.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I guessed that all along,’ said Puck. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst— + That wasn’t a smuggler last and first.’ +</pre> + <p> + The children laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s comical enough now,’ said Pharaoh. ‘But I didn’t laugh then. Says + Talleyrand after a minute, “I am a bad accountant and I have several + calculations on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the + cargo?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Say? I couldn’t say a word. I sat choking and nodding like a China image + while he wrote an order to his secretary to pay me, I won’t say how much, + because you wouldn’t believe it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh! Bless you, Abbe! God bless you!” I got it out at last. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes,” he says, “I am a priest in spite of myself, but they call me + Bishop now. Take this for my episcopal blessing,” and he hands me the + paper. + </p> + <p> + ‘“He stole all that money from me,” says Boney over my shoulder. “A Bank + of France is another of the things we must make. Are you mad?” he shouts + at Talleyrand. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Quite,” says Talleyrand, getting up. “But be calm. The disease will + never attack you. It is called gratitude. This gentleman found me in the + street and fed me when I was hungry.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I see; and he has made a fine scene of it, and you have paid him, I + suppose. Meantime, France waits.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh! poor France!” says Talleyrand. “Good-bye, Candide,” he says to me. + “By the way,” he says, “have you yet got Red Jacket’s permission to tell + me what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur Genet rode away?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t speak, I could only shake my head, and Boney—so + impatient he was to go on with his doings—he ran at me and fair + pushed me out of the room. And that was all there was to it.’ Pharaoh + stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big skirt-pockets as though + it were a dead hare. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,’ said Dan. ‘How you got home—and + what old Maingon said on the barge—and wasn’t your cousin surprised + when he had to give back the BERTHE AURETTE, and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell us more about Toby!’ cried Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and Red Jacket,’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you tell us any more?’ they both pleaded. + </p> + <p> + Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up a column of smoke + that made them sneeze. When they had finished the Shaw was empty except + for old Hobden stamping through the larches. + </p> + <p> + ‘They gipsies have took two,’ he said. ‘My black pullet and my liddle + gingy-speckled cockrel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought so,’ said Dan, picking up one tail-feather that the old woman + had overlooked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which way did they go? Which way did the runagates go?’ said Hobden. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hobby!’ said Una. ‘Would you like it if we told Keeper Ridley all your + goings and comings?’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘Poor Honest Men’ + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your jar of Virginny + Will cost you a guinea, + Which you reckon too much by five shilling or ten; + But light your churchwarden + And judge it accordin’ + When I’ve told you the troubles of poor honest men. + + From the Capes of the Delaware, + As you are well aware, + We sail with tobacco for England—but then + Our own British cruisers, + They watch us come through, sirs, + And they press half a score of us poor honest men. + + Or if by quick sailing + (Thick weather prevailing) + We leave them behind (as we do now and then) + We are sure of a gun from + Each frigate we run from, + Which is often destruction to poor honest men! + + Broadsides the Atlantic + We tumble short-handed, + With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend, + And off the Azores, + Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs + Are waiting to terrify poor honest men! + + Napoleon’s embargo + Is laid on all cargo + Which comfort or aid to King George may intend; + And since roll, twist and leaf, + Of all comforts is chief, + They try for to steal it from poor honest men! + + With no heart for fight, + We take refuge in flight, + But fire as we run, our retreat to defend, + Until our stern-chasers + Cut up her fore-braces, + And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men! + + Twix’ the Forties and Fifties, + South-eastward the drift is, + And so, when we think we are making Land’s End, + Alas, it is Ushant + With half the King’s Navy, + Blockading French ports against poor honest men! + + But they may not quit station + (Which is our salvation), + So swiftly we stand to the Nor’ard again; + And finding the tail of + A homeward-bound convoy, + We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men. + + ‘Twix’ the Lizard and Dover, + We hand our stuff over, + Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when; + But a light on each quarter + Low down on the water + Is well understanded by poor honest men. + Even then we have dangers + From meddlesome strangers, + Who spy on our business and are not content + To take a smooth answer, + Except with a handspike... + And they say they are murdered by poor honest men! + + To be drowned or be shot + Is our natural lot, + Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end— + After all our great pains + For to dangle in chains, + As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CONVERSION OF ST WILFRID + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Eddi’s Service + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Eddi, priest of St Wilfrid + In the chapel at Manhood End, + Ordered a midnight service + For such as cared to attend. + But the Saxons were keeping Christmas, + And the night was stormy as well. + Nobody came to service + Though Eddi rang the bell. + + ‘Wicked weather for walking,’ + Said Eddi of Manhood End. + ‘But I must go on with the service + For such as care to attend.’ + The altar candles were lighted,— + An old marsh donkey came, + Bold as a guest invited, + And stared at the guttering flame. + + The storm beat on at the windows, + The water splashed on the floor, + And a wet yoke-weary bullock + Pushed in through the open door. + ‘How do I know what is greatest, + How do I know what is least? + That is My Father’s business,’ + Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest. + + ‘But, three are gathered together— + Listen to me and attend. + I bring good news, my brethren!’ + Said Eddi, of Manhood End. + And he told the Ox of a manger + And a stall in Bethlehem, + And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider + That rode to jerusalem. + + They steamed and dripped in the chancel, + They listened and never stirred, + While, just as though they were Bishops, + Eddi preached them The Word. + + Till the gale blew off on the marshes + And the windows showed the day, + And the Ox and the Ass together + Wheeled and clattered away. + + And when the Saxons mocked him, + Said Eddi of Manhood End, + ‘I dare not shut His chapel + On such as care to attend.’ +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Conversion of St Wilfrid + </h2> + <p> + They had bought peppermints up at the village, and were coming home past + little St Barnabas’ Church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the carpenter’s + baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with a shaving in his mouth and the + tears running down his cheeks. + </p> + <p> + Una pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint. Jimmy said he was + looking for his grand-daddy—he never seemed to take much notice of + his father—so they went up between the old graves, under the + leaf-dropping limes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about the + empty Church, and screamed like a gate-hinge. + </p> + <p> + Young Sam Kidbrooke’s voice came from the bell-tower and made them jump. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, jimmy,’ he called, ‘what are you doin’ here? Fetch him, Father!’ + </p> + <p> + Old Mr Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked Jimmy on to his shoulder, + stared at the children beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back + again. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr Kidbrooke. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right,’ Una called up the stairs. ‘We found him, Sam. Does his + mother know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s come off by himself. She’ll be justabout crazy,’ Sam answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I’ll run down street and tell her.’ Una darted off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how we’re mendin’ the + bell-beams, Mus’ Dan?’ + </p> + <p> + Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his stomach in a most delightful + place among beams and ropes, close to the five great bells. Old Mr + Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and Jimmy was + eating the shavings as fast as they came away. He never looked at Jimmy; + Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum of the + church clock never stopped swinging across the white-washed wall of the + tower. + </p> + <p> + Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his upturned face. ‘Ring a + bell,’ he called. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mustn’t do that, but I’ll buzz one of ‘em a bit for you,’ said Sam. He + pounded on the sound-bow of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow groaning + boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down your back. + Just when it almost began to hurt, it died away in a hurry of beautiful + sorrowful cries, like a wine-glass rubbed with a wet finger. The pendulum + clanked—one loud clank to each silent swing. + </p> + <p> + Dan heard Una return from Mrs Kidbrooke’s, and ran down to fetch her. She + was standing by the font staring at some one who kneeled at the + Altar-rail. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that the Lady who practises the organ?’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. She’s gone into the organ-place. Besides, she wears black,’ Dan + replied. + </p> + <p> + The figure rose and came down the nave. It was a white-haired man in a + long white gown with a sort of scarf looped low on the neck, one end + hanging over his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with + gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and sparkled round the hem + of his gown. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go and meet him,’ said Puck’s voice behind the font. ‘It’s only Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid—Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. I shall wait till + he asks me.’ He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old + grave-slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a + pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and + his thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beckoned over Dan’s shoulder, + and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as + straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the church,’ Puck replied. + </p> + <p> + The Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a + white moth in the shadow by the font. + </p> + <p> + ‘He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he coming back?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s very fond of churches,’ + said Puck. ‘What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + The Lady who practices the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind the + organ-screen. ‘We can’t very well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to + Panama Corner.’ + </p> + <p> + He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron + which says in queer, long-tailed letters: ORATE P. ANNEMA JHONE COLINE. + The children always called it Panama Corner. + </p> + <p> + The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old + memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the + organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymn-books behind the screen. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes—like treacle on + porridge,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘I like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look at Wilfrid! He’s + trying to shut the Altar-gates!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously. + </p> + <p> + He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while + the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang + open again beneath his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr Kidbrooke says Altar-gates + are just the one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made ‘em so + himself.’ + </p> + <p> + The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered—very angry with Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The Archbishop smiled, and crossed + to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him + to sit on. + </p> + <p> + The organ played softly. ‘What does that music say?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + Una dropped into the chant without thinking: ‘“O all ye works of the Lord, + bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.” We call it the + Noah’s Ark, because it’s all lists of things—beasts and birds and + whales, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—“O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,”’ Una hummed—‘"Bless + ye the Lord.” It sounds like a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Holy Father,’ said Puck with a demure face, ‘is a little seal also “one + who moves in the water”?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eh? Oh yes—yess!’ he laughed. ‘A seal moves wonderfully in the + waters. Do the seal come to my island still?’ + </p> + <p> + Puck shook his head. ‘All those little islands have been swept away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there. Do you know the land of + the Sea-calf, maiden?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—but we’ve seen seals—at Brighton.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The Archbishop is thinking of a little farther down the coast. He means + Seal’s Eye—Selsey—down Chichester way—where he converted + the South Saxons,’ Puck explained. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—yess; if the South Saxons did not convert me,’ said the + Archbishop, smiling. ‘The first time I was wrecked was on that coast. As + our ship took ground and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow of a + seal, I remember, reared breast-high out of the water, and scratched his + head with his flipper as if he were saying: “What does that excited person + with the pole think he is doing.” I was very wet and miserable, but I + could not help laughing, till the natives came down and attacked us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you do?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘One couldn’t very well go back to France, so one tried to make them go + back to the shore. All the South Saxons are born wreckers, like my own + Northumbrian folk. I was bringing over a few things for my old church at + York, and some of the natives laid hands on them, and—and I’m afraid + I lost my temper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is said—’ Puck’s voice was wickedly meek—‘that there was a + great fight.’ + </p> + <p> + Eh, but I must ha’ been a silly lad.’ Wilfrid spoke with a sudden thick + burr in his voice. He coughed, and took up his silvery tones again. ‘There + was no fight really. My men thumped a few of them, but the tide rose half + an hour before its time, with a strong wind, and we backed off. What I + wanted to say, though, was, that the seas about us were full of sleek + seals watching the scuffle. My good Eddi—my chaplain—insisted + that they were demons. Yes—yess! That was my first acquaintance with + the South Saxons and their seals.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But not the only time you were wrecked, was it?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have been one long shipwreck.’ + He looked at the Jhone Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes looks into the + fire. ‘Ah, well!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But did you ever have any more adventures among the seals?’ said Una, + after a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are the important things. Yes—yess! + I went back to the South Saxons after twelve—fifteen—years. + No, I did not come by water, but overland from my own Northumbria, to see + what I could do. It’s little one can do with that class of native except + make them stop killing each other and themselves—’ ‘Why did they + kill themselves?’ Una asked, her chin in her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because they were heathen. When they grew tired of life (as if they were + the only people!) they would jump into the sea. They called it going to + Wotan. It wasn’t want of food always—by any means. A man would tell + you that he felt grey in the heart, or a woman would say that she saw + nothing but long days in front of her; and they’d saunter away to the + mud-flats and—that would be the end of them, poor souls, unless one + headed them off. One had to run quick, but one can’t allow people to lay + hands on themselves because they happen to feel grey. Yes—yess—Extraordinary + people, the South Saxons. Disheartening, sometimes.... What does that say + now?’ The organ had changed tune again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Only a hymn for next Sunday,’ said Una. ‘“The Church’s One Foundation.” + Go on, please, about running over the mud. I should like to have seen + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say you would, and I really could run in those days. Ethelwalch + the King gave me some five or six muddy parishes by the sea, and the first + time my good Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouching along the slob, + among the seals at Manhood End. My good Eddi disliked seals—but he + swallowed his objections and ran like a hare.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘For the same reason that I did. We thought it was one of our people going + to drown himself. As a matter of fact, Eddi and I were nearly drowned in + the pools before we overtook him. To cut a long story short, we found + ourselves very muddy, very breathless, being quietly made fun of in good + Latin by a very well-spoken person. No—he’d no idea of going to + Wotan. He was fishing on his own beaches, and he showed us the beacons and + turf-heaps that divided his land from the church property. He took us to + his own house, gave us a good dinner, some more than good wine, sent a + guide with us into Chichester, and became one of my best and most + refreshing friends. He was a Meon by descent, from the west edge of the + kingdom; a scholar educated, curiously enough, at Lyons, my old school; + had travelled the world over, even to Rome, and was a brilliant talker. We + found we had scores of acquaintances in common. It seemed he was a small + chief under King Ethelwalch, and I fancy the King was somewhat afraid of + him. The South Saxons mistrust a man who talks too well. Ah! Now, I’ve + left out the very point of my story. He kept a great grey-muzzled old + dog-seal that he had brought up from a pup. He called it Padda—after + one of my clergy. It was rather like fat, honest old Padda. The creature + followed him everywhere, and nearly knocked down my good Eddi when we + first met him. Eddi loathed it. It used to sniff at his thin legs and + cough at him. I can’t say I ever took much notice of it (I was not fond of + animals), till one day Eddi came to me with a circumstantial account of + some witchcraft that Meon worked. He would tell the seal to go down to the + beach the last thing at night, and bring him word of the weather. When it + came back, Meon might say to his slaves, “Padda thinks we shall have wind + tomorrow. Haul up the boats!” I spoke to Meon casually about the story, + and he laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘He told me he could judge by the look of the creature’s coat and the way + it sniffed what weather was brewing. Quite possible. One need not put down + everything one does not understand to the work of bad spirits—or + good ones, for that matter.’ He nodded towards Puck, who nodded gaily in + return. + </p> + <p> + ‘I say so,’ he went on, ‘because to a certain extent I have been made a + victim of that habit of mind. Some while after I was settled at Selsey, + King Ethelwalch and Queen Ebba ordered their people to be baptized. I fear + I’m too old to believe that a whole nation can change its heart at the + King’s command, and I had a shrewd suspicion that their real motive was to + get a good harvest. No rain had fallen for two or three years, but as soon + as we had finished baptizing, it fell heavily, and they all said it was a + miracle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And was it?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything in life is a miracle, but’—the Archbishop twisted the + heavy ring on his finger—‘I should be slow—ve-ry slow should I + be—to assume that a certain sort of miracle happens whenever lazy + and improvident people say they are going to turn over a new leaf if they + are paid for it. My friend Meon had sent his slaves to the font, but he + had not come himself, so the next time I rode over—to return a + manuscript—I took the liberty of asking why. He was perfectly open + about it. He looked on the King’s action as a heathen attempt to curry + favour with the Christians’ God through me the Archbishop, and he would + have none of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“My dear man,” I said, “admitting that that is the case, surely you, as + an educated person, don’t believe in Wotan and all the other hobgoblins + any more than Padda here?” The old seal was hunched up on his ox-hide + behind his master’s chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Even if I don’t,” he said, “why should I insult the memory of my + fathers’ Gods? I have sent you a hundred and three of my rascals to + christen. Isn’t that enough?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“By no means,” I answered. “I want you.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“He wants us! What do you think of that, Padda?” He pulled the seal’s + whiskers till it threw back its head and roared, and he pretended to + interpret. “No! Padda says he won’t be baptized yet awhile. He says you’ll + stay to dinner and come fishing with me tomorrow, because you’re + over-worked and need a rest.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I wish you’d keep yon brute in its proper place,” I said, and Eddi, my + chaplain, agreed. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I do,” said Meon. “I keep him just next my heart. He can’t tell a lie, + and he doesn’t know how to love any one except me. It ‘ud be the same if I + were dying on a mud-bank, wouldn’t it, Padda?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Augh! Augh!” said Padda, and put up his head to be scratched. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then Meon began to tease Eddi: “Padda says, if Eddi saw his Archbishop + dying on a mud-bank Eddi would tuck up his gown and run. Padda knows Eddi + can run too! Padda came into Wittering Church last Sunday—all wet—to + hear the music, and Eddi ran out.” + </p> + <p> + ‘My good Eddi rubbed his hands and his shins together, and flushed. “Padda + is a child of the Devil, who is the father of lies!” he cried, and begged + my pardon for having spoken. I forgave him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes. You are just about stupid enough for a musician,” said Meon. “But + here he is. Sing a hymn to him, and see if he can stand it. You’ll find my + small harp beside the fireplace.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Eddi, who is really an excellent musician, played and sang for quite half + an hour. Padda shuffled off his ox-hide, hunched himself on his flippers + before him, and listened with his head thrown back. Yes—yess! A + rather funny sight! Meon tried not to laugh, and asked Eddi if he were + satisfied. + </p> + <p> + ‘It takes some time to get an idea out of my good Eddi’s head. He looked + at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Do you want to sprinkle him with holy water, and see if he flies up the + chimney? Why not baptize him?” said Meon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Eddi was really shocked. I thought it was bad taste myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s not fair,” said Meon. “You call him a demon and a familiar spirit + because he loves his master and likes music, and when I offer you a chance + to prove it you won’t take it. Look here! I’ll make a bargain. I’ll be + baptized if you’ll baptize Padda too. He’s more of a man than most of my + slaves.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“One doesn’t bargain—or joke—about these matters,” I said. He + was going altogether too far. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Quite right,” said Meon; “I shouldn’t like any one to joke about Padda. + Padda, go down to the beach and bring us tomorrow’s weather!” + </p> + <p> + ‘My good Eddi must have been a little over-tired with his day’s work. “I + am a servant of the church,” he cried. “My business is to save souls, not + to enter into fellowships and understandings with accursed beasts.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Have it your own narrow way,” said Meon. “Padda, you needn’t go.” The + old fellow flounced back to his ox-hide at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Man could learn obedience at least from that creature,” said Eddi, a + little ashamed of himself. Christians should not curse. ‘“Don’t begin to + apologise Just when I am beginning to like you,” said Meon. “We’ll leave + Padda behind tomorrow—out of respect to your feelings. Now let’s go + to supper. We must be up early tomorrow for the whiting.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The next was a beautiful crisp autumn morning—a weather-breeder, if + I had taken the trouble to think; but it’s refreshing to escape from kings + and converts for half a day. We three went by ourselves in Meon’s smallest + boat, and we got on the whiting near an old wreck, a mile or so off shore. + Meon knew the marks to a yard, and the fish were keen. Yes—yess! A + perfect morning’s fishing! If a Bishop can’t be a fisherman, who can?’ He + twiddled his ring again. ‘We stayed there a little too long, and while we + were getting up our stone, down came the fog. After some discussion, we + decided to row for the land. The ebb was just beginning to make round the + point, and sent us all ways at once like a coracle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Selsey Bill,’ said Puck under his breath. ‘The tides run something + furious there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe you,’ said the Archbishop. ‘Meon and I have spent a good many + evenings arguing as to where exactly we drifted. All I know is we found + ourselves in a little rocky cove that had sprung up round us out of the + fog, and a swell lifted the boat on to a ledge, and she broke up beneath + our feet. We had just time to shuffle through the weed before the next + wave. The sea was rising. ‘“It’s rather a pity we didn’t let Padda go down + to the beach last night,” said Meon. “He might have warned us this was + coming.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Better fall into the hands of God than the hands of demons,” said Eddi, + and his teeth chattered as he prayed. A nor’-west breeze had just got up—distinctly + cool. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Save what you can of the boat,” said Meon; “we may need it,” and we had + to drench ourselves again, fishing out stray planks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What for?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘For firewood. We did not know when we should get off. Eddi had flint and + steel, and we found dry fuel in the old gulls’ nests and lit a fire. It + smoked abominably, and we guarded it with boat-planks up-ended between the + rocks. One gets used to that sort of thing if one travels. Unluckily I’m + not so strong as I was. I fear I must have been a trouble to my friends. + It was blowing a full gale before midnight. Eddi wrung out his cloak, and + tried to wrap me in it, but I ordered him on his obedience to keep it. + However, he held me in his arms all the first night, and Meon begged his + pardon for what he’d said the night before—about Eddi, running away + if he found me on a sandbank, you remember. ‘“You are right in half your + prophecy,” said Eddi. “I have tucked up my gown, at any rate.” (The wind + had blown it over his head.) “Now let us thank God for His mercies.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hum!” said Meon. “If this gale lasts, we stand a very fair chance of + dying of starvation.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“If it be God’s will that we survive, God will provide,” said Eddi. “At + least help me to sing to Him.” The wind almost whipped the words out of + his mouth, but he braced himself against a rock and sang psalms. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad I never concealed my opinion—from myself—that Eddi + was a better man than I. Yet I have worked hard in my time—very + hard! Yes—yess! So the morning and the evening were our second day + on that islet. There was rain-water in the rock-pools, and, as a + churchman, I knew how to fast, but I admit we were hungry. Meon fed our + fire chip by chip to eke it out, and they made me sit over it, the dear + fellows, when I was too weak to object. Meon held me in his arms the + second night, just like a child. My good Eddi was a little out of his + senses, and imagined himself teaching a York choir to sing. Even so, he + was beautifully patient with them. + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard Meon whisper, “If this keeps up we shall go to our Gods. I wonder + what Wotan will say to me. He must know I don’t believe in him. On the + other hand, I can’t do what Ethelwalch finds so easy—curry favour + with your God at the last minute, in the hope of being saved—as you + call it. How do you advise, Bishop?” ‘“My dear man,” I said, “if that is + your honest belief, I take it upon myself to say you had far better not + curry favour with any God. But if it’s only your Jutish pride that holds + you back, lift me up, and I’ll baptize you even now.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Lie still,” said Meon. “I could judge better if I were in my own hall. + But to desert one’s fathers’ Gods—even if one doesn’t believe in + them—in the middle of a gale, isn’t quite—What would you do + yourself?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I was lying in his arms, kept alive by the warmth of his big, steady + heart. It did not seem to me the time or the place for subtle arguments, + so I answered, “No, I certainly should not desert my God.” I don’t see + even now what else I could have said. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Thank you. I’ll remember that, if I live,” said Meon, and I must have + drifted back to my dreams about Northumbria and beautiful France, for it + was broad daylight when I heard him calling on Wotan in that high, shaking + heathen yell that I detest so. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Lie quiet. I’m giving Wotan his chance,” he said. Our dear Eddi ambled + up, still beating time to his imaginary choir. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes. Call on your Gods,” he cried, “and see what gifts they will send + you. They are gone on a journey, or they are hunting.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I assure you the words were not out of his mouth when old Padda shot from + the top of a cold wrinkled swell, drove himself over the weedy ledge, and + landed fair in our laps with a rock-cod between his teeth. I could not + help smiling at Eddi’s face. “A miracle! A miracle!” he cried, and kneeled + down to clean the cod. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You’ve been a long time finding us, my son,” said Meon. “Now fish—fish + for all our lives. We’re starving, Padda.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The old fellow flung himself quivering like a salmon backward into the + boil of the currents round the rocks, and Meon said, “We’re safe. I’ll + send him to fetch help when this wind drops. Eat and be thankful.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I never tasted anything so good as those rock-codlings we took from + Padda’s mouth and half roasted over the fire. Between his plunges Padda + would hunch up and purr over Meon with the tears running down his face. I + never knew before that seals could weep for joy—as I have wept. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Surely,” said Eddi, with his mouth full, “God has made the seal the + loveliest of His creatures in the water. Look how Padda breasts the + current! He stands up against it like a rock; now watch the chain of + bubbles where he dives; and now—there is his wise head under that + rock-ledge! Oh, a blessing be on thee, my little brother Padda!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You said he was a child of the Devil!” Meon laughed. ‘“There I sinned,” + poor Eddi answered. “Call him here, and I will ask his pardon. God sent + him out of the storm to humble me, a fool.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I won’t ask you to enter into fellowships and understandings with any + accursed brute,” said Meon, rather unkindly. “Shall we say he was sent to + our Bishop as the ravens were sent to your prophet Elijah?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Doubtless that is so,” said Eddi. “I will write it so if I live to get + home.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No—no!” I said. “Let us three poor men kneel and thank God for His + mercies.” + </p> + <p> + ‘We kneeled, and old Padda shuffled up and thrust his head under Meon’s + elbows. I laid my hand upon it and blessed him. So did Eddi. + </p> + <p> + ‘“And now, my son,” I said to Meon, “shall I baptize thee?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Not yet,” said he. “Wait till we are well ashore and at home. No God in + any Heaven shall say that I came to him or left him because I was wet and + cold. I will send Padda to my people for a boat. Is that witchcraft, + Eddi?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, no. Surely Padda will go and pull them to the beach by the skirts + of their gowns as he pulled me in Wittering Church to ask me to sing. Only + then I was afraid, and did not understand,” said Eddi. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You are understanding now,” said Meon, and at a wave of his arm off went + Padda to the mainland, making a wake like a war-boat till we lost him in + the rain. Meon’s people could not bring a boat across for some hours; even + so it was ticklish work among the rocks in that tideway. But they hoisted + me aboard, too stiff to move, and Padda swam behind us, barking and + turning somersaults all the way to Manhood End!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good old Padda!’ murmured Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘When we were quite rested and re-clothed, and his people had been + summoned—not an hour before—Meon offered himself to be + baptized.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was Padda baptized too?’ Una asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, that was only Meon’s joke. But he sat blinking on his ox-hide in the + middle of the hall. When Eddi (who thought I wasn’t looking) made a little + cross in holy water on his wet muzzle, he kissed Eddi’s hand. A week + before Eddi wouldn’t have touched him. That was a miracle, if you like! + But seriously, I was more glad than I can tell you to get Meon. A rare and + splendid soul that never looked back—never looked back!’ The + Arch-bishop half closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, sir,’ said Puck, most respectfully, ‘haven’t you left out what Meon + said afterwards?’ Before the Bishop could speak he turned to the children + and went on: ‘Meon called all his fishers and ploughmen and herdsmen into + the hall and he said: “Listen, men! Two days ago I asked our Bishop + whether it was fair for a man to desert his fathers’ Gods in a time of + danger. Our Bishop said it was not fair. You needn’t shout like that, + because you are all Christians now. My red war-boat’s crew will remember + how near we all were to death when Padda fetched them over to the Bishop’s + islet. You can tell your mates that even in that place, at that time, + hanging on the wet, weedy edge of death, our Bishop, a Christian, + counselled me, a heathen, to stand by my fathers’ Gods. I tell you now + that a faith which takes care that every man shall keep faith, even though + he may save his soul by breaking faith, is the faith for a man to believe + in. So I believe in the Christian God, and in Wilfrid His Bishop, and in + the Church that Wilfrid rules. You have been baptized once by the King’s + orders. I shall not have you baptized again; but if I find any more old + women being sent to Wotan, or any girls dancing on the sly before Balder, + or any men talking about Thun or Lok or the rest, I will teach you with my + own hands how to keep faith with the Christian God. Go out quietly; you’ll + find a couple of beefs on the beach.” Then of course they shouted + “Hurrah!” which meant “Thor help us!” and—I think you laughed, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you remember it all too well,’ said the Archbishop, smiling. ‘It + was a joyful day for me. I had learned a great deal on that rock where + Padda found us. Yes—yess! One should deal kindly with all the + creatures of God, and gently with their masters. But one learns late.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose, and his gold-embroidered sleeves rustled thickly. + </p> + <p> + The organ cracked and took deep breaths. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait a minute,’ Dan whispered. ‘She’s going to do the trumpety one. It + takes all the wind you can pump. It’s in Latin, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is no other tongue,’ the Archbishop answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not a real hymn,’ Una explained. ‘She does it as a treat after her + exercises. She isn’t a real organist, you know. She just comes down here + sometimes, from the Albert Hall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, what a miracle of a voice!’ said the Archbishop. + </p> + <p> + It rang out suddenly from a dark arch of lonely noises—every word + spoken to the very end: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Dies Irae, dies illa, + Solvet saeclum in favilla, + Teste David cum Sibylla.’ +The Archbishop caught his breath and moved forward. The music carried on +by itself a while. +</pre> + <p> + ‘Now it’s calling all the light out of the windows,’ Una whispered to Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it’s more like a horse neighing in battle,’ he whispered back. + The voice continued: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchre regionum.’ +</pre> + <p> + Deeper and deeper the organ dived down, but far below its deepest note + they heard Puck’s voice joining in the last line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Coget omnes ante thronum.’ +</pre> + <p> + As they looked in wonder, for it sounded like the dull jar of one of the + very pillars shifting, the little fellow turned and went out through the + south door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now’s the sorrowful part, but it’s very beautiful.’ Una found herself + speaking to the empty chair in front of her. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you doing that for?’ Dan said behind her. ‘You spoke so politely + too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know... I thought—’ said Una. ‘Funny!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘’Tisn’t. It’s the part you like best,’ Dan grunted. + </p> + <p> + The music had turned soft—full of little sounds that chased each + other on wings across the broad gentle flood of the main tune. But the + voice was ten times lovelier than the music. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Recordare Jesu pie, + Quod sum causa Tuae viae, + Ne me perdas illi die!’ +</pre> + <p> + There was no more. They moved out into the centre aisle. + </p> + <p> + ‘That you?’ the Lady called as she shut the lid. ‘I thought I heard you, + and I played it on purpose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you awfully,’ said Dan. ‘We hoped you would, so we waited. Come on, + Una, it’s pretty nearly dinner-time.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Red War-Boat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady! + Watch for a smooth! Give way! + If she feels the lop already + She’ll stand on her head in the bay. + It’s ebb—it’s dusk—it’s blowing, + The shoals are a mile of white, + But (snatch her along!) we’re going + To find our master tonight. + + For we hold that in all disaster + Of shipwreck, storm, or sword, + A man must stand by his master + When once he had pledged his word! + + Raging seas have we rowed in, + But we seldom saw them thus; + Our master is angry with Odin— + Odin is angry with us! + Heavy odds have we taken, + But never before such odds. + The Gods know they are forsaken, + We must risk the wrath of the Gods! + + Over the crest she flies from, + Into its hollow she drops, + Crouches and clears her eyes from + The wind-torn breaker-tops, + Ere out on the shrieking shoulder + Of a hill-high surge she drives. + Meet her! Meet her and hold her! + Pull for your scoundrel lives! + + The thunder bellow and clamour + The harm that they mean to do; + There goes Thor’s Own Hammer + Cracking the dark in two! + + Close! But the blow has missed her, + Here comes the wind of the blow! + Row or the squall’ll twist her + Broadside on to it!—-Row! + + Hearken, Thor of the Thunder! + We are not here for a jest— + For wager, warfare, or plunder, + Or to put your power to test. + This work is none of our wishing— + We would stay at home if we might— + But our master is wrecked out fishing, + We go to find him tonight. + + For we hold that in all disaster— + As the Gods Themselves have said— + A man must stand by his master + Till one of the two is dead. + + That is our way of thinking, + Now you can do as you will, + While we try to save her from sinking, + And hold her head to it still. + Bale her and keep her moving, + Or she’ll break her back in the trough... + Who said the weather’s improving, + And the swells are taking off? + + Sodden, and chafed and aching, + Gone in the loins and knees— + No matter—the day is breaking, + And there’s far less weight to the seas! + Up mast, and finish baling— + In oars, and out with the mead— + The rest will be two-reef sailing... + That was a night indeed! + But we hold that in all disaster + (And faith, we have found it true!) + If only you stand by your master, + The Gods will stand by you! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Astrologer’s Song + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the Heavens above us + Oh, look and behold + The planets that love us + All harnessed in gold! + What chariots, what horses, + Against us shall bide + While the Stars in their courses + Do fight on our side? + + All thought, all desires, + That are under the sun, + Are one with their fires, + As we also are one; + All matter, all spirit, + All fashion, all frame, + Receive and inherit + Their strength from the same. + + (Oh, man that deniest + All power save thine own, + Their power in the highest + Is mightily shown. + Not less in the lowest + That power is made clear. + Oh, man, if thou knowest, + What treasure is here!) + + Earth quakes in her throes + And we wonder for why! + But the blind planet knows + When her ruler is nigh; + And, attuned since Creation, + To perfect accord, + She thrills in her station + And yearns to her Lord. + + The waters have risen, + The springs are unbound— + The floods break their prison, + And ravin around. + No rampart withstands ‘em, + Their fury will last, + Till the Sign that commands ‘em + Sinks low or swings past. + + Through abysses unproven, + And gulfs beyond thought, + Our portion is woven, + Our burden is brought. + Yet They that prepare it, + Whose Nature we share, + Make us who must bear it + Well able to bear. + + Though terrors o’ertake us + We’ll not be afraid, + No Power can unmake us + Save that which has made. + Nor yet beyond reason + Nor hope shall we fall— + All things have their season, + And Mercy crowns all. + + Then, doubt not, ye fearful— + The Eternal is King— + Up, heart, and be cheerful, + And lustily sing: + What chariots, what horses, + Against us shall bide + While the Stars in their courses + Do fight on our side? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Doctor of Medicine + </h2> + <p> + They were playing hide-and-seek with bicycle lamps after tea. Dan had hung + his lamp on the apple tree at the end of the hellebore bed in the walled + garden, and was crouched by the gooseberry bushes ready to dash off when + Una should spy him. He saw her lamp come into the garden and disappear as + she hid it under her cloak. While he listened for her footsteps, somebody + (they both thought it was Phillips the gardener) coughed in the corner of + the herb-beds. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ Una shouted across the asparagus; ‘we aren’t hurting your old + beds, Phippsey!’ + </p> + <p> + She flashed her lantern towards the spot, and in its circle of light they + saw a Guy Fawkes-looking man in a black cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, + walking down the path beside Puck. They ran to meet him, and the man said + something to them about rooms in their head. After a time they understood + he was warning them not to catch colds. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve a bit of a cold yourself, haven’t you?’ said Una, for he ended all + his sentences with a consequential cough. Puck laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Child,’ the man answered, ‘if it hath pleased Heaven to afflict me with + an infirmity—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nay, nay,’ Puck struck In, ‘the maid spoke out of kindness. I know that + half your cough is but a catch to trick the vulgar; and that’s a pity. + There’s honesty enough in you, Nick, without rasping and hawking.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good people’—the man shrugged his lean shoulders—‘the vulgar + crowd love not truth unadorned. Wherefore we philosophers must needs dress + her to catch their eye or—ahem!—-their ear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what d’you think of that?’ said Puck solemnly to Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘It sounds like lessons.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah—well! There have been worse men than Nick Culpeper to take + lessons from. Now, where can we sit that’s not indoors?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In the hay-mow, next to old Middenboro,’ Dan suggested. ‘He doesn’t + mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eh?’ Mr Culpeper was stooping over the pale hellebore blooms by the light + of Una’s lamp. ‘Does Master Middenboro need my poor services, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Save him, no!’ said Puck. ‘He is but a horse—next door to an ass, + as you’ll see presently. Come!’ + </p> + <p> + Their shadows jumped and slid on the fruit-tree walls. They filed out of + the garden by the snoring pig-pound and the crooning hen-house, to the + shed where Middenboro the old lawn-mower pony lives. His friendly eyes + showed green in the light as they set their lamps down on the chickens’ + drinking-trough outside, and pushed past to the hay-mow. Mr Culpeper + stooped at the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind where you lie,’ said Dan. ‘This hay’s full of hedge-brishings. + </p> + <p> + ‘In! in!’ said Puck. ‘You’ve lain in fouler places than this, Nick. Ah! + Let us keep touch with the stars!’ He kicked open the top of the + half-door, and pointed to the clear sky. ‘There be the planets you conjure + with! What does your wisdom make of that wandering and variable star + behind those apple boughs?’ + </p> + <p> + The children smiled. A bicycle that they knew well was being walked down + the steep lane. ‘Where?’ Mr Culpeper leaned forward quickly. ‘That? Some + countryman’s lantern.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wrong, Nick,’ said Puck. ‘’Tis a singular bright star in Virgo, declining + towards the house of Aquarius the water-carrier, who hath lately been + afflicted by Gemini. Aren’t I right, Una?’ Mr Culpeper snorted + contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. It’s the village nurse going down to the Mill about some fresh twins + that came there last week. Nurse,’ Una called, as the light stopped on the + flat, ‘when can I see the Morris twins? And how are they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Next Sunday, perhaps. Doing beautifully,’ the Nurse called back, and with + a ping-ping-ping of the bell brushed round the corner. + </p> + <p> + ‘Her uncle’s a vetinary surgeon near Banbury,’ Una explained, and if you + ring her bell at night, it rings right beside her bed—not downstairs + at all. Then she ‘umps up—she always keeps a pair of dry boots in + the fender, you know—and goes anywhere she’s wanted. We help her + bicycle through gaps sometimes. Most of her babies do beautifully. She + told us so herself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I doubt not, then, that she reads in my books,’ said Mr Culpeper quietly. + ‘Twins at the Mill!’ he muttered half aloud. “And again He sayeth, Return, + ye children of men.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you a doctor or a rector?’ Una asked, and Puck with a shout turned + head over heels in the hay. But Mr Culpeper was quite serious. He told + them that he was a physician-astrologer—a doctor who knew all about + the stars as well as all about herbs for medicine. He said that the sun, + the moon, and five Planets, called Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn, and + Venus, governed everybody and everything in the world. They all lived in + Houses—he mapped out some of them against the dark with a busy + forefinger—and they moved from House to House like pieces at + draughts; and they went loving and hating each other all over the skies. + If you knew their likes and dislikes, he said, you could make them cure + your patient and hurt your enemy, and find out the secret causes of + things. He talked of these five Planets as though they belonged to him, or + as though he were playing long games against them. The children burrowed + in the hay up to their chins, and looked out over the half-door at the + solemn, star-powdered sky till they seemed to be falling upside down into + it, while Mr Culpeper talked about ‘trines’ and ‘oppositions’ and + ‘conjunctions’ and ‘sympathies’ and ‘antipathies’ in a tone that just + matched things. + </p> + <p> + A rat ran between Middenboro’s feet, and the old pony stamped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mid hates rats,’ said Dan, and passed him over a lock of hay. ‘I wonder + why.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Divine Astrology tells us,’ said Mr Culpeper. ‘The horse, being a martial + beast that beareth man to battle, belongs naturally to the red planet Mars—the + Lord of War. I would show you him, but he’s too near his setting. Rats and + mice, doing their businesses by night, come under the dominion of our Lady + the Moon. Now between Mars and Luna, the one red, t’other white, the one + hot t’other cold and so forth, stands, as I have told you, a natural + antipathy, or, as you say, hatred. Which antipathy their creatures do + inherit. Whence, good people, you may both see and hear your cattle stamp + in their stalls for the self-same causes as decree the passages of the + stars across the unalterable face of Heaven! Ahem!’ Puck lay along chewing + a leaf. They felt him shake with laughter, and Mr Culpeper sat up stiffly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I myself’ said he, ‘have saved men’s lives, and not a few neither, by + observing at the proper time—there is a time, mark you, for all + things under the sun—by observing, I say, so small a beast as a rat + in conjunction with so great a matter as this dread arch above us.’ He + swept his hand across the sky. ‘Yet there are those,’ he went on sourly, + ‘who have years without knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Right,’ said Puck. ‘No fool like an old fool.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Culpeper wrapped his cloak round him and sat still while the children + stared at the Great Bear on the hilltop. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give him time,’ Puck whispered behind his hand. ‘He turns like a + timber-tug—all of a piece.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ahem!’ Mr Culpeper said suddenly. ‘I’ll prove it to you. When I was + physician to Saye’s Horse, and fought the King—or rather the man + Charles Stuart—in Oxfordshire (I had my learning at Cambridge), the + plague was very hot all around us. I saw it at close hands. He who says I + am ignorant of the plague, for example, is altogether beside the bridge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We grant it,’ said Puck solemnly. ‘But why talk of the plague this rare + night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To prove my argument. This Oxfordshire plague, good people, being + generated among rivers and ditches, was of a werish, watery nature. + Therefore it was curable by drenching the patient in cold water, and + laying him in wet cloths; or at least, so I cured some of them. Mark this. + It bears on what shall come after.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mark also, Nick,’ said Puck, that we are not your College of Physicians, + but only a lad and a lass and a poor lubberkin. Therefore be plain, old + Hyssop on the Wall!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be plain and in order with you, I was shot in the chest while + gathering of betony from a brookside near Thame, and was took by the + King’s men before their Colonel, one Blagg or Bragge, whom I warned + honestly that I had spent the week past among our plague-stricken. He + flung me off into a cowshed, much like this here, to die, as I supposed; + but one of their priests crept in by night and dressed my wound. He was a + Sussex man like myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who was that?’ said Puck suddenly. ‘Zack Tutshom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Jack Marget,’ said Mr Culpeper. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack Marget of New College? The little merry man that stammered so? Why a + plague was stuttering Jack at Oxford then?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘He had come out of Sussex in hope of being made a Bishop when the King + should have conquered the rebels, as he styled us Parliament men. His + College had lent the King some monies too, which they never got again, no + more than simple Jack got his bishopric. When we met he had had a bitter + bellyful of King’s promises, and wished to return to his wife and babes. + This came about beyond expectation, for, so soon as I could stand of my + wound, the man Blagge made excuse that I had been among the plague, and + Jack had been tending me, to thrust us both out from their camp. The King + had done with Jack now that Jack’s College had lent the money, and + Blagge’s physician could not abide me because I would not sit silent and + see him butcher the sick. (He was a College of Physicians man!) So Blagge, + I say, thrust us both out, with many vile words, for a pair of pestilent, + prating, pragmatical rascals.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha! Called you pragmatical, Nick?’ Puck started up. ‘High time Oliver + came to purge the land! How did you and honest Jack fare next?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We were in some sort constrained to each other’s company. I was for going + to my house in Spitalfields, he would go to his parish in Sussex; but the + plague was broke out and spreading through Wiltshire, Berkshire, and + Hampshire, and he was so mad distracted to think that it might even then + be among his folk at home that I bore him company. He had comforted me in + my distress. I could not have done less; and I remembered that I had a + cousin at Great Wigsell, near by Jack’s parish. Thus we footed it from + Oxford, cassock and buff coat together, resolute to leave wars on the left + side henceforth; and either through our mean appearances, or the plague + making men less cruel, we were not hindered. To be sure, they put us in + the stocks one half-day for rogues and vagabonds at a village under St + Leonard’s forest, where, as I have heard, nightingales never sing; but the + constable very honestly gave me back my Astrological Almanac, which I + carry with me.’ Mr Culpeper tapped his thin chest. ‘I dressed a whitlow on + his thumb. So we went forward. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not to trouble you with impertinences, we fetched over against Jack + Marget’s parish in a storm of rain about the day’s end. Here our roads + divided, for I would have gone on to my cousin at Great Wigsell, but while + Jack was pointing me out his steeple, we saw a man lying drunk, as he + conceived, athwart the road. He said it would be one Hebden, a + parishioner, and till then a man of good life; and he accused himself + bitterly for an unfaithful shepherd, that had left his flock to follow + princes. But I saw it was the plague, and not the beginnings of it + neither. They had set out the plague-stone, and the man’s head lay on it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s a plague-stone?’ Dan whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘When the plague is so hot in a village that the neighbours shut the roads + against ‘em, people set a hollowed stone, pot, or pan, where such as would + purchase victual from outside may lay money and the paper of their wants, + and depart. Those that would sell come later—what will a man not do + for gain?—-snatch the money forth, and leave in exchange such goods + as their conscience reckons fair value. I saw a silver groat in the water, + and the man’s list of what he would buy was rain-pulped in his wet hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘“My wife! Oh, my wife and babes!” says Jack of a sudden, and makes uphill—I + with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘A woman peers out from behind a barn, crying out that the village is + stricken with the plague, and that for our lives’ sake we must avoid it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Sweetheart!” says Jack. “Must I avoid thee?” and she leaps at him and + says the babes are safe. She was his wife. + </p> + <p> + ‘When he had thanked God, even to tears, he tells me this was not the + welcome he had intended, and presses me to flee the place while I was + clean. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nay! The Lord do so to me and more also if I desert thee now,” I said. + “These affairs are, under God’s leave, in some fashion my strength.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, sir,” she says, “are you a physician? We have none.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then, good people,” said I, “I must e’en justify myself to you by my + works.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Look—look ye,” stammers Jack, “I took you all this time for a + crazy Roundhead preacher.” He laughs, and she, and then I—all three + together in the rain are overtook by an unreasonable gust or clap of + laughter, which none the less eased us. We call it in medicine the + Hysterical Passion. So I went home with ‘em.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did you not go on to your cousin at Great Wigsell, Nick?’ Puck + suggested. ‘’tis barely seven mile up the road.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But the plague was here,’ Mr Culpeper answered, and pointed up the hill. + ‘What else could I have done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What were the parson’s children called?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Elizabeth, Alison, Stephen, and Charles—a babe. I scarce saw them + at first, for I separated to live with their father in a cart-lodge. The + mother we put—forced—into the house with her babes. She had + done enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘And now, good people, give me leave to be particular in this case. The + plague was worst on the north side of the street, for lack, as I showed + ‘em, of sunshine; which, proceeding from the PRIME MOBILE, or source of + life (I speak astrologically), is cleansing and purifying in the highest + degree. The plague was hot too by the corn-chandler’s, where they sell + forage to the carters, extreme hot in both Mills, along the river, and + scatteringly in other places, except, mark you, at the smithy. Mark here, + that all forges and smith shops belong to Mars, even as corn and meat and + wine shops acknowledge Venus for their mistress. There was no plague in + the smithy at Munday’s Lane—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Munday’s Lane? You mean our village? I thought so when you talked about + the two Mills,’ cried Dan. ‘Where did we put the plague-stone? I’d like to + have seen it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then look at it now,’ said Puck, and pointed to the chickens’ + drinking-trough where they had set their bicycle lamps. It was a rough, + oblong stone pan, rather like a small kitchen sink, which Phillips, who + never wastes anything, had found in a ditch and had used for his precious + hens. + </p> + <p> + ‘That?’ said Dan and Una, and stared, and stared, and stared. Mr Culpeper + made impatient noises in his throat and went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am at these pains to be particular, good people, because I would have + you follow, so far as you may, the operations of my mind. That plague + which I told you I had handled outside Wallingford in Oxfordshire was of a + watery nature, conformable to the brookish riverine country it bred in, + and curable, as I have said, by drenching in water. This plague of ours + here, for all that it flourished along watercourses—every soul at + both Mills died of it,—could not be so handled. Which brought me to + a stand. Ahem!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And your sick people in the meantime?’ Puck demanded. ‘We persuaded them + on the north side of the street to lie out in Hitheram’s field. Where the + plague had taken one, or at most two, in a house, folk would not shift for + fear of thieves in their absence. They cast away their lives to die among + their goods.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Human nature,’ said Puck. ‘I’ve seen it time and again. How did your sick + do in the fields?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They died not near so thick as those that kept within doors, and even + then they died more out of distraction and melancholy than plague. But I + confess, good people, I could not in any sort master the sickness, or come + at a glimmer of its nature or governance. To be brief, I was flat + bewildered at the brute malignity of the disease, and so—did what I + should have done before—dismissed all conjectures and apprehensions + that had grown up within me, chose a good hour by my Almanac, clapped my + vinegar-cloth to my face, and entered some empty houses, resigned to wait + upon the stars for guidance.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At night? Were you not horribly frightened?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘I dared to hope that the God who hath made man so nobly curious to search + out His mysteries might not destroy a devout seeker. In due time—there’s + a time, as I have said, for everything under the sun—I spied a + whitish rat, very puffed and scabby, which sat beneath the dormer of an + attic through which shined our Lady the Moon. Whilst I looked on him—and + her—she was moving towards old cold Saturn, her ancient ally—the + rat creeped languishingly into her light, and there, before my eyes, died. + Presently his mate or companion came out, laid him down beside there, and + in like fashion died too. Later—an hour or less to midnight—a + third rat did e’en the same; always choosing the moonlight to die in. This + threw me into an amaze, since, as we know, the moonlight is favourable, + not hurtful, to the creatures of the Moon; and Saturn, being friends with + her, as you would say, was hourly strengthening her evil influence. Yet + these three rats had been stricken dead in very moonlight. I leaned out of + the window to see which of Heaven’s host might be on our side, and there + beheld I good trusty Mars, very red and heated, bustling about his + setting. I straddled the roof to see better. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack Marget came up street going to comfort our sick in Hitheram’s field. + A tile slipped under my foot. + </p> + <p> + Says he, heavily enough, “Watchman, what of the night?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Heart up, Jack,” says I. “Methinks there’s one fighting for us that, + like a fool, I’ve forgot all this summer.” My meaning was naturally the + planet Mars. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pray to Him then,” says he. “I forgot Him too this summer.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He meant God, whom he always bitterly accused himself of having forgotten + up in Oxfordshire, among the King’s men. I called down that he had made + amends enough for his sin by his work among the sick, but he said he would + not believe so till the plague was lifted from ‘em. He was at his + strength’s end—more from melancholy than any just cause. I have seen + this before among priests and overcheerful men. I drenched him then and + there with a half-cup of waters, which I do not say cure the plague, but + are excellent against heaviness of the spirits.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What were they?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘White brandy rectified, camphor, cardamoms, ginger, two sorts of pepper, + and aniseed.’ ‘Whew!’ said Puck. ‘Waters you call ‘em!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack coughed on it valiantly, and went downhill with me. I was for the + Lower Mill in the valley, to note the aspect of the Heavens. My mind had + already shadowed forth the reason, if not the remedy, for our troubles, + but I would not impart it to the vulgar till I was satisfied. That + practice may be perfect, judgment ought to be sound, and to make judgment + sound is required an exquisite knowledge. Ahem! I left Jack and his + lantern among the sick in Hitheram’s field. He still maintained the + prayers of the so-called Church, which were rightly forbidden by + Cromwell.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You should have told your cousin at Wigsell,’ said Puck, ‘and Jack would + have been fined for it, and you’d have had half the money. How did you + come so to fail in your duty, Nick?’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Culpeper laughed—his only laugh that evening—and the + children jumped at the loud neigh of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘We were not fearful of men’s judgment in those days,’ he answered. ‘Now + mark me closely, good people, for what follows will be to you, though not + to me, remarkable. When I reached the empty Mill, old Saturn, low down in + the House of the Fishes, threatened the Sun’s rising-place. Our Lady the + Moon was moving towards the help of him (understand, I speak + astrologically). I looked abroad upon the high Heavens, and I prayed the + Maker of ‘em for guidance. Now Mars sparkingly withdrew himself below the + sky. On the instant of his departure, which I noted, a bright star or + vapour leaped forth above his head (as though he had heaved up his sword), + and broke all about in fire. The cocks crowed midnight through the valley, + and I sat me down by the mill-wheel, chewing spearmint (though that’s an + herb of Venus), and calling myself all the asses’ heads in the world! + ‘Twas plain enough now!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What was plain?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘The true cause and cure of the plague. Mars, good fellow, had fought for + us to the uttermost. Faint though he had been in the Heavens, and this had + made me overlook him in my computations, he more than any of the other + planets had kept the Heavens—which is to say, had been visible some + part of each night wellnigh throughout the year. Therefore his fierce and + cleansing influence, warring against the Moon, had stretched out to kill + those three rats under my nose, and under the nose of their natural + mistress, the Moon. I had known Mars lean half across Heaven to deal our + Lady the Moon some shrewd blow from under his shield, but I had never + before seen his strength displayed so effectual.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand a bit. Do you mean Mars killed the rats because he + hated the Moon?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is as plain as the pikestaff with which Blagge’s men pushed me + forth,’ Mr Culpeper answered. ‘I’ll prove it. Why had the plague not broken + out at the blacksmith’s shop in Munday’s Lane? Because, as I’ve shown you, + forges and smithies belong naturally to Mars, and, for his honour’s sake, + Mars ‘ud keep ‘em clean from the creatures of the Moon. But was it like, + think you, that he’d come down and rat-catch in general for lazy, + ungrateful mankind? That were working a willing horse to death. So, then, + you can see that the meaning of the blazing star above him when he set was + simply this: “Destroy and burn the creatures Of the moon, for they are the + root of your trouble. And thus, having shown you a taste of my power, good + people, adieu.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Mars really say all that?’ Una whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and twice so much as that to any one who had ears to hear. Briefly, + he enlightened me that the plague was spread by the creatures of the Moon. + The Moon, our Lady of ill-aspect, was the offender. My own poor wits + showed me that I, Nick Culpeper, had the people in my charge, God’s good + providence aiding me, and no time to lose neither. + </p> + <p> + ‘I posted up the hill, and broke into Hitheram’s field amongst ‘em all at + prayers. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Eureka, good people!” I cried, and cast down a dead mill-rat which I’d + found. “Here’s your true enemy, revealed at last by the stars.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nay, but I’m praying,” says Jack. His face was as white as washed + silver. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s a time for everything under the sun,” says I. “If you would stay + the plague, take and kill your rats.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, mad, stark mad!” says he, and wrings his hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘A fellow lay in the ditch beside him, who bellows that he’d as soon die + mad hunting rats as be preached to death on a cold fallow. They laughed + round him at this, but Jack Marget falls on his knees, and very + presumptuously petitions that he may be appointed to die to save the rest + of his people. This was enough to thrust ‘em back into their melancholy. + ‘“You are an unfaithful shepherd, jack,” I says. “Take a bat” (which we + call a stick in Sussex) “and kill a rat if you die before sunrise. ‘Twill + save your people.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Aye, aye. Take a bat and kill a rat,” he says ten times over, like a + child, which moved ‘em to ungovernable motions of that hysterical passion + before mentioned, so that they laughed all, and at least warmed their + chill bloods at that very hour—one o’clock or a little after—when + the fires of life burn lowest. Truly there is a time for everything; and + the physician must work with it—ahem!—or miss his cure. To be + brief with you, I persuaded ‘em, sick or sound, to have at the whole + generation of rats throughout the village. And there’s a reason for all + things too, though the wise physician need not blab ‘em all. Imprimis, or + firstly, the mere sport of it, which lasted ten days, drew ‘em most + markedly out of their melancholy. I’d defy sorrowful job himself to lament + or scratch while he’s routing rats from a rick. Secundo, or secondly, the + vehement act and operation of this chase or war opened their skins to + generous transpiration—more vulgarly, sweated ‘em handsomely; and + this further drew off their black bile—the mother of sickness. + Thirdly, when we came to burn the bodies of the rats, I sprinkled sulphur + on the faggots, whereby the onlookers were as handsomely suffumigated. + This I could not have compassed if I had made it a mere physician’s + business; they’d have thought it some conjuration. Yet more, we cleansed, + limed, and burned out a hundred foul poke-holes, sinks, slews, and corners + of unvisited filth in and about the houses in the village, and by good + fortune (mark here that Mars was in opposition to Venus) burned the + corn-handler’s shop to the ground. Mars loves not Venus. Will Noakes the + saddler dropped his lantern on a truss of straw while he was rat-hunting + there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Had ye given Will any of that gentle cordial of yours, Nick, by any + chance?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘A glass—or two glasses—not more. But as I would say, in fine, + when we had killed the rats, I took ash, slag, and charcoal from the + smithy, and burnt earth from the brickyard (I reason that a brickyard + belongs to Mars), and rammed it with iron crowbars into the rat-runs and + buries, and beneath all the house floors. The Creatures of the Moon hate + all that Mars hath used for his own clean ends. For example—rats + bite not iron.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how did poor stuttering Jack endure it?’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘He sweated out his melancholy through his skin, and catched a loose + cough, which I cured with electuaries, according to art. It is noteworthy, + were I speaking among my equals, that the venom of the plague translated, + or turned itself into, and evaporated, or went away as, a very heavy + hoarseness and thickness of the head, throat, and chest. (Observe from my + books which planets govern these portions of man’s body, and your + darkness, good people, shall be illuminated—ahem!) None the less, + the plague, qua plague, ceased and took off (for we only lost three more, + and two of ‘em had it already on ‘em) from the morning of the day that + Mars enlightened me by the Lower Mill.’ He coughed—almost trumpeted—triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is proved,’ he jerked out. ‘I say I have proved my contention, which + is, that by Divine Astrology and humble search into the veritable causes + of things—at the proper time—the sons of wisdom may combat + even the plague.’ + </p> + <p> + H’m!’ Puck replied. ‘For my own part I hold that a simple soul—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mine? Simple, forsooth?’ said Mr Culpeper. + </p> + <p> + ‘A very simple soul, a high courage tempered with sound and stubborn + conceit, is stronger than all the stars in their courses. So I confess + truly that you saved the village, Nick.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I stubborn? I stiff-necked? I ascribed all my poor success, under God’s + good providence, to Divine Astrology. Not to me the glory! You talk as + that dear weeping ass Jack Marget preached before I went back to my work + in Red Lion House, Spitalfields.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! Stammering Jack preached, did he? They say he loses his stammer in + the pulpit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And his wits with it. He delivered a most idolatrous discourse when the + plague was stayed. He took for his text: “The wise man that delivered the + city.” I could have given him a better, such as: “There is a time for—“’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what made you go to church to hear him?’ Puck interrupted. ‘Wail + Attersole was your lawfully appointed preacher, and a dull dog he was!’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Culpeper wriggled uneasily. + </p> + <p> + ‘The vulgar,’ said he, ‘the old crones and—ahem!—-the + children, Alison and the others, they dragged me to the House of Rimmon by + the hand. I was in two minds to inform on Jack for maintaining the + mummeries of the falsely-called Church, which, I’ll prove to you, are + founded merely on ancient fables—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stick to your herbs and planets,’ said Puck, laughing. ‘You should have + told the magistrates, Nick, and had Jack fined. Again, why did you neglect + your plain duty?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because—because I was kneeling, and praying, and weeping with the + rest of ‘em at the Altar-rails. In medicine this is called the Hysterical + Passion. It may be—it may be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s as may be,’ said Puck. They heard him turn the hay. ‘Why, your hay + is half hedge-brishings,’ he said. ‘You don’t expect a horse to thrive on + oak and ash and thorn leaves, do you?’ + </p> + <p> + Ping-ping-ping went the bicycle bell round the corner. Nurse was coming + back from the mill. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it all right?’ Una called. + </p> + <p> + ‘All quite right,’ Nurse called back. ‘They’re to be christened next + Sunday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What? What?’ They both leaned forward across the half-door. It could not + have been properly fastened, for it opened, and tilted them out with hay + and leaves sticking all over them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come on! We must get those two twins’ names,’ said Una, and they charged + uphill shouting over the hedge, till Nurse slowed up and told them. When + they returned, old Middenboro had got out of his stall, and they spent a + lively ten minutes chasing him in again by starlight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘Our Fathers of Old’ + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Excellent herbs had our fathers of old— + Excellent herbs to ease their pain— + Alexanders and Marigold, + Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane, + Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue, + (Almost singing themselves they run) + Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you— + Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun. + Anything green that grew out of the mould + Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old. + + Wonderful tales had our fathers of old— + Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars— + The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, + Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. + Pat as a sum in division it goes— + (Every plant had a star bespoke)— + Who but Venus should govern the Rose? + Who but Jupiter own the Oak? + Simply and gravely the facts are told + In the wonderful books of our fathers of old. + + Wonderful little, when all is said, + Wonderful little our fathers knew. + Half their remedies cured you dead— + Most of their teaching was quite untrue— + ‘Look at the stars when a patient is ill, + (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,) + Bleed and blister as much as you will, + Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.’ + Whence enormous and manifold + Errors were made by our fathers of old. + + Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, + And neither planet nor herb assuaged, + They took their lives in their lancet-hand + And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! + Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door— + Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled, + Excellent courage our fathers bore— + Excellent heart had our fathers of old. + Not too learned, but nobly bold, + Into the fight went our fathers of old. + + If it be certain, as Galen says, + And sage Hippocrates holds as much— + ‘That those afflicted by doubts and dismays + Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch,’ + Then, be good to us, stars above! + Then, be good to us, herbs below! + We are afflicted by what we can prove; + We are distracted by what we know— + So—ah, so! + Down from your Heaven or up from your mould, + Send us the hearts of our fathers of old! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIMPLE SIMON + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Thousandth Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One man in a thousand, Solomon says, + Will stick more close than a brother. + And it’s worth while seeking him half your days + If you find him before the other. + Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend + on what the world sees in you, + But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend + With the whole round world agin you. + + ‘Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show + Will settle the finding for ‘ee. + Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em go + By your looks or your acts or your glory. + But if he finds you and you find him, + The rest of the world don’t matter; + For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim + With you in any water. + + You can use his purse with no more shame + Than he uses yours for his spendings; + And laugh and mention it just the same + As though there had been no lendings. + Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em call + For silver and gold in their dealings; + But the Thousandth Man he’s worth ‘em all, + Because you can show him your feelings! + + His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right, + In season or out of season. + Stand up and back it in all men’s sight— + With that for your only reason! + Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide + The shame or mocking or laughter, + But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side + To the gallows-foot—and after! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Simple Simon + </h2> + <p> + Cattiwow came down the steep lane with his five-horse timber-tug. He + stopped by the wood-lump at the back gate to take off the brakes. His real + name was Brabon, but the first time the children met him, years and years + ago, he told them he was ‘carting wood,’ and it sounded so exactly like + ‘cattiwow’ that they never called him anything else. + </p> + <p> + ‘HI!’ Una shouted from the top of the wood-lump, where they had been + watching the lane. ‘What are you doing? Why weren’t we told?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They’ve just sent for me,’ Cattiwow answered. ‘There’s a middlin’ big log + stacked in the dirt at Rabbit Shaw, and’—he flicked his whip back + along the line—‘so they’ve sent for us all.’ + </p> + <p> + Dan and Una threw themselves off the wood-lump almost under black Sailor’s + nose. Cattiwow never let them ride the big beam that makes the body of the + timber-tug, but they hung on behind while their teeth thuttered. + </p> + <p> + The Wood road beyond the brook climbs at once into the woods, and you see + all the horses’ backs rising, one above another, like moving stairs. + Cattiwow strode ahead in his sackcloth woodman’s petticoat, belted at the + waist with a leather strap; and when he turned and grinned, his red lips + showed under his sackcloth-coloured beard. His cap was sackcloth too, with + a flap behind, to keep twigs and bark out of his neck. He navigated the + tug among pools of heather-water that splashed in their faces, and through + clumps of young birches that slashed at their legs, and when they hit an + old toadstooled stump, they never knew whether it would give way in + showers of rotten wood, or jar them back again. + </p> + <p> + At the top of Rabbit Shaw half-a-dozen men and a team of horses stood + round a forty-foot oak log in a muddy hollow. The ground about was poached + and stoached with sliding hoofmarks, and a wave of dirt was driven up in + front of the butt. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you want to bury her for this way?’ said Cattiwow. He took his + broad-axe and went up the log tapping it. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s sticked fast,’ said ‘Bunny’ Lewknor, who managed the other team. + </p> + <p> + Cattiwow unfastened the five wise horses from the tug. They cocked their + ears forward, looked, and shook themselves. + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe Sailor knows,’ Dan whispered to Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘He do,’ said a man behind them. He was dressed in flour sacks like the + others, and he leaned on his broad-axe, but the children, who knew all the + wood-gangs, knew he was a stranger. In his size and oily hairiness he + might have been Bunny Lewknor’s brother, except that his brown eyes were + as soft as a spaniel’s, and his rounded black beard, beginning close up + under them, reminded Una of the walrus in ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t he justabout know?’ he said shyly, and shifted from one foot to the + other. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. “What Cattiwow can’t get out of the woods must have roots growing to + her.”’ Dan had heard old Hobden say this a few days before. + </p> + <p> + At that minute Puck pranced up, picking his way through the pools of black + water in the ling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look out!’ cried Una, jumping forward. ‘He’ll see you, Puck!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Me and Mus’ Robin are pretty middlin’ well acquainted,’ the man answered + with a smile that made them forget all about walruses. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is Simon Cheyneys,’ Puck began, and cleared his throat. ‘Shipbuilder + of Rye Port; burgess of the said town, and the only—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, look! Look ye! That’s a knowing one,’ said the man. + </p> + <p> + Cattiwow had fastened his team to the thin end of the log, and was moving + them about with his whip till they stood at right angles to it, heading + downhill. Then he grunted. The horses took the strain, beginning with + Sailor next the log, like a tug-of-war team, and dropped almost to their + knees. The log shifted a nail’s breadth in the clinging dirt, with the + noise of a giant’s kiss. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re getting her!’ Simon Cheyneys slapped his knee. ‘Hing on! Hing on, + lads, or she’ll master ye! Ah!’ + </p> + <p> + Sailor’s left hind hoof had slipped on a heather-tuft. One of the men + whipped off his sack apron and spread it down. They saw Sailor feel for + it, and recover. Still the log hung, and the team grunted in despair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hai!’ shouted Cattiwow, and brought his dreadful whip twice across + Sailor’s loins with the crack of a shot-gun. The horse almost screamed as + he pulled that extra last ounce which he did not know was in him. The thin + end of the log left the dirt and rasped on dry gravel. The butt ground + round like a buffalo in his wallow. Quick as an axe-cut, Lewknor snapped + on his five horses, and sliding, trampling, jingling, and snorting, they + had the whole thing out on the heather. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dat’s the very first time I’ve knowed you lay into Sailor—to hurt + him,’ said Lewknor. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is,’ said Cattiwow, and passed his hand over the two wheals. ‘But I’d + ha’ laid my own brother open at that pinch. Now we’ll twitch her down the + hill a piece—she lies just about right—and get her home by the + low road. My team’ll do it, Bunny; you bring the tug along. Mind out!’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke to the horses, who tightened the chains. The great log half + rolled over, and slowly drew itself out of sight downhill, followed by the + wood-gang and the timber-tug. In half a minute there was nothing to see + but the deserted hollow of the torn-up dirt, the birch undergrowth still + shaking, and the water draining back into the hoof-prints. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye heard him?’ Simon Cheyneys asked. ‘He cherished his horse, but he’d + ha’ laid him open in that pinch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for his own advantage,’ said Puck quickly. ‘’Twas only to shift the + log.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I reckon every man born of woman has his log to shift in the world—if + so be you’re hintin’ at any o’ Frankie’s doings. He never hit beyond + reason or without reason,’ said Simon. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never said a word against Frankie,’ Puck retorted, with a wink at the + children. ‘An’ if I did, do it lie in your mouth to contest my say-so, + seeing how you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t it lie in my mouth, seeing I was the first which knowed Frankie + for all he was?’ The burly sack-clad man puffed down at cool little Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and the first which set out to poison him—Frankie—on the + high seas—’ + </p> + <p> + Simon’s angry face changed to a sheepish grin. He waggled his immense + hands, but Puck stood off and laughed mercilessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘But let me tell you, Mus’ Robin,’ he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve heard the tale. Tell the children here. Look, Dan! Look, Una!’—-Puck’s + straight brown finger levelled like an arrow. ‘There’s the only man that + ever tried to poison Sir Francis Drake!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Mus’ Robin! ‘Tidn’t fair. You’ve the ‘vantage of us all in your + upbringin’s by hundreds o’ years. Stands to nature you know all the tales + against every one.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned his soft eyes so helplessly on Una that she cried, ‘Stop ragging + him, Puck! You know he didn’t really.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do. But why are you so sure, little maid?’ ‘Because—because he + doesn’t look like it,’ said Una stoutly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thank you,’ said Simon to Una. ‘I—I was always trustable-like + with children if you let me alone, you double handful o’ mischief.’ He + pretended to heave up his axe on Puck; and then his shyness overtook him + afresh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where did you know Sir Francis Drake?’ said Dan, not liking being called + a child. + </p> + <p> + ‘At Rye Port, to be sure,’ said Simon, and seeing Dan’s bewilderment, + repeated it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but look here,’ said Dan. ‘“Drake he was a Devon man.” The song says + so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“And ruled the Devon seas,”’ Una went on. ‘That’s what I was thinking—if + you don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + Simon Cheyneys seemed to mind very much indeed, for he swelled in silence + while Puck laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hutt!’ he burst out at last, ‘I’ve heard that talk too. If you listen to + them West Country folk, you’ll listen to a pack o’ lies. I believe Frankie + was born somewhere out west among the Shires, but his father had to run + for it when Frankie was a baby, because the neighbours was wishful to kill + him, d’ye see? He run to Chatham, old Parson Drake did, an’ Frankie was + brought up in a old hulks of a ship moored in the Medway river, same as it + might ha’ been the Rother. Brought up at sea, you might say, before he + could walk on land—nigh Chatham in Kent. And ain’t Kent back-door to + Sussex? And don’t that make Frankie Sussex? O’ course it do. Devon man! + Bah! Those West Country boats they’re always fishin’ in other folks’ + water.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Dan. ‘I’m sorry. + </p> + <p> + ‘No call to be sorry. You’ve been misled. I met Frankie at Rye Port when + my Uncle, that was the shipbuilder there, pushed me off his wharf-edge on + to Frankie’s ship. Frankie had put in from Chatham with his rudder + splutted, and a man’s arm—Moon’s that ‘ud be—broken at the + tiller. “Take this boy aboard an’ drown him,” says my Uncle, “and I’ll + mend your rudder-piece for love.” + </p> + <p> + ‘What did your Uncle want you drowned for?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘That was only his fashion of say-so, same as Mus’ Robin. I’d a + foolishness in my head that ships could be builded out of iron. Yes—iron + ships! I’d made me a liddle toy one of iron plates beat out thin—and + she floated a wonder! But my Uncle, bein’ a burgess of Rye, and a + shipbuilder, he ‘prenticed me to Frankie in the fetchin’ trade, to cure + this foolishness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What was the fetchin’ trade?’ Dan interrupted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fetchin’ poor Flemishers and Dutchmen out o’ the Low Countries into + England. The King o’ Spain, d’ye see, he was burnin’ ‘em in those parts, + for to make ‘em Papishers, so Frankie he fetched ‘em away to our parts, + and a risky trade it was. His master wouldn’t never touch it while he + lived, but he left his ship to Frankie when he died, and Frankie turned + her into this fetchin’ trade. Outrageous cruel hard work—on + besom-black nights bulting back and forth off they Dutch roads with shoals + on all sides, and having to hark out for the frish-frish-frish-like of a + Spanish galliwopses’ oars creepin’ up on ye. Frankie ‘ud have the tiller + and Moon he’d peer forth at the bows, our lantern under his skirts, till + the boat we was lookin’ for ‘ud blurt up out o’ the dark, and we’d lay + hold and haul aboard whoever ‘twas—man, woman, or babe—an’ + round we’d go again, the wind bewling like a kite in our riggin’s, and + they’d drop into the hold and praise God for happy deliverance till they + was all sick. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had nigh a year at it, an’ we must have fetched off—oh, a hundred + pore folk, I reckon. Outrageous bold, too, Frankie growed to be. + Outrageous cunnin’ he was. Once we was as near as nothin’ nipped by a tall + ship off Tergoes Sands in a snowstorm. She had the wind of us, and spooned + straight before it, shootin’ all bow guns. Frankie fled inshore smack for + the beach, till he was atop of the first breakers. Then he hove his anchor + out, which nigh tore our bows off, but it twitched us round end-for-end + into the wind, d’ye see, an’ we clawed off them sands like a drunk man + rubbin’ along a tavern bench. When we could see, the Spanisher was laid + flat along in the breakers with the snows whitening on his wet belly. He + thought he could go where Frankie went.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What happened to the crew?’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘We didn’t stop,’ Simon answered. ‘There was a very liddle new baby in our + hold, and the mother she wanted to get to some dry bed middlin’ quick. We + runned into Dover, and said nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was Sir Francis Drake very much pleased?’ ‘Heart alive, maid, he’d no + head to his name in those days. He was just a outrageous, valiant, + crop-haired, tutt-mouthed boy, roarin’ up an’ down the narrer seas, with + his beard not yet quilted out. He made a laughing-stock of everything all + day, and he’d hold our lives in the bight of his arm all the besom-black + night among they Dutch sands; and we’d ha’ jumped overside to behove him + any one time, all of us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why did you try to poison him?’ Una asked wickedly, and Simon hung + his head like a shy child. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that was when he set me to make a pudden, for because our cook was + hurted. I done my uttermost, but she all fetched adrift like in the bag, + an’ the more I biled the bits of her, the less she favoured any fashion o’ + pudden. Moon he chawed and chammed his piece, and Frankie chawed and + chammed his’n, and—no words to it—he took me by the ear an’ + walked me out over the bow-end, an’ him an’ Moon hove the pudden at me on + the bowsprit gub by gub, something cruel hard!’ Simon rubbed his hairy + cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nex’ time you bring me anything,” says Frankie, “you bring me + cannon-shot an’ I’ll know what I’m getting.” But as for poisonin’—’ + He stopped, the children laughed so. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Una. ‘Oh, Simon, we do like you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was always likeable with children.’ His smile crinkled up through the + hair round his eyes. ‘Simple Simon they used to call me through our yard + gates.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Sir Francis mock you?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, no. He was gentle-born. Laugh he did—he was always laughing—but + not so as to hurt a feather. An’ I loved ‘en. I loved ‘en before England + knew ‘en, or Queen Bess she broke his heart.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he hadn’t really done anything when you knew him, had he?’ Una + insisted. ‘Armadas and those things, I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + Simon pointed to the scars and scrapes left by Cattiwow’s great log. ‘You + tell me that that good ship’s timber never done nothing against winds and + weathers since her up-springing, and I’ll confess ye that young Frankie + never done nothing neither. Nothing? He adventured and suffered and made + shift on they Dutch sands as much in any one month as ever he had occasion + for to do in a half-year on the high seas afterwards. An’ what was his + tools? A coaster boat—a liddle box o’ walty plankin’ an’ some few + fathom feeble rope held together an’ made able by him sole. He drawed our + spirits up In our bodies same as a chimney-towel draws a fire. ‘Twas in + him, and it comed out all times and shapes.’ ‘I wonder did he ever ‘magine + what he was going to be? Tell himself stories about it?’ said Dan with a + flush. + </p> + <p> + ‘I expect so. We mostly do—even when we’re grown. But bein’ Frankie, + he took good care to find out beforehand what his fortune might be. Had I + rightly ought to tell ‘em this piece?’ Simon turned to Puck, who nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘My Mother, she was just a fair woman, but my Aunt, her sister, she had + gifts by inheritance laid up in her,’ Simon began. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’ll never do,’ cried Puck, for the children stared blankly. ‘Do + you remember what Robin promised to the Widow Whitgift so long as her + blood and get lasted?’ [See ‘Dymchurch Flit’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] + ‘Yes. There was always to be one of them that could see farther through a + millstone than most,’ Dan answered promptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Simon’s Aunt’s mother,’ said Puck slowly, ‘married the Widow’s + blind son on the Marsh, and Simon’s Aunt was the one chosen to see + farthest through millstones. Do you understand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That was what I was gettin’ at,’ said Simon, ‘but you’re so desperate + quick. My Aunt she knew what was comin’ to people. My Uncle being a + burgess of Rye, he counted all such things odious, and my Aunt she + couldn’t be got to practise her gifts hardly at all, because it hurted her + head for a week after-wards; but when Frankie heard she had ‘em, he was + all for nothin’ till she foretold on him—till she looked in his hand + to tell his fortune, d’ye see? One time we was at Rye she come aboard with + my other shirt and some apples, and he fair beazled the life out of her + about it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, you’ll be twice wed, and die childless,” she says, and pushes his + hand away. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s the woman’s part,” he says. “What’ll come to me-to me?” an’ he + thrusts it back under her nose. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Gold—gold, past belief or counting,” she says. “Let go o’ me, + lad.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Sink the gold!” he says. “What’ll I do, mother?” He coaxed her like no + woman could well withstand. I’ve seen him with ‘em—even when they + were sea-sick. + </p> + <p> + ‘“If you will have it,” she says at last, “you shall have it. You’ll do a + many things, and eating and drinking with a dead man beyond the world’s + end will be the least of them. For you’ll open a road from the East unto + the West, and back again, and you’ll bury your heart with your best friend + by that road-side, and the road you open none shall shut so long as you’re + let lie quiet in your grave.” + </p> + <p> + [The old lady’s prophecy is in a fair way to come true, for now the Panama + Canal is finished, one end of it opens into the very bay where Sir Francis + Drake was buried. So ships are taken through the Canal, and the road round + Cape Horn which Sir Francis opened is very little used.] + </p> + <p> + ‘“And if I’m not?” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, then,” she says, “Sim’s iron ships will be sailing on dry land. Now + ha’ done with this foolishness. Where’s Sim’s shirt?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He couldn’t fetch no more out of her, and when we come up from the cabin, + he stood mazed-like by the tiller, playing with a apple. ‘“My Sorrow!” + says my Aunt; “d’ye see that? The great world lying in his hand, liddle + and round like a apple.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, ‘tis one you gived him,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“To be sure,” she says. “‘Tis just a apple,” and she went ashore with her + hand to her head. It always hurted her to show her gifts. + </p> + <p> + Him and me puzzled over that talk plenty. It sticked in his mind quite + extravagant. The very next time we slipped out for some fetchin’ trade, we + met Mus’ Stenning’s boat over by Calais sands; and he warned us that the + Spanishers had shut down all their Dutch ports against us English, and + their galliwopses was out picking up our boats like flies off hogs’ backs. + Mus’ Stenning he runs for Shoreham, but Frankie held on a piece, knowin’ + that Mus Stenning was jealous of our good trade. Over by Dunkirk a great + gor-bellied Spanisher, with the Cross on his sails, came rampin’ at us. We + left him. We left him all they bare seas to conquest in. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Looks like this road was going to be shut pretty soon,” says Frankie, + humourin’ her at the tiller. “I’ll have to open that other one your Aunt + foretold of.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“The Spanisher’s crowdin’ down on us middlin’ quick,” I says. “No odds,” + says Frankie, “he’ll have the inshore tide against him. Did your Aunt say + I was to be quiet in my grave for ever?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Till my iron ships sailed dry land,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s foolishness,” he says. “Who cares where Frankie Drake makes a + hole in the water now or twenty years from now?” + </p> + <p> + ‘The Spanisher kept muckin’ on more and more canvas. I told him so. + </p> + <p> + ‘“He’s feelin’ the tide,” was all he says. “If he was among Tergoes Sands + with this wind, we’d be picking his bones proper. I’d give my heart to + have all their tall ships there some night before a north gale, and me to + windward. There’d be gold in My hands then. Did your Aunt say she saw the + world settin’ in my hand, Sim?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes, but ‘twas a apple,” says I, and he laughed like he always did at + me. “Do you ever feel minded to jump overside and be done with + everything?” he asks after a while. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No. What water comes aboard is too wet as ‘tis,” I says. “The + Spanisher’s going about.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I told you,” says he, never looking back. “He’ll give us the Pope’s + Blessing as he swings. Come down off that rail. There’s no knowin’ where + stray shots may hit.” So I came down off the rail, and leaned against it, + and the Spanisher he ruffled round in the wind, and his port-lids opened + all red inside. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now what’ll happen to my road if they don’t let me lie quiet in my + grave?” he says. “Does your Aunt mean there’s two roads to be found and + kept open—or what does she mean? I don’t like that talk about + t’other road. D’you believe in your iron ships, Sim?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He knowed I did, so I only nodded, and he nodded back again. ‘“Anybody + but me ‘ud call you a fool, Sim,” he says. “Lie down. Here comes the + Pope’s Blessing!” + </p> + <p> + ‘The Spanisher gave us his broadside as he went about. They all fell short + except one that smack-smooth hit the rail behind my back, an’ I felt most + won’erful cold. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Be you hit anywhere to signify?” he says. “Come over to me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“O Lord, Mus’ Drake,” I says, “my legs won’t move,” and that was the last + I spoke for months.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why? What had happened?’ cried Dan and Una together. + </p> + <p> + ‘The rail had jarred me in here like.’ Simon reached behind him clumsily. + ‘From my shoulders down I didn’t act no shape. Frankie carried me + piggyback to my Aunt’s house, and I lay bed-rid and tongue-tied while she + rubbed me day and night, month in and month out. She had faith in rubbing + with the hands. P’raps she put some of her gifts into it, too. Last of + all, something loosed itself in my pore back, and lo! I was whole restored + again, but kitten-feeble. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Where’s Frankie?” I says, thinking I’d been a longish while abed. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Down-wind amongst the Dons—months ago,” says my Aunt. + </p> + <p> + ‘“When can I go after ‘en?” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Your duty’s to your town and trade now,” says she. “Your Uncle he died + last Michaelmas and he’ve left you and me the yard. So no more iron ships, + mind ye.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What?” I says. “And you the only one that beleft in ‘em!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Maybe I do still,” she says, “but I’m a woman before I’m a Whitgift, and + wooden ships is what England needs us to build. I lay on ye to do so.” + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s why I’ve never teched iron since that day—not to build a toy + ship of. I’ve never even drawed a draft of one for my pleasure of + evenings.’ Simon smiled down on them all. ‘Whitgift blood is terrible + resolute—on the she-side,’ said Puck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t You ever see Sir Francis Drake again?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘With one thing and another, and my being made a burgess of Rye, I never + clapped eyes on him for the next twenty years. Oh, I had the news of his + mighty doings the world over. They was the very same bold, cunning shifts + and passes he’d worked with beforetimes off they Dutch sands, but, + naturally, folk took more note of them. When Queen Bess made him knight, + he sent my Aunt a dried orange stuffed with spiceries to smell to. She + cried outrageous on it. She blamed herself for her foretellings, having + set him on his won’erful road; but I reckon he’d ha’ gone that way all + withstanding. Curious how close she foretelled it! The world in his hand + like an apple, an’ he burying his best friend, Mus’ Doughty—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind for Mus’ Doughty,’ Puck interrupted. ‘Tell us where you met + Sir Francis next.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, ha! That was the year I was made a burgess of Rye—the same year + which King Philip sent his ships to take England without Frankie’s leave.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The Armada!’ said Dan contentedly. ‘I was hoping that would come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knowed Frankie would never let ‘em smell London smoke, but plenty good + men in Rye was two-three minded about the upshot. ‘Twas the noise of the + gun-fire tarrified us. The wind favoured it our way from off behind the + Isle of Wight. It made a mutter like, which growed and growed, and by the + end of a week women was shruckin’ in the streets. Then they come + slidderin’ past Fairlight in a great smoky pat vambrished with red + gun-fire, and our ships flyin’ forth and duckin’ in again. The smoke-pat + sliddered over to the French shore, so I knowed Frankie was edgin’ the + Spanishers toward they Dutch sands where he was master. I says to my Aunt, + “The smoke’s thinnin’ out. I lay Frankie’s just about scrapin’ his hold + for a few last rounds shot. ‘Tis time for me to go.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Never in them clothes,” she says. “Do on the doublet I bought you to be + made burgess in, and don’t you shame this day.” + </p> + <p> + ‘So I mucked it on, and my chain, and my stiffed Dutch breeches and all. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I be comin’, too,” she says from her chamber, and forth she come + pavisandin’ like a peacock—stuff, ruff, stomacher and all. She was a + notable woman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how did you go? You haven’t told us,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘In my own ship—but half-share was my Aunt’s. In the ANTONY OF RYE, + to be sure; and not empty-handed. I’d been loadin’ her for three days with + the pick of our yard. We was ballasted on cannon-shot of all three sizes; + and iron rods and straps for his carpenters; and a nice passel of clean + three-inch oak planking and hide breech-ropes for his cannon, and gubs of + good oakum, and bolts o’ canvas, and all the sound rope in the yard. What + else could I ha’ done? I knowed what he’d need most after a week’s such + work. I’m a shipbuilder, little maid. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’d a fair slant o’ wind off Dungeness, and we crept on till it fell + light airs and puffed out. The Spanishers was all in a huddle over by + Calais, and our ships was strawed about mending ‘emselves like dogs + lickin’ bites. Now and then a Spanisher would fire from a low port, and + the ball ‘ud troll across the flat swells, but both sides was finished + fightin’ for that tide. + </p> + <p> + ‘The first ship we foreslowed on, her breastworks was crushed in, an’ men + was shorin’ ‘em up. She said nothing. The next was a black pinnace, his + pumps clackin’ middling quick, and he said nothing. But the third, mending + shot-holes, he spoke out plenty. I asked him where Mus’ Drake might be, + and a shiny-suited man on the poop looked down into us, and saw what we + carried. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Lay alongside you!” he says. “We’ll take that all.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“‘Tis for Mus’ Drake,” I says, keeping away lest his size should lee the + wind out of my sails. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hi! Ho! Hither! We’re Lord High Admiral of England! Come alongside, or + we’ll hang ye,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘’Twas none of my affairs who he was if he wasn’t Frankie, and while he + talked so hot I slipped behind a green-painted ship with her top-sides + splintered. We was all in the middest of ‘em then. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hi! Hoi!” the green ship says. “Come alongside, honest man, and I’ll buy + your load. I’m Fenner that fought the seven Portugals—clean out of + shot or bullets. Frankie knows me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ay, but I don’t,” I says, and I slacked nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was a masterpiece. Seein’ I was for goin’ on, he hails a Bridport hoy + beyond us and shouts, “George! Oh, George! Wing that duck. He’s fat!” An’ + true as we’re all here, that squatty Bridport boat rounds to acrost our + bows, intendin’ to stop us by means o’ shooting. + </p> + <p> + ‘My Aunt looks over our rail. “George,” she says, “you finish with your + enemies afore you begin on your friends.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Him that was laying the liddle swivel-gun at us sweeps off his hat an’ + calls her Queen Bess, and asks if she was selling liquor to pore dry + sailors. My Aunt answered him quite a piece. She was a notable woman. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he come up—his long pennant trailing overside—his + waistcloths and netting tore all to pieces where the Spanishers had + grappled, and his sides black-smeared with their gun-blasts like + candle-smoke in a bottle. We hooked on to a lower port and hung. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, Mus’ Drake! Mus’ Drake!” I calls up. + </p> + <p> + ‘He stood on the great anchor cathead, his shirt open to the middle, and + his face shining like the sun. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, Sim!” he says. Just like that—after twenty year! “Sim,” he + says, “what brings you?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pudden,” I says, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You told me to bring cannon-shot next time, an’ I’ve brought ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He saw we had. He ripped out a fathom and a half o’ brimstone Spanish, + and he swung down on our rail, and he kissed me before all his fine young + captains. His men was swarming out of the lower ports ready to unload us. + When he saw how I’d considered all his likely wants, he kissed me again. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Here’s a friend that sticketh closer than a brother!” he says. + “Mistress,” he says to my Aunt, “all you foretold on me was true. I’ve + opened that road from the East to the West, and I’ve buried my heart + beside it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I know,” she says. “That’s why I be come.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But ye never foretold this”; he points to both they great fleets. + </p> + <p> + ‘“This don’t seem to me to make much odds compared to what happens to a + man,” she says. “Do it?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Certain sure a man forgets to remember when he’s proper mucked up with + work. Sim,” he says to me, “we must shift every living Spanisher round + Dunkirk corner on to our Dutch sands before morning. The wind’ll come out + of the North after this calm—same as it used—and then they’re + our meat.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Amen,” says I. “I’ve brought you what I could scutchel up of odds and + ends. Be you hit anywhere to signify?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, our folk’ll attend to all that when we’ve time,” he says. He turns + to talk to my Aunt, while his men flew the stuff out of our hold. I think + I saw old Moon amongst ‘em, but he was too busy to more than nod like. Yet + the Spanishers was going to prayers with their bells and candles before + we’d cleaned out the ANTONY. Twenty-two ton o’ useful stuff I’d fetched + him. ‘“Now, Sim,” says my Aunt, “no more devouring of Mus’ Drake’s time. + He’s sending us home in the Bridport hoy. I want to speak to them young + springalds again.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But here’s our ship all ready and swept,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Swep’ an’ garnished,” says Frankie. “I’m going to fill her with devils + in the likeness o’ pitch and sulphur. We must shift the Dons round Dunkirk + corner, and if shot can’t do it, we’ll send down fireships.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ve given him my share of the ANTONY,” says my Aunt. “What do you + reckon to do about yours?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“She offered it,” said Frankie, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘“She wouldn’t have if I’d overheard her,” I says; “because I’d have + offered my share first.” Then I told him how the ANTONY’s sails was best + trimmed to drive before the wind, and seeing he was full of occupations we + went acrost to that Bridport hoy, and left him. + </p> + <p> + ‘But Frankie was gentle-born, d’ye see, and that sort they never overlook + any folks’ dues. + </p> + <p> + ‘When the hoy passed under his stern, he stood bare-headed on the poop + same as if my Aunt had been his Queen, and his musicianers played “Mary + Ambree” on their silver trumpets quite a long while. Heart alive, little + maid! I never meaned to make you look sorrowful! + </p> + <p> + ‘Bunny Lewknor in his sackcloth petticoats burst through the birch scrub + wiping his forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ve got the stick to rights now! She’ve been a whole hatful o’ trouble. + You come an’ ride her home, Mus’ Dan and Miss Una!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They found the proud wood-gang at the foot of the slope, with the log + double-chained on the tug. + </p> + <p> + ‘Cattiwow, what are you going to do with it?’ said Dan, as they straddled + the thin part. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s going down to Rye to make a keel for a Lowestoft fishin’-boat, I’ve + heard. Hold tight!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Cattiwow cracked his whip, and the great log dipped and tilted, and + leaned and dipped again, exactly like a stately ship upon the high seas. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Frankie’s Trade + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Old Horn to All Atlantic said: + (A-hay O! To me O!) + ‘Now where did Frankie learn his trade? + For he ran me down with a three-reef mains’le.’ + (All round the Horn!) + + Atlantic answered: ‘Not from me! + You’d better ask the cold North Sea, + For he ran me down under all plain canvas.’ + (All round the Horn!) + + The North Sea answered: ‘He’s my man, + For he came to me when he began— + Frankie Drake in an open coaster. + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘I caught him young and I used him sore, + So you never shall startle Frankie more, + Without capsizing Earth and her waters. + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘I did not favour him at all, + I made him pull and I made him haul— + And stand his trick with the common sailors. + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘I froze him stiff and I fogged him blind, + And kicked him home with his road to find + By what he could see of a three-day snow-storm. + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘I learned him his trade o’ winter nights, + ‘Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights + On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing. + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘Before his beard began to shoot, + I showed him the length of the Spaniard’s foot— + And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later. + (All round the Sands!) + ‘If there’s a risk which you can make + That’s worse than he was used to take + Nigh every week in the way of his business; + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘If there’s a trick that you can try + Which he hasn’t met in time gone by, + Not once or twice, but ten times over; + (All round the Sands!) + + ‘If you can teach him aught that’s new, + (A-hay O! To me O!) + I’ll give you Bruges and Niewport too, + And the ten tall churches that stand between ‘em.’ + Storm along, my gallant Captains! + (All round the Horn!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TREE OF JUSTICE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ballad of Minepit Shaw + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + About the time that taverns shut + And men can buy no beer, + Two lads went up by the keepers’ hut + To steal Lord Pelham’s deer. + + Night and the liquor was in their heads— + They laughed and talked no bounds, + Till they waked the keepers on their beds, + And the keepers loosed the hounds. + + They had killed a hart, they had killed a hind, + Ready to carry away, + When they heard a whimper down the wind + And they heard a bloodhound bay. + + They took and ran across the fern, + Their crossbows in their hand, + Till they met a man with a green lantern + That called and bade ‘em stand. + + ‘What are you doing, O Flesh and Blood, + And what’s your foolish will, + That you must break into Minepit Wood + And wake the Folk of the Hill?’ + + ‘Oh, we’ve broke into Lord Pelham’s park, + And killed Lord Pelham’s deer, + And if ever you heard a little dog bark + You’ll know why we come here!’ + + ‘We ask you let us go our way, + As fast as we can flee, + For if ever you heard a bloodhound bay, + You’ll know how pressed we be.’ + + ‘Oh, lay your crossbows on the bank + And drop the knife from your hand, + And though the hounds are at your flank + I’ll save you where you stand!’ + They laid their crossbows on the bank, + They threw their knives in the wood, + And the ground before them opened and sank + And saved ‘em where they stood. + ‘Oh, what’s the roaring in our ears + That strikes us well-nigh dumb?’ + ‘Oh, that is just how things appears + According as they come.’ + + ‘What are the stars before our eyes + That strike us well-nigh blind?’ + ‘Oh, that is just how things arise + According as you find.’ + + ‘And why’s our bed so hard to the bones + Excepting where it’s cold?’ + ‘Oh, that’s because it is precious stones + Excepting where ‘tis gold. + + ‘Think it over as you stand + For I tell you without fail, + If you haven’t got into Fairyland + You’re not in Lewes Gaol.’ + + All night long they thought of it, + And, come the dawn, they saw + They’d tumbled into a great old pit, + At the bottom of Minepit Shaw. + + And the keepers’ hound had followed ‘em close + And broke her neck in the fall; + So they picked up their knives and their cross-bows + And buried the dog. That’s all. + + But whether the man was a poacher too + Or a Pharisee so bold— + I reckon there’s more things told than are true, + And more things true than are told. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Tree of Justice + </h2> + <p> + It was a warm, dark winter day with the Sou’-West wind singing through + Dallington Forest, and the woods below the Beacon. The children set out + after dinner to find old Hobden, who had a three months’ job in the Rough + at the back of Pound’s Wood. He had promised to get them a dormouse in its + nest. The bright leaf Still clung to the beech coppice; the long chestnut + leaves lay orange on the ground, and the rides were speckled with + scarlet-lipped sprouting acorns. They worked their way by their own short + cuts to the edge of Pound’s Wood, and heard a horse’s feet just as they + came to the beech where Ridley the keeper hangs up the vermin. The poor + little fluffy bodies dangled from the branches—some perfectly good, + but most of them dried to twisted strips. + </p> + <p> + ‘Three more owls,’ said Dan, counting. ‘Two stoats, four jays, and a + kestrel. That’s ten since last week. Ridley’s a beast.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In my time this sort of tree bore heavier fruit.’ Sir Richard Dalyngridge + reined up his grey horse, Swallow, in the ride behind them. [This is the + Norman knight they met the year before in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL. See ‘Young + Men at the Manor,’ ‘The Knights of the Joyous Venture,’ and ‘Old Men at + Pevensey,’ in that book.] ‘What play do you make?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, Sir. We’re looking for old Hobden,’ Dan replied.‘He promised to + get us a sleeper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sleeper? A DORMEUSE, do you say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, a dormouse, Sir.’ ‘I understand. I passed a woodman on the low + grounds. Come!’ He wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through an + opening to the patch of beech-stubs, chestnut, hazel, and birch that old + Hobden would turn into firewood, hop-poles, pea-boughs, and house-faggots + before spring. The old man was as busy as a beaver. + </p> + <p> + Something laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole out, his finger on his + lip. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look!’ he whispered. ‘Along between the spindle-trees. Ridley has been + there this half-hour.’ + </p> + <p> + The children followed his point, and saw Ridley the keeper in an old dry + ditch, watching Hobden as a cat watches a mouse. + </p> + <p> + ‘Huhh!’ cried Una. ‘Hobden always ‘tends to his wires before breakfast. He + puts his rabbits into the faggots he’s allowed to take home. He’ll tell us + about ‘em tomorrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We had the same breed in my day,’ Sir Richard replied, and moved off + quietly, Puck at his bridle, the children on either side between the + close-trimmed beech stuff. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you do to them?’ said Dan, as they repassed Ridley’s terrible + tree. + </p> + <p> + ‘That!’ Sir Richard jerked his head toward the dangling owls. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not he!’ said Puck. ‘There was never enough brute Norman in you to hang a + man for taking a buck.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I cannot abide to hear their widows screech. But why am I on + horseback while you are afoot?’ He dismounted lightly, tapped Swallow on + the chest, so that the wise thing backed instead of turning in the narrow + ride, and put himself at the head of the little procession. He walked as + though all the woods belonged to him. ‘I have often told my friends,’ he + went on, ‘that Red William the King was not the only Norman found dead in + a forest while he hunted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘D’you mean William Rufus?’ said Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Puck, kicking a clump of red toad-stools off a dead log. + </p> + <p> + ‘For example, there was a knight new from Normandy,’ Sir Richard went on, + ‘to whom Henry our King granted a manor in Kent near by. He chose to hang + his forester’s son the day before a deer-hunt that he gave to pleasure the + King.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now when would that be?’ said Puck, and scratched an ear thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘The summer of the year King Henry broke his brother Robert of Normandy at + Tenchebrai fight. Our ships were even then at Pevensey loading for the + war.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What happened to the knight?’ Dan asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘They found him pinned to an ash, three arrows through his leather coat. I + should have worn mail that day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And did you see him all bloody?’ Dan continued. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nay, I was with De Aquila at Pevensey, counting horseshoes, and + arrow-sheaves, and ale-barrels into the holds of the ships. The army only + waited for our King to lead them against Robert in Normandy, but he sent + word to De Aquila that he would hunt with him here before he set out for + France.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did the King want to hunt so particularly?’ Una demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘If he had gone straight to France after the Kentish knight was killed, + men would have said he feared being slain like the knight. It was his duty + to show himself debonair to his English people as it was De Aquila’s duty + to see that he took no harm while he did it, But it was a great burden! De + Aquila, Hugh, and I ceased work on the ships, and scoured all the Honour + of the Eagle—all De Aquila’s lands—to make a fit, and, above + all, a safe sport for our King. Look!’ + </p> + <p> + The ride twisted, and came out on the top of Pound’s Hill Wood. Sir + Richard pointed to the swells of beautiful, dappled Dallington, that + showed like a woodcock’s breast up the valley. ‘Ye know the forest?’ said + he. + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to see the bluebells there in Spring!’ said Una. ‘I have seen,’ + said Sir Richard, gazing, and stretched out his hand. ‘Hugh’s work and + mine was first to move the deer gently from all parts into Dallington + yonder, and there to hold them till the King came. Next, we must choose + some three hundred beaters to drive the deer to the stands within bowshot + of the King. Here was our trouble! In the mellay of a deer-drive a Saxon + peasant and a Norman King may come over-close to each other. The conquered + do not love their conquerors all at once. So we needed sure men, for whom + their village or kindred would answer in life, cattle, and land if any + harm come to the King. Ye see?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If one of the beaters shot the King,’ said Puck, ‘Sir Richard wanted to + be able to punish that man’s village. Then the village would take care to + send a good man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So! So it was. But, lest our work should be too easy, the King had done + such a dread justice over at Salehurst, for the killing of the Kentish + knight (twenty-six men he hanged, as I heard), that our folk were half mad + with fear before we began. It is easier to dig out a badger gone to earth + than a Saxon gone dumb-sullen. And atop of their misery the old rumour + waked that Harold the Saxon was alive and would bring them deliverance + from us Normans. This has happened every autumn since Santlache fight.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But King Harold was killed at Hastings,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘So it was said, and so it was believed by us Normans, but our Saxons + always believed he would come again. That rumour did not make our work any + more easy.’ + </p> + <p> + Sir Richard strode on down the far slope of the wood, where the trees thin + out. It was fascinating to watch how he managed his long spurs among the + lumps of blackened ling. + </p> + <p> + ‘But we did it!’ he said. ‘After all, a woman is as good as a man to beat + the woods, and the mere word that deer are afoot makes cripples and crones + young again. De Aquila laughed when Hugh told him over the list of + beaters. Half were women; and many of the rest were clerks—Saxon and + Norman priests. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh and I had not time to laugh for eight days, till De Aquila, as Lord + of Pevensey, met our King and led him to the first shooting-stand—by + the Mill on the edge of the forest. Hugh and I—it was no work for + hot heads or heavy hands—lay with our beaters on the skirts of + Dallington to watch both them and the deer. When De Aquila’s great horn + blew we went forward, a line half a league long. Oh, to see the fat + clerks, their gowns tucked up, puffing and roaring, and the sober millers + dusting the under-growth with their staves; and, like as not, between them + a Saxon wench, hand in hand with her man, shrilling like a kite as she + ran, and leaping high through the fern, all for joy of the sport.’ ‘Ah! + How! Ah! How! How-ah! Sa-how-ah!’ Puck bellowed without warning, and + Swallow bounded forward, ears cocked, and nostrils cracking. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hal-lal-lal-lal-la-hai-ie!’ Sir Richard answered in a high clear shout. + </p> + <p> + The two voices joined in swooping circles of sound, and a heron rose out + of a red osier-bed below them, circling as though he kept time to the + outcry. Swallow quivered and swished his glorious tail. They stopped + together on the same note. + </p> + <p> + A hoarse shout answered them across the bare woods. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s old Hobden,’ said Una. + </p> + <p> + ‘Small blame to him. It is in his blood,’ said Puck. ‘Did your beaters cry + so, Sir Richard?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My faith, they forgot all else. (Steady, Swallow, steady!) They forgot + where the King and his people waited to shoot. They followed the deer to + the very edge of the open till the first flight of wild arrows from the + stands flew fair over them. + </p> + <p> + ‘I cried, “‘Ware shot! ‘Ware shot!” and a knot of young knights new from + Normandy, that had strayed away from the Grand Stand, turned about, and in + mere sport loosed off at our line shouting: “‘Ware Santlache arrows! ‘Ware + Santlache arrows!” A jest, I grant you, but too sharp. One of our beaters + answered in Saxon: “‘Ware New Forest arrows! ‘Ware Red William’s arrow!” + so I judged it time to end the jests, and when the boys saw my old mail + gown (for, to shoot with strangers I count the same as war), they ceased + shooting. So that was smoothed over, and we gave our beaters ale to wash + down their anger. They were excusable! We—they had sweated to show + our guests good sport, and our reward was a flight of hunting-arrows which + no man loves, and worse, a churl’s jibe over hard-fought, fair-lost + Hastings fight. So, before the next beat, Hugh and I assembled and called + the beaters over by name, to steady them. The greater part we knew, but + among the Netherfield men I saw an old, old man, in the dress of a + pilgrim. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by repute for twenty + years as a witless man that journeyed without rest to all the shrines of + England. The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans + rest the chin on the left palm. ‘“Who answers for him?” said I. “If he + fails in his duty, who will pay his fine?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Who will pay my fine?” the pilgrim said. “I have asked that of all the + Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine days! They + have not answered!” When he lifted his thin face I saw he was one-eyed, + and frail as a rush. ‘“Nay, but, Father,” I said, “to whom hast thou + commended thyself-?” He shook his head, so I spoke in Saxon: “Whose man + art thou?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King’s jester,” said he after + a while. “I am, as I suppose, Rahere’s man.” + </p> + <p> + ‘He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, coming up, read it. + </p> + <p> + ‘It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere’s man, and that Rahere was the + King’s jester. There was Latin writ at the back. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What a plague conjuration’s here?” said Hugh, turning it over. + “Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Black Magic,” said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at + Battle). “They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a + wizard than either. Here’s Rahere’s name writ, and there’s Rahere’s red + cockscomb mark drawn below for such as cannot read.” He looked slyly at + me. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then read it,” said I, “and show thy learning.” He was a vain little + man, and he gave it us after much mouthing. + </p> + <p> + ‘“The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the Sorcerer, says: ‘When + thou art once dead, and Minos’ (which is a heathen judge) ‘has doomed + thee, neither cunning, nor speechcraft, nor good works will restore thee!’ + A terrible thing! It denies any mercy to a man’s soul!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Does it serve?” said the pilgrim, plucking at Hugh’s cloak. “Oh, man of + the King’s blood, does it cover me?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh was of Earl Godwin’s blood, and all Sussex knew it, though no Saxon + dared call him kingly in a Norman’s hearing. There can be but one King. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It serves,” said Hugh. “But the day will be long and hot. Better rest + here. We go forward now.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,” he answered like a child. He was + indeed childish through great age. + </p> + <p> + ‘The line had not moved a bowshot when De Aquila’s great horn blew for a + halt, and soon young Fulke—our false Fulke’s son—yes, the imp + that lit the straw in Pevensey Castle [See ‘Old Men at Pevensey’ in PUCK + OF POOK’S HILL.]—came thundering up a woodway. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Uncle,” said he (though he was a man grown, he called me Uncle), “those + young Norman fools who shot at you this morn are saying that your beaters + cried treason against the King. It has come to Harry’s long ears, and he + bids you give account of it. There are heavy fines in his eye, but I am + with you to the hilt, Uncle!” ‘When the boy had fled back, Hugh said to + me: “It was Rahere’s witless man that cried, ‘’Ware Red William’s arrow!’ + I heard him, and so did the Clerk of Netherfield.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then Rahere must answer to the King for his man,” said I. “Keep him by + you till I send,” and I hastened down. + </p> + <p> + ‘The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand above Welansford down in + the valley yonder. His Court—knights and dames—lay glittering + on the edge of the glade. I made my homage, and Henry took it coldly. + ‘“How came your beaters to shout threats against me?” said he. + </p> + <p> + ‘“The tale has grown,” I answered. “One old witless man cried out, ‘’Ware + Red William’s arrow,’ when the young knights shot at our line. We had two + beaters hit.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I will do justice on that man,” he answered. “Who is his master?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“He’s Rahere’s man,” said I. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Rahere’s?” said Henry. “Has my fool a fool?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, and a red leg waved + over it; then a black one. So, very slowly, Rahere the King’s jester + straddled the edge of the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing his chin. + Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad priest’s face, under his + cockscomb cap, that he could twist like a strip of wet leather. His eyes + were hollow-set. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Nay, nay, Brother,” said he. “If I suffer you to keep your fool, you + must e’en suffer me to keep mine.” + </p> + <p> + ‘This he delivered slowly into the King’s angry face! My faith, a King’s + jester must be bolder than lions! + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now we will judge the matter,” said Rahere. “Let these two brave knights + go hang my fool because he warned King Henry against running after Saxon + deer through woods full of Saxons. ‘Faith, Brother, if thy Brother, Red + William, now among the Saints as we hope, had been timely warned against a + certain arrow in New Forest, one fool of us four would not be crowned fool + of England this morning. Therefore, hang the fool’s fool, knights!” ‘Mark + the fool’s cunning! Rahere had himself given us order to hang the man. No + King dare confirm a fool’s command to such a great baron as De Aquila; and + the helpless King knew it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What? No hanging?” said Rahere, after a silence. “A’ God’s Gracious + Name, kill something, then! Go forward with the hunt!” + </p> + <p> + ‘He splits his face ear to ear in a yawn like a fish-pond. “Henry,” says + he, “the next time I sleep, do not pester me with thy fooleries.” Then he + throws himself out of sight behind the back of the stand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have seen courage with mirth in De Aquila and Hugh, but stark mad + courage of Rahere’s sort I had never even guessed at.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did the King say?’ cried Dan. + </p> + <p> + ‘He had opened his mouth to speak, when young Fulke, who had come into the + stand with us, laughed, and, boy-like, once begun, could not check + himself. He kneeled on the instant for pardon, but fell sideways, crying: + “His legs! Oh, his long, waving red legs as he went backward!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Like a storm breaking, our grave King laughed,—stamped and reeled + with laughter till the stand shook. So, like a storm, this strange thing + passed! + </p> + <p> + ‘He wiped his eyes, and signed to De Aquila to let the drive come on. + </p> + <p> + ‘When the deer broke, we were pleased that the King shot from the shelter + of the stand, and did not ride out after the hurt beasts as Red William + would have done. Most vilely his knights and barons shot! + </p> + <p> + ‘De Aquila kept me beside him, and I saw no more of Hugh till evening. We + two had a little hut of boughs by the camp, where I went to wash me before + the great supper, and in the dusk I heard Hugh on the couch. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Wearied, Hugh?” said I. + </p> + <p> + ‘“A little,” he says. “I have driven Saxon deer all day for a Norman King, + and there is enough of Earl Godwin’s blood left in me to sicken at the + work. Wait awhile with the torch.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I waited then, and I thought I heard him sob.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor Hugh! Was he so tired?’ said Una. ‘Hobden says beating is hard work + sometimes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think this tale is getting like the woods,’ said Dan, ‘darker and + twistier every minute.’ Sir Richard had walked as he talked, and though + the children thought they knew the woods well enough, they felt a little + lost. + </p> + <p> + ‘A dark tale enough,’ says Sir Richard, ‘but the end was not all black. + When we had washed, we went to wait on the King at meat in the great + pavilion. Just before the trumpets blew for the Entry—all the guests + upstanding—long Rahere comes posturing up to Hugh, and strikes him + with his bauble-bladder. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Here’s a heavy heart for a joyous meal!” he says. “But each man must + have his black hour or where would be the merit of laughing? Take a fool’s + advice, and sit it out with my man. I’ll make a jest to excuse you to the + King if he remember to ask for you. That’s more than I would do for + Archbishop Anselm.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. “Rahere?” said he. “The King’s jester? Oh, + Saints, what punishment for my King!” and smites his hands together. ‘“Go—go + fight it out in the dark,” says Rahere, “and thy Saxon Saints reward thee + for thy pity to my fool.” He pushed him from the pavilion, and Hugh + lurched away like one drunk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why?’ said Una. ‘I don’t understand.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, why indeed? Live you long enough, maiden, and you shall know the + meaning of many whys.’ Sir Richard smiled. ‘I wondered too, but it was my + duty to wait on the King at the High Table in all that glitter and stir. + </p> + <p> + ‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped show him, and he had + learned from De Aquila enough of my folk and my castle in Normandy to + graciously feign that he knew and had loved my brother there. (This, also, + is part of a king’s work.) Many great men sat at the High Table—chosen + by the King for their wits, not for their birth. I have forgotten their + names, and their faces I only saw that one night. But’—Sir Richard + turned in his stride—‘but Rahere, flaming in black and scarlet among + our guests, the hollow of his dark cheek flushed with wine—long, + laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face when he was not + twisting it about—Rahere I shall never forget. + </p> + <p> + ‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow him, with his great + bishops and two great barons, to the little pavilion. We had devised + jugglers and dances for the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk gravely + to grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels to the world’s end. + We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet as incense,—and the curtains at + the door being looped up, we could hear the music and see the lights + shining on mail and dresses. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The questions he darted forth at me + were as shrewd as the flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes, as + ye called them, at the world’s end. [See ‘The Knights of the Joyous + Venture’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] ‘“But where is the Saxon knight that + went with you?” said Henry. “He must confirm these miracles.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new miracle.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Enough miracles for today,” said the King. “Rahere, you have saved your + long neck. Fetch the Saxon knight.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pest on it,” said Rahere. “Who would be a King’s jester? I’ll bring him, + Brother, if you’ll see that none of your home-brewed bishops taste my wine + while I am away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms at the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Henry had made many bishops in England without the Pope’s leave. I know + not the rights of the matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We + waited on the King’s next word. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling, to Nigel of Ely. He + was one bishop; and William of Exeter, the other—Wal-wist the Saxons + called him—laughed long. “Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I make + him a bishop, De Aquila?” says the King. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There might be worse,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “Rahere would never do + what Anselm has done.” + </p> + <p> + ‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone off raging to the Pope at + Rome, because Henry would make bishops without his leave either. I knew + not the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Anselm means no harm. He should have been a monk, not a bishop,” said + the King. “I’ll never quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel + with my England. If we can keep the King’s peace till my son comes to + rule, no man will lightly quarrel with our England.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Amen,” said De Aquila. “But the King’s peace ends when the King dies.” + </p> + <p> + ‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King. The custom then is + that all laws are outlaw, and men do what they will till the new King is + chosen. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I will have it so that though + King, son, and grandson were all slain in one day, still the King’s peace + should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere death must + upheave a people? We must have the Law.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Truth,” said William of Exeter; but that he would have said to any word + of the King. + </p> + <p> + ‘The two great barons behind said nothing. This teaching was clean against + their stomachs, for when the King’s peace ends, the great barons go to war + and increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s voice + returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against William of Exeter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune + When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,” + </pre> + <p> + and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one round + the old pilgrim of Netherfield. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, “and for the better disport of + the company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza are + clean carried away!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man + blinked upon the company. + </p> + <p> + ‘We looked at the King, but he smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his + morning’s offence,” said he to De Aquila. “So this is thy man, Rahere?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Even so,” said Rahere. “My man he has been, and my protection he has + taken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge telling + the kites atop of it that he was—Harold of England!” + </p> + <p> + ‘There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid his + face on my shoulder, woman-fashion. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It is most cruel true,” he whispered to me. “The old man proved it to me + at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is Harold, + my King!” + </p> + <p> + ‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Bones of the Saints!” said he, staring. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere. + </p> + <p> + ‘The old man flinched as at an arrow. “Why do you hurt me still?” he said + in Saxon. “It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I would + give my England to the Great Duke.” He turns on us all crying, shrilly: + “Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen—a lifetime ago. If I had not + promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I have + done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less. There is + no need to throw stones at me.” He guarded his face with his arms, and + shivered. “Now his madness will strike him down,” said Rahere. “Cast out + the evil spirit, one of you new bishops.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Said William of Exeter: “Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the + world knows it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I think this man must have forgotten,” said Rahere. “Be comforted, + Father. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three + months and nine days. Tell the King.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The man uncovered his face. “I thought they would stone me,” he said. “I + did not know I spoke before a King.” He came to his full towering height—no + mean man, but frail beyond belief. + </p> + <p> + ‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine. The + old man drank, and beckoned behind him, and, before all the Normans, my + Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon-fashion, upon the knee. + </p> + <p> + “It is Harold!” said De Aquila. “His own stiff-necked blood kneels to + serve him. + </p> + <p> + “Be it so,” said Henry. “Sit, then, thou that hast been Harold of + England.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at him between half-shut + eyes. We others stared like oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere as + I have seen him watch a far sail on the sea. + </p> + <p> + ‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a dream. His white head + bowed; his hands hung. His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was shut. + When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like a slave’s. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah, Rahere,” cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown him thus? Better have let + him die than shame him—and me!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Shame thee?” said the King. “Would any baron of mine kneel to me if I + were witless, discrowned, and alone, and Harold had my throne?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No,” said Rahere. “I am the sole fool that might do it, Brother, unless”—he + pointed at De Aquila, whom he had only met that day—“yonder tough + Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to shame him. + He hath been somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault of his own.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the King, and the old man + flinched in his sleep. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Maybe,” said Rahere, “but thy Brother Robert, whose throat we purpose + soon to slit with our own hands—” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hutt!” said the King, laughing. “I’ll keep Robert at my table for a + life’s guest when I catch him. Robert means no harm. It is all his cursed + barons.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“None the less,” said Rahere, “Robert may say that thou hast not always + spoken the stark truth to him about England. I should not hang too many + men on that bough, Brother.” ‘“And it is certain,” said Hugh, “that”—he + pointed to the old man—“Harold was forced to make his promise to the + Great Duke.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Very strongly, forced,” said De Aquila. He had never any pride in the + Duke William’s dealings with Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said, one + cannot build a house all of straight sticks. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No matter how he was forced,” said Henry, “England was promised to my + Father William by Edward the Confessor. Is it not so?” William of Exeter + nodded. “Harold confirmed that promise to my Father on the bones of the + Saints. Afterwards he broke his oath and would have taken England by the + strong hand.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh! La! La!” Rahere rolled up his eyes like a girl. “That ever England + should be taken by the strong hand!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had each in just that fashion + snatched England from Robert of Normandy, we others knew not where to + look. But De Aquila saved us quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Promise kept or promise broken,” he said, “Harold came near enough to + breaking us Normans at Santlache.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Was it so close a fight, then?” said Henry. + </p> + <p> + ‘“A hair would have turned it either way,” De Aquila answered. “His + house-carles stood like rocks against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, in it?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Among Godwin’s folk beneath the Golden Dragon till your front gave back, + and we broke our ranks to follow,” said Hugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘“But I bade you stand! I bade you stand! I knew it was all a deceit!” + Harold had waked, and leaned forward as one crying from the grave. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was betrayed!” said William of + Exeter, and looked for a smile from the King. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I made thee Bishop to preach at my bidding,” said Henry; and turning to + Harold, “Tell us here how thy people fought us?” said he. “Their sons + serve me now against my Brother Robert!” + </p> + <p> + ‘The old man shook his head cunningly. “Na—Na—Na!” he cried. + “I know better. Every time I tell my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I + will tell you a greater thing. Listen!” He told us how many paces it was + from some Saxon Saint’s shrine to another shrine, and how many more back + to the Abbey of the Battle. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ay,” said he. “I have trodden it too often to be out even ten paces. I + move very swiftly. Harold of Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my + brother. They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stamford Bridge to + the Battle Abbey it is—” he muttered over many numbers and forgot + us. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ay,” said De Aquila, all in a muse. “That man broke Harold of Norway at + Stamford Bridge, and came near to breaking us at Santlache—all + within one month.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But how did he come alive from Santlache fight?” asked the King. “Ask + him! Hast thou heard it, Rahere?” “Never. He says he has been stoned too + often for telling the tale. But he can count you off Saxon and Norman + shrines till daylight,” said Rahere and the old man nodded proudly. + </p> + <p> + ‘“My faith!” said Henry after a while. “I think even my Father the Great + Duke would pity if he could see him.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“How if he does see?” said Rahere. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. “Ah, why hast thou shamed + him?” he cried again to Rahere. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No—no,” says the old man, reaching to pluck at Rahere’s cape. “I + am Rahere’s man. None stone me now,” and he played with the bells on the + scollops of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘“How if he had been brought to me when you found him?” said the King to + Rahere. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You would have held him prisoner again—as the Great Duke did,” + Rahere answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘“True,” said our King. “He is nothing except his name. Yet that name + might have been used by stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must + have made him my life’s guest—as I shall make Robert.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I knew it,” said Rahere. “But while this man wandered mad by the + wayside, none cared what he called himself.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I learned to cease talking before the stones flew,” says the old man, + and Hugh groaned. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Ye have heard!” said Rahere. “Witless, landless, nameless, and, but for + my protection, masterless, he can still make shift to bide his doom under + the open sky.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a mock and a shame?” cried + Hugh, beside himself with woe. + </p> + <p> + ‘“A right mock and a just shame!” said William of Exeter. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Not to me,” said Nigel of Ely. “I see and I tremble, but I neither mock + nor judge.” “Well spoken, Ely.” Rahere falls into the pure fool again. + “I’ll pray for thee when I turn monk. Thou hast given thy blessing on a + war between two most Christian brothers.” He meant the war forward ‘twixt + Henry and Robert of Normandy. “I charge you, Brother,” he says, wheeling + on the King, “dost thou mock my fool?” The King shook his head, and so + then did smooth William of Exeter. + </p> + <p> + ‘“De Aquila, does thou mock him?” Rahere jingled from one to another, and + the old man smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘“By the Bones of the Saints, not I,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “I know + how dooms near he broke us at Santlache.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal, + honourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man’s justice in your own bounds, + do you mock my fool?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names I + have forgotten. “Na—Na!” they said, and waved him back foolishly + enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind his + chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘“No man mocks thee, Who here judges this man? Henry of England—Nigel—De + Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘None answered. We were all—the King not least—over-borne by + that terrible scarlet-and-black wizard-jester. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a + woman: “Oh, come to me!” and Hugh ran forward to hold Harold, that had + slidden down in the chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Hearken,” said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s neck. “The King—his + bishops—the knights—all the world’s crazy chessboard neither + mock nor judge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good comfort,” said Harold. “Tell me again! I have been somewhat + punished.” ‘Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the head rolled. + We heard him sigh, and Nigel of Ely stood forth, praying aloud. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Out! I will have no Norman!” Harold said as clearly as I speak now, and + he refuged himself on Hugh’s sound shoulder, and stretched out, and lay + all still.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dead?’ said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk. + </p> + <p> + ‘That was his good fortune. To die in the King’s presence, and on the + breast of the most gentlest, truest knight of his own house. Some of us + envied him,’ said Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow’s bridle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Turn left here,’ Puck called ahead of them from under an oak. They ducked + down a narrow path through close ash plantation. + </p> + <p> + The children hurried forward, but cutting a corner charged full-abreast + into the thorn-faggot that old Hobden was carrying home on his back. ‘My! + My!’ said he. ‘Have you scratted your face, Miss Una?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sorry! It’s all right,’ said Una, rubbing her nose. ‘How many rabbits did + you get today?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s tellin’!’ the old man grinned as he re-hoisted his faggot. ‘I + reckon Mus’ Ridley he’ve got rheumatism along o’ lyin’ in the dik to see I + didn’t snap up any. Think o’ that now!’ + </p> + <p> + They laughed a good deal while he told them the tale. + </p> + <p> + ‘An’ just as he crawled away I heard some one hollerin’ to the hounds in + our woods,’ said he. ‘Didn’t you hear? You must ha’ been asleep sure-ly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show us?’ Dan cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘’Ere he be—house an’ all!’ Hobden dived into the prickly heart of + the faggot and took out a dormouse’s wonderfully woven nest of grass and + leaves. His blunt fingers parted it as if it had been precious lace, and + tilting it toward the last of the light he showed the little, red, furry + chap curled up inside, his tail between his eyes that were shut for their + winter sleep. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s take him home. Don’t breathe on him,’ said Una. ‘It’ll make him + warm and he’ll wake up and die straight off. Won’t he, Hobby?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dat’s a heap better by my reckonin’ than wakin’ up and findin’ himself in + a cage for life. No! We’ll lay him into the bottom o’ this hedge. Dat’s + jus’ right! No more trouble for him till come Spring. An’ now we’ll go + home.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Carol + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our Lord Who did the Ox command + To kneel to Judah’s King, + He binds His frost upon the land + To ripen it for Spring— + To ripen it for Spring, good sirs, + According to His word; + Which well must be as ye can see— + And who shall judge the Lord? + + When we poor fenmen skate the ice + Or shiver on the wold, + We hear the cry of a single tree + That breaks her heart in the cold— + That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs, + And rendeth by the board; + Which well must be as ye can see— + And who shall judge the Lord? + + Her wood is crazed and little worth + Excepting as to burn + That we may warm and make our mirth + Until the Spring return— + Until the Spring return, good sirs, + When people walk abroad; + Which well must be as ye can see— + And who shall judge the Lord? + + God bless the master of this house, + And all that sleep therein! + And guard the fens from pirate folk, + And keep us all from sin, + To walk in honesty, good sirs, + Of thought and deed and word! + Which shall befriend our latter end— + And who shall judge the Lord? +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rewards and Fairies, by Rudyard Kipling + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REWARDS AND FAIRIES *** + +***** This file should be named 556-h.htm or 556-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/556/ + +Produced by Jo Churcher, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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