Chapter III

Then the pedlar called to the crowd to hear, And his voice rang loud and his voice rang clear; And he lifted his head and began to troll The whimsical words of his rigmarole:--

"_Since last I talked to you here I've hurled My lone way over the wide, wide world. South and North and West and East I've fought with man and I've fought with beast_; _And I've opened the gates and cleared the bar That blocks the road to the morning star!_

"_I've seen King Pharaoh sitting down On his golden throne in his jewelled crown, With wizards fanning like anything To cool the face of the mighty King: But the King said, 'Wizards are off,' said he; 'Let Joseph the gipsy talk to me.'_

"_So I sat by the King and began to spout As the day drew in and the sun went out; And I sat by the King and spun my tale Till the light returned and the night grew pale; And none of the Wizards blinked or stirred While the King sat drinking it word by word._

"_Then he gave me rubies and diamonds old; He gave me masses of minted gold. He gave me all that a King can give: The right to live and to cease to live Whenever--and that'll be soon, I know-- The days are numbered of Gipsy Joe._

"_Then I went and I wandered on and on Till I came to the kingdom of Prester John; And there I stood on a crystal stool And sang the song of 'The First Wise Fool': Oh, I sang it low and I sang it high Till John he whimpered and piped his eye._

"_Then I drew a tooth from the lively jaw Of the Prester's ebony Aunt-in-law; And he bubbled and laughed so long, d'you see, That his wife looked glum and I had to flee. So I fled to the place where the Rajahs grow, A place where they wanted Gipsy Joe._

"_The Rajahs summoned the turbaned hordes And gave me sheaves of their inlaid swords; And the Shah of Persia next I saw, Who's brother and friend to the Big Bashaw; And he sent me a rope of turquoise stones The size of a giant's knuckle-bones._

"_But a little brown Pygmie took my hand And rattled me fast to a silver strand, Where the little brown Pygmie boys and girls Are cradled and rocked to sleep in pearls._ _And the Pygmies flattered me soft and low, 'You are tall; be King of us, Gipsy Joe.'_

"_I governed them well for half-a-year, But it came to an end, and now I'm here. Oh, I've opened the gates and cleared the bar, And I've come, I've come to my friends from far. I'm old and broken, I'm lame and tired, But I've come to the friends my soul desired._

"_So it's watches and lockets, and who will buy? It's ribbon and lace, and they're not priced high. If you're out for a ring or a golden chain You can't look over my tray in vain: And here is a balsam made of drops From a tree that's grown by the AEthiops!_

"_I've a chip of the tooth of a mastodont That's sure to give you the girl you want. I've a packet of spells to make men sigh For the lustrous glance of your liquid eye-- But it's much too dark for such wondrous wares, So back, stand back, while I light my flares!_"

Then he lit a match, but his fingers fumbled, And, striking his foot on a stone, he stumbled; And the match, released by the sudden shock, Fell in flame on the old wood-block, And burnt there very quietly-- But before you could have counted three, Hardly giving you time to shout, A red-blue column of fire shot out, Up and up and ever higher, A marvellous burst of raging fire, Lighting the crowd that shrank from its flashes, And so decreasing, And suddenly ceasing As the seat of St. Crag was burnt to ashes!

But in the smoke that drifted on the Green Queer freaks of vision weirdly wrought were seen: For on that shifting background each one saw His own reflection and recoiled in awe; Saw himself there, a bright light shining through him, Not as he thought himself, but as men knew him. Before this sudden and revealing sense Each rag of sham, each tatter of pretence Withered and vanished, as dissolved in air, And left the shuddering human creature bare. But when they turned and looked upon a friend They saw a sight that all but made amend: For they beheld him as a radiant spirit Indued with virtue and surpassing merit, Not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf, But splendid--as he mostly saw himself. Darville and Fall were drawn to one another, And both to Bent as to their heart's own brother; And a strange feeling grew in every breast, A self-defeating altruistic zest Which from that moment's flash composed their strife, Informed their nature and controlled their life. But when they sought the Gipsy, him they found, His dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground.

THE BIRD IN THE ROOM

A robin skimmed into the room,
And blithe he looked and jolly,
A foe to every sort of gloom,
And, most, to melancholy.
He cocked his head, he made no sound,
But gave me stare for stare back,
When, having fluttered round and round,
He perched upon a chair-back.

I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew
Too late his reckless error:
Away in eager haste he flew,
And at his tail flew terror.
Now here, now there, from wall to floor,
For mere escape appealing,
He fled and struck against the door
Or bumped about the ceiling.

I went and flung each window wide,
I drew each half-raised blind up;
To coax him out in vain I tried;
He could not make his mind up.
He flew, he fell, he took a rest,
And off again he scuffled
With parted beak and panting breast
And every feather ruffled.

At length I lured him to the sill,
All dazed and undivining;
Beyond was peace o'er vale and hill,
And all the air was shining.
I stretched my hand and touched him; then
He made no more resistance,
But left the cramped abode of men
And flew into the distance.

* * * * *

Is life like that? We make it so;
We leave the sunny spaces,
And beat about, or high or low,
In dark and narrow places;
Till, worn with failure, vexed with doubt,
Our strength at last we rally,
And the bruised spirit flutters out
To find the happy valley.

KILLED IN ACTION

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend; "Only surviving son of"--so it ran-- "Beloved husband" and the rest of it. But six months back I saw him full of life, Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease In some obscure but splendid field of France, His strivings over and his conflicts done. He was a fellow of most joyous moods And quaint contrivings, ever on the point Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand But always baulked of meeting them at last. He could not brook--and always so declared-- The weak pomposities of little men, Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world, And plunged headlong into imprudences, And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal, Holding his luck and not himself to blame For aught that might betide when reckoning came. But he was true as steel and staunch as oak. And if he pledged his word he bore it out Unswerving to the finish, and he gave Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.

When the great summons came he rushed to arms, Counting no cost and all intent to serve His country and to prove himself a man. Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too And find some fun in glory, as a child Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well. Now he is fall'n, and on his shining brow Glory has set her everlasting seal.

I like to think how cheerily he talked Amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns, How, when the word was given, he stood erect, Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men, Led them forthright to where the sullen foe Waited their coming; and his brain took fire, And all was exultation and a high Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy. "Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze, "Forward for England! Clear the beggars out! Remember--" and death found him, and he fell Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.

Thrice blesséd fate! We linger here and droop Beneath the heavy burden of our years, And may not, though we envy, give our lives For England and for honour and for right; But still must wear our weary hours away, While he, that happy fighter, in one leap, From imperfection to perfection borne, Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth. Now of his failures is a triumph made; His very faults are into virtues turned; And, reft for ever from the haunts of men, He wears immortal honour and is joined With those who fought for England and are dead.

EPITAPH

FOR AN ENGLISH SOLDIER AND AN INDIAN SOLDIER BURIED TOGETHER IN FRANCE

When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm,
From lands apart these fighters came.
An equal courage nerved each arm,
And stirred each generous heart to flame.

Now, greatly dead, they lie below;
Their creed or language no man heeds,
Since for their colour they can show
The blood-red blazon of their deeds!

TO FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT ROBINSON, V.C.

You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel,
How was it with you when the hurried word
Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal
A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred,
And all your being leapt to meet the call
Which bade you strike nor spare
Where poised in air
Murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall.

Alone upon your fearful task you flew,
Where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing,
Alone and upward, lost to mortal view,
Winding about the assassin craft a ring
Of fateful motion, till at last you sped
Through the far tracts of gloom
The bolt of doom,
Shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead.

For this we thank you, and we bid you know
That henceforth in the air, by day or night,
A myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go,
Rise as companions of your soaring flight;
And well we know that when there comes the need
A host of men like you,
As staunch, as true,
Will rush to prove the daring of the island breed.

PAGAN FANCIES

Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathéd horn Cheerly, as is your wont, and let the blast Circle our island on the breezes borne; Blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past. Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be A friend to them that breast your ancient sea.

I shall be there to greet you, for I tire Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream. Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire I come to greet you and to catch the gleam Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air The sportive tresses of their amber hair.

High on a swelling upland I shall stand Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; Or join the troops that sport upon the sand, With shouts and laughter wearing out the day; Or pace apart and listen to the roar Of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore.

Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise, And we shall know them as they flit and creep And peep and glance and murmur lullabies; While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still.

ROBIN, THE SEA-BOY

Ho, ruddy-cheeked boys and curly maids, Who deftly ply your pails and spades, All you who sturdily take your stand On your pebble-buttressed forts of sand, And thence defy With a fearless eye And a burst of rollicking high-pitched laughter The stealthy trickling waves that lap you And the crested breakers that tumble after To souse and batter you, sting and sap you-- All you roll-about rackety little folk, Down-again, up-again, not-a-bit brittle folk, Attend, attend, And let each girl and boy Join in a loud "Ahoy!" For, lo, he comes, your tricksy little friend, From the clear caverns of his crystal home Beyond the tossing ridges of the foam: Planner of sandy romps and wet delights, Robin the Sea-boy, prince of ocean-sprites, Is come, is come to lead you in your play And fill your hearts with mirth and jocund sport to-day!

What! Can't you see him? There he stands On a sheer rock and lifts his hands, A little lad not three feet high, With dancing mischief in his eye. His body gleams against the light, A clear-cut shape of dazzling white Set off and topped by golden hair That streams and tosses in the air. A moment poised, he dares the leap And cuts the wind and cleaves the deep. Down through the emerald vaults self-hurled That roof the sea-god's awful world. Another moment sees him rise And beat the salt spray from his eyes. He breasts the waves, he spurns their blows; Then, like a rocket, up he goes, Up, up to where the gusty wind With all its wrath is left behind; Still up he soars and high and high A speck of light that dots the sky. Then watch him as he slowly droops Where the great sea-birds wheel their troops. Three broad-winged gulls, himself their lord, He hitches to a silken cord, Bits them and bridles them with skill And bids them draw him where he will. Above the tumult of the shores He floats, he stoops, he darts, he soars; From near and far he calls the rest And waves them forward for a quest; Then straight, without a check, he speeds Across the azure tracts and leads With apt reproof and cheering words As on a chase his cry of birds.

And when he has finished his airy fun And all his flights and his swoops are done He will drop to the shore and lend a hand In building a castle of weed and sand. He will cover with flints its frowning face To keep the tide in its proper place, And the waves shall employ their utmost damp art In vain to abolish your moated rampart. And nobody's nurse shall make a fuss, As is far too often the case with us; Instead of the usual how-de-do She will give us praise when we get wet through; In fact she will smile and think it better When we get as wet as we like and wetter. As for eating too much, you can safely risk it With chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit, And your mother will revel with high delight In the state of her own one's appetite. Great shells there shall be of a rainbow hue To be found and gathered by me and you; Wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em. And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em; In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?-- When Robin the Sea-boy pays his visit. And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit And change and turn to a frisky rabbit, A plump young gadabout cheerful fellow With a twitching nose and a coat of yellow, And never the smallest trace of fear From his flashing scut to his flattened ear.

But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain, So, presto, Robin is back again. He lifts his head and he cocks his eye And waves his hand and prepares to fly-- "Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!"

THE BIRTHDAY

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete Take now your choice; the world is at your feet, All turned into a gay and shining pleasance, And every face has smiles to greet your presence. Treading on air, Yourself you look more fair; And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means That sets you spinning through your pretty teens. A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers, Lo, how you run In mere excess of fun, Or change to silence as you stand and hear Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear, Of all the days that gem the sparkling year, See, we have picked as well as we were able And set your gifts upon your own small table: A knife from John, Who straightway thereupon, Lest you should cut your friendship for the boy, Receives a halfpenny and departs with joy.

The burnished inkstand was your mother's choice; For six new handkerchiefs I gave my voice, Having in view your tender little nose's Soft comfort; and the agate pen is Rosie's; The torch is Peg's, Guide for your errant legs When ways are dark, and, last, behold with these A pencil from your faithful Pekinese!

And now the mysteries are all revealed That were so long, so ardently concealed-- All save the cake which still is in the making, Not yet smooth-iced and unprepared for taking The thirteen flames That start the noisy games Of tea-time, when my happy little maid Thrones it triumphant, teened and unafraid.

So through the changing years may all delight Live in your face and make your being bright. May the good sprites and busy fays befriend you, And cheerful thoughts and innocent defend you; And, far away From this most joyous day, When in the chambers of your mind you see Those who have loved you, then remember me.

THE DANCE

When good-nights have been prattled, and prayers have been said, And the last little sunbeam is tucked up in bed, Then, skirting the trees on a carpet of snow, The elves and the fairies come out in a row. With a preening of wings They are forming in rings; Pirouetting and setting they cross and advance In a ripple of laughter, and pair for a dance.

And it's oh for the boom of the fairy bassoon, And the oboes and horns as they strike up a tune, And the twang of the harps and the sigh of the lutes, And the clash of the cymbals, the purl of the flutes; And the fiddles sail in To the musical din, While the chief all on fire, with a flame for a hand, Rattles on the gay measure and stirs up his band.

With a pointing of toes and a lifting of wrists They are off through the whirls and the twirls and the twists; Thread the mazes of marvellous figures, and chime With a bow to a curtsey, and always keep time: All the gallant and girls In their diamonds and pearls, And their gauze and their sparkles, designed for a dance By the leaders of fairy-land fashion in France.

But the old lady fairies sit out by the trees, And the old beaux attend them as pert as you please. They quiz the young dancers and scorn their display, And deny any grace to the dance of to-day; "In Oberon's reign," So they're heard to complain, "When we went out at night we could temper our fun With some manners in dancing, but now there are none."

But at last, though the music goes gallantly on, And the dancers are none of them weary or gone, When the gauze is in rags and the hair is awry, Comes a light in the East and a sudden cock-cry. With a scurry of fear Then they all disappear, Leaving never a trace of their gay little selves Or the winter-night dance of the fairies and elves.

PANSIES

Tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art Here, where the paving-stones are set apart, Alert and gay and innocent of guile, The little pansies nod their heads and smile.

With what a whispering and a lulling sound They watch the children sport about the ground, Longing, it seems, to join the pretty play That laughs and runs the light-winged hours away.

And other children long ago there were Who shone and played and made the garden fair, To whom the pansies in their robes of white And gold and purple gave a welcome bright.

Gone are those voices, but the others came. Joyous and free, whose spirit was the same; And other pansies, robed as those of old, Peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold.

For pansies are, I think, the little gleams Of children's visions from a world of dreams, Jewels of innocence and joy and mirth, Alight with laughter as they fall to earth.

Below, the ancient guardian, it may hap, The kindly mother, takes them in her lap, Decks them with glowing petals and replaces In the glad air the friendly pansy-faces.

So tread not rashly, children, lest you crush A part of childhood in a thoughtless rush. Would you not treat them gently if you knew Pansies are little bits of children too?

THE DRAGON OF WINTER HILL