.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- .. meta:: :PG.Id: 42679 :PG.Title: Fires - Book III :PG.Released: 2013-05-09 :PG.Rights: Public Domain :PG.Producer: Al Haines :DC.Creator: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson :DC.Title: Fires - Book III The Hare, and Other Tales :DC.Language: en :DC.Created: 1912 :coverpage: images/img-cover3.jpg ================ FIRES - BOOK III ================ .. clearpage:: .. pgheader:: .. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line .. class:: x-large FIRES .. class:: large BOOK III THE HARE, AND OTHER TALES .. vspace:: 2 .. class:: medium BY .. class:: large WILFRID WILSON GIBSON .. vspace:: 3 .. class:: medium LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET M CM XII .. vspace:: 4 .. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line .. class:: small *BY THE SAME WRITER* WOMENKIND (1912) DAILY BREAD (1910) THE STONEFOLDS (1907) ON THE THRESHOLD (1907) .. vspace:: 4 .. class:: center large CONTENTS .. vspace:: 1 .. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line `The Dancing Seal`_ `The Slag`_ `Devil's Edge`_ `The Lilac Tree`_ `The Old Man`_ `The Hare`_ .. vspace:: 4 .. class:: medium *Thanks are due to the editors of* RHYTHM, *and* THE NATION, *for leave to reprint some of these tales*. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`THE DANCING SEAL`: .. class:: center x-large FIRES .. vspace:: 3 .. class:: center large THE DANCING SEAL .. vspace:: 1 .. | When we were building Skua Light-- | The first men who had lived a night | Upon that deep-sea Isle-- | As soon as chisel touched the stone, | The friendly seals would come ashore; | And sit and watch us all the while, | As though they'd not seen men before; | And so, poor beasts, had never known | Men had the heart to do them harm. | They'd little cause to feel alarm | With us, for we were glad to find | Some friendliness in that strange sea; | Only too pleased to let them be | And sit as long as they'd a mind | To watch us: for their eyes were kind | Like women's eyes, it seemed to me. | So, hour on hour, they sat: I think | They liked to hear the chisels' clink: | And when the boy sang loud and clear, | They scrambled closer in to hear; | And if he whistled sweet and shrill, | The queer beasts shuffled nearer still: | But every sleek and sheeny skin | Was mad to hear his violin. | When, work all over for the day, | He'd take his fiddle down and play | His merry tunes beside the sea, | Their eyes grew brighter and more bright, | And burned and twinkled merrily: | And as I watched them one still night, | And saw their eager sparkling eyes, | I felt those lively seals would rise | Some shiny night ere he could know, | And dance about him, heel and toe, | Unto the fiddle's heady tune. | And at the rising of the moon, | Half-daft, I took my stand before | A young seal lying on the shore; | And called on her to dance with me. | And it seemed hardly strange when she | Stood up before me suddenly, | And shed her black and sheeny skin; | And smiled, all eager to begin... | And I was dancing, heel and toe, | With a young maiden white as snow, | Unto a crazy violin. | We danced beneath the dancing moon, | All night, beside the dancing sea, | With tripping toes and skipping heels: | And all about us friendly seals | Like Christian folk were dancing reels | Unto the fiddle's endless tune | That kept on spinning merrily | As though it never meant to stop. | And never once the snow-white maid | A moment stayed | To take a breath, | Though I was fit to drop: | And while those wild eyes challenged me, | I knew as well as well could be | I must keep step with that young girl, | Though we should dance to death. | Then with a skirl | The fiddle broke: | The moon went out: | The sea stopped dead: | And, in a twinkling, all the rout | Of dancing folk had fled... | And in the chill bleak dawn I woke | Upon the naked rock, alone. | They've brought me far from Skua Isle... | I laugh to think they do not know | That as, all day, I chip the stone, | Among my fellows here inland, | I smell the sea-wrack on the shore... | And see her snowy-tossing hand, | And meet again her merry smile... | And dream I'm dancing all the while, | I'm dancing ever, heel and toe, | With a seal-maiden, white as snow, | On that moonshiny Island-strand, | For ever and for evermore. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`THE SLAG`: .. class:: center large THE SLAG .. vspace:: 1 .. | Among bleak hills of mounded slag they walked, | 'Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag | O'er-burdened by the belching smoke, and lie | Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank, | Till both felt youth within them fail and flag-- | Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag | A fluttering moment through the murky sky | Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank | Again beneath the iron bell close-bound-- | And it was all that they could do to drag | Themselves along, 'neath that dead-weight of smoke, | Over the cinder-blasted, barren ground. | Though fitfully and fretfully she talked, | He never turned his eyes to her, or spoke: | And as he slouched with her along the track | That skirted a stupendous, lowering mound, | With listless eyes, and o'er-strained sinews slack, | She bit a petted, puckered lip, and frowned | To think she ever should be walking out | With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout, | As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag. | And, all on edge, o'erwrought by the crampt day | Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine, | It seemed to her a girl of seventeen | Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking-- | Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking | Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay-- | Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag | Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim, | Till all her eager youth should waste away. | Yet, even as she looked askance at him-- | Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed-- | She dimly knew of depths she could not sound | In this strong lover, silent at her side: | And, once again, her heart was touched with pride | To think that he was hers, this strapping lad-- | Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad... | His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied-- | And hers alone, and more than all she had | In all the world to her ... and yet, so grave! | If he would only shew that he was glad | To be with her--a gleam, a spark of fire, | A spurt of flame to shoot into the night, | A moment through the murky heavens to wave | An eager beacon of enkindling light | In answer to her young heart's quick desire! | Yet, though he walked with dreaming eyes agaze, | As, deep within a mound of slag, a core | Of unseen fire may smoulder many days, | Till suddenly the whole heap glow ablaze, | That seemed, but now, dead cinder, grey and cold, | Life smouldered in his heart. The fire he fed | Day-long in the tall furnace just ahead | From that frail gallery slung against the sky | Had burned through all his being, till the ore | Glowed in him. Though no surface-stream of gold | Quick-molten slag of speech was his to spill | Unceasingly, the burning metal still | Seethed in him, from the broken furnace-side | To burst at any moment in a tide | Of white-hot molten iron o'er the mould... | But still he spoke no word as they strolled on | Into the early-gathering Winter night: | And, as she watched the leaping furnace-light, | She had no thought of smouldering fires unseen... | The daylong clattering whirr of her machine | Hummed in her ears again--the straining thread | And stabbing needle starting through her head-- | Until the last dull gleam of day was gone... | When, all at once, upon the right, | A crackling crash, a blinding flare... | A shower of cinders through the air... | A grind of blocks of slag aslide... | And, far above them, in the night, | The looming heap had opened wide | About a fiery, gaping pit... | And, startled and aghast at it, | With clasping hands they stood astare, | And gazed upon the awful glare: | And, as she felt him clutch her hand, | She seemed to know her heart's desire, | For evermore with him to stand | In that enkindling blaze of fire... | When, suddenly, he left her side; | And started scrambling up the heap: | And, looking up, with stifled cry, | She saw, against the glowing sky, | Almost upon the pit's red brink, | A little lad, stock-still with fright | Before the blazing pit of dread | Agape before him in the night, | Where, playing castles on the height | Since noon, he'd fallen, spent, asleep | And dreaming he was home in bed... | With brain afire, too strained to think, | She watched her lover climb and leap | From jag to jag | Of broken slag... | And still he only seemed to creep... | She felt that he would never reach | That little lad, though he should climb | Until the very end of time... | And, as she looked, the burning breach | Gaped suddenly more wide... | The slag again began to slide, | And crash into the pit, | Until the dazed lad's feet | Stood on the edge of it. | She saw him reel and fall... | And thought him done for ... then | Her lover, brave and tall, | Against the glare and heat, | A very fire-bright god of men! | He stooped ... and now she knew the lad | Was safe with Robert, after all. | And while she watched, a throng of folk | Attracted by the crash and flare, | Had gathered round, though no one spoke | But all stood terror-stricken there, | With lifted eyes and indrawn breath, | Until the lad was snatched from death | Upon the very pit's edge, when, | As Robert picked him up, and turned, | A sigh ran through the crowd; and fear | Gave place to joy, as cheer on cheer | Sang through the kindled air... | But still she never uttered word, | As though she neither saw nor heard; | Till as, at last, her lad drew near, | She saw him bend with tender care | Over the sobbing child who lay | Safe in his arms, and hug him tight | Against his breast--his brow alight | With eager, loving eyes that burned | In his transfigured face aflame... | And even when the parents came | It almost seemed that he was loth | To yield them up their little son; | As though the lad were his by right | Of rescue, from the pit's edge won. | Then, as his eyes met hers, she felt | An answering thrill of tenderness | Run, quickening, through her breast; and both | Stood quivering there, with envious eyes, | And stricken with a strange distress, | As quickly homeward through the night | The happy parents bore their boy... | And then, about her reeling bright, | The whole night seemed to her to melt | In one fierce, fiery flood of joy. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`DEVIL'S EDGE`: .. class:: center large DEVIL'S EDGE .. vspace:: 1 .. | All night I lay on Devil's Edge, | Along an overhanging ledge | Between the sky and sea: | And as I rested 'waiting sleep, | The windless sky and soundless deep | In one dim, blue infinity | Of starry peace encompassed me. | And I remembered, drowsily, | How 'mid the hills last night I 'd lain | Beside a singing moorland burn; | And waked at dawn, to feel the rain | Fall on my face, as on the fern | That drooped about my heather-bed: | And how by noon the wind had blown | The last grey shred from out the sky, | And blew my homespun jacket dry, | As I stood on the topmost stone | That crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head, | And caught a gleam of far-off sea; | And heard the wind sing in the bent | Like those far waters calling me: | When, my heart answering to the call, | I followed down the seaward stream, | By silent pool and singing fall; | Till with a quiet, keen content, | I watched the sun, a crimson ball, | Shoot through grey seas a fiery gleam, | Then sink in opal deeps from sight. | And with the coming on of night, | The wind had dropped: and as I lay, | Retracing all the happy day, | And gazing long and dreamily | Across the dim, unsounding sea, | Over the far horizon came | A sudden sail of amber flame; | And soon the new moon rode on high | Through cloudless deeps of crystal sky. | Too holy seemed the night for sleep: | And yet, I must have slept, it seems; | For, suddenly, I woke to hear | A strange voice singing, shrill and clear, | Down in a gully black and deep | That cleft the beetling crag in twain. | It seemed the very voice of dreams | That drive hag-ridden souls in fear | Through echoing, unearthly vales, | To plunge in black, slow-crawling streams, | Seeking to drown that cry, in vain... | Or some sea creature's voice that wails | Through blind, white banks of fog unlifting | To God-forgotten sailors drifting | Rudderless to death... | And as I heard, | Though no wind stirred, | An icy breath | Was in my hair... | And clutched my heart with cold despair... | But, as the wild song died away, | There came a faltering break | That shivered to a sobbing fall; | And seemed half-human, after all... | And yet, what foot could find a track | In that deep gully, sheer and black... | And singing wildly in the night! | So, wondering I lay awake, | Until the coming of the light | Brought day's familiar presence back. | Down by the harbour-mouth that day, | A fisher told the tale to me. | Three months before, while out at sea, | Young Philip Burn was lost, though how, | None knew, and none would ever know. | The boat becalmed at noonday lay... | And not a ripple on the sea... | And Philip standing in the bow, | When his six comrades went below | To sleep away an hour or so, | Dog-tired with working day and night, | While he kept watch ... and not a sound | They heard, until, at set of sun | They woke; and coming up, they found | The deck was empty, Philip gone... | Yet not another boat in sight... | And not a ripple on the sea. | How he had vanished, none could tell. | They only knew the lad was dead | They'd left but now, alive and well... | And he, poor fellow, newly-wed... | And when they broke the news to her, | She spoke no word to anyone: | But sat all day, and would not stir-- | Just staring, staring in the fire, | With eyes that never seemed to tire; | Until, at last, the day was done, | And darkness came; when she would rise, | And seek the door with queer, wild eyes; | And wander singing all the night | Unearthly songs beside the sea: | But always the first blink of light | Would find her back at her own door. | 'Twas Winter when I came once more | To that old village by the shore: | And as, at night, I climbed the street, | I heard a singing, low and sweet, | Within a cottage near at hand: | And I was glad awhile to stand | And listen by the glowing pane: | And as I hearkened, that sweet strain | Brought back the night when I had lain | Awake on Devil's Edge... | And now I knew the voice again, | So different, free of pain and fear-- | Its terror turned to tenderness-- | And yet the same voice none the less, | Though singing now so true and clear | And drawing nigh the window-ledge, | I watched the mother sing to rest | The baby snuggling to her breast. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`THE LILAC TREE`: .. class:: center large THE LILAC TREE .. vspace:: 1 .. | "I planted her the lilac tree | Upon our wedding day: | But, when the time of blossom came, | With her dead babe she lay... | And, as I stood beside the bed, | The scent of lilac filled the room: | And always when I smell the bloom, | I think upon the dead." | He spoke: and, speaking, sauntered on, | The young girl by his side: | And then they talked no more of death, | But only of the happy things | That burst their buds, and spread their wings, | And break in song at Whitsuntide, | That burst to bloom at Whitsuntide, | And bring the summer in a breath. | And, as they talked, the young girl's life | Broke into bloom and song; | And, one with all the happy things | That burst their buds, and spread their wings, | Her very blood was singing, | And at her pulses ringing; | Life tingled through her, sweet and strong, | From secret sources springing: | And, all at once, a quickening strife | Of hopes and fears was in her heart, | Where only wondering joy had been; | And, kindling with a sudden light, | Her eyes had sight | Of things unseen: | And, in a flash, a woman grown, | With pangs of knowledge, fierce and keen, | She knew strange things unknown. | A year went by: at Whitsuntide, | He brought her home, a bride. | He planted her no lilac tree | Upon their wedding day: | And strange distress came over her, | As on the bed she lay: | For as he stood beside the bed, | The scent of lilac filled the room. | Her heart knew well he smelt the bloom, | And thought upon the dead. | Yet, she was glad to be his wife: | And when the blossom-time was past, | Her days no more were overcast; | And deep she drank of life: | And, thronged with happy household cares, | Her busy days went pleasantly: | Her foot was light upon the stairs; | And every room rang merrily, | And merrily, and merrily, | With song and mirth, for unto her | His heart seemed hers, and hers alone: | Until new dreams began to stir | Her wondering breast with bliss unknown | Of some new miracle to be: | And, though she moved more quietly, | And seldom sang, yet, happily, | From happy dawn to happy night | The mother's eyes shone bright. | But, as her time drew near, | Her heart was filled with fear: | And when the lilac burst to bloom, | And brought the Summer in a breath, | A presence seemed to fill the room, | And fill her heart with death: | And, as her husband lay asleep, | Beside her, on the bed, | Into her breast the thought would creep | That he was dreaming of the dead. | And all the mother's heart in her | Was mad with mother-jealousy | Of that sweet scented lilac tree; | And, blind with savage ecstasy, | Night after night she lay, | Until the blink of day, | With staring eyes and wild, | Half-crazy, lest the lilac tree | Should come betwixt him and his child. | By day, her mother-tenderness | Was turned to brooding bitterness, | Whene'er she looked upon the bloom: | And, if she slept at all at night, | Her heart would waken in affright | To smell the lilac in the gloom: | And, when it rained, it seemed to her, | The fresh keen scent was bitterer: | Though, when the blaze of morning came, | And flooded all the room, | The perfume burnt her heart like flame. | As, in the dark, | One night she lay, | A dark thought shot | Through her hot heart: | And, from a spark | Of smouldering wrong, | Hate burst to fire. | Now, quaking cold, | Now, quivering hot, | With breath indrawn, | Through time untold, | She 'waited dawn | That lagged too long | For her desire. | And when, at last, at break of day, | Her husband rose, and went his way | About his daily toil, | She, too, arose, and dressed, | With frenzy in her breast; | And stole downstairs, and took a spade, | And digged about the lilac roots, | And laid them bare of soil: | Then, with a jagged blade, | She hacked and slashed the naked roots-- | She hacked and slashed with frantic hand, | Until the lilac scarce might stand; | And then again the soil she laid | About the bleeding roots-- | (It seemed to her, the sap ran red | About the writhing roots!) | But, now her heart was eased of strife, | Since she had sapped the lilac's life; | And, frenzy-spent, she dropped the knife: | Then, dizzily she crept to bed, | And lay all day as one nigh dead. | That night a sudden storm awoke, | And struck the slumbering earth to life: | And, as the heavens in thunder broke, | She lay exulting in the strife | Of flash and peal, | And gust and rain; | For now, she thought: the lightning-stroke | Will lay the lilac low; | And he need never know | How I ... and then, again, | Her heart went cold with dread, | As she remembered that the knife | Still lay beneath the lilac tree... | A blinding flash, | A lull, a crash, | A rattling peal... | And suddenly, | She felt her senses reel: | And, crying out: "The knife! The knife!" | Her pangs were on her... | Dawn was red, | When she awoke upon the bed | To life--and knew her babe was dead. | She rose: and cried out fearfully: | "The lilac tree! The lilac tree!" | Then fell back in a swoon. | But, when she waked again at noon, | And looked upon her sleeping child; | And laid her hand upon its head, | No more the mother's heart was wild, | For hate and fear were dead; | And all her brooding bitterness | Broke into tears of tenderness. | And, not a word the father said | About the lilac, lying dead. | A week went by, and Whitsuntide | Came round: and, as she lay, | And looked upon the newborn day, | Her husband, lying by her side, | Spoke to her very tenderly: | "Wife, 'tis again our wedding day, | And we will plant a lilac tree | In memory of the babe that died." | They planted a white lilac tree | Upon their wedding day: | And, when the time of blossom came, | With kindly hearts they lay. | The sunlight streamed upon the bed: | The scent of lilac filled the room: | And, as they smelt the breathing bloom, | They thought upon the dead. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`THE OLD MAN`: .. class:: center large THE OLD MAN .. vspace:: 1 .. | The boat put in at dead of night; | And, when I reached the house, 'twas sleeping dark. | I knew my gentlest tap would be a spark | To set my home alight: | My mother ever listening in her sleep | For my returning step, would leap | Awake with welcome; and my father's eyes | Would twinkle merrily to greet me; | And my young sister would run down to meet me | With sleepy sweet surprise. | And yet, awhile, I lingered | Upon the threshold, listening; | And watched the cold stars glistening, | And seemed to hear the deep | Calm breathing of the house asleep-- | In easy sleep, so deep, I almost feared to break it; | And, even as I fingered | The knocker, loth to wake it, | Like some uncanny inkling | Of news from otherwhere, | I felt a cold breath in my hair, | As though, with chin upon my shoulder, | One waited hard, upon my heel, | With pricking eyes of steel, | Though well I knew that not a soul was there. | Until, at last, grown bolder, | I rapped; and in a twinkling, | The house was all afire | With welcome in the night: | First, in my mother's room, a light; | And then, her foot upon the stair; | A bolt shot back; a candle's flare: | A happy cry; and to her breast | She hugged her heart's desire: | And hushed her fears to rest. | Then, shivering in the keen night air, | My sleepy sister, laughing came; | And drew us in: and stirred to flame | The smouldering kitchen-fire; and set | The kettle on the kindling red: | And, as I watched the homely blaze, | And thought of wandering days | With sharp regret; | I missed my father: then I heard | How he was still a-bed; | And had been ailing, for a day or so; | But, now was waking, if I'd go... | My foot already on the stair, | In answer to my mother's word | I turned; and saw in dull amaze, | Behind her, as she stood all unaware, | An old man sitting in my father's chair. | A strange old man ... yet, as I looked at him, | Before my eyes, a dim | Remembrance seemed to swim | Of some old man, who'd lurked about the boat, | While we were still at sea; | And who had crouched beside me, at the oar, | As we had rowed ashore; | Though, at the time, I'd taken little note, | I felt I'd seen that strange old man before: | But, how he'd come to follow me, | Unknown... | And to be sitting there... | Then I recalled the cold breath in my hair, | When I had stood, alone, | Before the bolted door. | And now my mother, wondering sore | To see me stare and stare, | So strangely, at an empty chair, | Turned, too; and saw the old man there. | And as she turned, he slowly raised | His drooping head; | And looked upon her with her husband's eyes. | She stood, a moment, dazed; | And watched him slowly rise, | As though to come to her: | Then, with a cry, she sped | Upstairs, ere I could stir. | Still dazed, I let her go, alone: | I heard her footstep overhead: | I heard her drop beside the bed, | With low forsaken moan. | Yet, I could only stare and stare | Upon my father's empty chair. .. vspace:: 4 .. _`THE HARE`: .. class:: center large THE HARE .. vspace:: 1 .. | My hands were hot upon a hare, | Half-strangled, struggling in a snare-- | My knuckles at her warm wind-pipe-- | When suddenly, her eyes shot back, | Big, fearful, staggering and black: | And, ere I knew, my grip was slack; | And I was clutching empty air, | Half-mad, half-glad at my lost luck... | When I awoke beside the stack. | 'Twas just the minute when the snipe, | As though clock-wakened, every jack, | An hour ere dawn, dart in and out | The mist-wreaths filling syke and slack, | And flutter wheeling round about, | And drumming out the Summer night. | I lay star-gazing yet a bit; | Then, chilly-skinned, I sat upright, | To shrug the shivers from my back; | And, drawing out a straw to suck, | My teeth nipped through it at a bite... | The liveliest lad is out of pluck | An hour ere dawn--a tame cock-sparrow-- | When cold stars shiver through his marrow, | And wet mist soaks his mother-wit. | But, as the snipe dropped, one by one; | And one by one the stars blinked out; | I knew 'twould only need the sun | To send the shudders right about: | And, as the clear East faded white, | I watched and wearied for the sun-- | The jolly, welcome, friendly sun-- | The sleepy sluggard of a sun | That still kept snoozing out of sight, | Though well he knew the night was done | And, after all, he caught me dozing, | And leapt up, laughing, in the sky | Just as my lazy eyes were closing: | And it was good as gold to lie | Full-length among the straw, and feel | The day wax warmer every minute, | As, glowing glad, from head to heel, | I soaked and rolled rejoicing in it... | When from the corner of my eye, | Upon a heathery knowe hard-by, | With long lugs cocked, and eyes astare, | Yet all serene, I saw a hare. | Upon my belly in the straw, | I lay, and watched her sleek her fur, | As, daintily, with well-licked paw, | She washed her face and neck and ears: | Then, clean and comely in the sun, | She kicked her heels up, full of fun, | As if she did not care a pin | Though she should jump out of her skin, | And leapt and lolloped, free of fears, | Until my heart frisked round with her. | "And yet, if I but lift my head, | You'll scamper off, young Puss," I said. | "Still, I can't lie, and watch you play, | Upon my belly half-the-day. | The Lord alone knows where I'm going: | But, I had best be getting there. | Last night I loosed you from the snare-- | Asleep, or waking, who's for knowing!-- | So, I shall thank you now for showing | Which art to take to bring me where | My luck awaits me. When you're ready | To start, I'll follow on your track. | Though slow of foot, I'm sure and steady..." | She pricked her ears, then set them back; | And like a shot was out of sight: | And, with a happy heart and light, | As quickly I was on my feet; | And following the way she went, | Keen as a lurcher on the scent, | Across the heather and the bent, | Across the quaking moss and peat. | Of course, I lost her soon enough, | For moorland tracks are steep and rough; | And hares are made of nimbler stuff | Than any lad of seventeen, | However lanky-legged and tough, | However, kestrel-eyed and keen: | And I'd at last to stop and eat | The little bit of bread and meat | Left in my pocket overnight. | So, in a hollow, snug and green, | I sat beside a burn, and dipped | The dry bread in an icy pool; | And munched a breakfast fresh and cool... | And then sat gaping like a fool... | For, right before my very eyes, | With lugs acock, and eyes astare, | I saw again the selfsame hare. | So, up I jumped, and off she slipped: | And I kept sight of her until | I stumbled in a hole, and tripped; | And came a heavy, headlong spill: | And she, ere I'd the wit to rise, | Was o'er the hill, and out of sight: | And, sore and shaken with the tumbling, | And sicker at my foot for stumbling, | I cursed my luck, and went on, grumbling, | The way her flying heels had fled. | The sky was cloudless overhead; | And just alive with larks asinging: | And, in a twinkling, I was swinging | Across the windy hills, lighthearted. | A kestrel at my footstep started, | Just pouncing on a frightened mouse, | And hung o'erhead with wings a-hover: | Through rustling heath an adder darted: | A hundred rabbits bobbed to cover: | A weasel, sleek and rusty-red, | Popped out of sight as quick as winking: | I saw a grizzled vixen slinking | Behind a clucking brood of grouse | That rose and cackled at my coming: | And all about my way were flying | The peewit, with their slow wings creaking | And little jack-snipe darted, drumming: | And now and then a golden plover | Or redshank piped with reedy whistle. | But never shaken bent or thistle | Betrayed the quarry I was seeking | And not an instant, anywhere | Did I clap eyes upon a hare. | So, travelling still, the twilight caught me: | And as I stumbled on, I muttered: | "A deal of luck the hare has brought me! | The wind and I must spend together | A hungry night among the heather. | If I'd her here..." And as I uttered, | I tripped, and heard a frightened squeal; | And dropped my hands in time to feel | The hare just bolting 'twixt my feet. | She slipped my clutch: and I stood there | And cursed that devil-littered hare, | That left me stranded in the dark | In that wide waste of quaggy peat | Beneath black night without a spark: | When, looking up, I saw a flare | Upon a far-off hill, and said: | "By God, the heather is afire! | It's mischief at this time of year..." | And then, as one bright flame shot higher, | And booths and vans stood out quite clear; | My wits came back into my head: | And I remembered Brough Hill Fair. | And, as I stumbled towards the glare, | I knew the sudden kindling meant | The Fair was over for the day; | And all the cattle-folk away | And gipsy-folk and tinkers now | Were lighting supper-fires without | Each caravan and booth and tent. | And, as I climbed the stiff hill-brow, | I quite forgot my lucky hare. | I'd something else to think about: | For well I knew there's broken meat | For empty bellies after fair-time; | And looked to have a royal rare time | With something rich and prime to eat: | And then to lie and toast my feet | All night beside the biggest fire. | But, even as I neared the first, | A pleasant whiff of stewing burst | From out a smoking pot a-bubble: | And, as I stopped behind the folk | Who sprawled around, and watched it seething | A woman heard my eager breathing, | And, turning, caught my hungry eye: | And called out to me: "Draw in nigher, | Unless you find it too much trouble; | Or you've a nose for better fare, | And go to supper with the Squire... | You've got the hungry parson's air!" | And all looked up, and took the joke, | As I dropped gladly to the ground | Among them, where they all lay gazing | Upon the bubbling and the blazing. | My eyes were dazzled by the fire | At first; and then I glanced around; | And, in those swarthy, fire-lit faces-- | Though drowsing in the glare and heat | And snuffing the warm savour in, | Dead-certain of their fill of meat-- | I felt the bit between the teeth, | The flying heels, the broken traces, | And heard the highroad ring beneath | The trampling hoofs: and knew them kin. | Then for the first time, standing there | Behind the woman who had hailed me, | I saw a girl with eyes astare | That looked in terror o'er my head: | And, all at once, my courage failed me... | For now again, and sore-adread, | My hands were hot upon a hare, | That struggled, strangling in the snare... | Then once more as the girl stood clear, | Before me--quaking cold with fear | I saw the hare look from her eyes... | And when, at last, I turned to see | What held her scared, I saw a man-- | A fat man with dull eyes aleer-- | Within the shadow of the van: | And I was on the point to rise | To send him spinning 'mid the wheels, | And twist his neck between his heels, | And stop his leering grin with mud... | And would have done it in a tick... | When, suddenly, alive with fright, | She started, with red, parted lips, | As though she guessed we'd come to grips, | And turned her black eyes full on me... | And, as I looked into their light, | My heart forgot the lust of fight, | And something shot me to the quick, | And ran like wildfire through my blood, | And tingled to my finger-tips... | And, in a dazzling flash, I knew | I'd never been alive before... | And she was mine for evermore. | While all the others slept asnore | In caravan and tent that night, | I lay alone beside the fire; | And stared into its blazing core, | With eyes that would not shut or tire, | Because the best of all was true, | And they looked still into the light | Of her eyes, burning ever bright. | Within the brightest coal for me... | Once more, I saw her, as she started, | And glanced at me with red lips parted: | And, as she looked, the frightened hare | Had fled her eyes; and, merrily, | She smiled, with fine teeth flashing white, | As though she, too, were happy-hearted... | Then she had trembled suddenly, | And dropped her eyes, as that fat man | Stepped from the shadow of the van, | And joined the circle, as the pot | Was lifted off, and, piping-hot, | The supper steamed in wooden bowls. | Yet, she had hardly touched a bite: | And never raised her eyes all night | To mine again: but on the coals, | As I sat staring, she had stared-- | The black curls, shining round her head | From under the red kerchief, tied | So nattily beneath her chin-- | And she had stolen off to bed | Quite early, looking dazed and scared. | Then, all agape and sleepy-eyed, | Ere long the others had turned in: | And I was rid of that fat man, | Who slouched away to his own van. | And now, before her van, I lay, | With sleepless eyes, awaiting day: | And, as I gazed upon the glare, | I heard, behind, a gentle stir: | And, turning round, I looked on her | Where she stood on the little stair | Outside the van, with listening air-- | And, in her eyes, the hunted hare... | And then, I saw her slip away, | A bundle underneath her arm, | Without a single glance at me. | I lay a moment wondering, | My heart a-thump like anything, | Then, fearing she should come to harm, | I rose, and followed speedily | Where she had vanished in the night. | And, as she heard my step behind, | She started, and stopt dead with fright: | Then blundered on as if struck blind: | And now as I caught up with her, | Just as she took the moorland track, | I saw the hare's eyes, big and black... | She made as though she'd double back... | But, when she looked into my eyes, | She stood quite still and did not stir... | And, picking up her fallen pack, | I tucked it 'neath my arm; and she | Just took her luck quite quietly. | As she must take what chance might come, | And would not have it otherwise, | And walked into the night with me, | Without a word across the fells. | And, all about us, through the night, | The mists were stealing, cold and white, | Down every rushy syke or slack: | But, soon the moon swung into sight: | And, as we went, my heart was light, | And singing like a burn in flood: | And in my ears were tinkling bells: | My body was a rattled drum: | And fifes were shrilling through my blood | That summer night, to think that she | Was walking through the world with me. | But when the air with dawn was chill, | As we were travelling down a hill, | She broke her silence with low-sobbing: | And told her tale, her bosom throbbing | As though her very heart were shaken | With fear she'd yet be overtaken... | She'd always lived in caravans-- | Her father's, gay as any man's, | Grass-green, picked out with red and yellow | And glittering brave with burnished brass | That sparkled in the sun like flame, | And window curtains, white as snow... | But, they had died, ten years ago, | Her parents both, when fever came... | And they were buried, side by side, | Somewhere beneath the wayside grass... | In times of sickness, they kept wide | Of towns and busybodies, so | No parson's or policeman's tricks | Should bother them when in a fix... | Her father never could abide | A black coat or a blue, poor man... | And so, Long Dick, a kindly fellow, | When you could keep him from the can, | And Meg, his easy-going wife, | Had taken her into their van; | And kept her since her parents died... | And she had lived a happy life, | Until Fat Pete's young wife was taken... | But, ever since, he'd pestered her... | And she dared scarcely breathe or stir, | Lest she should see his eyes aleer... | And many a night she'd lain and shaken, | And very nearly died of fear-- | Though safe enough within the van | With Mother Meg and her good-man-- | For, since Fat Pete was Long Dick's friend, | And they were thick and sweet as honey; | And Dick owed Pete a pot of money, | She knew too well how it must end... | And she would rather lie stone dead | Beneath the wayside grass than wed | With leering Pete, and live the life, | And die the death, of his first wife... | And so, last night, clean-daft with dread, | She'd bundled up a pack and fled... | When all the sobbing tale was out, | She dried her eyes, and looked about, | As though she'd left all fear behind, | And out of sight were out of mind. | Then, when the dawn was burning red, | "I'm hungry as a hawk!" she said: | And from the bundle took out bread. | And, at the happy end of night, | We sat together by a burn: | And ate a thick slice, turn by turn; | And laughed and kissed between each bite. | Then, up again, and on our way | We went; and tramped the livelong day | The moorland trackways, steep and rough, | Though there was little fear enough | That they would follow on our flight. | And then again a shiny night | Among the honey-scented heather, | We wandered in the moonblaze bright, | Together through a land of light, | A lad and lass alone with life. | And merrily we laughed together, | When, starting up from sleep, we heard | The cock-grouse talking to his wife... | And "Old Fat Pete" she called the bird. | Six months and more have cantered by: | And, Winter past, we're out again-- | We've left the fat and weatherwise | To keep their coops and reeking sties, | And eat their fill of oven-pies, | While we win free and out again | To take potluck beneath the sky | With sun and moon and wind and rain. | Six happy months ... and yet, at night, | I've often wakened in affright, | And looked upon her lying there, | Beside me sleeping quietly, | Adread that when she waked, I'd see | The hunted hare within her eyes. | And, only last night, as I slept | Beneath the shelter of a stack... | My hands were hot upon a hare, | Half-strangled, struggling in the snare, | When, suddenly, her eyes shot back, | Big, fearful, staggering and black; | And ere I knew, my grip was slack, | And I was clutching empty air... | Bolt-upright from my sleep I leapt... | Her place was empty in the straw... | And then, with quaking heart, I saw | That she was standing in the night, | A leveret cuddled to her breast... | I spoke no word: but, as the light | Through banks of Eastern cloud was breaking, | She turned, and saw that I was waking: | And told me how she could not rest; | And, rising in the night, she'd found | This baby-hare crouched on the ground; | And she had nursed it quite a while: | But, now, she'd better let it go... | Its mother would be fretting so... | A mother's heart... | I saw her smile, | And look at me with tender eyes: | And as I looked into their light, | My foolish, fearful heart grew wise... | And now, I knew that never there | I'd see again the startled hare, | Or need to dread the dreams of night. | 1910-1911. .. vspace:: 4 .. class:: center small LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED. .. vspace:: 6 .. pgfooter::