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

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42678
   :PG.Title: Fires - Book II
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-09
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
   :DC.Title: Fires - Book II
              The Ovens, and Other Tales
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover2.jpg

===============
FIRES - BOOK II
===============

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      FIRES

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      BOOK II
      THE OVENS, AND OTHER TALES

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      BY

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      WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

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      LONDON
      ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET
      M CM XII  

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      *BY THE SAME WRITER*
      WOMENKIND (1912)
      DAILY BREAD (1910)
      THE STONEFOLDS (1907)
      ON THE THRESHOLD (1907)

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   CONTENTS

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   `The Crane`_
   `The Lighthouse`_
   `The Money`_
   `The Snow`_
   `Red Fox`_
   `The Ovens`_

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

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.. _`THE CRANE`:

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   FIRES

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   THE CRANE

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..

   |  The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
   |  Two hundred ton more easily
   |  Than I can lift my heavy head:
   |  And when it swings, the whole world shifts,
   |  Or so, at least, it seems to me,
   |  As, day and night, adream I lie
   |  Upon my crippled back in bed,
   |  And watch it up against the sky.

   |  My mother, hunching in her chair,
   |  Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
   |  At three-and-three the dozen pair...
   |  She'd sit all night, and stitch for me,
   |  Her son, if I could only wear...
   |  She never lifts her eyes to see
   |  The big crane swinging through the air.

   |  But, though she has no time to talk,
   |  She always cleans the window-pane,
   |  That I may see it, clear and plain:
   |  And, as I watch it move, I walk
   |  Who never walked in all my days...
   |  And, often, as I dream agaze,
   |  I'm up and out: and it is I
   |  Who swing the crane across the sky.
   |  Right up above the wharf I stand,
   |  And touch a lever with my hand,
   |  To lift a bunch of girders high,
   |  A truck of coal, a field of grain
   |  In sacks, a bundle of big trees,
   |  Or beasts, too frightened in my grip
   |  To wonder at their skiey trip:
   |  And then I let the long arm dip
   |  Without a hitch, without a slip,
   |  To set them safely in the ship
   |  That waits to take them overseas.

   |  My mother little dreams it's I,
   |  Up there, as tiny as a fly,
   |  Who stand above the biggest crane,
   |  And swing the ship-loads through the sky;
   |  While she sits, hunching in her chair,
   |  Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
   |  At three-and-three the dozen pair.

   |  And sometimes when it turns me dizzy,
   |  I lie and watch her, ever busy;
   |  And wonder at a lot of things
   |  I never speak to her about:
   |  I wonder why she never sings
   |  Like other people on the stair...
   |  And why, whenever she goes out
   |  Upon a windy day, the air
   |  Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright...
   |  And if the colour of her hair
   |  Was brown like mine, or always white...
   |  And why, when through the noise of feet
   |  Of people passing in the street,
   |  She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat,
   |  She always starts up in her chair,
   |  And looks before her with strange stare,
   |  Yet, seeing nothing anywhere:
   |  Though, right before her, through the sky,
   |  The biggest crane goes swinging by.

   |  But, it's a lucky day and rare
   |  When she's the time to talk with me...
   |  Though, only yesterday, when night
   |  Shut out, at last, the crane from sight...
   |  She, in her bed, and thinking I
   |  Was sleeping--though I watch the sky,
   |  At times, till it is morning-light,
   |  And ships are waiting to unload--
   |  I heard her murmur drowsily:
   |  "The pit-pat-pattering of feet,
   |  All night, along the moonlit road...
   |  A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat...
   |  The bracken's deep and soft and dry...
   |  And safe and snug, and no one near...
   |  The little burn sings low and sweet,
   |  The little burn sings shrill and clear...
   |  And loud all night the cock-grouse talks...
   |  There's naught in heaven or earth to fear...
   |  The pit-pat-pattering of feet...
   |  A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat..."
   |  And then, she started up in bed:
   |  I felt her staring, as she said:
   |  "I wonder if he ever hears
   |  The pit-pat-pattering of sheep,
   |  Or smells the broken bracken stalks...
   |  While she is lying sound-asleep
   |  Beside him ... after all these years--
   |  Just nineteen years, this very night--
   |  Remembering? ... and now, his son,
   |  A man ... and never stood upright!"

   |  And then, I heard a sound of tears;
   |  But dared not speak, or let her know
   |  I'd caught a single whisper, though
   |  I wondered long what she had done
   |  That she should fear the pattering feet:
   |  And when those queer words in the night
   |  Had fretted me half-dead with fright,
   |  And set my throbbing head abeat...
   |  Out of the darkness, suddenly,
   |  The crane's long arm swung over me,
   |  Among the stars, high overhead...
   |  And then it dipped, and clutched my bed
   |  And I had not a breath to cry,
   |  Before it swung me through the sky,
   |  Above the sleeping city high,
   |  Where blinding stars went blazing by...

   |  My mother, hunching in her chair,
   |  Day-long, and stitching trousers there,
   |  At three-and-three the dozen pair,
   |  With quiet eyes and smooth white hair...
   |  You'd little think a yelp or bleat
   |  Could start her; or that she was weeping
   |  So sorely, when she thought me sleeping.
   |  She never tells me why she fears
   |  The pit-pat-pattering of feet
   |  All night along the moonlit road...
   |  Or what's the wrong that she has done...
   |  I wonder if 'twould bring her tears,
   |  If she could know that I, her son--
   |  A man, who never stood upright,
   |  But all the livelong day must lie,
   |  And watch, beyond the window-pane
   |  The swaying of the biggest crane--
   |  That I, within its clutch, last night,
   |  Went whirling through the starry sky.





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.. _`THE LIGHTHOUSE`:

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   THE LIGHTHOUSE

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..

   |  Just as my watch was done, the fog had lifted;
   |  And we could see the flashing of our light;
   |  And see, once more, the reef beyond the Head,
   |  O'er which, six days and nights, the mist had drifted--
   |  Six days and nights in thick white mist had drifted,
   |  Until it seemed all time to mist had drifted,
   |  And day and night were but one blind white night.

   |  But on the seventh midnight the wind shifted:
   |  And I was glad to tumble into bed,
   |  Thankful to hear no more the blaring horn,
   |  That ceaselessly had sounded, night and morn,
   |  With moaning echoes through the mist, to warn
   |  The blind, bewildered ships at sea:
   |  Yet, though as tired as any dog,
   |  I lay awhile, and seemed to feel
   |  Fog lying on my eyes still heavily;
   |  And still, the horn unceasingly
   |  Sang through my head, till gradually
   |  Through night's strange stillness, over me
   |  Sweet sleep began to steal,
   |  Sleep, blind and thick and fleecy as the fog.

   |  For all I knew, I might have slept
   |  A moment, or eternity;
   |  When, startled by a crash,
   |  I waked to find I'd leapt
   |  Upright on the floor:
   |  And stood there, listening to the smash
   |  Of falling glass ... and then a thud
   |  Of something heavy tumbling
   |  Into the next room...
   |  A pad of naked feet...
   |  A moan ... a sound of stumbling ...
   |  A heavier thud ... and then no more.
   |  And I stood shivering in the gloom,
   |  With creeping flesh, and tingling blood,
   |  Until I gave myself a shake
   |  To bring my wits more wide awake;
   |  And lit a lantern, and flung wide the door.
   |  Half-dazed, and dazzled by the light,
   |  At first it seemed I'd only find
   |  A broken pane, a flapping blind:
   |  But when I raised the lantern o'er my head,
   |  I saw a naked boy upon the bed,
   |  Who crouched and shuddered on the folded sheet;
   |  And, on his face, before my feet,
   |  A naked man, who lay as if quite dead,
   |  Though on his broken knuckles blood was red:
   |  And all my wits awakened at the sight.

   |  I set the lantern down; and took the child,
   |  Who looked at me, with piteous eyes and wild;
   |  And chafed his chill, wet body, till it glowed;
   |  And forcing spirit 'twixt his chattering teeth,
   |  I tucked him snugly in beneath
   |  The blankets, and soon left him warmly stowed:
   |  And stooped to tend the man, who lay
   |  Still senseless on the floor.

   |  I turned him off his face;
   |  And laid him on the other bed;
   |  And washed and staunched his wound.
   |  And yet for all that I could do,
   |  I could not bring him to,
   |  Or see a trace
   |  Of life returning to that heavy head.

   |  It seemed he'd swooned,
   |  When through the window he'd made way,
   |  Just having strength to lay
   |  The boy in safety.  Still as death,
   |  He lay, without a breath:
   |  And seeing I could do no more
   |  To help him in the fight for life;
   |  I turned again to tend the lad;
   |  And, as I looked on him, was glad
   |  To find him sleeping quietly.

   |  So, fetching fuel, I lit a fire:
   |  And quickly had as big a blaze
   |  As any housewife could desire:
   |  Then, 'twixt the beds, I set a chair,
   |  That I might watch until they stirred:
   |  And as I saw them lying there--
   |  The sleeping boy, and him who lay
   |  In that strange stiller sleep, 'twas plain
   |  That they were son and father, now
   |  I'd time to look, and wonder how,
   |  In such a desperate plight,
   |  Without a stitch or rag,
   |  They'd taken refuge from the night.
   |  And, as I wondered drowsily,
   |  It seemed yet queerer and more queer;
   |  For round the Head the rocks are sheer,
   |  With scarce a foothold for a bird;
   |  And it seemed quite beyond belief
   |  That any wrecked upon the reef,
   |  Could swim ashore, and scale the crag,
   |  By daylight, let alone by night

   |  But, they who live beside the sea
   |  Know naught's too wonderful to be:
   |  And, as I sat, and heard
   |  The quiet breathing of the child,
   |  Great weariness came over me;
   |  And, in a kind of daze,
   |  I watched the blaze,
   |  With nodding head:
   |  And must have slept, for, presently,
   |  I found the man was sitting up in bed:
   |  And talking to himself, with wide, unseeing eyes.
   |  At first, I hardly made out what he said:
   |  But soon his voice, so hoarse and wild,
   |  Grew calm: and, straining, I could hear
   |  The broken words, that came with many sighs.

   |  "Yes, lad: she's going: but, there's naught to fear:
   |  For I can swim: and tow you in the belt.
   |  Come, let's join hands together; and leap clear...
   |  Aye, son: it's dark and cold ... but you have felt
   |  The cold and dark before...
   |  And you should scorn...
   |  And we must be near shore...
   |  For, hark the horn!
   |  Think of your mother, and your home, and leap...
   |  She thinks of us, lad, waking or asleep...
   |  You would not leave her lonely?
   |  Nay! ... then ... go! ...
   |  Well done, lad! ... Nay!  I'm here...
   |  Aye, son, it's cold: but you're too big to fear.
   |  Now then, you're snug: I've got you safe in tow:
   |  The worst is over: and we've only
   |  To make for land ... we've naught ... to do ... but steer...
   |  But steer ... but steer..."

   |  He paused; and sank down in the bed, quite done:
   |  And lay a moment silent, while his son
   |  Still slumbered in the other bed,
   |  And on his quiet face the firelight shone.
   |  Then, once again, the father raised his head,
   |  And rambled on...
   |  "Say, lad, what cheer?
   |  I thought you'd dropped asleep: but you're all right.
   |  We'll rest a moment ... I'm quite out of breath...
   |  It's further than ... Nay, son! there's naught to fear...
   |  The land must be quite near...
   |  The horn is loud enough!
   |  Aye, lad, it's cold:
   |  But, you're too old
   |  To cry for cold.
   |  Now ... keep ... tight hold:
   |  And we'll be off again.
   |  I've got my breath..."

   |  He sank, once more, as still as death,
   |  With hands that clutched the counterpane:
   |  But still the boy was sleeping quietly.
   |  And then, the father sat up suddenly:
   |  And cried: "See!  See!
   |  The land! the land!
   |  It's near ... I touch it with my hand."
   |  And now, "Oh God!" he moaned.
   |  Small wonder, when he saw what lay before--
   |  The black, unbroken crags, so grim and high,
   |  That must have seemed to him to soar
   |  Sheer from the sea's edge to the sky.
   |  But, soon, he plucked up heart, once more:
   |  "We're safe, lad--safe ashore!
   |  A narrow ledge, but land, firm land.
   |  We'll soon be high and dry.
   |  Nay, son: we can't stay here:
   |  The waves would have us back;
   |  Or we should perish of the cold.
   |  Come, lad: there's naught to fear...
   |  You must be brave and bold.
   |  Perhaps, we'll strike a track.
   |  Aye, son: it's steep, and black,
   |  And slimy to the hold:
   |  But we must climb, and see! the mist is gone.
   |  The stars are shining clear...
   |  Think, son, your mother's at the top;
   |  And you'll be up in no time.  See, that star,
   |  The brightest star that ever shone,
   |  Just think it's she who watches you;
   |  And knows that you'll be brave and true.
   |  Come, lad: we may not stop...
   |  Or, else, the cold...
   |  Give me your hand...
   |  Your foot there, now ... just room to stand.
   |  It cannot be so far...
   |  We'll soon be up ... this work should make us warm.
   |  Thank God, it's not a storm,
   |  Or we should scarce ... your foot, here, firm...
   |  Nay, lad! you must not squirm.
   |  Come, be a man: you shall not fall:
   |  I'll hold you tight.
   |  There: now, you are my own son, after all!
   |  Your mother, lad,
   |  Her star burns bright...
   |  And we're already half-way up the height...
   |  Your mother will be glad,
   |  Aye, she'll be glad to hear
   |  Of her brave boy who had no fear.

   |  Your foot ... your hand ... 'twas but a bird
   |  You startled out of bed:
   |  'Twould think it queer
   |  To wake up, suddenly, and see your head!
   |  And, when you stirred...
   |  Nay! steady, lad!
   |  Or you will send your dad...
   |  Your hand ... your foot ... we'll rest upon this ledge...
   |  Why, son, we're at the top!  I feel the edge,
   |  And grass, soft, dewy grass!
   |  Let go, one moment; and I'll draw you up...
   |  Now, lad! ... Thank God! that's past...
   |  And you are safe, at last:
   |  You're safe, you're safe ... and now, my precious lass
   |  Will see her son, her little son, again.

   |  I never thought to reach the top, to-night.
   |  God!  What a height!
   |  Nay! but you must not look: 'twould turn your head
   |  And we must not stand shivering here...
   |  And see ... a flashing light...
   |  It's sweeping towards us: and now you stand bright.
   |  Ah, your poor, bleeding hands and feet!
   |  My little son, my sweet!
   |  There's nothing more to fear.
   |  A lighthouse, lad!  And we must make for it.
   |  You're tired; I'll carry you a bit.
   |  Nay, son: 'twill warm me up...
   |  And there will be a fire and bed;
   |  And ev'n perhaps a cup
   |  Of something hot to drink,
   |  And something good to eat.
   |  And think, son, only think,
   |  Your home ... and mother ... once again."

   |  Once more, the weary head
   |  Sank back upon the bed:
   |  And, for a while, he hardly stirred;
   |  But only muttered, now and then,
   |  A broken word,
   |  As though to cheer
   |  His son, who still slept quietly,
   |  Upon the other side of me.

   |  And then, my blood ran cold to hear
   |  A sudden cry of fear:
   |  "My son!  My son!
   |  Ah, God, he's done!
   |  I thought I'd laid him on the bed...
   |  I've laid him on white mist, instead:
   |  He's fallen sheer..."

   |  Then, I sprang up; and cried: "Your son is here!"
   |  And, taking up the sleeping boy,
   |  I bore him to his father's arms:
   |  And, as he nestled to his breast,
   |  Kind life came back to those wild eyes;
   |  And filled them with deep joy:
   |  And, free of all alarms,
   |  The son and father lay,
   |  Together, in sweet rest,
   |  While through the window stole the strange, clear light of day.





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.. _`THE MONEY`:

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   THE MONEY

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..

   |  They found her cold upon the bed.
   |  The cause of death, the doctor said,
   |  Was nothing save the lack of bread.

   |  Her clothes were but a sorry rag
   |  That barely hid the nakedness
   |  Of her poor body's piteous wreck:
   |  Yet, when they stripped her of her dress,
   |  They found she was not penniless;
   |  For, in a little silken bag,
   |  Tied with red ribbon round her neck,
   |  Was four-pound-seventeen-and-five.

   |  "It seems a strange and shameful thing
   |  That she should starve herself to death,
   |  While she'd the means to keep alive.
   |  Why, such a sum would keep the breath
   |  Within her body till she'd found
   |  A livelihood; and it would bring...
   |  But, there is very little doubt
   |  She'd set her heart upon a grand
   |  And foolish funeral--for the pride
   |  Of poor folk, who can understand!--
   |  And so, because she was too proud
   |  To meet death penniless, she died."

   |  And talking, talking, they trooped out:
   |  And, as they went, I turned about
   |  To look upon her in her shroud;
   |  And saw again the quiet face
   |  That filled with light that shameful place,
   |  Touched with the tender, youthful grace
   |  Death brings the broken and outworn
   |  To comfort kind hearts left to mourn.

   |  And as I stood, the sum they'd found
   |  Rang with a queer, familiar ring
   |  Of some uncouth, uncanny sound
   |  Heard in dark ages underground;
   |  And "four-pound-seventeen-and-five"
   |  Through all my body seemed to sing,
   |  Without recalling anything
   |  To help me, strive as I might strive.

   |  But, as I stumbled down the stairs
   |  Into the alley's gloom and stench--
   |  A whiff of burning oil
   |  That took me unawares--
   |  And I knew all there was to tell.
   |  And, though the rain in torrents fell,
   |  I walked on, heedless, through the drench
   |  And, all the while, I seemed to sit
   |  Upon a tub in Lansel pit;
   |  And in the candle-light to see
   |  John Askerton, a "deputy,"
   |  Who paused awhile to talk with me,
   |  His kind face glistening black with toil.

   |  "'Twas here I found him dead, beside
   |  His engine.  All the other men
   |  Were up--for things were slack just then--
   |  And I'd one foot upon the cage;
   |  When, all at once, I caught the smell
   |  Of burning.  Even as I turned
   |  To see what it could be that burned,
   |  The seam behind was choked with stife.
   |  And so I dropped on hands and knees,
   |  And crawled along the gallery,
   |  Beneath the smoke, that I might see
   |  What ailed: and as I crept, half-blind,
   |  With smarting eyes, and breath awheeze,
   |  I scarcely knew what I should find.
   |  At times, I thought I'd never know...
   |  And 'twas already quite an age
   |  Since I set out ... I felt as though
   |  I had been crawling all my life
   |  Beneath the stifling cloud of smoke
   |  That clung about me fit to choke:
   |  And when, at last, I'd struggled here,
   |  'Twas long ere I could see things clear...
   |  That he was lying here ... and he
   |  Was dead ... and burning like a tree...
   |  A tree-trunk soaked in oil ... No doubt,
   |  The engine had caught fire, somehow;
   |  And when he tried to put it out,
   |  His greasy clothes had caught ... and now
   |  As fine a lad as you could see...
   |  And such a lad for singing ... I
   |  Had heard him when I worked hard by;
   |  And often quiet I would sit
   |  To hear him, singing in the pit,
   |  As though his heart knew naught of it,
   |  And life was nothing but a song.

   |  "He'd not been working with us long:
   |  And little of his ways I knew:
   |  But, when I'd got him up, at last;
   |  And he was lying in the shed,
   |  The sweet song silent in his breast;
   |  And there was nothing more to do:
   |  The notion came into my head
   |  That he had always been well-dressed;
   |  And seemed a neat and thrifty lad...
   |  And lived in lodgings ... so, maybe,
   |  Would carry on him all he had.
   |  So, back into the cage I stepped:
   |  And, when it reached the bottom, crept
   |  Along the gallery again
   |  And, in the dust where he had lain,
   |  I rummaged, until I found all
   |  That from his burning pockets fell.
   |  And when it seemed there was no more,
   |  I thought how, happy and alive,
   |  And recking naught what might befall,
   |  He, too, for all that I could tell,
   |  Just where I stood, had reckoned o'er
   |  That four-pound-seventeen-and-five.

   |  "Aye, like enough ... for soon we heard
   |  That in a week he'd looked to wed.
   |  He'd meant to give the girl that night
   |  The money to buy furniture.
   |  She came, and watched till morning-light
   |  Beside the body in the shed:
   |  Then rose: and took, without a word,
   |  The money he had left for her."

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                           \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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..

   |  Then, as I wandered through the rain,
   |  I seemed to stand in awe again
   |  Beside that lonely garret-bed.
   |  And it was good to think the dead
   |  Had known the wealth she would not spend
   |  To keep a little while alive--
   |  His four-pound-seventeen-and-five--
   |  Would buy her houseroom in the end.





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.. _`THE SNOW`:

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   THE SNOW

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..

   |  Just as the school came out,
   |  The first white flakes were drifting round about:
   |  And all the children shouted with delight
   |  To see such flakes, so big, so white,
   |  Tumbling from a cloud so black,
   |  And whirling helter-skelter
   |  Across the windy moor:
   |  And as they saw the light flakes race,
   |  Started off in headlong chase,
   |  Swooping on them with a shout,
   |  When they seemed to drop for shelter
   |  Underneath the dry-stone wall.

   |  And then the master, at the schoolhouse door,
   |  Called out to them to hurry home, before
   |  The storm should come on worse: and watched till all
   |  Had started off by road or moorland track:
   |  When, turning to his wife, he said:
   |  It looked like dirty weather overhead:
   |  He thought 'twould be a heavy fall,
   |  And threatened for a roughish night;
   |  But they would all reach home in broad daylight.
   |  'Twas early, yet; he'd let the school out soon;
   |  As it had looked so lowering since forenoon;
   |  And many had a goodish step to go:
   |  And it was but ill-travelling in the snow.
   |  Then by the fire he settled down to read;
   |  And to the weather paid no further heed.

   |  And, on their road home, full three miles away,
   |  John, and his little sister, Janey, started;
   |  And, at the setting out, were happy-hearted
   |  To be let loose into a world so gay,
   |  With jolly winds and frisking flakes at play
   |  That flicked your cheek, and whistled in your teeth:
   |  And now hard on each other's heels they darted
   |  To catch a flake that floated like a feather,
   |  Then dropt to nestle in a clump of heather;
   |  And often tumbled both together
   |  Into a deep delicious bed
   |  Of brown and springy heath.
   |  But, when the sky grew blacker overhead,
   |  As if it were the coming on of night,
   |  And every little hill, well-known to sight,
   |  Looked big and strange in its new fleece of white;
   |  And as yet faster and more thickly
   |  The big flakes fell,
   |  To John the thought came that it might be well
   |  To hurry home; so, striding on before,
   |  He set a steady face across the moor;
   |  And called to Janey she must come more quickly.

   |  The wind soon dropped: and fine and dry the snow
   |  Came whispering down about them, as they trudged
   |  And, when they'd travelled for a mile or so,
   |  They found it ankle-deep: for here the storm
   |  Had started long before it reached the school:
   |  And, as he felt the dry flakes tingling warm
   |  Upon his cheek, and set him all aglow,
   |  John in his manly pride, a little grudged
   |  That now and then he had to wait awhile
   |  For Janey, lagging like a little fool:
   |  But, when they'd covered near another mile
   |  Through that bewildering white without a sound,
   |  Save rustling, rustling, rustling all around;
   |  And all his well-known world, so queer and dim,
   |  He waited until she caught up to him;
   |  And felt quite glad that he was not alone.

   |  And when they reached the low, half-buried stone
   |  That marked where some old shepherd had been found,
   |  Lost in the snow in seeking his lost sheep,
   |  One wild March night, full forty years ago,
   |  He wished, and wished, that they were safe and sound
   |  In their own house: and as the snow got deeper,
   |  And every little bank seemed strangely steeper,
   |  He thought, and thought of that lost sleeper;
   |  And saw him lying in the snow,
   |  Till every fleecy clump of heath
   |  Seemed to shroud a man beneath;
   |  And now his blood went hot and cold
   |  Through very fear of that dread sight;
   |  And then he felt that, in sheer fright,
   |  He must take to his heels in flight,
   |  He cared not whither, so that it might be
   |  Where there were no more bundles, cold and white,
   |  Like sheeted bodies, plain to see.
   |  And, all on edge, he turned to chide
   |  His sister, dragging at his side:
   |  But, when he found that she was crying,
   |  Because her feet and hands were cold,
   |  He quite forgot to scold:
   |  And spoke kind words of cheer to her:
   |  And saw no more dead shepherds lying
   |  In any snowy clump of heather.
   |  So, hand in hand, they trudged together,
   |  Through that strange world of drifting gloam,
   |  Sharp-set and longing sore for home.

   |  And John remembered how that morning,
   |  When they set out the sky was blue--
   |  Clean, cloudless blue; and gave no warning;
   |  And how through air as clear as glass,
   |  The far-off hills he knew
   |  Looked strangely near; and glittered brightly;
   |  Each sprig of heath and blade of grass
   |  In the cold wind blowing lightly,
   |  Each clump of green and crimson moss
   |  Sparkling in the wintry sun.

   |  But now, as they toiled home, across
   |  These unfamiliar fells, nigh done,
   |  The wind again began to blow;
   |  And thicker, thicker fell the snow:
   |  Till Janey sank, too numb to stir:
   |  When John stooped down, and lifted her,
   |  To carry her upon his back.
   |  And then his head began to tire:
   |  And soon he seemed to lose the track...
   |  And now the world was all afire...
   |  Now dazzling white, now dazzling black...
   |  And then, through some strange land of light,
   |  Where clouds of butterflies all white,
   |  Fluttered and flickered all about,
   |  Dancing ever in and out,
   |  He wandered, blinded by white wings,
   |  That rustled, rustled in his ears
   |  With cold, uncanny whisperings...
   |  And then it seemed his bones must crack
   |  With that dead weight upon his back...
   |  When, on his cheek, he felt warm tears,
   |  And a cold tangle of wet hair;
   |  And knew 'twas Janey weeping there:
   |  And, taking heart, he stumbled on,
   |  While in his breast the hearthlight shone:
   |  And it was all of his desire
   |  To sit once more before the fire;
   |  And feel the friendly glowing heat.
   |  But, as he strove with fumbling feet,
   |  It seemed that he would never find
   |  Again that cheery hearth and kind;
   |  But wander ever, bent and blind,
   |  Beneath his burden through the night
   |  Of dreadful, spangly, whispering white.

   |  The wind rose; and the dry snow drifted
   |  In little eddies round the track:
   |  And when, at last, the dark cloud rifted,
   |  He saw a strange lough, lying cold and black,
   |  'Mid unknown, ghostly hills; and knew
   |  That they were lost: and once again,
   |  The snow closed in: and swept from view
   |  The dead black water and strange fells.

   |  But still he struggled on: and then,
   |  When he seemed climbing up an endless steep
   |  And ever slipping, sliding back,
   |  With ankles aching like to crack,
   |  And only longed for sleep;
   |  He heard a tinkling sound of bells,
   |  That kept on ringing, ringing, ringing,
   |  Until his dizzy head was singing;
   |  And he could think of nothing else:
   |  And then it seemed the weight was lifted
   |  From off his back; and on the ground
   |  His sister stood, while, all around
   |  Were giants clad in coats of wool,
   |  With big, curled horns, and queer black faces,
   |  Who bobbed and curtsied in their places,
   |  With blazing eyes and strange grimaces;
   |  But never made a sound;
   |  Then nearly shook themselves to pieces,
   |  Shedding round a smell of warm, wet fleeces:
   |  Then one it seemed as if he knew,
   |  Looking like the old lame ewe,
   |  Began to bite his coat, and pull
   |  Till he could hardly stand: its eyes
   |  Glowing to a monstrous size,
   |  Till they were like a lantern light
   |  Burning brightly through the night...
   |  When someone stooped from out the sky,
   |  To rescue him; and set him high:
   |  And he was riding, snug and warm,
   |  In some king's chariot through the storm,
   |  Without a sound of wheel or hoof--
   |  In some king's chariot, filled with straw,
   |  And he would nevermore be cold...

   |  And then with wondering eyes he saw
   |  Deep caverns of pure burning gold;
   |  And knew himself in fairyland:
   |  But when he stretched an eager hand
   |  To touch the glowing walls, he felt
   |  A queer warm puff, as though of fire...
   |  And suddenly he smelt
   |  The reek of peat; and looking higher,
   |  He saw the old, black porridge-kettle,
   |  Hanging from the cavern roof,
   |  Hanging on its own black crook:
   |  And he was lying on the settle,
   |  While by his side,
   |  With tender look,
   |  His mother knelt;
   |  And he had only one desire
   |  In all the world; and 'twas to fling
   |  His arms about her neck, and hide
   |  His happy tears upon her breast.
   |  And as to her he closely pressed,
   |  He heard his merry father sing:
   |  "There was a silly sleepyhead,
   |  Who thought he'd like to go to bed:
   |  So in a stell he went to sleep,
   |  And snored among the other sheep."

   |  And then his mother gently said:
   |  "Nay, father: do not tease him now:
   |  He's quite worn out: and needs a deal
   |  Of quiet sleep: and, after all,
   |  He brought his sister safe from school."
   |  And now he felt her warm tears fall
   |  Upon his cheek: and thrilled to feel
   |  His father's hand on his hot brow,
   |  And hear him say: "The lad's no fool."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RED FOX`:

.. class:: center large

   RED FOX

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  I hated him ... his beard was red...
   |  Red fox, red thief! ... Ah, God, that she--
   |  She with the proud and lifted head
   |  That never stooped to glance at me--
   |  So fair and fancy-free, should wed
   |  A slinking dog-fox such as he!

   |  Was it last night I hated him?
   |  Last night?  It seems an age ago...
   |  At whiles, my mind comes over dim
   |  As if God's breath ... yet, ever slow
   |  And dull, too dull she ... limb from limb
   |  Last night I could have torn him, so!

   |  My lonely bed was fire and ice.
   |  I could not sleep.  I could not lie.
   |  I shut my hot eyes once or twice...
   |  And saw a red fox slinking by...
   |  A red dog-fox that turned back thrice
   |  To mock me with a merry eye.

   |  And so I rose to pace the floor...
   |  And, ere I knew, my clothes were on...
   |  And as I stood outside the door,
   |  Cold in the Summer moonlight shone
   |  The gleaming barrel ... and no more
   |  I feared the fox, for fear was one.

   |  "The best of friends," I said, "must part..."
   |  "The best of friends must part," I said:
   |  And like the creaking of a cart
   |  The words went wheeling through my head.
   |  "The best of friends..." and, in my heart,
   |  Red fox, already lying dead!

   |  I took the trackway through the wood.
   |  Red fox had sought a woodland den,
   |  When she ... when she ... but, 'twas not good
   |  To think too much on her just then...
   |  The woman must beware, who stood
   |  Between two stark and fearless men.

   |  The pathway took a sudden turn...
   |  And in a trice my steps were stayed.
   |  Before me, in the moonlit fern,
   |  A young dog-fox and vixen played
   |  With their red cubs beside the burn...
   |  And I stood trembling and afraid.

   |  They frolicked in the warm moonlight--
   |  A scuffling heap of heads and heels...
   |  A rascal rush ... a playful bite...
   |  A scuttling brush, and frightened squeals...
   |  A flash of teeth ... a show of fight...
   |  Then lively as a bunch of eels

   |  Once more they gambolled in the brake,
   |  And tumbled headlong in the stream,
   |  Then scrambled gasping out to shake
   |  Their sleek, wet, furry coats agleam.
   |  I watched them, fearful and awake...
   |  I watched them, hateless and adream.

   |  The dog-fox gave a bark, and then
   |  All ran to him: and, full of pride,
   |  He took the trackway up the glen,
   |  His family trotting by his side:
   |  The young cubs nosing for the den,
   |  With trailing brushes, sleepy-eyed.

   |  And then it seems I must have slept--
   |  Dropt dead asleep ... dropt dead outworn.
   |  I wakened, as the first gleam crept
   |  Among the fern, and it was morn...
   |  God's eye about their home had kept
   |  Good watch, the night her son was born.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE OVENS`:

.. class:: center large

   THE OVENS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  He trailed along the cinder-track
   |  Beside the sleek canal, whose black
   |  Cold, slinking waters shivered back
   |  Each frosty spark of starry light;
   |  And each star pricked, an icy pin,
   |  Through his old jacket worn and thin:
   |  The raw wind rasped his shrinking skin
   |  As if stark naked to its bite;
   |  Yet, cutting through him like a knife,
   |  It would not cut the thread of life;
   |  But only turned his feet to stones
   |  With red-hot soles, that weighed like lead
   |  In his old broken boots.  His head,
   |  Sunk low upon his sunken chest,
   |  Was but a burning, icy ache
   |  That strained a skull which would not break
   |  To let him tumble down to rest.
   |  He felt the cold stars in his bones:
   |  And only wished that he were dead,
   |  With no curst searching wind to shred
   |  The very flesh from off his bones--
   |  No wind to whistle through his bones,
   |  His naked, icy, burning bones:
   |  When, looking up, he saw, ahead,
   |  The far coke-ovens' glowing light
   |  That burnt a red hole in the night.
   |  And but to snooze beside that fire
   |  Was all the heaven of his desire...
   |  To tread no more this cursed track
   |  Of crunching cinders, through a black
   |  And blasted world of cinder-heaps,
   |  Beside a sleek canal that creeps
   |  Like crawling ice through every bone,
   |  Beneath the cruel stars, alone
   |  With this hell-raking wind that sets
   |  The cold teeth rattling castanets...
   |  Yea, heaven, indeed, that core of red
   |  In night's black heart that seemed quite dead.
   |  Though still far off, the crimson glow
   |  Through his chilled veins began to flow,
   |  And fill his shrivelled heart with heat;
   |  And, as he dragged his senseless feet,
   |  That lagged as though to hold him back
   |  In cold, eternal hell of black,
   |  With heaven before him, blazing red,
   |  The set eyes staring in his head
   |  Were held by spell of fire quite blind
   |  To that black world that fell behind,
   |  A cindery wilderness of death;
   |  As he drew slowly near and nearer,
   |  And saw the ovens glowing clearer--
   |  Low-domed and humming hives of heat--
   |  And felt the blast of burning breath
   |  That quivered from each white-hot brick:
   |  Till, blinded by the blaze, and sick
   |  He dropped into a welcome seat
   |  Of warm white ashes, sinking low
   |  To soak his body in the glow
   |  That shot him through with prickling pain,
   |  An eager agony of fire,
   |  Delicious after the cold ache,
   |  And scorched his tingling, frosted skin.
   |  Then gradually the anguish passed;
   |  And blissfully he lay, at last,
   |  Without an unfulfilled desire,
   |  His grateful body drinking in
   |  Warm, blessed, snug forgetfulness.
   |  And yet, with staring eyes awake,
   |  As though no drench of heat could slake
   |  His thirst for fire, he watched a red
   |  Hot eye that burned within a chink
   |  Between the bricks: while overhead
   |  The quivering stream of hot, gold air
   |  Surged up to quench the cold starlight.
   |  His brain, too numbed and dull to think
   |  Throughout the day, in that fierce glare
   |  Awoke, at last, with startled stare
   |  Of pitiless, insistent sight
   |  That stript the stark, mean, bitter strife
   |  Of his poor, broken, wasted life,
   |  Crippled from birth, and struggling on,
   |  The last, least shred of hope long gone,
   |  To some unknown, black, bitter end.
   |  But, even as he looked, his brain
   |  Sank back to sightless sloth again;
   |  Then, all at once, he seemed to choke;
   |  And knew it was the stealthy stife
   |  And deadly fume of burning coke
   |  That filled his lungs, and seemed to soak
   |  Through every pore, until the blood
   |  Grew thick and heavy in his veins,
   |  And he could scarcely draw a breath.
   |  He lay, and murmured drowsily,
   |  With closing eyes: "If this be death,
   |  It's snug and easy ... let it come...
   |  For life is cold and hard ... the flood
   |  Is rising with the heavy rains
   |  That pour and pour ... that damned old drum,
   |  Why ever can't they let it be...
   |  Beat-beating, beating, beating, beat..."
   |  Then, suddenly, he sat upright,
   |  For, close behind him in the night,
   |  He heard a breathing loud and deep,
   |  And caught a whiff of burning leather.
   |  He shook himself alive, and turned;
   |  And on a heap of ashes white,
   |  O'ercome by the full blast of heat,
   |  Where fieriest the dread blaze burned,
   |  He saw a young girl stretched in sleep.
   |  He sat awhile with heavy gaze
   |  Fixed on her in a dull amaze,
   |  Until he saw her scorched boots smoking:
   |  Then, whispering huskily: "She's dying,
   |  While I look on and watch her choking!"
   |  He roused: and pulled himself together:
   |  And rose, and went where she was lying:
   |  And, bending o'er the senseless lass,
   |  In his weak arms he lifted her;
   |  And bore her out beyond the glare,
   |  Beyond the stealthy, stifling gas,
   |  Into the fresh and eager air:
   |  And laid her gently on the ground
   |  Beneath the cold and starry sky:
   |  And did his best to bring her round;
   |  Though still, for all that he could try,
   |  She seemed, with each deep-labouring breath
   |  Just brought up on the brink of death.
   |  He sought, and found an icy pool,
   |  Though he had but a cap to fill,
   |  And bathed her hands and face, until
   |  The troubled breath was quieter,
   |  And her flushed forehead felt quite cool:
   |  And then he saw an eyelid stir;
   |  And shivering she sat up at last,
   |  And looked about her sullenly.
   |  "I'm cold ... I'm mortal cold," she said:
   |  "What call had you to waken me?
   |  I was so warm and happy, dead...
   |  And still those staring stars!"  Her head
   |  Dropt in her hands: and thick and fast
   |  The tears came with a heavy sobbing.
   |  He stood quite helpless while she cried;
   |  And watched her shaken bosom throbbing
   |  With passionate, wild, weak distress,
   |  Till it was spent.  And then she dried
   |  Her eyes upon her singed black dress;
   |  Looked up, and saw him standing there,
   |  Wondering, and more than half-afraid.
   |  But now, the nipping, hungry air
   |  Took hold of her, and struck fear dead.
   |  She only felt the starving sting
   |  That must, at any price, be stayed;
   |  And cried out: "I am famishing!"
   |  Then from his pocket he took bread
   |  That he had been too weak and sick
   |  To eat o'ernight: and eager-eyed,
   |  She took it timidly; and said:
   |  "I have not tasted food two days."
   |  And, as he waited by her side,
   |  He watched her with a quiet gaze;
   |  And saw her munch the broken crust
   |  So gladly, seated in the dust
   |  Of that black desert's bitter night,
   |  Beneath the freezing stars, so white
   |  And hunger-pinched: and at the sight
   |  Keen pity touched him to the quick;
   |  Although he never said a word,
   |  Till she had finished every crumb.
   |  And then he led her to a seat
   |  A little closer to the heat,
   |  But well beyond the deadly stife.
   |  And in the ashes, side by side,
   |  They sat together, dazed and dumb,
   |  With eyes upon the ovens' glare,
   |  Each looking nakedly on life.
   |  And then, at length, she sighed, and stirred,
   |  Still staring deep and dreamy-eyed
   |  Into the whitening, steady glow.
   |  With jerky, broken words and slow,
   |  And biting at her finger-ends,
   |  She talked at last: and spoke out all
   |  Quite open-heartedly, as though
   |  There were not any stranger there--
   |  The fire and he, both bosom-friends.
   |  She'd left her home three months ago--
   |  She, country-born and country-bred,
   |  Had got the notion in her head
   |  That she'd like city-service best...
   |  And so no country place could please...
   |  And she had worried without rest
   |  Until, at last, she got her ends;
   |  And, wiser than her folk and friends,
   |  She left her home among the trees...
   |  The trees grew thick for miles about
   |  Her father's house ... the forest spread
   |  As far as ever you could see...
   |  And it was green, in Summer, green...
   |  Since she had left her home, she'd seen
   |  No greenness could compare with it...
   |  And everything was fresh and clean,
   |  And not all smutched and smirched with smoke
   |  They burned no sooty coal and coke,
   |  But only wood-logs, ash and oak...
   |  And by the fire at night they'd sit...
   |  Ah! wouldn't it be rare and good
   |  To smell the sappy, sizzling wood,
   |  Once more; and listen to the stream
   |  That runs just by the garden-gate...
   |  And often, in a Winter spate,
   |  She'd wakened from a troubled dream,
   |  And lain in bed, and heard it roar;
   |  And quaked to hear it, as a child...
   |  It seemed so angry, and so wild--
   |  Just mad to sweep the house away!
   |  And now, it was three months or more
   |  Since she had heard it, on the day...
   |  The day she left ... and Michael stood...
   |  He was a woodman, too, and he
   |  Worked with her father in the wood...
   |  And wanted her, she knew ... but she
   |  Was proud, and thought herself too good
   |  To marry any country lad...
   |  'Twas queer to think she'd once been proud--
   |  And such a little while ago--
   |  A beggar, wolfing crusts! ... The pride
   |  That made her quit her countryside
   |  Soon left her stranded in the crowd...
   |  And precious little pride she had
   |  To keep her warm these freezing days
   |  Since she had fled the city-ways
   |  To walk back home ... aye! home again:
   |  For, in the town, she'd tried in vain,
   |  For honest work to earn her bread...
   |  At one place, they'd nigh slaved her dead,
   |  And starved her, too; and, when she left,
   |  Had cheated her of half her wage:
   |  But she'd no means to stop the theft...
   |  And she'd had no more work to do...
   |  Two months since, now ... it seemed an age!
   |  How she had lived, she scarcely knew...
   |  And still, poor fool, too proud to write
   |  To home for help, until, at length,
   |  She'd not a penny for a bite,
   |  Or pride enough to clothe her back...
   |  So, she was tramping home, too poor
   |  To pay the train-fare ... she'd the strength,
   |  If she'd the food ... but that hard track,
   |  And that cold, cruel, bitter night
   |  Had taken all the heart from her...
   |  If Michael knew, she felt quite sure...
   |  For she would rather drop stone-dead
   |  Than live as some ... if she had cared
   |  To feed upon the devil's bread,
   |  She could have earned it easily...
   |  She'd pride enough to starve instead,
   |  Aye, starve, than fare as some girls fared...
   |  But, that was all behind ... and she
   |  Was going home ... and yet, maybe,
   |  If they'd a home like hers, they, too,
   |  Would be too proud ... she only knew
   |  The thought of home had kept her straight,
   |  And saved her ere it was too late.
   |  She'd soon be home again...
   |                               And now
   |  She sat with hand upon her brow;
   |  And did not speak again nor stir.

   |  And, as he heard her words, his gaze
   |  Still set upon the steady glare,
   |  His thoughts turned back to city-ways:
   |  And he remembered common sights
   |  That he had seen in city nights:
   |  And, once again, in early June,
   |  He wandered through the midnight street;
   |  And heard those ever-pacing feet
   |  Of young girls, children yet in years,
   |  With gaudy ribbons in their hair,
   |  And shameless fevered eyes astare,
   |  And slack lips set in brazen leers,
   |  Who walked the pavements of despair,
   |  Beneath the fair full Summer moon...
   |  Shadowed by worn-out, wizened hags,
   |  With claw-hands clutching filthy rags
   |  About old bosoms, shrunk and thin,
   |  And mouths aleer without a tooth,
   |  Who dogged them, cursing their sleek youth
   |  That filched their custom and their bread...
   |  Then, in a reek of hot gas light,
   |  He stood where, through the Summer night,
   |  Half-dozing in the stifling air,
   |  The greasy landlord, fat with sin,
   |  Sat, lolling in his easy chair,
   |  Just half-way up the brothel stair,
   |  To tax the earnings they brought in,
   |  And hearken for the policeman's tread...

   |  Then, shuddering back from that foul place
   |  And turning from the ovens' glare,
   |  He looked into her dreaming face;
   |  And saw green, sunlit woodlands there,
   |  And waters flashing in between
   |  Low-drooping boughs of Summer green.

   |  And as he looked, still in a dream
   |  She murmured: "Michael would, she knew...
   |  Though she'd been foolish ... he was true,
   |  As true as steel, and fond of her...
   |  And then she sat with eyes agleam
   |  In dreaming silence, till the stir
   |  Of cold dawn shivered through the air:
   |  When, twisting up her tumbled hair,
   |  She rose; and said, she must be gone.
   |  Though she'd still far to go, the day
   |  Would see her well upon her way...
   |  And she had best be jogging on,
   |  While she'd the strength ... and so, "Good-bye."

   |  And as, beneath the paling sky,
   |  He trudged again the cinder-track
   |  That stretched before him, dead and black,
   |  He muttered: "It's a chance the light
   |  Has found me living still ... and she--
   |  She, too ... and Michael ... and through me
   |  God knows whom I may wake to-night."

   |  1910-1911.

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   LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.

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