Class 
 Book. 
 
 Copyright^ . 
 
 _ 
 
 _ 
 
 cdeought DEPosm 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 DRAMATIC REVERIES 
 
 BY 
 WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF " DAILY BREAD," " BORDERLANDS AND 
 THOROUGHFARES," " BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS," ETC. 
 
 Nm fork 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 
 All rights reserved 
 

 Copyright, 191 7 
 
 By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 191 7 
 
 *'; 
 
 *j/^» 
 
 JAN -4 1917 
 
 )Q^A453531 
 
TO AUDREY 
 
 Audrey, these men and women I have known 
 I have brought together in a book for you, 
 So that my child some day when she is grown 
 May know the friendly folk her father knew. 
 
 Wondering how fathers can be so absurd, 
 Perhaps you'll take it idly from the shelves, 
 And, reading, hear, as once I overheard, 
 These men and women talking to themselves. 
 
 And so find out how they faced life and earned, 
 As you one day must earn, a livelihood, 
 And how, in spite of everything, they learned 
 To take their luck through life and find it good. 
 
 And, maybe, as you share each hope and fear 
 And all the secrets that they never told, 
 For their sake you'll forgive your father, dear, 
 Almost for being so absurd and old. 
 
 And may it somewhat help to make amends 
 To think that, in their sorrow and their mirth, 
 Such men and women were your father's friends 
 In old incredible days before your birth. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Prelude. The Old Nail-Shop 3 
 
 The Shaet 5 
 
 In the Orchestra 12 
 
 The Swing *7 
 
 The Drove-Road 21 
 
 The Rocklight 28 
 
 The Plough 35 
 
 The Old Piper 39 
 
 The News 44 
 
 Daffodils 54 
 
 Between the Lines 59 
 
 Strawberries 66 
 
 The Blast-Furnace . 7° 
 
 In the Meadow 76 
 
 Partners ^o 
 
 The Elm 8 7 
 
 The Doctor 9 1 
 
 The Lamp 9<5 
 
 The Platelayer io 5 
 
 Makeshifts io 9 
 
 Vll 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
THE OLD NAIL-SHOP 
 
 I dreamt of wings, — and waked to hear 
 Through the low-sloping ceiling clear 
 The nesting starlings flutter and scratch 
 Among the rafters of the thatch, 
 Not twenty inches from my head; 
 And lay, half-dreaming in my bed, 
 Watching the far elms— bolt-upright 
 Black towers of silence in a night 
 Of stars, between the window-sill 
 And the low-hung eaves, square-framed, until 
 I drowsed, and must have slept a wink . . . 
 And wakened to a ceaseless clink 
 Of hammers ringing on the air . . . 
 And, somehow, only half-aware, 
 I'd risen and crept down the stair, 
 Bewildered by strange smoky gloom, 
 Until I'd reached the living-room 
 That once had been a nail-shop shed. 
 And where my hearth had blazed, instead 
 I saw the nail-forge glowing red; 
 And, through the stife and smoky glare, 
 Three dreaming women standing there 
 With hammers beating red-hot wire 
 On tinkling anvils, by the fire, 
 To ten-a-penny nails; and heard — 
 Though none looked up or breathed a word — 
 3 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 The song each heart sang to the tune 
 Of hammers, through a summer's noon, 
 When they had wrought in that red glow, 
 Alive, a hundred years ago — 
 The song of girl and wife and crone, 
 Sung in the heart of each alone . . . 
 
 The dim-eyed crone with nodding head — 
 "He's dead; and I'll, too, soon be dead." 
 
 The grave-eyed mother, gaunt with need — 
 "Another little mouth to feed!" 
 
 The black-eyed girl, with eyes alight — 
 "I'll wear the yellow beads to-night." 
 
THE SHAFT 
 
 He must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould 
 
 seem 
 He'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit, 
 After his lamp ... or was it all a dream 
 That he'd nigh reached the cage — his new lamp lit 
 And swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad 
 To think the shift was over — when he'd tripped 
 And stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad 
 His mother called him; and his lamp had slipped 
 And smashed to smithereens; and left him there 
 In pitchy dark, half-stunned, and with barked 
 
 shins? 
 He'd cursed his luck; although he didn't care, 
 Not overmuch: you suffered for your sins: 
 And, anyway, he must be nigh the shaft; 
 And he could fumble his way out somehow, 
 If he were last, and none came by. 'Twas daft 
 To do a trick like thon. 
 
 And even now 
 His mother would be waiting. How she'ld laugh 
 To hear about it! She was always game 
 For fun, she was, and such a one for chaff — 
 A fellow had no chance. But 'twas the same 
 With women always: you could never tell 
 What they'ld be at, or after saying next: 
 They'd such queer, tricky tongues; and it was well 
 For men to let them talk when they were vexed — 
 
 5 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Although, his mother, she was seldom cross. 
 
 But she'ld be wondering, now, ay, that she would — 
 
 Hands folded in her apron, at a loss 
 
 To know what kept him, even now she stood, 
 
 Biting her lips, he'ld warrant. She aye bit 
 
 Her lips till they were white when things went 
 
 wrong. 
 She'd never liked his taking to the pit, 
 After his father'd. . . . Ay, and what a song 
 She'ld make . . . and supper cold! It must be 
 
 late. 
 The last on the last shift! After to-day 
 The pit was being laid idle! Jack, his mate, 
 Had left him, tidying — hurrying away 
 To back . . . And no night-shift . . . 
 
 If that cursed lamp 
 Had not gone out. . . . But that was hours ago — 
 How many hours he couldn't tell. The cramp * 
 Was in his thighs. And what could a lad know 
 Who'd crawled for hours upon his hands and knees 
 Through miles on miles of hot, black, dripping night 
 Of low-roofed, unfamiliar galleries? 
 He'ld give a hundred pound to stand upright 
 And stretch his legs a moment: but, somehow, 
 He'd never reached a refuge, though he'd felt 
 The walls on either hand. He'd bumped his brow 
 Till he was dizzy. And the heat would melt 
 The marrow in his bones. And yet he'd gone 
 A dozen miles at least, and hadn't found 
 Even a crossway. On and on and on 
 He'd crawled, and crawled ; and never caught a sound 
 
 6 
 
THE SHAFT 
 
 Save water dripping, dripping, or the creak 
 Of settling coal. If he could only hear 
 His own voice even; but he dared not speak 
 Above a whisper . . . 
 
 There was naught to fear; 
 And he was not afraid of aught, not he! 
 He would come on a shaft, before he knew. 
 He couldn't miss. The longest gallery 
 Must end somewhere or other; though 'twas true 
 He hadn't guessed the drift could be so long. 
 
 If he had not come straight ... If he had turned, 
 Unknowing, in the dark ... If he'd gone wrong 
 Once, then why not a dozen times! It burned 
 His very heart to tinder, just to think 
 That he, maybe, was crawling round and round 
 And round and round, and hadn't caught a blink 
 Of light at all, or hadn't heard a sound. . . . 
 'Twas queer, gey queer . . . 
 
 Or was he going daft, 
 And only dreaming he was underground 
 In some black pit of hell, without a shaft — 
 Just one long gallery that wound and wound, 
 Where he must crawl for ever with the drip 
 Of lukewarm water drumming on his back . . . 
 
 'Twas nightmare, surely, had him in its grip. 
 His head was like to split, his spine to crack . . . 
 If he could only call, his mother'ld come 
 And shake him; and he 'Id find himself in bed . . . 
 She'ld joke his fright away . . . But he was dumb, 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And couldn't shout to save himself . . . His head 
 Seemed full of water, dripping, dripping, drip- 
 ping . . . 
 And he, somehow, inside it — huge and dark 
 His own skull soared above him ... He kept 
 
 slipping, 
 And clutching at the crumbling walls ... A 
 
 spark 
 Flared suddenly; and to a blood-red blaze 
 His head was bursting; and the pain would 
 break . . . 
 
 'Twas solid coal he'd run against, adaze — 
 Coal, sure enough. And he was broad awake, 
 And crawling still through that unending drift 
 Of some old working, long disused. He'd known 
 That there were such. If he could only lift 
 His head a moment; but the roof of stone 
 Crushed low upon him. A gey narrow seam 
 He must be in, — and bad to work: no doubt 
 That's why 'twas given up. He'ld like to scream, 
 His cut knees hurt so sorely; but a shout 
 Might bring the crumbling roof down on his head, 
 And squash him flat. 
 
 If he could only creep 
 Between the cool white sheets of his own bed, 
 And turn towards the wall, and sleep, and sleep — 
 And dream, maybe, of pigeons soaring high, 
 Turning and tumbling in the morning light, 
 With wings ashimmer in a cloudless sky. 
 He'ld give the world to see a bonnie flight 
 
 8 
 
THE SHAFT 
 
 Of his own pigeons rise with flapping wings, 
 Soaring and sweeping almost out of sight, 
 Till he was dizzy, watching the mad things 
 Tossing and tumbling at that dazzling height. 
 Ay, and his homers, too — if they'd come in, 
 He hoped his mother'd fed them. They would be 
 Fair famished after such a flight, and thin. 
 But she would feed them, sure enough; for she 
 Liked pigeons, too — would stand there at the door 
 With arms akimbo, staring at the blue, 
 Her black eyes shining as she watched them soar, 
 Without a word, till they were out of view. 
 And how she laughed to hear them scold and pout, 
 Ruffle and fuss — like menfolk, she would say: 
 Nobody knowing what 'twas all about, 
 And least of all themselves. That was her way, 
 To joke and laugh the tantrums out of him. 
 He'ld tie his neckerchief before the glass; 
 And she'ld call him her pigeon, Peter Prim, 
 Preening himself, she'd say, to meet his lass — 
 Though he'd no lass, not he! A scarf well tied, 
 No gaudy colours, just a red or yellow, 
 Was what he fancied. What harm if he tried 
 To keep himself respectable! A fellow — 
 Though womenfolk might laugh and laugh . . . 
 
 And now 
 He wondered if he'ld hear her laugh again 
 With hands on hips and sparkling eyes. His 
 
 brow 
 Seemed clampt with red-hot iron bands; and pain 
 Shot red-hot needles through his legs — his back, 
 
 9 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 A raw and aching spine that bore the strain 
 Of all the earth above him : the dead black 
 Unending clammy night blinding his brain 
 To a black blankness shot with scarlet streaks 
 Of searing lightning; and he scarcely knew 
 If he'd been crawling hours, or days, or weeks . . . 
 And now the lightning glimmered faintly blue, 
 And gradually the blackness paled to grey: 
 And somewhere, far ahead, he caught the gleam 
 Of light, daylight, the very light of day, 
 Day, dazzling day! 
 
 Thank God, it was no dream. 
 He felt a cooler air upon his face; 
 And scrambling madly for some moments more, 
 Though centuries it seemed, he reached the place 
 Where through the chinks of the old crumbling 
 
 door 
 Of a disused upcast-shaft, grey ghostly light 
 Strained feebly, though it seemed the sun's own 
 
 blaze 
 To eyes so long accustomed to the night 
 And peering blindly through that pitchy maze. 
 
 The door dropped from its hinges — and upright 
 He stood, at last, bewildered and adaze, 
 In a strange dazzling world of flowering white. 
 Plumed snowy fronds and delicate downy sprays, 
 Fantastic as the feathery work of frost, 
 Drooped round him from the wet walls of the 
 shaft — 
 
 10 
 
THE SHAFT 
 
 A monstrous growth of mould, huge mould. And 
 
 lost 
 In wonder he stood gaping; and then laughed 
 To see that living beauty— quietly 
 
 He laughed to see it: and awhile forgot 
 All danger. He would tell his mother: she 
 Would scarce know whether to believe or not, — 
 But laugh to hear how, when he came on it, 
 It dazzled him. If she could only see 
 That fluffy white — come on it from the pit, 
 Snow-white as fantails' feathers, suddenly 
 As he had, she'ld laugh too: she . . . 
 
 Icy cold 
 Shot shuddering through him, as he stept beneath 
 A trickle. He looked up. That monstrous mould 
 Frightened him ; and he stood with chattering teeth, 
 Seeming to feel it growing over him 
 Already, shutting out the fleck of sky 
 That up the slimy shaft gleamed far and dim. 
 'Twould flourish on his bones when he should lie 
 Forgotten in the shaft. Its clammy breath 
 Was choking him already. He would die, 
 And no one know how he'd come by his death . . . 
 Dank, cold mould growing slowly. By and by 
 'Twould cover him; and not a soul to tell . . . 
 
 With a wild cry he tried to scramble out, 
 Clutching the wall . . . Mould covered him . . . 
 
 He fell, 
 As, close at hand, there came an answering shout. 
 
IN THE ORCHESTRA 
 
 He'd played each night for months; and never heard 
 
 A single tinkly tune, or caught a word 
 
 Of all the silly songs and sillier jests; 
 
 And he'd seen nothing, even in the rests, 
 
 Of that huge audience piled from floor to ceiling 
 
 Whose stacked white faces sent his dazed wits 
 
 reeling . . . 
 He'd been too happy; and had other things 
 To think of while he scraped his fiddle-strings . . . 
 
 But now, he'd nothing left to think about — 
 Nothing he dared to think of . . . 
 
 In and out 
 The hollow fiddle of his head the notes 
 Jingled and jangled; and the raucous throats 
 Of every star rasped jibes into his ear, — 
 Each separate syllable, precise and clear, 
 As though 'twere life or death if he should miss 
 A single cackle, crow or quack, or hiss 
 Of cockadoodling fools . . . 
 
 A week ago 
 He'd sat beside her bed ; and heard her low 
 Dear voice talk softly of her hopes and fears — 
 Their hopes and fears; and every afternoon 
 He'd watched her lying there . . . 
 
 A fat buffoon 
 In crimson trousers prancing, strut and cluck — 
 
IN THE ORCHESTRA 
 
 Cackling: "A fellow never knows his luck. 
 
 He never knows his luck. He never knows 
 
 His luck." . . . And in and out. the old gag goes 
 
 Of either ear, and in and out again, 
 
 Playing at "You-can't-catch-me" through his 
 
 brain — 
 "Er knows his luck." . . . 
 
 How well they thought they knew 
 Their luck, and such a short while since, they two 
 Together. Life was lucky: and 'twas good 
 Then, to be fiddling for a livelihood — 
 His livelihood and hers . . . 
 
 A woman sang 
 With grinning teeth. The whole house rocked and 
 
 rang. 
 In the whole house there was no empty place : 
 And there were grinning teeth in every face 
 Of all those faces, grinning, tier on tier, 
 From orchestra to ceiling chandelier 
 That caught in every prism a grinning light, 
 As from the little black box up a height 
 The changing limelight streamed down on the 
 
 stage. 
 And he was filled with reasonless, dull rage 
 To see those grinning teeth, those grinning rows; 
 And wondered if those lips would never close, 
 But gape for ever through an endless night, 
 Grinning and mowing in the green limelight. 
 
 And now they seemed to grin in mockery 
 Of him ; and then, as he turned suddenly 
 
 13 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 To face them, flaming, it was his own face 
 
 That mowed and grinned at him from every 
 
 place — 
 Grimacing on him with the set, white grin 
 Of his own misery through that dazzling din . . . 
 Yet, all the while he hadn't raised his head, 
 But fiddled, fiddled for his daily bread, 
 His livelihood — no longer hers . . . 
 
 And now 
 He heard no more the racket and the row, 
 Nor saw the aching, glittering glare, nor smelt 
 The smother of hot breaths and smoke — but felt 
 A wet wind on his face . . . 
 
 He sails again 
 Home with her up the river in the rain — 
 Leaving the grey domes and grey colonnades 
 Of Greenwich in their wake as daylight fades — 
 By huge dark cavernous wharves with flaring lights, 
 Warehouses built for some mad London night's 
 Fantastic entertainment, — grimmer far 
 Than Baghdad dreamt of— monstrous and bizarre, 
 They loom against the night; and seem to hold 
 Preposterous secrets horrible and old, 
 Behind black doors and windows. 
 
 Yet even they 
 Make magic with more mystery the way, 
 As, hand in hand, they sail through the blue 
 
 gloam 
 Up the old river of enchantment, home . . . 
 
 14 
 
IN THE ORCHESTRA 
 
 He heard strange, strangled voices — he, alone 
 Once more, — like voices through the telephone, 
 Thin and unreal, inarticulate 
 Twanging and clucking at terrific rate — 
 Pattering, pattering . . . 
 
 And again aware 
 He grew of all the racket and the glare, 
 Aware again of the antic strut and cluck — 
 And there was poor old " Never-know-his-luck " 
 Doing another turn — yet, not a smile, 
 Although he'd changed his trousers and his 
 
 style. 
 The same old trousers and the same old wheeze 
 Was what the audience liked. He tried to please, 
 And knew he failed: and suddenly turned old 
 Before those circling faces glum and cold — 
 A fat old man with cracked voice piping thin, 
 Trying to make those wooden faces grin, 
 With frantic kicks and desperate wagging head, 
 To win the applause that meant his daily bread — 
 Gagging and prancing for a livelihood, 
 His daily bread . . . 
 
 God! how he understood! 
 He'd fiddled for their livelihood — for her, 
 And for the one who never came . . . 
 
 A stir 
 Upon the stage; and now another turn — 
 The old star guttered out, too old to burn. 
 And he remembered she had liked the chap 
 When she'd been there that night. He'd seen her clap, 
 
 *5 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Laughing so merrily. She liked it all — 
 
 The razzle-dazzle of the music-hall — 
 
 And laughing faces . . . said she liked to see 
 
 Hardworking people laughing heartily 
 
 After the day's work. She liked everything — 
 
 His playing, even! Snap . . . another string — 
 
 The third! 
 
 And she'd been happy in that place, 
 Seeing a friendly face in every face. 
 That was her way — the whole world was her friend. 
 And she'd been happy, happy to the end, 
 As happy as the day was long 
 
 And he 
 Fiddled on, dreaming of her quietly. 
 
 16 
 
THE SWING 
 
 'Twas jolly, swinging through the air, 
 With young Dick Garland sitting there 
 Tugging the rope with might and main, 
 His round face flushed, his arms astrain, 
 His laughing blue eyes shining bright, 
 As they went swinging through the light- 
 As they went swinging, ever higher 
 Until it seemed that they came nigher 
 At every swing to the blue sky — 
 Until it seemed that by-and-by 
 The boat would suddenly swing through 
 That sunny dazzle of clear blue — 
 And they, together . . . 
 
 Yesterday 
 She'd hardly thought she'ld get away: 
 The mistress was that cross, and she 
 Had only told her after tea 
 That ere she left she must set to 
 And turn the parlour out. She knew, 
 Ay, well enough, that it meant more 
 Than two hours' work. And so at four 
 She'd risen that morn; and done it all 
 Before her mistress went to call 
 And batter at her bedroom door 
 At six to rouse her. Such a floor, 
 So hard to sweep; and all that brass 
 To polish ! Any other lass 
 
 i7 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 But her would have thrown up the place, 
 And told the mistress to her face . . . 
 
 But how could she! Her money meant 
 So much to them at home. 'Twas spent 
 So quickly, though so hard to earn. 
 She'd got to keep her place, and learn 
 To hold her tongue. Though it was hard, 
 The little house in Skinner's Yard 
 Must be kept going. She would rob 
 The bairns if she should lose her job, 
 And they'd go hungry . . . 
 
 Since the night 
 They'd brought home father, cold and white, 
 Upon a stretcher, mother and she 
 Had had to struggle ceaselessly 
 To keep a home together at all. 
 'Twas lucky she was big and tall 
 And such a strong lass for fifteen. 
 She couldn't think where they'ld have been 
 If she'd not earned enough to feed 
 And help to keep the bairns from need — 
 Those five young hungry mouths . . . 
 
 And she 
 For one long day beside the sea 
 Was having a rare holiday . . . 
 
 'Twas queer that Dick should want to pay 
 So much good money, hardly earned, 
 To bring her with him . . . 
 
 18 
 
THE SWING 
 
 How it burned, 
 That blazing sun in the blue sky ! 
 And it was good to swing so high — 
 So high into the burning blue, 
 Until it seemed they'ld swing right through . . . 
 
 And good just to be sitting there 
 And watching Dick with tumbled hair 
 And his red necktie floating free 
 Against the blue of sky and sea, 
 As up and down and up and down 
 Beyond the low roofs of the town 
 They swung and swung . . . 
 
 And he was glad 
 To pay for her, the foolish lad, 
 And happy to be swinging there 
 With her, and rushing through the air, 
 So high into the burning blue 
 It seemed that they would swing right through . 
 
 'Twas well that she had caught the train, 
 She'd had to run with might and main 
 To catch it: and Dick waiting there 
 With tickets ready . . . 
 
 How his hair 
 Shone in the sunshine, and the light 
 Made his blue, laughing eyes so bright 
 Whenever he looked up at her . . . 
 
 She'ld like to sit, and never stir 
 Again out of that easy seat — 
 
 19 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 With no more mats to shake and beat 
 And no more floors to sweep, no stairs 
 To scrub, and no more heavy chairs 
 To move — for she was sleepy now . . . 
 Dick's hair had fallen over his brow 
 Into his eyes. He shook them free, 
 And laughed to her. 'Twas queer that he 
 Should think it worth his while to pay, 
 And give her such a holiday . . . 
 But she was sleepy now. 'Twas rare, 
 As they were rushing through the air 
 To see Dick's blue eyes shining bright 
 As they went swinging through the light, 
 As they went swinging ever higher 
 Until it seemed that they came nigher 
 At every swing to that blue sky — 
 Until it seemed that by-and-by 
 Their boat would suddenly swing through 
 That sunny dazzle of clear blue . . . 
 
 If she could swing for evermore 
 With Dick above that golden shore, 
 With no more parlour-floors to sweep — 
 If she could only swing and sleep . . . 
 And wake to see Dick's eyes burn bright, 
 To see them laughing with delight 
 As suddenly they swung right through 
 That sudden dazzle of clear blue — 
 And they two, sailing on together 
 For ever through that shining weather' 
 
 20 
 
THE DROVE-ROAD 
 
 'Twas going to snow — 'twas snowing! Curse his 
 
 luck! 
 And fifteen mile to travel — here was he 
 With nothing but an empty pipe to suck, 
 And half a flask of rum — but that would be 
 More welcome later on. He'd had a drink 
 Before he left; and that would keep him warm 
 A tidy while: and 'twould be good to think 
 He'd something to fall back on, if the storm 
 Should come to much. You never knew with snow. 
 A sup of rain he didn't mind at all, 
 But snow was different with so far to go — 
 Full fifteen mile, and not a house of call. 
 Ay, snow was quite another story, quite — 
 Snow on these fell-tops with a north-east wind 
 Behind it, blowing steadily with a bite 
 That made you feel that you were stark and 
 
 skinned. 
 
 And these poor beasts — and they just off the boat 
 
 A day or so, and hardly used to land — 
 
 Still dizzy with the sea, their wits afloat. 
 
 When they first reached the dock, they scarce could 
 
 stand, 
 They'd been so joggled. It's gey bad to cross, 
 After a long day's jolting in the train 
 Thon Irish Channel, always pitch and toss — 
 
 21 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And heads or tails, not much for them to gain ! 
 And then the market, and the throng and noise 
 Of yapping dogs; and they stung mad with fear, 
 Welted with switches by those senseless boys — 
 He'ld like to dust their jackets! But 'twas queer, 
 A beast's life, when you came to think of it 
 From start to finish — queerer, ay, a lot 
 Than any man's, and chancier a good bit. 
 With his ash-sapling at their heels they'd got 
 To travel before night those fifteen miles 
 Of hard fell-road, against the driving snow, 
 Half-blinded, on and on. He thought at whiles 
 'Twas just as well for them they couldn't know . . . 
 
 Though, as for that, 'twas little that he knew 
 Himself what was in store for him. He took 
 Things as they came. 'Twas all a man could do; 
 And he'd kept going, somehow, by hook or crook. 
 And here he was, with fifteen mile of fell, 
 And snow, and . . . God, but it was blowing 
 
 stiff! 
 And no tobacco. Blest if he could tell 
 Where he had lost it — but, for half a whiff 
 He'ld swop the very jacket off his back — 
 Not that he'ld miss the cobweb of old shreds 
 That held the holes together. 
 
 Thon Cheap- Jack 
 Who'd sold it him had said it was Lord Ted's, 
 And London cut. But Teddy had grown fat 
 Since he'd been made an alderman . . . His bid? 
 And did the gentleman not want a hat 
 
 22 
 
THE DROVE- ROAD 
 
 To go with it, a topper? If he did, 
 Here was the very . . . 
 
 Hell, but it was cold: 
 And driving dark it was — nigh dark as night. 
 He'ld almost think he must be getting old, 
 To feel the wind so. And long out of sight 
 The beasts had trotted. Well, what odds! The 
 
 way 
 Ran straight for ten miles on, and they'ld go 
 
 straight. 
 They'ld never heed a by-road. Many a day 
 He'd had to trudge on, trusting them to fate, 
 And always found them safe. They scamper fast, 
 But in the end a man could walk them down. 
 They're showy trotters; but they cannot last. 
 He'ld race the fastest beast for half-a-crown 
 On a day's journey. Beasts were never made 
 For steady travelling; drive them twenty mile, 
 And they were done ; while he was not afraid 
 To tackle twice that distance with a smile. 
 
 But not a day like this! He'd never felt 
 
 A wind with such an edge. 'Twas like the blade 
 
 Of the rasper in the pocket of his belt 
 
 He kept for easy shaving. In his trade 
 
 You'd oft to make your toilet under a dyke — 
 
 And he was always one for a clean chin, 
 
 And carried soap. 
 
 He'd never felt the like — 
 That wind, it cut clean through him to the skin. 
 He might be mother-naked, walking bare, 
 
 23 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 For all the use his clothes were, with the snow 
 Half -blinding him, and clagging to his hair, 
 And trickling down his spine. He'ld like to know 
 What was the sense of pegging steadily, 
 Chilled to the marrow, after a daft herd 
 Of draggled beasts he couldn't even see! 
 
 But that was him all over! Just a word, 
 A nod, a wink, the price of half-and-half — 
 And he'ld be setting out for God-knows-where, 
 With no more notion than a yearling calf 
 Where he would find himself when he got there. 
 And he'd been travelling hard on sixty year 
 The same old road, the same old giddy gait; 
 And he'ld be walking, for a pint of beer, 
 Into his coffin, one day, soon or late — 
 But not with such a tempest in his teeth, 
 Half -blinded and half-do thered, that he hoped! 
 He'd met a sight of weather on the heath, 
 But this beat all. 
 
 'Twas worse than when he'd groped 
 His way that evening down the Mallerstang — 
 Thon was a blizzard, thon — and he was done, 
 And almost dropping when he came a bang 
 Against a house — slap-bang, and like to stun! — 
 Though that just saved his senses — and right there 
 He saw a lighted window he'd not seen, 
 Although he'd nearly staggered through its glare 
 Into a goodwife's kitchen, where she'd been 
 Baking hot griddlecakes upon the peat. 
 And he could taste them now, and feel the glow 
 
 24 
 
THE DROVE-ROAD 
 
 Of steady, aching, tingly, drowsy heat, 
 
 As he sat there and let the caking snow 
 
 Melt off his boots, staining the sanded floor. 
 
 And that brown jug she took down from the 
 
 shelf— 
 And every time he'd finished, fetching more, 
 And piping: "Now reach up, and help yourself!" 
 She was a wonder, thon, the gay old wife — 
 But no such luck this journey. Things like that 
 Could hardly happen every day of life, 
 Or no one would be dying, but the fat 
 And oily undertakers, starved to death 
 For want of custom . . . Hell! but he would soon 
 Be giving them a job ... It caught your breath, 
 That throttling wind. And it was not yet noon; 
 And he'ld be travelling through it until dark. 
 Dark! 'Twas already dark, and might be night 
 For all that he could see . . . 
 
 And not a spark 
 Of comfort for him! Just to strike a light, 
 And press the kindling shag down in the bowl, 
 Keeping the flame well-shielded by his hand, 
 And puff, and puff! He'ld give his very soul 
 For half-a-pipe. He couldn't understand 
 How he had come to lose it. He'd the rum — 
 Ay, that was safe enough: but it would keep 
 Awhile, you never knew what chance might come 
 In such a storm . . . 
 
 If he could only sleep . . . 
 If he could only sleep . . . That rustling sound 
 Of drifting snow, it made him sleepy-like — 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Drowsy and dizzy, dithering round and round . . . 
 
 If he could only curl up under a dyke, 
 
 And sleep and sleep ... It dazzled him, that 
 white, 
 
 Drifting and drifting, round and round and 
 round . . . 
 
 Just half-a-moment's snooze . . . He'ld be all 
 right. 
 
 It made his head quite dizzy, that dry sound 
 
 Of rustling snow. It made his head go round — 
 
 That rustling in his ears . . . and drifting, drift- 
 ing .. . 
 
 If he could only sleep . . . he would sleep sound . . . 
 
 God, he was nearly gone ! 
 
 The storm was lifting; 
 
 And he'd run into something soft and warm — 
 
 Slap into his own beasts, and never knew. 
 
 Huddled they were, bamboozled by the storm — 
 
 And little wonder either, when it blew 
 
 A blasted blizzard. Still, they'd got to go. 
 
 They couldn't stand there snoozing until night. 
 
 But they were sniffing something in the snow. 
 'Twas that had stopped them, something big and 
 
 white — 
 A bundle — nay, a woman . . . and she slept. 
 But it was death to sleep. 
 
 He'd nearly dropt 
 Asleep himself. 'Twas well that he had kept 
 That rum; and lucky that the beasts had stopt. 
 
 26 
 
THE DROVE-ROAD 
 
 Ay, it was well that he had kept the rum. 
 He liked his drink: but he had never cared 
 For soaking by himself, and sitting mum. 
 Even the best rum tasted better, shared. 
 
 27 
 
THE ROCKLIGHT 
 
 Ay, he must keep his mind clear — must not think 
 
 Of those two lying dead, or he'ld go mad. 
 
 The glitter on the lenses made him blink; 
 
 The brass glared speckless: work was all he had 
 
 To keep his mind clear. He must keep it clear 
 
 And free of fancies, now that there was none, 
 
 None left but him to light the lantern — near 
 
 On fourteen hours yet till that blazing sun 
 
 Should drop into that quiet oily sea, 
 
 And he must light . . . though it was not his turn: 
 
 'Twas Jacob's, — Jacob, lying quietly 
 
 Upon his bed . . . And yet the light would burn 
 
 And flash across the darkness just as though 
 
 Nothing had happened, white and innocent, 
 
 As if Jake's hand had lit it. None would know, 
 
 No seaman steering by it, what it meant 
 
 To him, since he'd seen Jacob . . . 
 
 But that way 
 Lay madness. He, at least, must keep his wits; 
 Or there'ld be none to tell why those two lay . . . 
 He must keep working, or he'ld go to bits. 
 
 Ere sunset, he must wind the lantern up. 
 He'ld like to wind it now — but 'twould go round, 
 And he'ld be fancying . . . Neither bite nor sup 
 He'd touched this morning; and the clicking sound 
 Would set his light head fancying . . . Jacob wound 
 
 28 
 
THE ROCKLIGHT 
 
 So madly that last time, before . . . But he, 
 He mustn't think of Jacob. He was bound, 
 In duty bound, to keep his own wits free 
 And clear of fancies. 
 
 He would think of home. 
 That thought would keep him whole, when all else 
 
 failed — 
 The green door; and the doorstep, white as foam; 
 The window that blazed bright the night he sailed 
 Out of the moonlit harbour, — clean and gay 
 'Twould shine this morning in the sun, with white 
 Dimity curtains, and a grand display 
 Of red geraniums, glowing in the light. 
 He always liked geraniums: such a red — 
 It put a heart in you. His mother, too, 
 She liked . . . 
 
 And she'ld be lying still in bed, 
 And never dreaming! If she only knew ! 
 But he, . . . he mustn't think of them just now — 
 Must keep off fancies . . . 
 
 She'ld be lying there, 
 Sleeping so quietly — her smooth white brow 
 So calm beneath the wisps of silver hair 
 Slipped out beneath her mutch-frills. She had pride 
 In those fine caps, and ironed them herself. 
 The very morning that his father'd died, 
 Drowned in the harbour, turning to the shelf, 
 She took her iron down, without a word, 
 And ironed, with her husband lying dead . . . 
 As they were lying now . . . He never heard 
 Her speak, or saw her look towards the bed. 
 29 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 She ironed, ironed. He had thought it queer — 
 The little shivering lad perched in his chair, 
 And hungry — though he dared not speak for fear 
 His father'ld wake, and with wet streaming hair 
 Would rise up from the bed . . . 
 
 He'd thought it strange 
 Then, but he understood now, understood. 
 You'd got to work, or let your fancies range; 
 And fancies played the devil when they could. 
 They got the upper hand, if you loosed grip 
 A moment. Iron frills, or polish brass 
 To keep a hold upon yourself, not slip 
 As Jacob slipt . . . 
 
 A very burning-glass 
 Those lenses were. He'ld have to drop off soon, 
 And find another job to fill the morn, 
 And keep him going through the afternoon — 
 And it was not yet five! . . . 
 
 Ay, he was born 
 In the very bed where still his mother slept, 
 And where his father'd lain — a cupboard bed 
 Let in the wall, more like a bunk, and kept 
 Decent with curtains drawn from foot to head 
 By day, though why — but 'twas the women's way: 
 They always liked things tidy. They were right — 
 Better to keep things tidy through the day, 
 Or there would be the devil's mess by night. 
 He liked things shipshape, too, himself. He took 
 After his mother in more ways than one. 
 
 3° 
 
THE ROCKLIGHT 
 
 He'ld say this for her — she could never brook 
 A sloven; and she'd made a tidy son. 
 
 'Twas well for him that he was tidy, now 
 
 That he was left; or how'ld he ever keep 
 
 His thoughts in hand . . . The Lord alone knew 
 
 how 
 He'ld keep them tidy, till . . . 
 
 Yet, she could sleep: 
 And he was glad, ay, glad that she slept sound. 
 It did him good, to think of her so still. 
 It kept his thoughts from running round and round 
 Like Jacob in the lighted lantern, till . . . 
 God! They were breaking loose! He must keep 
 
 hold . . . 
 
 On one side, "Albert Edward, Prince of Wales," 
 
 Framed in cut cork, painted to look like gold — 
 
 On the other a red frigate, with white sails 
 
 Bellying, and a blue pennon fluttering free, 
 
 Upon a sea dead calm. He couldn't think, 
 
 As a wee lad, how ever this could be. 
 
 And when he'd asked, his father with a wink 
 
 Had only answered laughing: Little chaps 
 
 Might think they knew a lot, and had sharp eyes. 
 
 But only pigs could see the wind. Perhaps 
 
 The painter'd no pig by him to advise. 
 
 That was his father's way: he'ld always jest, 
 And chuckle in his beard, with eyes half-shut 
 
 3i 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And twinkling . . . Strange to think of them at 
 
 rest 
 And lightless, those blue eyes, beneath that cut 
 Where the jagged rock had gashed his brow — the 
 
 day 
 His wife kept ironing those snowy frills, 
 To keep herself from thinking how he lay, 
 And wouldn't jest again. It's that that kills — 
 The thinking over . . . 
 
 Jacob jested, too: 
 He'd always some new game, was full of chaff. 
 The very morn before the lantern drew . . . 
 Yesterday morn that was, he heard him laugh . . . 
 
 Yesterday morn ! And was it just last night 
 He'd wakened, startled; and run out, to find 
 Jacob within the lantern, round the light 
 Fluttering like a moth, naked and blind 
 And laughing . . . Peter staring, turned to 
 
 stone . . . 
 The struggle . . . Peter killed . . . 
 
 And he must keep 
 His mind clear at all costs, himself, alone 
 On that grey naked rock of the great deep, 
 Full forty mile from shore — where there were men 
 Alive and breathing at this moment — ay, 
 Men who were deep in slumber even then, 
 And yet would waken and look on the sky. 
 
 He must keep his mind clear, to light the lamp 
 Ere sunset: ay, and clear the long night through 
 
 32 
 
THE ROCKLIGHT 
 
 To tell how they had died. He mustn't scamp 
 The truth — and yet 'twas little that he knew . . . 
 What had come over Jacob in the night 
 To send him mad and stripping himself bare . . . 
 And how he'd ever climbed into the light — 
 And it revolving . . . and the heat and glare! 
 No wonder he'd gone blind — the lenses burning 
 And blazing round him; and in each he'ld see 
 A little naked self . . . and turning, turning, 
 Till, blinded, scorched, and laughing crazily, 
 He'd dropped: and Peter . . . Peter might have 
 
 known 
 The truth, if he had lived to tell the tale — 
 But Peter'd tripped . . . and he was left 
 
 alone . . . 
 
 Just thirty hours till he should see the sail 
 Bringing them food and letters — food for them; 
 Letters from home for them . . . and here was he 
 Shuddering like a boat from stern to stem 
 When a wave takes it broadside suddenly. 
 He must keep his mind clear . . . 
 
 His mother lay 
 Peacefully slumbering. And she, poor soul, 
 Had kept her mind clear, ironing that day — 
 Had kept her wits about her, sound and whole — 
 And for his sake. Ay, where would he have been, 
 If she had let her fancies have their way 
 That morning, having seen what she had seen! 
 He'd thought it queer . . . But it was no child's 
 play 
 
 33 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Keeping the upper hand of your own wits. 
 
 He knew that now. If only for her sake. 
 
 He mustn't let his fancies champ their bits 
 
 Until they foamed . . . He must jam on the brake 
 
 Or he . . . 
 
 He must think how his mother slept; 
 How soon she would be getting out of bed; 
 Would dress; and breakfast by the window, kept 
 So lively with geraniums blazing red; 
 Would open the green door, and wash the stone, 
 Foam- white enough already: then, maybe, 
 She'ld take her iron down, and, all alone, 
 Would iron, iron, iron steadily — 
 Keeping her fancies quiet, till he came . . . 
 
 To-morrow, he'ld be home: he'ld see the white 
 Welcoming threshold, and the window's flame, 
 And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light. 
 
 34 
 
THE PLOUGH 
 
 He sniffed the clean and eager smell 
 
 Of crushed wild garlic, as he thrust 
 
 Beneath the sallows: and a spell 
 
 He stood there munching a thick crust — 
 
 The fresh tang giving keener zest 
 
 To bread and cheese — and watched a pair 
 
 Of wagtails preening wing and breast, 
 
 Then running — flirting tails in air, 
 
 And pied plumes sleeked to silky sheen — 
 
 Chasing each other in and out 
 
 The wet wild garlic's white and green. 
 
 And then remembering, with a shout, 
 And rattle whirring, he ran back 
 Again into the Fair Maid's Mead, 
 To scare the rascal thieves and black 
 That flocked from far and near to feed 
 Upon the sprouting grain. As one 
 They rose with clapping rustling wings — 
 Rooks, starlings, pigeons, in the sun 
 Circling about him in wide rings, 
 And plovers hovering over him 
 In mazy, interweaving flight — 
 Until it made his young wits swim 
 To see them up against the light, 
 A dazzling dance of black and white 
 Against the clear blue April sky — 
 Wings on wings in flashing flight 
 Swooping low and soaring high — 
 
 3S 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Swooping, soaring, fluttering, flapping, 
 
 Tossing, tumbling, swerving, dipping, 
 
 Chattering, cawing, creaking, clapping, 
 
 Till he felt his senses slipping — 
 
 And gripped his corncrake rattle tight, 
 
 And flourished it above his head 
 
 Till every bird was out of sight: 
 
 And laughed, when all had flown and fled, 
 
 To think that he, and all alone, 
 
 Could put so many thieves to rout. 
 
 Then sitting down upon a stone 
 He wondered if the school were out — 
 The school where, only yesterday, 
 He'd sat at work among his mates — 
 At work that now seemed children's play, 
 With pens and pencils, books and slates — 
 Although he'd liked it well enough, 
 The hum and scuffling of the school, 
 And hadn't cared when Grim-and- Gruff 
 Would call him dunderhead and fool. 
 
 And he could see them sitting there — 
 His class-mates, in the lime-washed room, 
 With fingers inked and towzled hair — 
 Bill Baxter with red cheeks abloom, 
 And bright black eyes; and Ginger Jim 
 With freckled face and solemn look, 
 Who'ld wink a pale blue eye at him, 
 Then sit intent upon his book, 
 While, caught a-giggle, he was caned. 
 
 36 
 
THE PLOUGH 
 
 He'd liked that room, he'd liked it all — 
 The window steaming when it rained; 
 The sunlight dancing on the wall 
 Among the glossy charts and maps; 
 The blotchy stain beside the clock 
 That only he of all the chaps 
 Knew for a chart of Dead Man's Rock 
 That lies in Tiger Island Bay — 
 The reef on which the schooners split 
 And founder, that would bear away 
 The treasure-chest of Cut-Throat-Kit, 
 That's buried under Black Bill's bones 
 Beneath the purple pepper- tree . . . 
 A trail of clean-sucked cherry-stones, 
 Which you must follow carefully, 
 Across the dunes of yellow sand 
 Leads winding upward from the beach 
 Till, with a pistol in each hand, 
 And cutlass 'twixt your teeth, you reach 
 
 Plumping their fat crops peacefully 
 
 Were plovers, pigeons, starlings, rooks, 
 
 Feeding on every side while he 
 
 Was in the land of storybooks. 
 
 He raised his rattle with a shout 
 
 And scattered them with yell and crake . 
 
 A man must mind what he's about 
 
 And keep his silly wits awake, 
 
 Not go woolgathering, if he'ld earn 
 
 His wage. And soon, no schoolboy now, 
 
 He'ld take on a man's job, and learn 
 
 37 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 To build a rick, and drive the plough, 
 Like father . . . 
 
 Up against the sky 
 Beyond the spinney and the stream, 
 With easy stride and steady eye 
 He saw his father drive his team, 
 Turning the red marl gleaming wet 
 Into long furrows clean and true. 
 And dreaming there, he longed to set 
 His young hand to the ploughshare too. 
 
 38 
 
THE OLD PIPER 
 
 With ears undulled of age, all night he heard 
 The April singing of the Otterburn. 
 His wife slept quietly and never stirred, 
 Though he was restless and must toss and turn — 
 But she kept going all the day, while he 
 Was just a useless bundle in a chair, 
 And couldn't do a hand's turn — seventy-three, 
 And crippled with rheumatics . . . 
 
 It was rare, 
 Hearing the curlew piping in the dark! 
 'Twas queer he'd got his hearing still so keen. 
 He'ld be so bothered if he couldn't hark 
 To curlew piping, shrill and clear and clean — 
 Ay, clean, that note! 
 
 His piping days were done, 
 His fingers numb and stiff. And by the peat 
 All winter, or all summer in the sun, 
 He'ld sit beside the threshold, in his seat, 
 Day-long, and listen to the Otterburn 
 That sang each day and night a different tune. 
 It knew more airs than he could ever learn 
 Upon the small-pipes. January to June, 
 And June to January, every hour 
 It changed its music. Now 'twas shrilling clear 
 In a high tinkling treble with a power 
 Of mellow undertones. And to his ear 
 Even the spates of winter over stones 
 
 39 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Made no dull tuneless thundering; he heard 
 No single roar, but half a hundred tones 
 Eddying and swirling; blending, yet unblurred; 
 No dull-edged note, but each one razor-keen — 
 Though supple as the sword-blades interlaced 
 Over the morris-dancers' heads — and clean! 
 But, nay, there was no word for it. 'Twas waste 
 Of breath to try and put the thing in words, 
 Though on his pipes he'ld get the sense of it, 
 The feel — ay, even of the calls of birds 
 He'ld get some notion, though low-toned a bit — 
 His humming drone had not that quality 
 Of clean-cut piping. Any shepherd lad 
 Upon his penny-whistle easily 
 Could mimic the mere notes. And yet he had 
 A gift of feeling, somehow . . . He must try 
 To-morrow if he couldn't tune his pipes, 
 Must get his wife to strap them carefully . . . 
 Hark, a new note among the birds — a snipe's — 
 A small-pipe's note! . . . 
 
 Drowsing, he did not wake 
 Until his wife was stirring. 
 
 Nor till noon 
 He told her that he'd half-a-mind to take 
 His pipes and see if he could turn a tune 
 If she would fetch them. And regretfully 
 She brought the pipes and strapped them on and set 
 The bellows under his arm, and patiently 
 She held the reeds to his numb fingers. Yet 
 She knew 'twas worse than useless. Work and 
 years 
 
 40 
 
THE OLD PIPER 
 
 Had dulled that lively touch: each joint was stiff 
 And swollen with rheumatics . . . 
 
 Slowly tears 
 Ran down his weathered cheeks . . . 
 
 And then a whiff 
 Of peat- reek filled his nostrils: and quite still 
 He sat remembering. Memory was kind 
 And stript age off him. 
 
 And along the hill 
 By Golden Pots he strove against the wind — 
 In all his days he never again had known 
 A wind like thon — on that November day. 
 For every step that he took forward, blown 
 Half-a-step backward, slowly he made way 
 Against it, buffeted and battered numb, 
 Chilled to the marrow, till he reached his door, 
 To find Jack Dodd, the pitman piper, come 
 To play a contest with him . . . 
 
 Nevermore 
 There'ld be such piping! 
 
 Ay, Jack Dodd had heard 
 That he could play — that up among the hills 
 There was a lad could pipe like any bird, 
 With half-a-hundred fancy turns and trills, 
 And give a lead even to Jack himself, 
 Jack Dodd, the pitmen's champion! 
 
 After tea 
 When they had smoked a while, down from the 
 
 shelf 
 He'd reached his own small-pipes; and speedily 
 They two were at it, playing, tune for tune, 
 
 41 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Against each other all the winter's night, 
 And all next morning till the stroke of noon, 
 Piping out bravely all their hearts' delight. 
 
 He still could see Jack, sitting there, so lean, 
 Long-backed, broad-shouldered, stooping and white- 
 faced 
 With cropped black head, and black eyes burning 
 
 keen; 
 Tight-lipped, yet smiling gravely: round his waist 
 His small-pipes strapped, the bellows 'neath his arm, 
 His nimble fingers lively at the reeds, — 
 His body swaying to the lilting charm 
 Of his own magic piping, till great beads 
 Of sweat were glistening on his low, white brow. 
 
 And he himself, a herd-lad, yellow-haired, 
 With wide eyes even bluer then than now, 
 Who sat bolt-upright in his chair and stared 
 Before him at the steady glowing peat 
 As though each note he played he caught in flight 
 From the loud wind, and in the quivering heat 
 Could see it dancing to its own delight. 
 
 All night the rafters hummed with piping airs, 
 And candle after candle guttered out; 
 But not a footstep climbed the creaking stairs 
 To the dark bedrooms. Turn and turn about, 
 They piped or listened; while the wind without 
 Roared round the steading, battering at the door 
 As though to burst it wide; then with a shout 
 Swept on across the pitchy leagues of moor. 
 
 42 
 
THE OLD PIPER 
 
 Pitman and shepherd piping turn for turn, 
 
 The airs they loved, till to the melody 
 
 Their pulses beat; and their rapt eyes would burn 
 
 Thrilled with the sight that each most loved to 
 
 see — 
 The pitman, gazing down a gallery 
 Of glittering black coal, an endless seam: 
 And through his piping stole the mystery 
 Of subterranean waters, and of dream 
 Corridors dwindling everlastingly. 
 
 The shepherd, from the top of Windy Gile 
 
 Looking o'er range on range of glowing hills, 
 
 A world beneath him, stretching, mile on mile, 
 
 Brown bent and heather, laced by flashing rills, — 
 
 His body flooded with the light that fills 
 
 The veins with running gold. And April light 
 
 And wind, and all the melody that spills 
 
 From tumbling waters, thrilled his pipes that night. 
 
 Ay, thon was playing, thon! And nevermore 
 The world would hear such piping. Jack was dead, 
 And he, so old and broken. 
 
 By the door 
 All day he sat remembering; and in bed 
 He lay beside his sleeping wife all night, 
 Too spent, too weary, even to toss and turn. 
 Dawn found him lying, strangely cold and white, 
 As though still listening to the Otterburn. 
 
 43 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 The buzzer boomed, and instantly the clang 
 Of hammers dropt, just as the fendered bow 
 Bumped with soft splash against the wharf,- 
 
 though now 
 Again within the Yard a hammer rang — 
 A solitary hammer striking steel 
 Somewhere aloft — and strangely, stridently 
 Echoed as though it struck the steely sky 
 The low, cold, steely sky. 
 
 She seemed to feel 
 That hammer in her heart — blow after blow 
 In a strange clanging hollow seemed to strike 
 Monotonous, unrelenting, cruel-like — 
 Her heart that such a little while ago 
 Had been so full, so happy with its news 
 Scarce uttered even to itself. 
 
 It stopt, 
 That dreadful hammer. And the silence dropt 
 Again a moment. Then a clatter of shoes 
 And murmur of voices as the men trooped out: 
 And as each wife with basket and hot can 
 Hurried towards the gate to meet her man, 
 She too ran forward, and then stood in doubt 
 Because among them all she could not see 
 The face that usually was first of all 
 To meet her eyes. 
 
 44 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 Against the grimy wall 
 That towered black above her to the sky, 
 With trembling knuckles to the cold stone pressed 
 Till the grit seemed to cut into the bone, 
 And her stretched arm to shake the solid stone, 
 She stood, and strove to calm her troubled 
 
 breast — 
 Her breast, whose trouble of strange happiness 
 So sweet and so miraculous, as she 
 Had stood among the chattering company 
 Upon the ferry-boat, to strange distress 
 Was changed. An unknown terror seemed to lie 
 For her, behind that wall, so cold and hard 
 And black above her, in the unseen Yard, 
 Dreadfully quiet now. Then with a sigh 
 Of glad relief she ran towards the gate 
 As he came slowly out, the last of all. 
 
 The terror of the hammer and the wall 
 Fell from her as, a woman to her mate, 
 She moved with happy heart and smile of greet- 
 ing— 
 A young and happy wife whose only thought 
 Was whether he would like the food she'd brought — 
 Whose one desire, to watch her husband eat- 
 ing. 
 
 With a grave smile he took his bait from her, 
 And then without a word they moved away 
 To where some grimy baulks of timber lay 
 Beside the river, and 'twas quieter 
 
 45 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Than in the crowd of munching, squatting men 
 And chattering wives and children. As he eat 
 With absent eyes upon the river set, 
 She chattered, too, a little now and then 
 Of household happenings : and then silently 
 They sat and watched the grimy-flowing stream, 
 Dazed by the stunning din of hissing steam 
 Escaping from an anchored boat hard-by, 
 Each busy with their own thoughts, who till now 
 Had shared each thought, each feeling, speaking 
 
 out 
 Easily, eagerly, without a doubt, 
 As happy innocent children, anyhow, 
 The innermost secrets of their wedded life. 
 So as the dinner hour went swiftly by 
 They sat there for the first time, troubled, shy — 
 A silent husband and a silent wife. 
 
 But she was only troubled by excess 
 
 Of happiness ; and as she watched the stream, 
 
 She looked upon her life as in a dream, 
 
 Recalling all its tale of happiness 
 
 Unbroken and unshadowed since she'd met 
 
 Her man the first time, eighteen months ago . . . 
 
 A keen blue day with sudden flaws of snow 
 And sudden sunshine, when she first had set 
 Her wondering eyes upon him — gaily clad 
 For football in a jersey green and red, 
 Knees bare beneath white shorts, his curly head 
 Wind-blown and wet, — and knew him for her lad. 
 
 46 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 He strode towards her down the windy street — 
 The wet grey pavements flashing sudden gold, 
 And gold the unending coils of smoke that rolled 
 Unceasingly overhead, fired by a fleet 
 Wild glint of glancing sunlight. On he came 
 Beside her brother — still a raw uncouth 
 Young hobbledehoy — a strapping mettled youth 
 In the first pride of manhood, that wild flame 
 Touching his hair to fire, his cheeks aglow 
 With the sharp stinging wind, his arms aswing: 
 And as she watched, she felt the tingling sting 
 Of flying flakes, and in a whirl of snow 
 A moment he was hidden from her sight. 
 It passed, and then before she was aware, 
 With white flakes powdering his ruddy hair 
 He stood before her, laughing in the light, 
 In all his bravery of red and green 
 Snow-sprinkled; and she laughed, too. In the 
 
 sun 
 They laughed : and in that laughter they were one. 
 
 Now as with kindled eyes on the unseen 
 
 Grey river she sat gazing, she again 
 
 Lived through that moment in a golden dream . . . 
 
 And then quite suddenly she saw the stream 
 
 Distinct in its cold grimy flowing — then 
 
 The present with its deeper happiness 
 
 Thrilled her afresh — this wonder strange and 
 
 new — 
 This dream in her young body coming true, 
 Incredible, yet certain none-the-less — 
 
 47 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 This news, scarce broken to herself, that she 
 Must break to him. She longed to see his eyes 
 Kindle to hear it, happy with surprise 
 When she should break it to him presently. 
 
 But she must wait a while yet. Still too strange, 
 Too wonderful for words, she could not share 
 Even with him her secret. He sat there 
 So quietly, little dreaming of the change 
 That had come over her — but when he knew! 
 For he was always one for bairns, was John, 
 And this would be his own, their own. There shone 
 A strange new light on all since this was true, 
 All, all seemed strange, the river and the shore, 
 The barges and the wharves with timber piled, 
 And all her world familiar from a child, 
 Was as a world she'd never seen before. 
 
 And he, too, sat with eyes upon the stream 
 Remembering that day when first the light 
 Of her young eyes with laughter sparkling bright 
 Kindled to his; and as he caught the gleam 
 The life within him quickened suddenly 
 To fire, and in a world of golden laughter 
 They stood alone together: and then after, 
 When he was playing with his mates and he 
 Hurtled headlong towards the goal, he knew 
 Her eyes were on him ; and for her alone, 
 Who had the merriest eyes he'd ever known, 
 He played that afternoon. Though until then 
 He'd only played to please himself, somehow 
 She seemed to have a hold upon him, now. 
 
 48 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 No longer a boy, a man among grown men, 
 He'ld never have a thought apart from her, 
 From her, his mate . . . 
 
 And then that golden night 
 When in a whirl of melody and light, 
 Her merry brown eyes flashing merrier, 
 They rode together in a gilded car 
 That seemed to roll for ever round and round 
 In a blind blaze of light and blare of sound, 
 For ever and for ever, till afar 
 It seemed to bear them from the surging throng 
 Of lads and lasses happy in release 
 From the week's work in yards and factories — 
 For ever through a land of light and song 
 While they sat, rapt in silence, hand in hand, 
 And looked into each other's merry eyes, 
 They two, together, whirled through Paradise, 
 A golden glittering, unearthly land, 
 A land where light and melody were one, 
 And melody and light, a golden fire 
 That ran through their young bodies, and desire, 
 A golden music streaming from the sun, 
 Filling their veins with golden melody 
 And singing fire . . . 
 
 And then when quiet fell, 
 And they together, with so much to tell, 
 So much to tell each other instantly, 
 Left the hot throng and roar and glare behind 
 Seeking the darker streets, and stood at last 
 In a dark lane where footsteps seldom passed, 
 Lit by a far lamp and one glowing blind 
 
 49 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 That seemed to make the darkness yet more 
 
 dark 
 Between the cliffs of houses, black and high, 
 That soared above them to the starry sky, 
 A deep blue sky where spark on fiery spark 
 The stars for them were kindled, as they raised 
 Their eyes in new-born wonder to the night : 
 And in a solitude of cold starlight 
 They stood alone together, hushed, and gazed 
 Into each other's eyes until speech came: 
 And underneath the stars they talked and 
 
 talked . . . 
 
 Then he remembered how they two had walked 
 
 Along a beach that was one golden flame 
 
 Of yellow sand beside a flame-blue sea 
 
 The day they wedded, that strange day of dream, 
 
 One flame of blue and gold . . . 
 
 The murky stream 
 Flowed once again before his eyes, and he 
 Dropt back into the present; and he knew 
 That he must break the news that suddenly 
 Had come to him last night as drowsily 
 He lay beside her — startling, stern and true 
 Out of the darkness flashing. He must tell 
 How, as he lay beside her in the night 
 His heart had told him he must go and fight, 
 Must throw up everything he loved so well 
 To go and fight in lands across the sea 
 Beside the other lads — must throw up all, 
 His work, his home . . . 
 5° 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 The shadow of the wall 
 Fell on her once again, and stridently 
 That hammer struck her heart, as from the stream 
 She raised her eyes to his, and saw their flame. — 
 Then back into her heart her glad news came 
 As John smiled on her; and her golden dream 
 Once more was all about her as she thought 
 Of home, the new home that the future held 
 For them — they three together. Fear was quelled 
 By this new happiness that all unsought 
 Had sprung from the old happiness . . . 
 
 And he 
 Watching her, thought of home, too. When he 
 
 stept 
 With her across the threshold first, and slept 
 That first night in her arms so quietly, 
 For the first time in all his life he'd known 
 All that home meant, or nearly all — for yet 
 Each night brought him new knowledge as she 
 
 met 
 Him, smiling on the clean white threshold-stone 
 When he returned from labour in the Yard . . . 
 
 And she'ld be waiting for him soon, while he 
 Was fighting with his fellows oversea — 
 She would be waiting for him . . . 
 
 It was hard 
 For him that he must go, as go he must, 
 But harder far for her: things always fell 
 Harder upon the women. It was well 
 She didn't dream yet ... He could only trust 
 
 5i 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 She, too, would feel that he had got to go, 
 
 Then 'twould not be so hard to go, and yet . . . 
 
 Dreaming, he saw the lamplit table, set 
 
 With silver pot and cups and plates aglow 
 
 For tea in their own kitchen bright and snug, 
 
 With her behind the tea-pot — saw it all, 
 
 The coloured calendars upon the wall, 
 
 The bright fire-irons, and the gay hearthrug 
 
 She'd made herself from gaudy rags; his place 
 
 Awaiting him, with something hot-and-hot — 
 
 His favourite sausages as like as not, 
 
 Between two plates for him — as, with clean 
 
 face 
 Glowing from washing in the scullery, 
 And such a hunger on him, he would sink 
 Content into his chair . . . 
 
 'Twas strange to think 
 All this was over, and so suddenly, — 
 'Twas strange, and hard . . . 
 
 Still gazing on the stream, 
 Her thoughts, too, were at home. She heard the 
 
 patter 
 Of tiny feet beside her, and the chatter 
 Of little tongues . . . 
 
 Then loudly through their dream 
 The buzzer boomed : and all about them rose 
 The men and women : soon the wives were on 
 The ferry-boat, now puffing to be gone : 
 The husbands hurrying, ere the gates should 
 
 close, 
 Back to the Yard . . . 
 
 52 
 
THE NEWS 
 
 She, in her dream of gold, 
 And he, in his new desolation, stood; 
 Then soberly, as wife and husband should, 
 They parted, with their news as yet untold. 
 
 53 
 
DAFFODILS 
 
 He liked the daffodils. He liked to see 
 Them nodding in the hedgerows cheerily 
 Along the dusty lanes as he went by — 
 Nodding and laughing to a fellow — Ay, 
 Nodding and laughing till you'ld almost think 
 They, too, enjoyed the jest. 
 
 Without a wink 
 That solemn butler said it, calm and smug, 
 Deep- voiced as though he talked into a jug: 
 "His lordship says he won't require no more 
 Crocks rivetted or mended till the war 
 Is over." 
 
 Lord! He'd asked to have a wire 
 The moment that his lordship should desire 
 To celebrate the occasion fittingly 
 By a wild burst of mending crockery 
 Like a true Englishman, and hang expense! 
 He'd had to ask it, though he'd too much sense 
 To lift a lash or breathe a word before 
 His lordship's lordship closed the heavy door. 
 And then he'd laughed. Lord ! but it did him good 
 That quiet laugh. And somewhere in the wood 
 Behind the Hall there, a woodpecker laughed 
 Right out aloud as though he'd gone clean daft — 
 
 54 
 
DAFFODILS 
 
 Right out aloud he laughed, the brazen bird, 
 As if he didn't care a straw who heard — 
 But then he'd not his daily bread to earn 
 By mending crocks. 
 
 And now at every turn 
 The daffodils are laughing quietly 
 Nodding and laughing to themselves, as he 
 Chuckled: Now there's a patriot, real true-blue! 
 
 It seemed the daffodils enjoyed it too — 
 The fun of it. He wished that he could see — 
 Old solemn-mug — them laughing quietly 
 At him. But then, he'ld never have a dim 
 Idea they laughed, and, least of all, at him. 
 He'ld never dream they could be laughing at 
 A butler. 
 
 'Twould be good to see the fat 
 Old peach-cheek in his solemn black and starch 
 Parading in his pompous parlour-march 
 Across that field of laughing daffodils. 
 'Twould be a sight to make you skip up hills, 
 Ay, crutch and all, and never feel your pack, 
 To see a butler in his starch and black 
 Among the daffodils, ridiculous 
 As that old bubbly-jock with strut and fuss — 
 Though that was rather rough upon the bird! 
 For all his pride, he didn't look absurd 
 Among the flowers — nor even that black sow 
 Grunting and grubbing in among them now. 
 
 And he was glad he hadn't got a trade 
 That starched the mother-wit in you, and made 
 55 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 A man look silly in a field of flowers. 
 
 'Twas better mending crocks, although for hours 
 
 You hobbled on — ay! and, maybe for days — 
 
 Hungry and cold along the muddy ways 
 
 Without a job. And even when the sun 
 
 Was shining, 'twas not altogether fun 
 
 To lose the chance of earning a few pence 
 
 In these days: though 'twas well he'd got the 
 
 sense 
 To see the funny side of things. It cost 
 You nothing, laughing to yourself. You lost 
 Far more by going fiddle-faced through life 
 Looking for trouble. 
 
 He would tell his wife 
 When he got home. But lord, she'ld never see 
 What tickled him so mightily, not she ! 
 She'ld only look up puzzled-like, and say 
 She didn't wonder at his lordship. Nay, 
 With tripe and trotters at the price they were 
 You'd got to count your coppers and take care 
 Of every farthing. 
 
 Jack would see the fun — 
 Ay, Jack would see the joke. Jack was his son — 
 The youngest of the lot. And, man-alive, 
 'Twas queer that only one of all the five 
 Had got a twinkle in him — all the rest 
 Dull as ditchwater to the merriest jest. 
 Good lads enough they were, their mother's sons; 
 And they'd all pluck enough to face the guns 
 Out at the front. They'd got their mother's pluck: 
 And he was proud of them, and wished them luck. 
 
 56 
 
DAFFODILS 
 
 That was no laughing matter — though 'twas well 
 
 Maybe if you could crack a joke in hell 
 
 And shame the devil. Jack, at least, would 
 
 fight 
 As well as any though his heart was light. 
 Jack was the boy for fighting and for fun; 
 And he was glad to think he'd got a son 
 Who, even facing bloody death, would see 
 That little joke about the crockery, 
 And chuckle as he charged. 
 
 His thoughts dropped back 
 Through eighteen years; and he again saw Jack 
 At the old home beneath the Malvern hills, 
 A little fellow plucking daffodils, 
 A little fellow who could scarcely walk, 
 Yet chuckling as he snapped each juicy stalk 
 And held up every yellow bloom to smell, 
 Poking his tiny nose into the bell 
 And sniffing its fresh scent, and chuckling still 
 As though he'd secrets with each daffodil. 
 Ay, he could see again the little fellow 
 In his blue frock among that laughing yellow, 
 And plovers in their sheeny black and white 
 Flirting and tumbling in the morning light 
 About his curly head. He still could see, 
 Shutting his eyes, as plain as plain could be, 
 Drift upon drift, those long-dead daffodils 
 Against the far green of the Malvern hills, 
 Nodding and laughing round his little lad, 
 As if to see him happy made them glad — 
 Nodding and laughing . . . 
 
 57 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 They were nodding now, 
 The daffodils, and laughing — yet, somehow, 
 They didn't seem so merry now . . . 
 
 And he 
 Was fighting in a bloody trench maybe 
 For very life this minute . . . 
 
 They missed Jack, 
 And he would give them all to have him back. 
 
 58 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 When consciousness came back, he found he lay 
 Between the opposing fires, but could not tell 
 On which hand were his friends; and either way 
 For him to turn was chancy — bullet and shell 
 Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare 
 Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind 
 
 day. 
 He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, 
 Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, 
 And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped 
 At random in a turnip-field between 
 The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped 
 Through that unending battle of unseen 
 Dead-locked league-stretching armies; and quite 
 
 spent 
 He rolled upon his back within the pit, 
 And lay secure, thinking of all it meant — 
 His lying in that little hole, sore hit, 
 But living, while across the starry sky 
 Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead— 
 Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie 
 Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed . . . 
 
 If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, 
 Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, 
 And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, 
 Too tired to fold them neatly on a chair 
 
 59 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 The way his mother'd taught him — too dog-tired 
 After the long day's serving in the shop, 
 Inquiring what each customer required, 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . . 
 
 And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, 
 He hadn't had his clothes off; and had lain 
 In muddy trenches, napping like a beast 
 With one eye open, under sun and rain 
 And that unceasing hell-fire . . . 
 
 It was strange 
 How things turned out — the chances! You'd just 
 
 got 
 To take your luck in life, you couldn't change 
 Your luck. 
 
 And so here he was lying shot 
 Who just six months ago had thought to spend 
 His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps . . . 
 And now, God only knew how he would end ! 
 
 He'ld like to know how many of the chaps 
 Had won back to the trench alive, when he 
 Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, 
 If any! . . . 
 
 This was different, certainly, 
 From selling knots of tape and reels of thread 
 And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots 
 Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, 
 Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got's" 
 And "Do you keep's," till there seemed no escape 
 From everlasting serving in a shop, 
 Inquiring what each customer required, 
 
 60 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop, 
 With swollen ankles, tired . . . 
 
 But he was tired 
 Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached 
 For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench — 
 Just duller when he slept than when he waked — 
 Crouching for shelter from the steady drench 
 Of shell and shrapnel . . . 
 
 That old trench, it seemed 
 Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed 
 And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed 
 And shells went whining harmless overhead — 
 Harmless, at least, as far as he . . . 
 
 But Dick- 
 Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, 
 At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick 
 Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, 
 And brought them butter in a lordly dish — 
 Butter enough for all, and held it high, 
 Yellow and fresh and clean as you could wish — 
 When plump upon the plate from out the sky 
 A shell fell bursting . . . Where the butter went, 
 God only knew ! . . . 
 
 And Dick ... He dared not think 
 Of what had come to Dick ... or what it meant — 
 The shrieking and the whistling and the stink 
 He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas 
 
 luck 
 That he still lived . . . And queer how little then 
 He seemed to care that Dick . . . Perhaps 'twas 
 
 pluck 
 
 61 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 That hardened him — a man among the men — 
 Perhaps . . . Yet, only think things out a bit, 
 And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk ! 
 And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was 
 
 hit, 
 He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk 
 He should have thought would feel it when his 
 
 mate 
 Was blown to smithereens — Dick, proud as punch, 
 Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate — 
 But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, 
 Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let 
 His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. 
 He dared not now, though he could not forget. 
 
 Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas 
 
 luck 
 From first to last; and you'd just got to trust 
 Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck 
 As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, 
 And better to die grinning . . . 
 
 Quiet now 
 Had fallen on the night. On either hand 
 The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow 
 The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned 
 The starry sky. He'd never seen before 
 So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known 
 That there were stars, somehow before the war 
 He'd never realised them — so thick-sown, 
 
 62 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, 
 Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights 
 Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, 
 You didn't see much but the city lights. 
 He'd never in his life seen so much sky- 
 As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer 
 The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try 
 To count the stars — they shone so bright and 
 
 clear. 
 One, two, three, four . . . Ah, God, but he was 
 
 tired . . . 
 Five, six, seven, eight . . . 
 
 Yes: it was number eight. 
 And what was the next thing that she required? 
 (Too bad of customers to come so late, 
 At closing-time !) Again within the shop 
 He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . . 
 
 When once again the whole sky overhead 
 
 Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of 
 
 shell 
 And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily 
 He stared about him wondering. Then he fell 
 Into deep dreamless slumber. 
 
 He could see 
 Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew 
 He was awake, and it again was day — 
 An August morning burning to clear blue. 
 The frightened rabbit scuttled . . . 
 
 63 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Far away, 
 A sound of firing . . . Up there, in the sky 
 Big dragon-flies hung hovering . . . Snowballs 
 
 burst 
 About them . . . 
 
 Flies and snowballs ! With a cry 
 He crouched to watch the airmen pass — the first 
 That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck — 
 Shells bursting all about them — and what nerve! 
 They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. 
 At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, 
 Dodging the shell-fire . . . 
 
 Hell! but one was hit, 
 And tumbling like a pigeon, plump . . . 
 
 Thank Heaven, 
 It righted, and then turned; and after it 
 The whole flock followed safe — four, five, six, seven, 
 Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'ld win 
 Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, 
 Even if they were Germans . . . 'Twas no sin 
 To wish them luck. Think how that beggar 
 
 swerved 
 Just in the nick of time! 
 
 He, too, must try 
 To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, 
 He'ld take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie 
 For ever in that hungry hole and rot. 
 He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance 
 Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'ld be 
 With any luck in Germany or France 
 Or kingdom-come, next morning . . . 
 64 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 Drearily 
 The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell 
 Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light 
 Faded at last, and as the darkness fell 
 He rose, and crawled away into the night. 
 
 35 
 
STRAWBERRIES 
 
 Since four she had been plucking strawberries: 
 And it was only eight now; and the sun 
 Already blazing. There'ld be little ease 
 For her until the endless day was done . . . 
 
 Yet, why should she have any ease, while he — 
 While he . . . 
 
 But there, she mustn't think of him, 
 Fighting beneath that burning sun, maybe, — 
 His rifle nigh red-hot, and every limb 
 Aching for sleep, the sweat dried on his brow, 
 And baking in the blaze, and such a thirst, 
 Prickly and choking, she could feel it now 
 In her own throat. He'd said it was the worst, 
 In his last letter, worst of all to bear, 
 That burning thirst — that, and the hellish noise . . . 
 
 And she was plucking strawberries: and there 
 In the cool shadow of the elm their boys, 
 Their baby-boys, were sleeping quietly . . . 
 
 But she was aching too: her head and back 
 Were one hot blinding ache; and dizzily 
 Sometimes across her eyes the light swam black 
 With dancing spots of red . . . 
 
 66 
 
STRAWBERRIES 
 
 So ripe and sweet 
 Among their fresh green leaves the strawberries 
 
 lay, 
 Although the earth was baking in the heat, 
 Burning her soles — and yet the summer day 
 Was young enough ! 
 
 If she could only cram 
 A handful of fresh berries sweet and cool 
 Into his mouth, while he . . . 
 
 A red light swam 
 Before her eyes . . . 
 
 She mustn't think, poor fool, 
 What he'ld be doing now, or she'ld go crazed . . . 
 Then what would happen to them left alone — 
 The little lads! 
 
 And he would be fair mazed, 
 When he came back, to see how they had 
 
 grown, 
 William and Dick, and how they talked. Two 
 
 year, 
 Since he had gone — and he had never set 
 His eyes upon his youngest son. 'Twas queer 
 To think he hadn't seen his baby yet, — 
 And it nigh fourteen months old. 
 
 Everything 
 Was queer in these days. She could never guess 
 How it had come about that he could bring 
 Himself to go and fight. 'Twas little less 
 Than murder to have taken him, and he 
 So mild and easy-tempered, never one 
 For drink or picking quarrels hastily . . . 
 
 67 
 
LIVEXIHOOD 
 
 And now he would be fighting in that sun . . . 
 'Twas quite beyond her. Yet, somehow, it seemed 
 He'd got to go. She couldn't understand . . . 
 When they had married, little had they dreamed 
 What things were coming to! In all the land 
 There was no gentler husband . . . 
 
 It was queer: 
 She couldn't get the rights of it, no way. 
 She thought and thought, but couldn't get it 
 
 clear 
 Why he'd to leave his own work — making hay 
 'Twould be this weather — leave his home, and 
 
 all— 
 His wife and his young family, and go 
 To fight in foreign lands, and maybe fall, 
 Fighting another lad he didn't know, 
 And had no quarrel with . . . 
 
 The world was mad, 
 Or she was going crazy. Anyhow 
 She couldn't see the rights of it . . . Her lad 
 Had thought it right to go, she knew . . . 
 
 But now 
 She mustn't think about it all . . . And so 
 She'd best stop puzzling, and pluck strawberries . . . 
 
 And every woman plucking in the row 
 Had husband, son, or brother overseas. 
 
 Men seemed to see things differently: and still 
 She wondered sore if even they knew why 
 They went themselves, almost against their will . . . 
 
 68 
 
STRAWBERRIES 
 
 But sure enough, that was her baby's cry. 
 'Twas feeding time: and she'ld be glad to rest 
 Her back a bit. It always gave her ease, 
 To feel her baby feeding at her breast, 
 And pluck to go on gathering strawberries. 
 
 69 
 
THE BLAST-FURNACE 
 
 And such a night! But maybe in that mood 
 'Twas for the best; for he was like to brood — 
 And he could hardly brood on such a night 
 With that squall blowing, on this dizzy height 
 Where he caught every breath of it — the snow 
 Stinging his cheek, and melting in the glow 
 Above the furnace, big white flakes that fell 
 Sizzling upon the red-hot furnace bell: 
 And the sea roaring, down there in the dark, 
 So loud to-night he needn't stop to hark — 
 Four hundred feet below where now he stood. 
 A lively place to earn a livelihood — 
 His livelihood, his mother's, and the three 
 Young sisters', quite a little family 
 Depending on him now — on him, Jim Burn, 
 Just nineteen past — to work for them, and earn 
 Money enough to buy them daily bread 
 Already . . . 
 
 And his father on the bed 
 At home . . . gey sudden . . . 
 
 Nay, he mustn't think: 
 But shove his trolley to the furnace brink, 
 And tip his load upon the glowing bell, 
 Then back again towards the hoist. 'Twas well 
 He'd work to stop him thinking. He was glad 
 His mate to-night was not a talky lad — 
 But Peter, mum-glum Peter, who would stare 
 
 70 
 
THE BLAST-FURNACE 
 
 With such queer sulky looks upon the fire 
 When round the dipping bell it shot up high 
 With roar and flourish into that black sky. 
 He liked to hear it roaring, liked to see 
 The great flame leaping skyward suddenly, 
 Then sinking slowly, as the bell rose up 
 And covered it again with red-hot cup, 
 When it would feed more quiet for a time 
 Upon the meal of ironstone and lime 
 He'd fetched it in his trolley . . . 
 
 Ay, and he, 
 Trundling his truck along that gallery 
 High in the air all night to keep it fed — 
 And all the while his father lying dead 
 At home — to learn a livelihood. 'Twas strange 
 To think what it all meant to him — the change . . . 
 
 And strange he'd never thought before how 
 
 queer 
 It was for him, earning his bread up here 
 On this blast-furnace, perched on the cliff- 
 top — 
 Four hundred feet or so, a dizzy drop, 
 And he'ld be feeding fishes in the sea ! 
 How loud it roared to-night, and angrily — 
 He liked to hear it breaking on the shore, 
 And the wind's threshing, and the furnace' roar: 
 And then the sudden quiet, a dead lull, 
 When you could only hear a frightened gull 
 Screeching down in the darkness there below, 
 Or a dog's yelp from the valley, or the snow 
 
 7i 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Sizzling upon hot iron. Queer, indeed, 
 To think that he had never taken heed 
 Before to-night, or thought about it all. 
 
 He'd been a boy till this, and had no call 
 To turn his mind to thinking seriously. 
 But he'd grown up since yesterday; and he 
 Must think a man's thoughts now — since yesterday 
 When he'd not had a thought but who should play 
 Full-back for Cleveland Rovers, now that Jack 
 Had gone to Montreal, or should he back 
 Old Girl or Cleopatra for the Cup. 
 
 In four-and-twenty hours he had grown up . . . 
 His father, sinking back there on the bed, 
 With glassy eyes and helpless lolling head . . . 
 The dropping jaw . . . the breath that didn't 
 
 come, 
 Though still he listened for it, frozen numb . . . 
 
 And then, his mother . . . but he must not let 
 His mind run on his mother now. And yet 
 He'd often thought his father glum and grim. 
 He understood now. It was not for him, 
 His son, to breathe a word to her, when he, 
 Her husband, had borne with her patiently 
 Through all those years. Ay, now he understood 
 Much, since he hadn't his own livelihood 
 To think of only, but five mouths to feed — 
 And the oldest, the most helpless ... He had 
 need 
 
 72 
 
THE BLAST-FURNACE 
 
 To understand a little . . . 
 
 But to-night 
 He mustn't brood . . . And what a golden light 
 The steady spurt of molten slag below 
 Threw up upon the snow-clouds — and the snow 
 Drifting down through it in great flakes of gold, 
 Melting to steam, or driven, white and cold, 
 Into the darkness on a sudden gust. 
 And how the cold wind caught him, as he thrust 
 His empty trolley back towards the hoist, 
 Straight from the sea, making his dry lips moist 
 With salty breath. 
 
 'Twas strange to-night, how he 
 Was noticing, and seeing suddenly 
 Things for the first time he'd not seen before, 
 Though he'd been on this shift at least a score 
 Of times. But things were different somehow. 
 
 Strange 
 To think his father's death had wrought the 
 
 change 
 And made him see things different — little things: 
 The sudden flashing of a sea-gull's wings 
 Out of the dark, bewildered by the glare; 
 And, when the flame leapt, mum-glum Peter's hair 
 Kindling a fierier red; the wind; the snow; 
 The unseen washing of the waves below 
 About the cliff-foot. He could almost see. 
 In fancy, breakers, frothing furiously 
 Against the crumbling cliffs — the frantic spray 
 Leaping into the darkness, nigh half-way 
 Up the sheer height. 
 
 73 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And now his thoughts dropt back 
 Into the valley, lying still and black 
 Behind him— and the mine where other men 
 Were toiling on their nightshift, even then 
 Working the ironstone for daily bread, 
 Their livelihood . . . 
 
 He saw the little red 
 Raw row of square brick houses, dark they'ld be 
 And quiet now. Yet, plainly he could see 
 The street he lived in — ay, and Number Eight, 
 His father's house: the rusty iron gate; 
 The unkempt garden; and the blistered door; 
 The unwashed doorstep he'd not seen before, 
 Or, leastways, hadn't noticed; and the bell 
 That never rang, though he remembered well 
 His father 'd tinkered it, times out of mind; 
 And in each window, a drawn yellow blind 
 Broken and grimy — and that blind, to-day 
 Drawn down for the first time . . . 
 
 His father lay 
 In the front bedroom, quiet on the bed . . . 
 And he, upon his usual shift . . . 
 
 She'd said, 
 His mother'd said; he shouldn't take his shift 
 Before the undertaker'd been to lift . . . 
 'Twas scarcely decent: that was what she said — 
 Him working, and his father lying dead, 
 And hardly cold . . . 
 
 And she, to talk to him, 
 His son, of decency, there, with that grim 
 Half-smile still on her husband's cold white face! 
 
 74 
 
THE BLAST-FURNACE 
 
 He couldn't bide a moment in the place 
 Listening to her chat-chatter, knowing all 
 That he knew now . . . But there, he had no call 
 To blame her, when his father'd never blamed. 
 He wondered in that room she wasn't shamed . . . 
 
 She didn't understand. He understood, 
 Now he'd grown up; and had his livelihood, 
 And theirs, to earn . . . 
 
 Lord, but that was a rare 
 Fine flourish the flame made, a bonnie flare 
 Leaping up to the stars. The snow had stopt : 
 He hadn't heeded: and the wind had dropt 
 Suddenly: and the stars were shining clear. 
 Over the furnace' roaring he could hear 
 The waves wash- washing; and could see the foam 
 Lifting and falling down there in the gloam . . . 
 White as his father's face . . . 
 
 He'd never heard 
 His father murmur once — nay, not a word 
 He'd muttered: he was never one to blame. 
 And men had got to take things as they came. 
 
 75 
 
IN THE MEADOW 
 
 The smell of wet hay in the heat 
 
 All morning steaming round him rose, 
 
 As, in a kind of nodding doze, 
 
 Perched on the hard and jolting seat, 
 
 He drove the rattling jangling rake 
 
 Round and around the Five Oaks Mead. 
 
 With that old mare he scarcely need 
 
 To drive at all or keep awake. 
 
 Gazing with half-shut, sleepy eyes 
 
 At her white flanks and grizzled tail 
 
 That nicked and nicked without avail, 
 
 To drive away the cloud of flies 
 
 That hovered, closing and unclosing, 
 
 A shimmering hum and humming shimmer, 
 
 Dwindling dim and ever dimmer 
 
 In his dazzled sight, till, dozing, 
 
 He seemed to hear a murmuring stream 
 
 And gaze into a rippling pool 
 
 Beneath thick branches dark and cool — 
 
 And gazing, gazing till a gleam 
 
 Within the darkness caught his eyes, 
 
 He saw there smiling up at him 
 
 A young girl's face, now rippling dim, 
 
 Now flashing clear . . . 
 
 Without surprise 
 He marked the eyes translucent blue, 
 The full red lips that seemed to speak, 
 The curves of rounded chin and cheek, 
 76 
 
IN THE MEADOW 
 
 The low, broad brow, sun-tanned . . . 
 
 He knew 
 That face, yet could not call to mind 
 Where he had seen it; and in vain 
 Strove to recall . . . when sudden rain 
 Crashed down and made the clear pool blind, 
 And it was lost . . . 
 
 And, with a jerk 
 That well-nigh shook him from his seat, 
 He wakened to the steamy heat 
 And clank and rattle. 
 
 Still at work 
 The stolid mare kept on; and still 
 Over her hot, white flanks the flies 
 Hung humming. And his dazzled eyes 
 Closed gradually again, until 
 He dozed . . . 
 
 And stood within the door 
 Of Dinchill dairy, drinking there 
 Thirst-quenching draughts of stone-cold air — 
 The scoured white shelves and sanded floor 
 And shallow milk-pans creamy-white 
 Gleamed coldly in the dusky light . . . 
 And then he saw her, stooping down 
 Over a milk-pan, while her eyes 
 Looked up at him without surprise 
 Over the shoulder of her gown — 
 Her fresh print gown of speedwell blue . . . 
 The eyes that looked out of the cool 
 Untroubled crystal of the pool 
 Looked into his again. 
 
 77 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 He knew 
 Those eyes now . . . 
 
 From his dreamy doze 
 A sudden jolting of the rake 
 Aroused him. 
 
 Startled broad awake 
 He sat upright, lost in amaze 
 That he should dream of her — that lass! — 
 And see her face within the pool ! 
 
 He'd known her always. Why, at school 
 They'd sat together in the class. 
 He'd always liked her well enough, 
 Young Polly Dale — and they had played 
 At Prisoners' Base and Who's Afraid, 
 At Tiggy and at Blindman's Buff, 
 A hundred times together . . . 
 
 Ay, 
 He'd always known her ... It was strange, 
 Though he had noticed that a change 
 Had come upon her — she was shy, 
 And quieter, since she left school 
 And put her hair up — he'd not seen 
 Her face, till from the glancing sheen 
 It looked up at him from the pool . . . 
 
 He'd always known her. Every day, 
 He'd nod to her as they would pass. 
 He'd always known her, as a lass . . . 
 He'ld never know her just that way 
 Again now . . . 
 
 78 
 
IN THE MEADOW 
 
 In a different wise 
 They'ld meet — for how could he forget 
 His dream . . . The next time that they met 
 He'ld look into a woman's eyes. 
 
 79 
 
PARTNERS 
 
 He'd got to see it through. Ay, that was plain — 
 Plain as the damning figures on that page 
 Which burnt and bit themselves into his brain 
 Since he'd first lighted on them — such an age 
 Since he'd first lighted on them! though the 
 
 clock 
 Had only ticked one hour out — its white face 
 And black hands counting time alone — 
 
 The shock 
 Had dropped him out of time and out of space 
 Into the dead void of eternity, 
 Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead 
 With wide set staring eyes that still could see 
 Those damning figures burning hugely red 
 On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
 That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
 10,711— _ 
 Searing his eyeballs . . . 
 
 Yet his living sight 
 Was fixed on the white ledger, while he sat 
 Before his office-table in his chair — 
 The chair he'd taken when he'd hung his hat 
 Within the cupboard door, and brushed his 
 
 hair, 
 And stood a moment, humming "Chevy Chase," 
 His hands beneath his coat-tails, by the grate, 
 
 80 
 
PARTNERS 
 
 Warming his back, and thinking of a case 
 They'd won outright with costs, and . . . 
 
 Phil was late: 
 But Phil was Phil. At home they used to call 
 His brother "Better-late." At every turn 
 He'd had to wait for Phil. And after all 
 There wasn't so much doing, now that concern . . . 
 
 And little thinking anything was wrong, 
 Laying his hand upon his own armchair 
 To draw it out, still humming the old song, 
 He'd seen the note from Philip lying there 
 Upon the open ledger. 
 
 Once, he read 
 The truth, unrealising, and again. 
 But only two words echoed through his head, 
 And buzzed uncomprehended in his brain — 
 "Embezzled" and "absconded." 
 
 Phil had spelt 
 His shame out boldly in his boyish hand. 
 And then those figures . . . 
 
 Dizzily he felt 
 The truth burn through him. He could hardly 
 
 stand, 
 But sank into his chair with eyes set wide 
 Upon those damning figures, murmuring "Phil!" 
 And listening to the whirr of wheels outside, 
 And sparrows cheeping on the window-sill — 
 Still murmuring "Phil! Poor Phil!" 
 
 But Phil was gone: 
 And he was left alone to bear the brunt . . . 
 
 81 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 "Phil! Little Phil!" 
 
 And still the morning shone 
 Bright at the window . . . 
 
 Callous, curt and blunt 
 The world would call his brother . . . not that 
 
 name! 
 And yet names mattered little at this pass. 
 He'd known that Phil was slack . . . but this! 
 
 The blame 
 Was his as much as Phil's. As in a glass 
 Darkly, he saw he'd been to blame as well: 
 And he would bear the blame. Had he not known 
 That Phil was slack? For all that he could tell, 
 If he'd looked after Phil, this might . . . 
 
 Alone 
 He'd got to face the music. He was glad 
 He was alone . . . And yet, for Phil's own sake 
 If he had only had the pluck, poor lad, 
 To see the thing through like a man, and take 
 His punishment! 
 
 For him, was no escape, 
 Either by Phil's road, or that darker road. 
 He knew the cost, and how the thing would 
 
 shape — 
 Too well he knew the full weight of the load 
 He strapped upon his shoulders. It was just 
 That he should bear the burden on his back. 
 He'd trusted Phil; and he'd no right to trust 
 Even his brother, knowing he was slack, 
 When other people's money was at stake. 
 He'd, too, been slack: and slackness was a crime — 
 
 82 
 
PARTNERS 
 
 The deadliest crime of all . . . 
 
 And broad awake, 
 As in a nightmare he was "doing time" 
 Already . . . 
 
 Yet, he'd only trusted Phil — 
 His brother, Phil — and it had come to this! 
 
 Always before whenever things went ill 
 His brother'd turned to him for help; and his 
 Had always been the hand stretched out to him. 
 Now Phil had fled even him. If he'd but known! 
 
 Brooding he saw with tender eyes grown dim 
 Phil running down that endless road alone — 
 Phil running from himself down that dark road — 
 The road which leads nowhither, which is hell : 
 And yearning towards him, bowed beneath his load, 
 And murmuring "Little Phil!" . . . 
 
 Again he fell 
 Into the dead void of eternity, 
 Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead 
 With wide-set staring eyes that still could see 
 Those damning figures, burning hugely red 
 On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
 That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
 10,711— 
 Searing his eyeballs . . . 
 
 When a ripple of light 
 Dappled his desk . . . 
 
 And they were boys to- 
 gether, 
 
 83 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Rambling the hills of home that April day, 
 Stumbling and plunging knee-deep through the 
 
 heather 
 Towards Hallypike, the little lough that lay- 
 Glancing and gleaming in the sun, to search 
 For eggs of inland-breeding gulls. He heard 
 The curlews piping; saw a blackcock perch 
 Upon a dyke hard-by — a lordly bird 
 With queer curled tail. And soon they reached the 
 
 edge — 
 The quaggy edge of Hallypike. And then 
 The gulls rose at them screaming from the edge 
 With napping wings. And for a while like men 
 They stood their ground among the quaking moss, 
 Until half-blinded by the dazzling white 
 Of interweaving wings, and at a loss 
 Which way to turn, they only thought of flight 
 From those fierce cruel beaks and hungry eyes — 
 Yet stood transfixed, each on a quaking clump, 
 With hands to ears to shut out those wild cries. 
 Then the gulls closed on Phil; and with a jump 
 And one shrill yell he'd plunged into the lake 
 Half-crazed with terror. Only just in time 
 He'd stumbled after through the quag aquake 
 And caught him by the coat; and through black 
 
 slime 
 Had dragged him into safety, far away 
 From the horror of white wings and beaks and 
 
 eyes. 
 And he remembered now how Philip lay 
 Sobbing upon his bosom . . . 
 
 84 
 
PARTNERS 
 
 Now those cries 
 Were threatening Phil again; and he was caught 
 Blind in a beating, baffling, yelling hell 
 Of wings and beaks and eyes. And there was naught 
 That he could do for him . . . 
 
 Once more he fell 
 Into the dead void of eternity, 
 Lightless and aching, and his soul hung dead 
 With wide set staring eyes that still could see 
 Those damning figures, burning hugely red 
 On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
 That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
 10,711 
 
 Searing his eyeballs . . . Then the pitchy night 
 Rolled by . . . 
 
 And now that summer noon they 
 
 sat 
 In the shallows of Broomlee lake, the water warm 
 About their chins, and talked of this and that; 
 And heeded nothing of the coming storm, 
 Or the strange breathless stillness everywhere 
 On which the dull note of the cuckoo fell 
 Monotonously beating through dead air, 
 A throbbing pulse of heat made audible. 
 And even when the sky was brooding gray 
 They'd slowly dressed, and started to walk round 
 The mile-long lake: but when they'd got half-way, 
 A heavy fear fell on them; and they found 
 That they were clutching hands. The still lough 
 
 gleamed 
 Livid before them 'neath a livid sky 
 
 85 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Sleek and unrippling . . . Suddenly they screamed 
 And ran headlong for home they knew not 
 
 why — 
 Ran stumbling through the heath, and never 
 
 stopped — 
 And still hot brooding horror on them pressed 
 When they had climbed up Sewingshields, and 
 
 dropped 
 Dead-beat beneath the dyke. And on his breast 
 Poor frightened Phil had sobbed himself to sleep. 
 
 And even when the crashing thunder came, 
 Phil snuggled close in slumber sound and deep. 
 And he alone had watched the lightning flame 
 Across the fells, and flash on Hallypike . . . 
 
 And in his office chair, he felt once more 
 
 His back against the sharp stones of the dyke, 
 
 And Phil's hot clutching arms . . . 
 
 An outer door 
 Banged in the wind, and roused him . . . 
 
 He was glad, 
 In spite of all, to think he'd trusted Phil. 
 He'd got to see it through . . . 
 
 He saw the lad, 
 His little frightened brother crouching still 
 Beneath the brooding horror of the sky. 
 That he might take him in his arms once more! 
 
 Now, he must pull himself together, ay! 
 For there was someone tapping at the door. 
 86 
 
THE ELM 
 
 The wind had caught the elm at last. 
 He'd lain all night and wondered how 
 'Twas bearing up against the blast: 
 And it was down for ever now, 
 Snapt like a match-stick. He, at dawn, 
 Had risen from his sleepless bed, 
 And, hobbling to the window, drawn 
 The blind up, and had seen, instead 
 Of that brave tree against the sky, 
 Thrust up into the windless blue 
 A broken stump not ten feet high . . . 
 
 And it was changed, the world he knew, 
 The world he'd known since he, tip-toe, 
 Had first looked out beneath the eaves, 
 And seen that tree at dawn, aglow, 
 Soaring with all its countless leaves 
 In their first glory of fresh green, 
 Like a big flame above the mead. 
 
 How many mornings he had seen 
 It soaring since — well, it would need 
 A better head to figure out 
 Than his, now he was seventy-five, 
 And failing fast without a doubt — 
 The last of fifteen, left alive, 
 That in that very room were born, 
 Ay, and upon that very bed 
 He'd left at daybreak. 
 
 87 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Many a morn 
 He'd seen it, stark against the red 
 Of winter sunrise, or in Spring — 
 Some April morning, dewy-clear, 
 With all its green buds glittering 
 In the first sunbeams, soaring sheer 
 Out of low mist. 
 
 The morn he wed 
 It seemed with glittering jewels hung . . . 
 
 And fifty year, his wife was dead — 
 And she, so merry-eyed and young . . . 
 
 And it was black the night she died, 
 Dead black against the starry sky, 
 When he had flung the window wide 
 Upon the night so crazily, 
 Instead of drawing down the blind 
 As he had meant. He was so dazed, 
 And fumbled so, he couldn't find 
 The hasp to pull it to, though crazed 
 To shut them out, that starry night, 
 And that great funeral-plume of black, 
 So awful in the cold starlight. 
 He'd fumbled till they drew him back, 
 And closed it for him . . . 
 
 And for long 
 At night he couldn't bear to see 
 An elm against the stars. 
 
 'Twas wrong, 
 He knew, to blame an innocent tree — 
 88 
 
THE ELM 
 
 Though some folk hated elms, and thought 
 Them evil : for their great boughs fell 
 So suddenly . . . 
 
 George Stubbs was caught 
 And crushed to death. You couldn't tell 
 What brought that great bough crashing there, 
 Just where George sat — his cider-keg 
 Raised to his lips — for all the air 
 Was still as death . . . And just one leg 
 Stuck silly-like out of the leaves, 
 When Seth waked up ten yards away 
 Where he'd been snoozing 'mid the sheaves. 
 
 'Twas queer-like; but you couldn't say 
 The tree itself had been to blame. 
 That bough was rotten through and through, 
 And would have fallen just the same 
 Though George had not been there . . . 
 
 'Twas true 
 That undertakers mostly made 
 Cheap coffins out of elm . . . 
 
 But he, 
 Well, he could never feel afraid 
 Of any living thing. That tree, 
 He'd seemed to hate it for a time 
 After she'd died . . . And yet somehow 
 You can't keep hating without rhyme 
 Or reason any live thing. 
 
 Now 
 He grieved to see it, fallen low, 
 With almost every branch and bough 
 
 89 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Smashed into splinters. All that snow, 
 A dead-weight, and that heavy blast, 
 Had dragged it down: and at his feet 
 It lay, the mighty tree, at last. 
 
 And he could make its trunk his seat 
 And rest awhile, this winter's noon 
 In the warm sunshine. He could just 
 Hobble so far. And very soon 
 He'ld lie as low himself. He'd trust 
 His body to that wood. 
 
 Old tree, 
 So proud and brave this many a year, 
 Now brought so low . . . 
 
 Ah ! there was he, 
 His grandson, Jo, with never a fear 
 Riding a bough unbroken yet — 
 A madcap, like his father, Jim! 
 He'ld teach him sense, if he could get 
 Behind him with a stick, the limb! 
 
 90 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 Held soon be home. The car was running well, 
 Considering what she'd been through, since the 
 
 bell 
 Tumbled him out again — just as his head 
 Sank in the pillow, glad to get to bed 
 After the last night's watching, and a day 
 Of travelling snowy roads without a stay — 
 To find the tall young shepherd at the door. 
 
 "The wife's gey bad in child-bed" — and no more 
 He'd said till they were seated in the car, 
 And he was asked, Where to? and was it far? 
 "The Scalp" he'd said — "Some fifteen mile or so." 
 
 And they'd set out through blinding squalls of snow 
 To climb the hills. The car could scarcely crawl 
 At times, she skidded so; and with that squall 
 Clean in his eyes he scarcely saw to steer — 
 His big lamps only lit a few yards clear — 
 
 But those young eyes beside him seemed to pierce 
 The fifteen miles of smother fuming fierce 
 Between the husband and his home — the light 
 In that far bedroom window held his sight, 
 As though he saw clean through the blinding squall 
 To the little square stone steading that held all 
 His heart — so solitary, bleak and grey 
 Among the snow drifts on the windy brae, 
 
 9i 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Beyond the burn that, swollen, loud and black 
 Threatened the single plank that kept the track 
 Between them and the outside world secure. 
 If that were gone, when he got back, for sure 
 They'ld have to plunge waist-deep in that black 
 
 spate 
 And cling for life upon the old sheep-gate, 
 If it were not gone too, to cross at all . . . 
 
 And she ! He saw the shadow on the wall 
 
 Behind the bed, his mother's as she bent 
 
 To comfort Mary, for a moment spent 
 
 By the long agony . . . That shadow seemed 
 
 So black and threatening, and the candle gleamed 
 
 So strangely in those wild bright eyes . . . 
 
 They'ld be 
 Lucky to reach the bank at all: for he 
 Had been through that burn once on such a 
 
 night: 
 And he remembered how he'd had to fight 
 The frothing flood, rolled over, beaten, bruised 
 And well-nigh dragged down under, though well 
 
 used 
 To every mood and temper of the burn. 
 
 Yet, though he gazed so far, he missed no turn 
 In all those climbing miles of snow-blind way 
 Until the car stopt dead by Gallows' Brae, 
 And they'd to leave her underneath a dyke, 
 And plunge knee-deep through drift-choked slack 
 and syke 
 
 92 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 Until they reached the plank that still held fast 
 Though quivering underfoot in that wild blast 
 Like a stretched bow-string. Dizzily they crossed 
 Above that brawling blackness, torn and tossed 
 To flashing spray about the lantern. Then 
 Setting their teeth, they took the brae, like men 
 At desperate hazard charging certain death: 
 And nigh the crest the doctor reeled — his breath 
 Knocked out of him, and sinking helplessly 
 Knew nothing till he wakened drowsily 
 Before the peat and found himself alone 
 In a strange kitchen. 
 
 But a heavy moan 
 Just overhead recalled him, and he leapt 
 Instantly to his feet, alert, and crept 
 Upstairs with noiseless step until he came 
 To the low bedroom where the candle flame 
 Showed the old woman standing by the bed 
 On which the young wife lay. His noiseless tread 
 Scarce startling them, he paused a moment while 
 Those strained white lips and wild eyes strove to 
 
 smile 
 Bravely and tenderly as the husband bent 
 Over the bed to kiss her. When he went 
 Without a word, closing the creaking door 
 And creeping quietly downstairs, once more 
 The room was filled with moaning. 
 
 When at last 
 His part was done, and danger safely past, 
 
 93 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And into a wintry world with lusty crying 
 
 That little life had ventured, and was lying 
 
 Beside the drowsy mother on the bed, 
 
 Downstairs the doctor stole with noiseless tread, 
 
 And, entering the kitchen quietly, 
 
 Saw the young father gazing fearfully 
 
 Into the fire with dazed unseeing eyes. 
 
 He spoke to him: and still he did not rise, 
 
 But sat there staring with that senseless gaze 
 
 Set on the peat that with a sudden blaze 
 
 Lit up his drawn face, bloodless 'neath its tan. 
 
 But when the doctor stooped and touched the man 
 
 Upon the shoulder, starting to his feet 
 
 He staggered, almost falling in the peat, 
 
 Whispering ' ' She's safe ! She's safe ! ' ' 
 
 And then he leapt 
 Suddenly up the stair. The doctor crept 
 Speedily after him without a sound : 
 But when he reached the upper room he found 
 He wasn't needed. The young husband bent 
 Over his wife and baby, quiet, content: 
 Then the wife stirred, opening her eyes, and 
 
 smiled 
 And they together looked upon their child. 
 The doctor drowsed till dawn beside the peat, 
 Napping uneasily in the high-backed seat, 
 Half-conscious of the storm that shook the 
 
 pane 
 And rattled at the door . . . 
 
 And now again 
 He seemed to stand beside the lonely bed 
 
 94 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 He'd stood beside last night — the old man, 
 
 dead, 
 With staring eyes, dropt jaw, and rigid grin 
 That held the stark white features, peaked and 
 
 thin — 
 The old man, left alone, with not a friend 
 To make his body seemly in the end, 
 Or close his eyes . . . 
 
 And then the lusty cry 
 Of that young baby screaming hungrily 
 Broke through his dream. . . . 
 
 The car was running well. 
 He'ld soon be home, and sleeping — till the bell 
 Should rouse him to a world of old men dying 
 Alone, and hungry newborn babies crying. 
 
 95 
 
THE LAMP 
 
 She couldn't bring herself to bar the door — 
 And him on the wrong side of it. Nevermore 
 She'ld hear his footstep on the threshold- 
 stone . . . 
 
 "You're not afraid to lie all night alone, 
 
 And Jim but newly drowned?" they'd asked: and 
 
 she 
 Had turned upon her neighbours wonderingly. 
 "Afraid of what? " she said. "Afraid of him; " 
 The neighbours answered. "Me — afraid of Jim! 
 And after all these years!" she cried — -"and he — 
 How can you think that he'ld bring harm to me? 
 You know him better, surely, even you ! 
 And I . . ." Then they had left her, for they knew 
 Too well that any word that they could say 
 Would help her nothing. 
 
 When they'd gone away, 
 Leaving her to her trouble, she arose, 
 And, taking from the kist his Sunday clothes, 
 Folded so neatly, kept so carefully 
 In camphor, free of moth, half-absently 
 She shook them out, and hung them up to air 
 Before the fire upon his high-backed chair: 
 
 96 
 
THE LAMP 
 
 And then when they were aired she folded them 
 Carefully, seam to seam and hem to hem, 
 And smoothing them with tender hands, again 
 She laid them in the kist where they had lain 
 Six days a week for hard on forty year . . . 
 
 Ay, forty year they'd shared each hope and fear — 
 They two, together — yet she might not tend 
 With loving hands his body in the end. 
 The sea had taken him from her. And she — 
 She could do nothing for him now. The sea 
 Had taken him from her. And nevermore 
 Might she do anything for him . . . 
 
 The door 
 Flapped in the wind. She shut and snecked it 
 
 tight, 
 But did not bolt it. Then she set a light 
 In the white-curtained window, where it shone 
 As clearly as on each night that he had gone 
 Out with the boats in all that forty year, 
 And each night she had watched it burning clear, 
 Alone and wakeful . . . and, though lonelier, 
 She'ld lie to-night as many a night she'd lain 
 On her left side, with face turned towards the 
 
 pane, 
 So that, if she should wake, at once she'ld see 
 If still her beacon-light burned steadily, 
 Feeling that, may be, somewhere in the night 
 Of those dark waters he could see the light 
 Far off and very dim, a little spark 
 Of comfort burning for him in the dark, 
 
 97 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And, even though it should dwindle from his sight, 
 It seemed to her that he must feel the light 
 Burning within his heart, the light of home . . . 
 
 From those black cruel waters sudden foam 
 Flashed as she gazed; and with a shuddering stir, 
 As though cold drowning waves went over her, 
 She stood a moment gasping. Then she turned 
 From the bright window where her watch-light 
 
 burned 
 And, taking off her clothes, crept into bed 
 To see if she could sleep. But when her head 
 Touched the cold pillow, such hot restlessness 
 She felt, she'd half-a-mind to rise and dress 
 Each moment, as she tossed from side to side. 
 The bed to-night seemed very big and wide 
 And hard and cold to her, though a hot ache 
 Held her whole body tingling wide awake 
 Turning and tossing half the endless night. 
 
 Then quieter she lay, and watched the light 
 
 Burning so steadily, until the flame 
 
 Dazzled her eyes, and golden memories came 
 
 Out of the past to comfort her. She lay 
 
 Remembering, — remembering that day 
 
 Nigh twenty years since when she'd thought him 
 
 drowned, 
 And after all . . . 
 
 She heard again the sound 
 Of seas that swept a solid wall of green, 
 Such seas as living eye had never seen, 
 98 
 
THE LAMP 
 
 Over the rock-bound harbour, with a roar 
 
 Rushing the beach, tossing against the door 
 
 Driftwood and old cork-floats, slashing the pane 
 
 With flying weed again and yet again, 
 
 As toppling to disaster, sea on sea 
 
 Beneath that crashing wind broke furiously 
 
 Almost upon the very threshold-stone 
 
 In white tumultuous thunder. All alone 
 
 She watched through that long morn: too much 
 
 afraid 
 To stir or do a hand's turn, her heart prayed 
 One prayer unceasingly, though not a word 
 Escaped her lips; till in a lull she heard 
 A neighbour call out that the Morning Star 
 Had gone ashore somewhere beyond Hell Scar, 
 Hard by the Wick, and all . . . and then the roar 
 Drowned everything. . . . 
 
 And how she reached the door 
 She never knew. She found herself outside 
 Suddenly face to face with that mad tide, 
 Battling for breach against a wind that fought 
 Each inch with her, as she turned North, and 
 
 caught 
 Her bodily, and flung her reeling back 
 A dozen times before she reached the track 
 That runs along the crag-top to the Head. 
 Bent double, still she struggled on, half-dead, 
 For not a moment could she stand upright 
 Against that wind, striving with all her might 
 To reach the Wick. She struggled through that wind 
 As through cold clinging water, deaf and blind; 
 99 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And numb and heavy in that icy air 
 
 Her battered body felt, as though, stark-bare, 
 
 She floundered in deep seas. Once in a lull 
 
 Flat on her face she fell. A startled gull 
 
 Rose skirling at her; and with burning eyes 
 
 She lay a moment, far too scared to rise, 
 
 Staring into a gully, black as night, 
 
 In which the seething waters frothing white 
 
 Thundered from crag to crag, and baffled leapt 
 
 A hundred feet in air. She'd nearly stept 
 
 Into that gully. Just in time the wind 
 
 Had dropt. One moment more, and headlong, 
 
 blind, 
 She'd tumbled into that pit of death . . . and Jim, 
 If he were living yet . . . 
 
 The thought of him 
 Startled her to her feet: and on once more 
 Against a fiercer wind along the shore 
 She struggled with set teeth, and dragging hair 
 Drenched in the sousing spray that leapt in air 
 Spinning and hissing, smiting her like hail. 
 
 Then when it almost seemed that she must fail 
 To reach the Wick, alive or dead, she found 
 That she was there already. To the ground 
 She sank, dead-beat. Almost too faint and weak 
 To lift her head, her wild eyes sought the creek; 
 But there she saw no sign of boat or man — 
 Only a furious smother of seas that ran 
 Along the slanting jetty ceaselessly. 
 Groping for life, she searched that spumy sea 
 ioo 
 
THE LAMP 
 
 For sail or sign in vain: then knew no more . . . 
 Till she was lifted by strong arms that bore 
 Her safely through the storm, lying at rest 
 Without a care upon her husband's breast 
 Unquestioning, till she reached home, content 
 To feel his arms about her, as he bent 
 Over her tenderly and breathed her name. 
 
 And then she heard how, back from death, he 
 
 came 
 Unscathed to her, by some strange mercy thrown 
 Alive almost upon his threshold-stone: 
 When, hearing where she'd gone, he'd followed her 
 Hot-foot . . . 
 
 The breath of dawn began to blur 
 The shining pane with mist . . . And nevermore 
 His foot would follow her along that shore. 
 The sea had taken him from her, at last, 
 Had taken him to keep . . . 
 
 Then from the past 
 She waked with eyes that looked beyond the 
 
 light. 
 Still burning clearly, into the lingering night, 
 Black yet, beyond the streaming window-pane 
 Down which big glistening drops of gentle rain 
 Trickled until they dazzled her; and she lay 
 Again remembering — how ere break of day 
 When she was young she'd had to rise and go 
 Along the crag-top some five mile or so, 
 With other lads and lasses, to Skateraw 
 To gather bait . . . 
 
 IOI 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Again her young eyes saw 
 Those silent figures with their creels, dead-black 
 Against the stars, climbing the sheer cliff-track 
 In single file before her, or quite bright 
 As suddenly the light-house flashed its light 
 Full on them, stepping up out of the night 
 On to the day-bright crag-top — kindling white, 
 A moment, windy hair and streaming grass. 
 Again she trudged, a drowsy little lass, 
 The youngest of them all, across dim fields 
 By sleeping farms and ruined roofless bields, 
 Frightened by angry dogs that, roused from sleep, 
 Yelped after them, or by a startled sheep 
 That scurried by her suddenly, while she 
 Was staring at a ship's lights out at sea, 
 With dreaming eyes, or counting countless stars 
 That twinkled bright beyond the jagged scars: 
 Or stumbled over a slippery shingle-beach 
 Beneath her creel, and shuddered at the screech 
 And sudden clamour of wings that round her 
 
 flapped. 
 Again she felt that cruel cold. Though hapt 
 In the big shawl, the raw wind searched her 
 
 through 
 Till every bone ached. Then once more she 
 
 knew 
 Brief respite when at last they reached Skateraw 
 And rested till the dawn. 
 
 Again she saw 
 Those dark groups sitting quiet in the night 
 Awaiting the first blink of morning-light, 
 102 
 
THE LAMP 
 
 To set to work gathering the bait, while she 
 Sang to them as they sat beside the sea. 
 They always made her sing, for she'd a voice 
 When she was young, she had, and such a choice 
 Of words and airs by heart: and she was glad 
 To turn a tune for any lass or lad 
 Who'ld ask her, always glad to hear them say: 
 "Come, Singing Sally, give us 'Duncan Gray,' 
 'The De'il among the Tailors,' 'Elsie Marley,' 
 'The Keel-Row' or 'The Wind among the Bar- 
 
 ley'"; 
 And always gladdest when 'twas Jim would ask. 
 
 Again, as they would settle to their task 
 Of gathering clammy mussels, that cold ache 
 Stole through her bones. It seemed her back must 
 
 break 
 Each time she stooped, or lifted up her head, 
 Though still she worked with fingers raw and 
 
 red 
 Until her creel was filled. But, toiling back, 
 Staggering beneath her load along the track, 
 Jim would come up with her and take her creel 
 And bear it for her, if she'ld sing a reel 
 To keep their hearts up as they trudged along. 
 Half-numb with sleep, she'ld start a dancing-song, 
 And sing, the fresh wind blowing in her face, 
 Until the dancing blood began to race 
 Through her young body, and her heart grew 
 
 light, 
 Forgetting all the labours of the night . . . 
 103 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Once more she walked light-foot to that gay air, 
 The wind of morning fresh on face and hair, 
 A girl again . . . 
 
 And Jim, 'twas always he 
 Who bore her burden for her . . . 
 
 Quietly 
 With eyes upon the golden lamp she lay, 
 While, all unseen of her, the winter day 
 Behind the dim wet pane broke bleak and 
 cold. 
 
 She seemed to look upon a dawn of gold 
 That kindled every dancing wave to glee 
 As she walked homeward singing by the sea, 
 As she walked homeward with the windy stir 
 Fresh in her flying hair, and over her 
 Jim leant — young lucky Jim — a kindly lad 
 Taking the creel; and her girl's heart was 
 
 glad 
 As . . . 
 
 . . . clasped within each other's arms, the 
 deep 
 Closed over them . . . 
 
 Smiling, she fell asleep. 
 
 104 
 
THE PLATELAYER 
 
 Tapping the rails as he went by 
 And driving the slack wedges tight, 
 He walked towards the morning sky 
 Between two golden lines of light 
 That dwindled slowly into one 
 Sheer golden rail that ran right on 
 Over the fells into the sun. 
 
 And dazzling in his eyes it shone, 
 That golden track, as left and right 
 He swung his clinking hammer — ay, 
 'Twas dazzling after that long night 
 In Hindfell tunnel, working by 
 A smoky flare, and making good 
 The track the rains had torn . . . 
 
 Clink, clink, 
 On the sound metal — on the wood 
 A duller thwack! 
 
 It made him blink, 
 That running gold . . . 
 
 'Twas sixteen hours 
 Since he'd left home — his garden smelt 
 So fragrant with the heavy showers 
 When he left home — and now he felt 
 That it would smell more fresh and sweet 
 105 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 After the tunnel's reek and fume 
 Of damp warm cinders. 'Twas a treat 
 To come upon the scent and bloom 
 That topped the cutting by the wood 
 After the cinders of the track, 
 The cinders and tarred sleepers — good 
 To lift your eyes from gritty black 
 Upon that blaze of green and red . . . 
 And she'ld be waiting by the fence, 
 And with the baby . . . 
 
 Straight for bed 
 He'ld make, if he had any sense, 
 And sleep the day; but, like as not, 
 When he'd had breakfast, he'ld turn to 
 And hoe the back potato-plot: 
 'Twould be one mass of weeds he knew. 
 You'ld think each single drop of rain 
 Turned as it fell into a weed. 
 You seemed to hoe and hoe in vain. 
 Chickweed and groundsel didn't heed 
 The likes of him — and bindweed, well, 
 You hoed and hoed — still its white roots 
 Ran deeper . . . 
 
 'Twould be good to smell 
 The fresh turned earth, and feel his boots 
 Sink deep into the brown wet mould, 
 After hard cinders . . . 
 
 And, maybe, 
 The baby, sleeping good as gold 
 In its new carriage under a tree, 
 Would keep him company, while his wife 
 106 
 
THE PLATELAYER 
 
 Washed up the breakfast-things. 
 
 'Twas strange, 
 The difference that she made to life, 
 That tiny baby-girl. 
 
 The change 
 Of work would make him sleep more sound. 
 'Twas sleep he needed. That long night 
 Shovelling wet cinders underground, 
 With breaking back, the smoky light 
 Stinging his eyes till they were sore . . . 
 He'd worked the night that she was born, 
 Standing from noon the day before 
 All through that winter's night till morn 
 Laying fog-signals on the line 
 Where it ran over Devil's Ghyll . . . 
 
 And she was born at half-past nine, 
 Just as he stood aside until 
 The Scots Express ran safely by . . . 
 He'd but to shut his eyes to see 
 Those windows flashing blindingly 
 A moment through the blizzard — he 
 Could feel again that slashing snow 
 That seemed to cut his face. 
 
 But they, 
 The passengers, they couldn't know 
 What it cost him to keep the way 
 Open for them. So snug and warm 
 They slept or chattered, while he stood 
 And faced all night that raking storm — 
 The little house beside the wood 
 107 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 Forever in his thoughts: and he, 
 
 Not knowing what was happening . . . 
 
 But all went well as well could be 
 With Sally and the little thing. 
 And it had been worth while to wait 
 Through that long night with work to do, 
 To meet his mother at the gate 
 With such good news, and find it true, 
 Ay, truer than the truth. 
 
 He still 
 Could see his wife's eyes as he bent 
 Over the bairn . . . 
 
 The Devil's Ghyll 
 Had done its worst, and he was spent; 
 But he'ld have faced a thousand such 
 Wild nights as thon, to see that smile 
 Again, and feel that tender touch 
 Upon his cheek. 
 
 'Twas well worth while 
 With such reward. And it was strange, 
 The difference such a little thing 
 Could make to them — how it could change 
 Their whole life for them, and could bring 
 Such happiness to them, though they 
 Had seemed as happy as could be 
 Before it came to them. 
 
 The day 
 Was shaping well. And there was she, 
 The lassie sleeping quietly 
 Within her arms, beside the gate. 
 
 The storm had split that lilac tree. 
 But he was tired, and it must wait. 
 108 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 And after all, 'twas snug and weather- tight, 
 His garret. That was much on such a night — 
 To be secure against the wind and sleet 
 At his age, and not wandering the street, 
 A shuffling, shivering bag-of-bones. 
 
 And yet 
 Things would be snugger if he could forget 
 The bundle of old dripping rags that slouched 
 Before him down the Cannongate, and crouched 
 Close to the swing-doors of the Spotted Cow. 
 Why, he could see that poor old sinner now, 
 Ay! and could draw him, if he'd had the knack 
 Of drawing anything — a steamy, black 
 Dilapidation, basking in the glare, 
 And sniffing with his swollen nose in air 
 To catch the hot reek when the door swings 
 
 wide 
 And shows the glittering paradise inside, 
 Where men drink golden fire on seats of plush 
 Lolling like gods: he stands there in the slush 
 Shivering, from squelching boots to sopping hat 
 One sodden clout, and blinking like a bat 
 Be-dazzled by the blaze of light: his beard 
 Waggles and drips from lank cheeks pocked and 
 
 seared; 
 And the whole dismal night about him drips, 
 As he stands gaping there with watering lips 
 109 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And burning eyes in the cold sleety drench 
 Afire with thirst that only death may quench. 
 
 Yet he had clutched the sixpence greedily 
 
 As if sixpennyworth of rum maybe 
 
 Would satisfy that thirst. Who knows! It might 
 
 Just do the trick perhaps on such a night, 
 
 And death would be a golden, fiery drink 
 
 To that old scarecrow. 'Twould be good to think 
 
 His money'd satisfied that thirst, and brought 
 
 Rest to those restless fevered bones that ought 
 
 Long since to have dropped for ever out of 
 
 sight. 
 It wasn't decent, wandering the night 
 Like that — not decent. While it lived it made 
 A man turn hot to see it, and afraid 
 To look it in the face lest he should find 
 That bundle was himself, grown old and blind 
 With thirst unsatisfied. 
 
 He'd thirsted, too, 
 His whole life long, though not for any brew 
 That trickled out of taps in gaudy bars 
 For those with greasy pence to spend ! 
 
 The stars 
 Were not for purchase, neither bought nor sold 
 By any man for silver or for gold. 
 
 Still, he was snug and sheltered from the storm. 
 He sat by his own hearth secure and warm, 
 And that was much indeed on such a night. 
 The little room was pleasant with the light 
 no 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 Glowing on lime-washed walls, kindling to red 
 His copper pots, and, over the white bed, 
 The old torn Rembrandt print to golden gloom. 
 'Twas much on such a night to have a room — 
 Four walls and ceiling storm- tight overhead. 
 Denied the stars — well, you must spend instead 
 Your sixpences on makeshifts. Life was naught 
 But toiling for the sixpences that bought 
 Makeshifts for stars. 
 
 'Twas snug to hear the sleet 
 Lashing the panes and sweeping down the street 
 Towards Holyrood and out into the night 
 Of hills beyond. Maybe it would be white 
 On Arthur's Seat to-morrow, white with snow — 
 A white hill shining in the morning glow 
 Beyond the chimney-pots, that was a sight 
 For any man to see — a snowy height 
 Soaring into the sunshine. He was glad 
 Though he must live in slums, his garret had 
 A window to the hills. 
 
 And he was warm, 
 Ay, warm and snug, shut in here from the storm. 
 The sixpences bought comfort for old bones 
 That else must crouch all night on paving-stones 
 Unsheltered from the cold. 
 
 'Twas hard to learn 
 In his young days that this was life — to earn 
 By life-long labour just your board and bed — 
 Although the stars were singing overhead, 
 The sons of morning singing together for joy 
 As they had sung for every bright-eyed boy 
 in 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 With ears to hear since life itself was young — 
 And leave so much unseen, so much unsung. 
 
 He'd had to learn that lesson. 'Twas no good 
 
 To go star-gazing for a livelihood 
 
 With empty belly. Though he had a turn 
 
 For seeing things, when you have got to earn 
 
 Your daily bread first, there is little time 
 
 To paint your dream or set the stars to rhyme: 
 
 Nay, though you have the vision and the 
 
 skill 
 You cannot draw the outline of a hill 
 To please yourself, when you get home half- 
 dead 
 After the day's work — hammers in your head 
 Still tapping, tapping . . . 
 
 Always mad to draw 
 The living shape of everything he saw 
 He'd had to spend his utmost skill and strength 
 Learning a trade to live by, till at length 
 Now he'd the leisure the old skill was dead. 
 
 Born for a painter as it seemed, instead 
 He'd spent his life upholstering furniture. 
 'Twas natural enough men should prefer 
 Upholstery to pictures, and their ease 
 To little coloured daubs of cows and trees. 
 He didn't blame them, 'twas no fault of theirs 
 That they saw life in terms of easy chairs, 
 And heaven, like that old sinner in the slush, 
 A gHtteruig bar upholstered in red plush. 
 112 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 'Twas strange to look back on it now, his life . . . 
 His father, married to a second wife; 
 And home, no home for him since he could mind, 
 Save when the starry vision made him blind 
 To all about him, and he walked on air 
 For days together, and without a care . . . 
 But as the years passed, seldomer they came 
 Those starry dazzling nights and days aflame, 
 And oftener a sudden gloom would drop 
 Upon him, drudging all day in the shop 
 With his young brother John — John always gay 
 Taking things as they came, the easy way, 
 Not minding overmuch if things went wrong 
 At home, and always humming a new song . . . 
 
 And then she came into his life, and shook 
 All heaven about him. He had but to look 
 On her to find the stars within his reach. 
 But, ere his love had trembled into speech, 
 He'd waked one day to know that not for him 
 Were those bright living eyes that turned dreams 
 
 dim — 
 To know that while he'd worshipped, John and she 
 Had taken to each other easily . . . 
 
 But that was years ago . . . and now he sat 
 Beside a lonely hearth. And they were fat — 
 Ay, fat and old they were, John and his wife, 
 And with a grown-up family. Their life 
 Had not been over-easy: they'd their share 
 Of trouble, ay, more than enough to spare: 
 113 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 But they had made the best of things, and taken 
 Life as it came with courage still unshaken. 
 They'd faced their luck, but never gone half-way 
 To meet fresh trouble. Life was always gay 
 For them between the showers: the roughest 
 
 weather 
 Might do its worst — they always stood together 
 To bear the brunt, together stood their ground 
 And came through smiling cheerfully. They'd 
 
 found 
 Marriage a hard-up, happy business 
 Of hand-to-mouth existence more or less; 
 But taking all in all, well worth their while 
 To look on the bright side of things — to smile 
 When all went well, not fearing overmuch 
 When life was suddenly brought to the touch 
 And you'd to sink or swim. And they'd kept 
 
 hold, 
 And even now, though they were fat and old 
 They'd still a hearty grip on life . . . 
 
 They'ld be 
 Sitting there in their kitchen after tea 
 On either side the fire-place even now — 
 Jane with her spectacles upon her brow, 
 And nodding as she knitted, listening 
 While John, in shirt-sleeves, scraped his fiddle- 
 string, 
 With one ear hearkening lest a foot should stop 
 And some rare customer invade the shop 
 To ask the price of that old Flanders' chest 
 Or oaken ale-house settle . . . 
 114 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 They'd the best 
 Of life, maybe, together . . . 
 
 And yet he — 
 Though he'd not taken life so easily, 
 Had always hated makeshifts more or less, 
 Grudging to swop the stars for sixpences, 
 And was an old man now, with that old thirst 
 Unsatisfied — ay, even at the worst 
 He'd had his compensations, now and then 
 A starry glimpse. You couldn't work with men 
 And quite forget the stars. Though life was 
 
 spent 
 In drudgery, it hadn't only meant 
 Upholstering chairs in crimson plush for bars . . . 
 Maybe it gave new meaning to the stars, 
 The drudgery, who knows! 
 
 At least the rare 
 Wild glimpses he had caught at whiles were 
 
 there 
 Yet living in his mind. When much was dim 
 And drudgery forgotten, bright for him 
 Burned even now in memory old delights 
 That had been his in other days and nights. 
 He'd always seen, though never could express 
 His eyes' delight, or only more or less: 
 But things once clearly seen, once and for all 
 The soul's possessions — naught that may befall 
 May ever dim, and neither moth nor rust 
 Corrupt the dream, that, shedding mortal dust, 
 Has soared to life and spread its wings of gold 
 Within the soul . . . 
 
 US 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 And yet when they were told 
 These deathless visions, little things they seemed 
 Though something of the beauty he had dreamed 
 Burned in them, something of his youth's desire . . . 
 
 And as he sat there, gazing at the fire — 
 Once more he lingered, listening in the gloom 
 Of that great silent warehouse, in the room 
 Where stores were kept, one hand upon a shelf, 
 And heard a lassie singing to herself 
 Somewhere unseen without a thought who heard, 
 Just singing to herself like any bird 
 Because the heart was happy in her breast, 
 As happy as the day was long. At rest 
 He lingered, listening, and a ray of light 
 Streamed from the dormer-window up a height; 
 Down on the bales of crimson cloth, and lit 
 To sudden gold the dust that danced in it, 
 Till he was dazzled by the golden motes 
 That kept on dancing to those merry notes 
 Before his dreaming eyes, and danced as long 
 As he stood listening to the lassie's song . . . 
 
 Then once again, his work-bag on his back, 
 He climbed that April morning up the track 
 That took you by a short cut through the wood 
 Up to the hill-top where the great house stood, 
 When suddenly beyond the firs' thick night 
 He saw a young fawn frisking in the light: 
 Shaking the dew-drops in a silver rain 
 From off his dappled hide, he leapt again 
 116 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 As though he'ld jump out of his skin for joy. 
 With laughing eyes light-hearted as a boy 
 He watched the creature unaware of him 
 Quivering with eager life in every limb, 
 Leaping and frisking on the dewy green 
 Beneath the flourish of the snowy gean, 
 While every now and then the long ears pricked, 
 And budding horns, as he leapt higher, flicked 
 The drooping clusters of wild-cherry bloom, 
 Shaking their snow about him. From the gloom 
 Of those dark wintry firs, his eyes had won 
 A sight of April sporting in the sun — 
 Young April leaping to its heart's delight 
 Among the dew beneath the boughs of white . . . 
 
 And there'd been days among the hills, rare 
 
 days 
 And rarer nights among the heathery ways — 
 Rare golden holidays when he had been 
 Alone in the great solitude of green 
 Wave-crested hills, a rolling shoreless sea 
 Flowing for ever through eternity — 
 A sea of grasses, streaming without rest 
 Beneath the great wind blowing from the 
 
 west, 
 Over which cloud shadows sailed and swept 
 
 away 
 Beyond the world's edge all the summer day. 
 
 The hills had been his refuge, his delight, 
 Seen or unseen, through many a day or night. 
 117 
 
LIVELIHOOD 
 
 His help was of the hills, steadfast, serene 
 
 In their eternal strength, those shapes of 
 
 green 
 Sublimely moulded. 
 
 Whatsoever his skill, 
 No man had ever rightly drawn a hill 
 To his mind — never caught the subtle curves 
 Of sweeping moorland with its dips and swerves — 
 Nor ever painted heather . . . 
 
 Heather came 
 Always into his mind like sudden flame, 
 Blazing and streaming over stony braes 
 As he had seen it on that day of days 
 When he had plunged into a sea of bloom, 
 Blinded with colour, stifled with the fume 
 Of sun-soaked blossom, the hot heady scent 
 Of honey-breathing bells, and sunk content 
 Into a soft and scented bed to sleep; 
 And he had lain in slumber sweet and deep, 
 And only wakened when the full moon's light 
 Had turned that wavy sea of heather white : 
 And still he'd lain within the full moon blaze 
 Hour after hour, bewildered and adaze 
 As though enchanted — in a waking swoon 
 He'd lain within the full glare of the moon 
 Until she seemed to shine on him alone 
 In all the world — as though his body'd grown 
 Until it covered all the earth, and he 
 Was swaying like the moon-enchanted sea 
 Beneath that cold white witchery of light . . . 
 And now, the earth itself, he hung in night 
 118 
 
MAKESHIFTS 
 
 Turning and turning in that cold white glare 
 For ever and for ever . . . 
 
 She was there — 
 There at his window now, the moon. The sleet 
 And wind no longer swept the quiet street. 
 And he was cold: the fire had burnt quite low: 
 And, while he'd dreamt, there'd been a fall of 
 
 snow 
 He wondered where that poor old man would 
 
 hide 
 His head to-night with thirst unsatisfied . . . 
 His thirst, who knows! but night may quench the 
 
 thirst 
 Day leaves unsatisfied . . . 
 
 Well, he must first 
 Get to his bed and sleep away the night, 
 If he would rise to see the hills still white 
 In the first glory of the morning light. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America. 
 
 119 
 
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