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1905—1906

REWARDS AND FAIRIES
BY
RUDYARD KIPLING

 

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDA\ SGiE & 1G LNFEN a ase aT dar deta dae ereeaoe oc: ve i eG

   
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
    
     

I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY RUDYARD KIPLING

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1906
BY RUDYARD KIPLING

ROBIN GOODFELLOW—HIS FRIENDS

BY RUDYARD KIPLING
A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH
ON THE GREAT WALL
THE WINGED HATS
HAL O' THE DRAFT
DIMCHURCH FLIT
THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

COPYRIGHT, IQIO
BY RUDYARD KIPLING

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.CONTENTS

Weland’s Sword

Young Men at the Manor ;
The Knights of the Joyous Venture
Old Men at Pevensey . :

A Centurion of the Thirtieth

On the Great Wall

The Winged Hats

fialo the Draft .-

‘Dymchurch Flit’

The Treasure and the Law

POEMS
Puck’s Song
A Tree Song
Sir Richard’s Song
Harp Song of the Dane W omen
Thorkild’s Song :
The Runes on Weland’s Sw ae
Cities and Thrones and Powers.
A British-Roman Song
A Song to Mithras
A Pict Song

Prophets Have Boannn All One er the Earth

A Smuggler’s Song

The Bee Boy’s Song palma ee
Ay Ghree-Bart song. . . «5 = -
song of the Fifth River ... .-
The Children’s Song

PAGE
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161
187
211
239

27

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O09

81
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157
181
185
205
209
227
231
293Ces See

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7
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SSD ChtoWELAND’S SWORD

HodGoonnoOaooaooke
Stine pegtasestsctanescsttesass
ST Tere ¢ear hele | iy Teasdale ne SS
a ST rere Seabee ana Sear nar ea ear racer RMN Se Pa aR DAA Seda
S "a te nest 3d 5 ied Lig

OTR 7 Se
5 RT eaePUCK’S SONG

See you the dimpled track that runs,
All hollow through the wheat?

O that was where they hauled the guns
That smote King Philip’s fleet.

See you our little mill that clacks,
So busy by the brook?

She has ground her corn and paid her tax
Ever since Domesday Book.

See you our stilly woods of oak,
And the dread ditch beside?

O that was where the Saxons broke,
On the day that Harold died.

See you the windy levels spread
About the gates of Rye?

O that was where the Northmen fled,
When Alfred’s ships came by.

See you our pastures wide and lone,
Where the red oxen browse?

O there was a City thronged and known,
Ere London boasted a house.

3PUCK OF POOK'’S HILL

And see you, after rain, the trace
Of mound and ditch and wall?

O that was a Legion’s camping-place,
When Cesar sailed from Gaul.

And see you marks that show and fade,
Like shadows on the Downs?

O they are the lines the Flint Men made,
To guard their wondrous towns.

Trackway and Camp and City lost,
Salt Marsh where now is corn;

Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,
And so was England born!

She is not any common Earth,
Water or wood or air,

But Merlin’s Isle of Gramarye,

Where you and I will fare.

 

Pat Ln ee ee ee

St sri Moe ete Arlee te ered os rare PSP eRe Le ht PeWELAND’S SWORD

HE children were at the Theatre, acting to

Three Cows as much as they could remember

of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ Their father
had made them a small play out of the big Shake-
speare one, and they had rehearsed it with him and
with their mother till they could say it by heart.
They began where Nick Bottom the weaver comes
out of the bushes with a donkey’s head on his shoulder,
and finds Titania Queen of the Fairies asleep. Then
they skipped to the part where Bottom asks three
little fairies to scratch his head and bring him honey,
and they ended where he falls asleep in Titania’s arms.
Dan was Puck and Nick Bottom, as well as all three
Fairies. He wore a pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck,
and a paper donkey’s head out of a Christmas cracker
—but it tore if you were not careful—for Bottom.
Una was Titania, with a wreath of columbines and a
fox-glove wand.

The Theatre lay in a meadow called the Long Slip.
A little mill-stream, carrying water to a mill two or
three fields away, bent round one corner of it, and in
the middle of the bend lay a large old Fairy Ring
of darkened grass, which was the stage. The mill-
stream banks, overgrown with willow, hazel, and guel-
der-rose, made convenient places to wait in till your
turn came; and a grown-up who had seen it said
3eee oar o

   

PUCK OF POOK’'S HILL

that Shakespeare himself could not have imagined
a more suitable setting for his play. They were
not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night
itself, but they went down after tea on Midsummer
Eve, when the shadows were growing, and they took
their supper—hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits,
and salt in an envelope—with them. ‘Three Cows
had been milked and were grazing steadily with a
tearing noise that one could hear all down the meadow;
and the noise of the mill at work sounded like
bare feet running on hard ground. A cuckoo sat
on a gate-post singing his broken June tune, ‘cuckoo-
cuk,’ while a busy kingfisher crossed from the mill-
stream to the brook which ran on the other side
of the meadow. Everything else was a sort of thick,
sleepy stillness smelling of meadow-sweet and dry
grass.

Their play went beautifully. Dan remembered all
his parts—Puck, Bottom, and the three Fairies—and

Una never forgot a word of Titania—not even the
difficult piece where she tells the Fairies how to feed
Bottom with ‘apricocks, ripe figs, and dewberries,’ and
all the lines end in ‘ies.’ They were both so pleased
that they acted it three times over from beginning to
end before they sat down in the unthistly centre of the
Ring to eat eggs and Bath Olivers. This was when they
heard a whistle among the alders on the bank, and they
jumped.

The bushes parted. In the very spot where Dan
had stood as Puck they saw a small, brown, broad-
shouldered, peinty-eared person with a snub nose, slant-
ing blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his
freckled face. He shaded his forehead as though he

   
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     

Titi Gasca asa

psesuress

ae a eeWELAND’S SWORD

were watching Quince, Snout, Bottom, and the others
rehearsing ‘Pyramis and Thisbe,’ and, in a voice as
deep as Three Cows asking to be milked, he began:

“What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here,
So near the cradle of our fairy Queen?’

He stopped, hollowed one hand round his ear, and,
with a wicked twinkle in his eye, went on:

“What, a play toward? I'll be auditor,
An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.’

 

The children looked and gasped. The small thing 4
—he was no taller than Dan’s shoulder—stepped quietly a
into the Ring.

‘I’m rather out of practice,’ said he; ‘but that’s the
way my part ought to be played.’

Still the children stared at him—from his dark blue
cap, like a big columbine flower, to his bare, hairy feet.
At last he laughed.

‘Please don’t look like that. Itisn’t my fault. What
else could you expect?’ he said.

‘We didn’t expect any one,’ Dan answered, slowly.
‘This is our field.’

‘Is it?’ said their visitor, sitting down. ‘Then what
on Human Earth made you act “‘Midsummer Night’s
Dream” three times over, on Midsummer Eve, in the
middle of a Ring, and under—right under one of my
oldest hills in Old England? Pook’s Hill—Puck’s Hill
—Puck’s Hill—Pook’s Hill! It’s as plain as the nose
on my face.’

He pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of Pook’s
7eer et wits...) aan
Pak PS Dasha a an A na We aes LASS Paras Ue behead eae 4c

  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Hill that runs up from the far side of the miull-stream
to a dark wood. Beyond that wood the ground rises
and rises for five hundred feet, till at last you climb
out on the bare top of Beacon Hill, to look over the
Pevensey Levels and the Channel and half the naked
South Downs.

‘By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!’ he cried, still laughing.
‘If this had happened a few hundred years ago you’d
have had all the People of the Hills out like bees in
June!’

“We didn’t know it was wrong,’ said Dan.

‘Wrong!’ The little fellow shook with laughter.
“Indeed, it isn’t wrong. You’ve done something that
Kings and Knights and Scholars in old days would
have given their crowns and spurs and books to find
out. If Merlin himself had helped you, you couldn’t
have managed better! You’ve broken the Hills—you’ve
broken the Hills! It hasn’t happened in a thousand
years.’

“We—we didn’t mean to,’ said Una.

“Of course you didn’t!. That’s just why you did it.
Unluckily the Hills are empty now, and all the People
of the Hills are gone. I’m the only one left. I’m
Puck, the oldest Old Thing in England, very much at
your service ii—if you care to have anything to do with
me. If you don’t, of course you’ve only to say so,
and I'll go.’

He looked at the children and the children looked at
him for quite half a minute. His eyes did not twinkle
any more. They were very kind, and there was the
beginning of a good smile on his lips.

Una put out her hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘We
like you.’

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
    
 
  
   
 
 
  
   
   
   

i See eee ee eee i a a oa a ee, Seren fey

SL ee ee te ee ee Se ee eke ae meee ats

Pore rh ite aes et rer tree re SE ee Steer eee Ree |WELAND’S SWORD

‘Have a Bath Oliver,’ said Dan, and he passed over
the squashy envelope with the eggs.

‘By Oak, Ash, and Thorn,’ cried Puck, taking off his
blue cap, ‘I like you too. Sprinkle a plenty salt on
the biscuit, Dan, and I’ll eat it with you. That'll show
you the sort of person I am. Some of us’—he went
on, with his mouth full—‘couldn’t abide Salt, or Horse- |
shoes over a door, or Mountain-ash berries, or Running
Water, or Cold Iron, or the sound of Church Bells.

But I’m Puck!’

He brushed the crumbs carefully from his doublet and
shook hands.

‘We always said, Dan and I,’ Una stammered, ‘that
if it ever happened we’d know ex-actly what to do;
but—but now it seems all different somehow.’

‘She means meeting a fairy,’ said Dan. ‘I never
believed in ’em—not after I was six, anyhow.’

‘I did,’ said Una. ‘At least, I sort of half believed
till we learned ‘‘Farewell Rewards.” Do you know
‘“Farewell Rewards and Fairies’’?’

‘Do you mean this?’ said Puck. He threw his big
head back and began at the second line:—

‘Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they;
For though they sweep their hearths no less

(‘Join in, Una!’)

Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late for cleanliness

Finds sixpence in her shoe?’
9PUCK OF BOOKS (BILL

The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow.

“Of course I know it,’ he said.

‘And then there’s the verse about the Rings,’ said
Dan. ‘When I was little it always made me feel un-
happy in my inside.’

““* Witness those rings and roundelays,” do you mean?’
boomed Puck, with a voice like a great church organ.

 
 
 
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
  
   
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
  

‘Of theirs which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain.
But since of late Elizabeth,
And, later, James came in,
Are never seen on any heath
As when the time hath been.’

‘It’s some time since I heard that sung, but there’s
no good beating about the bush: it’s true. The People
of the Hills have all left. I saw them come into Old

England and I saw them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies,
brownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water-
spirits; heath-people, hill-watchers, treasure-guards,
good people, little people, pishogues, leprechauns, night-
riders, pixies, nixiés, gnomes, and the rest—gone, all
gone! I came into England with Oak, Ash, and Thorn,
and when Oak, Ash, and Thorn are gone I shall go too.’

Dan looked round the meadow—at Una’s oak by the
lower gate, at the line of ash trees that overhang Otter
Pool where the mill-stream spills over when the mill
does not need it, and at the gnarled old white-thorn
where Three Cows scratched their necks.

‘It’s all right,’ he said; and added, ‘I’m planting a
lot of acorns this autumn too.’

  

St ae eee, ee ee ee a 2 ee Sere or oy

pete wig bik Liew efh we eigieh ee = bee stele wv atea se

Tereieloletaty le visteis late ty bre teterntatels |e sie gy ew etal: °WELAND’S SWORD

‘Then aren’t you most awfully old?’ said Una.

‘Not old—fairly long-lived, as folk say hereabouts.
Let me see—my friends used to set my dish of cream
for me o’ nights when Stonehenge was new. Yes, be-
fore the Flint Men made the Dewpond under Chancton-
bury Ring.’

Una clasped her hands, cried ‘Oh!’ and nodded her
head.

‘She’s thought a plan,’ Dan explained. ‘She always
does like that when she thinks a plan.’

‘I was thinking—suppose we saved some of our por-
ridge and put it in the attic for you. They’d notice if
we left it in the nursery.’

‘Schoolroom,’ said Dan, quickly, and Una flushed,
because they had made a solemn treaty that summer
not to call the schoolroom the nursery any more.

‘Bless your heart o’ gold!’ said Puck. ‘You'll make
a fine considering wench some market-day. I really
don’t want you to put out a bowl for me; but if ever
I need a bite, be sure I’ll tell you.’

He stretched himself at length on the dry grass, and
the children stretched out beside him, their bare legs
waving happily in the air. They felt they could not
be afraid of him any more than of their particular
friend old Hobden the hedger. He did not bother
them with grown-up questions, or laugh at the donkey's
head, but lay and smiled to himself in the most sensible
way.

‘Have you a knife on you?’ he said at last.

Dan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor knife,
and Puck began to carve a piece of turf from the centre
of the Ring.

‘What’s that for—Magic?’ said Una, as he pressed
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PUCK OF POOK/S | HILL

up the square of chocolate loam that cut like so much
cheese.

“One of my little magics,’ he answered, and cut an-
other. ‘You see, I can’t let you into the Hills because
the People of the Hills have gone; but if you care to
take seizin from me, I may be able to show you some-
thing out of the common here on Human Earth. You
certainly deserve it.’

‘What’s taking seizin?’ said Dan, cautiously.

‘It’s an old custom the people had when they bought
and sold land. They used to cut out a clod and hand
it over to the buyer, and you weren’t lawfully seized
of your land—it didn’t really belong to you—till the
other fellow had actually given you a piece of it—like
this.’ He held out the turves.

‘But it’s our own meadow,’ said Dan, drawing back.
“Are you going to magic it away?’

Puck laughed. ‘I know it’s your meadow, but there’s

a great deal more in it than you or your father ever
| suessed. Try!’

He turned his eyes on Una.

‘T’ll do it,’ she said. Dan followed her example at
once.

‘Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed of
all Old England,’ began Puck, in a sing-song voice.
“By Right of Oak, Ash, and Thorn are you free to come
and go and look and know where I shall show or best
you please. You shall see What you shall see and you
shall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have
happened three thousand year; and you shall know
neither Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold fast all I give
you.’

The children shut their eyes, but nothing happened.

  

Te ae ee ee ee

ele eT be Sie wl ele we wm ee we ek wee be eet als we wie es
; 7 JWELAND’S SWORD

‘Well?’ said Una, disappointedly opening them. ‘I
thought there would be dragons.’

‘Though It shall have happened three thousand
year,”’’ said Puck, and counted on his fingers. ‘No;
I’m afraid there were no dragons three thousand years
ago.’

‘But there hasn’t happened anything at all,’ said
Dan.

‘Wait awhile,’ said Puck. ‘You don’t grow an oak
in a year—and Old England’s older than twenty oaks.
Let’s sit down again and think. I can do that for a
century at a time.’

‘Ah, but you’re a fairy,’ said Dan.

‘Have you ever heard me use that word yet?’ said
Puck, quickly.

‘No. You talk about ‘“‘the People of the Hills,”
but you never say ‘“‘fairies,”’ said Una. “I was won-
dering at that. Don’t you like it?’

‘How would you like to be called ‘“‘mortal” or “hu-
man being” all the time?’ said Puck; ‘or “son of
Adam” or ‘‘daughter of Eve’’?’

‘I shouldn’t like it at all,’ said Dan. ‘That’s how
the Djinns and Afrits talk in the ‘‘ Arabian Nights.”

‘And that’s how I feel about saying—that word that
I don’t say. Besides, what you call them are made-up
things the People of the Hills have never heard of—
little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze petti-
coats, and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a
school-teacher’s cane for punishing bad boys and re-
warding good ones. I know ’em!’

‘We don’t mean that sort,’ said Dan. ‘We hate
"em too.’

‘Exactly,’ said Puck. ‘Can you wonder thatthe
13a nas a Oe a SA te Sear den a Pea a

  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

People of the Hills don’t care to be confused with that
painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-
head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed! I’ve
seen Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off
from Tintagel Castle for Hy-Brasil in the teeth of a
sou’-westerly gale, with the spray flying all over the
Castle, and the Horses of the Hill wild with fright.
Out they’d go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back
they’d be driven five good miles inland before they
could come head to wind again. Butterfly-wings! It
was Magic—Magic as black as Merlin could make it,
and the whole sea was green fire and white foam, with
singing mermaids in it. And the Horses of the Hill
picked their way from one wave to another by the
lightning flashes! That was how it was in the old
days!’

‘Splendid,’ said Dan, but Una shuddered.

‘I’m glad they’re gone, then; but what made the

People of the Hills go away?’ Una asked.

‘Different things. I'll tell you one of them some
day—the thing that made the biggest flit of any,’ said
Puck. ‘But they didn’t all flit at once. They dropped
off, one by one, through the centuries. Most of them
were foreigners who couldn’t stand our climate. They
flitted early.’

‘How early?’ said Dan.

“A couple of thousand years or more. The fact is
they began as Gods. The Pheenicians brought some
over when they came to buy tin; and the Gauls, and
the Jutes, and the Danes, and the Frisians, and the
Angles brought more when they landed. They were
always landing in those days, or being driven back to
their ships, and they always brought their Gods with
14

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
   
  
   
  
 
  

  

Sooeah
ray

Sees

SaaS

asa

ee ak kee ee ee ee ed
Pa he eee a ce ee he ie ee ee a ee ee Deke Mme ken) aie

era thie eee ate ee ee ee a ee ee a er ksWELAND’S SWORD

them. England is a bad country for Gods. Now, I
began as I mean to go on. A bowl of porridge, a dish
of milk, and a little quiet fun with the country-folk in
the lanes was enough for me then, as it is now. I
belong here, you see, and I have been mixed up with
people all my days. But most of the others insisted
on being Gods, and having temples, and altars, and
priests, and sacrifices of their own.’

‘People burned in wicker baskets?’ said Dan. ‘Like
Miss Blake tells us about?’

‘All sorts of sacrifices,’ said Puck. ‘If it wasn’t men,
it was horses, or cattle, or pigs, or metheglin—that’s a
sticky, sweet sort of beer. I never liked it. They
were a stiff-necked, extravagant set of idols, the Old
Things. But what was the result? Men don’t like
being sacrificed at the best of times; they don’t even
like sacrificing their farm-horses. After a while men
simply left the Old Things alone, and the roofs of their
temples fell in, and the Old Things had to scuttle out
and pick up a living as they could. Some of them
took to hanging about trees, and hiding in graves and
groaning o’ nights. If they groaned loud enough and
long enough they might frighten a poor countryman
into sacrificing a hen, or leaving a pound of butter for
them. JI remember one Goddess called Belisama. She
became a common wet water-spirit somewhere in Lan-
cashire. And there were hundreds of other friends of
mine. First they were Gods. Then they were People
of the Hills, and then they flitted to other places be-
cause they couldn’t get on with the English for one
reason or another. There was only one Old Thing, I
remember, who honestly worked for his living after he
came down in the world. He was called Weland, and
155 yy Sey e a ilies. re ee See ee Sear
eS ntl RE NaN eta aPC Netedee M A REE ak loae 5 PaLedi Lae Pane

    
  
  
  
   
    
 
  
  
    
  
 
   
  
 
   
    
 
  
  

PUCK ‘OF POOK’S! HILL

he was a smith to some Gods. I’ve forgotten their
names, but he used to make them swords and spears.
I think he claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.’

‘“* Heroes of Asgard”’ Thor?’ said Una. Shehad been
reading the book.

‘Perhaps,’ answered Puck. ‘None the less, when bad
times came, he didn’t beg or steal. He worked; and I
= was lucky enough to be able to do him a good turn.’

Ss ‘Tell us about it,’ said Dan. ‘I think I like hearing
of Old Things.’

They rearranged themselves comfortably, each chew-
ing a grass stem. Puck propped himself on one strong
arm and went on:

‘Let’s think! I met Weland first on a November
afternoon in a sleet storm, on Pevensey Level—’

‘Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?’ Dan pointed
south.

‘Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to
Horsebridge and Hydeneye. I was on Beacon Hill

| —they called it Brunanburgh then—when I saw the
s pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down
to look. Some pirates—I think they must have been
Peofn’s men—were burning a village on the Levels, and
Weland’s image—a big, black wooden thing with amber
beads round its neck—lay in the bows of a black thirty-
two-oar galley that they had just beached. Bitter cold
it was! There were icicles hanging from her deck and
the oars were glazed over with ice, and there was ice
on Weland’s lips. When he saw me he began a long
chant in his own tongue, telling me how he was going
to rule England, and how I should smell the smoke of
his altars from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. I
didn’t care! I’d seen too many Gods charging into
16

  

Ram POP RP TES oT) TS SSeS RIT CITI a ae
Wel Pear a iatyaye PRR R beh iehhitenn chutney 7.7. Eye Pen Pe Threove ely ier histe ts AED ee eee?

Ay ] ae en ry Ye eleisie siete ge waite Fatetsth sie wy ww eth
i Ste? oeir r ie7578) ; :
Ag ay i

EU
aR
UAT nieWELAND’S SWORD

Old England to be upset about it. I let him sing him-
self out while his men were burning the village, and
then I said (I don’t know what put it into my head),
‘“Smith of the Gods,” I said, ‘‘the time comes when I
shall meet you plying your trade for hire by the way-
side.”’’
‘What did Weland say?’ said Una. ‘Was he angry?’
‘He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went
away to wake up the people inland. But the pirates
conquered the country, and for centuries Weland was
4 most important God. He had temples everywhere
—-from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said—
and his sacrifices were simply scandalous. To do him
justice, he preferred horses to men; but men or horses,
I knew that presently he’d have to come down in the
world—like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of
time—I gave him about a thousand years—and at the
end of ’em I went into one of his temples near Andover
to see how he prospered. There was his altar, and
there was his image, and there were his priests, and
there were the congregation, and everybody seemed
quite happy, except Weland and the priests. In the
old days the congregation were unhappy until the
priests had chosen their sacrifices; and so would you
have been. When the service began a priest rushed
out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended to hit
him on the head with a little gilt axe, and the man fell
down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted:
‘‘A sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!’’’

‘And the man wasn’t really dead?’ said Una.

‘Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls’ tea-
party. Then they brought out a splendid white horse,
and the priest cut some hair from its mane and tail and

17

 

 

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0-9-0 w2tiNsSole eV 9,2 ssie'd 88 as

   
 
  
   
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

burned it on the altar, shouting, ‘“‘A sacrifice!” That
counted the same as if a man and a horse had been
killed. I saw poor Weland’s face through the smoke,
and I couldn’t help laughing. He looked so disgusted
and so hungry, and all he had to satisfy himself was a
horrid smell of burning hair. Just a dolls’ tea-party!

‘I judged it better not to say anything then (’twouldn’t
have been fair), and the next time I came to Andover, a
few hundred years later, Weland and his temple were
gone, and there was a Christian bishop in a church there.
None of the People of the Hills could tell me anything
about him, and I supposed that he had left England.’
Puck turned; lay on the other elbow, and thought for a
long time.

‘Let’s see,’ he saidat last. ‘It must have been some few
years later—a year or two before the Conquest, I think
—that I came back to Pook’s Hill here, and one even-
ing I heard old Hobden talking about Weland’s Ford.’

‘If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he’s only
seventy-two. He told me so himself,’ said Dan. *He’s
! a intimate friend of ours.’

‘Yow’re quite right,’ Puck replied. ‘I meant old
Hobden’s ninth great-grandfather. He was a free man
and burned charcoal hereabouts. I’ve known the family,
father and son, so long that I get confused sometimes,
Hob of the Dene was my Hobden’s name, and he lived
at the Forge cottage. Of course, I pricked up my ears
when I heard Weland mentioned, and I scuttled through
the woods to the Ford just beyond Bog Wood yonder.’
He jerked his head westward, where the valley narrows
between wooded hills and steep hop-fields.

‘Why, that’s Willingford Bridge,’ said Una. ‘We go
there for walks often. There’s a kingfisher there.’

18

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nyWELAND’S SWORD

‘It was Weland’s Ford then, dearie. A road led down
to it from the Beacon on the top of the hill—a shocking
bad road it was—and all the hillside was thick, thick
oak-forest, with deer in it. There was no trace of
Weland, but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding down
from the Beacon under the greenwood tree. His horse
had cast a shoe in the clay, and when he came to the
Ford he dismounted, took a penny out of his purse, laid
it on a stone, tied the old horse to an oak, and called out:
‘Smith, Smith, here is work for you!”’ Then he sat
down and went to sleep. You can imagine how I felt
when I saw a white-bearded, bent old blacksmith in a
leather apron creep out from behind the oak and begin
to shoe the horse. It was Weland himself. I was so
astonished that I jumped out and said: ‘What on
Human Earth are you doing here, Weland?’’’

‘Poor Weland!’ sighed Una.

‘He pushed the long hair back from his forehead (he
didn’t recognise me at first). Then he said: “You
ought toknow. You foretold it, Old Thing. I’m shoe-
ing horses for hire. I’m not even Weland now,” he said.
“They call me Wayland-Smith.”’

‘Poor chap!’ said Dan. ‘What did you say?’

‘What could I say? He looked up, with the horse’s
foot on his lap, and he said, smiling, “I remember the
time when I wouldn’t have accepted this old bag of
bones as a sacrifice, and now I’m glad enough to shoe
him for a penny.”

‘“<Ton’t there any way for you to get back to Valhalla,
or wherever you come from?”’ I said.

“P’m afraid not,” he said, rasping away at the hoof.
He had a wonderful touch with horses. The old beast
was whinnying on his shoulder. “You may remember

19

coer air, SS. Ee Ot Lee tae

   
  
  
 
 
    
   
  
    
  
  
    
 
 
  
  
  
   
     

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Time
and my Power. I shall never be released till some
human being truly wishes me well.”

‘““Surely,” said I, “‘the farmer can’t do less than that.
You’re shoeing the horse all round for him.”

‘Yes,’ said he, ‘‘and my nails will hold a shoe from
one full moon to the next. But farmers and Weald
clay,” said he, ‘“‘are both uncommon cold and sour.”

‘Would you believe it, that when that farmer woke
and found his horse shod he rode away without one
word of thanks? I was so angry that I wheeled his
horse right round and walked him back three miles to
the Beacon, just to teach the old sinner politeness.’

‘Were you invisible?’ said Una. Puck nodded,
gravely.

‘The Beacon was always laid in those days ready to
light, in case the French landed at Pevensey; and I
walked the horse about and about it that lee-long
summer night. The farmer thought he was bewitched

| —well, he was, of course—and began to pray and shout.

| I didn’t care! I was as good a Christian as he any fair-
day in the County, and about four o’clock in the morn-
ing a young novice came along from the monastery that
used to stand on the top of Beacon hill.’

“What’s a novice?’ said Dan.

‘It really means a man who is beginning to be a monk,
but in those days people sent their sons to a monastery
just the same asa school. This young fellow had been
to a monastery in France for a few months every year,
and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close
to his home here. Hugh was his name, and he had got
up to go fishing hereabouts. His people owned all this
valley. Hugh heard the farmer shouting, and asked

20

  

Pa ee ee ee ee

" SETTLE REL ae LD eeWELAND’S SWORD

him what in the world he meant. The old man spun
him a wonderful tale about fairies and goblins and
witches; and I know he hadn’t seen a thing except rab-
bits and red deer all that night. (The People of the
Hills are like otters—they don’t show except when they
choose.) But the novice wasn’t a fool. He looked
down at the horse’s feet, and saw the new shoes fastened
as only Weland knew how to fasten ’em. (Weland had
a way of turning down the nails that folks called the
Smith’s Clinch.)

‘<<H1’m!”’ said the novice. “‘ Where did you get your
horse shod?”

‘The farmer wouldn’t tell him at first, because the
priests never liked their people to have any dealings with
the Old Things. At last he confessed that the Smith
had done it. ‘‘What did you pay him?” said the nov-
ice. ‘‘Penny,’’ said the farmer, very sulkily. “That's
less than a Christian would have charged,” said the
novice. ‘‘I hope you threw a ‘Thank you’ into the
bargain.” ‘‘No,” said the farmer; ‘Wayland-Smith’s
a heathen.” ‘‘Heathen or no heathen,” said the novice,
““~ou took his help, and where you get help there you
must give thanks.” ‘‘ What?” said the farmer—he was
in a furious temper because I was walking the old horse
in circles all this time—‘‘ What, you young jackanapes?”’
said he. ‘‘Then by your reasoning I ought to say
‘Thank you’ to Satan if he helped me?” “Don't roll
about up there splitting reasons with me,” said the
novice. ‘‘Come back to the Ford and thank the Smith,
or you'll be sorry.”

‘Back the farmer had to go. I led the horse, though
no one saw me, and the novice walked beside us, his
gown swishing through the shiny dew and his fishing-
DitPUCK IOP POOKS HILL

rod across his shoulders spear-wise. When we reached
the Ford again—it was five o’clock and misty still under
the oaks—the farmer simply wouldn’t say “‘Thank you.”
He said he’d tell the Abbot that the novice wanted him
to worship heathen gods. Then Hugh the novice lost
his temper. He just cried, “‘Out!’’ put his arm under
the farmer’s fat leg, and heaved him from his saddle on
to the turf, and before he could rise he caught him by
the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till the
farmer growled, ““Thank you, Wayland-Smith.”’’

‘Did Weland see all this?’ said Dan.

“Oh, yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the
farmer thudded on to the ground. He was delighted.
Then the novice turned to the oak tree and said, ‘‘Ho!
Smith of the Gods, I am ashamed of this rude farmer;
but for all you have done in kindness and charity to him
and to others of our people, I thank you and wish you
well.” Then he picked up his fishing-rod—it looked

| more like a tall spear than ever—and tramped off down
your valley.’

‘And what did poor Weland do?’ said Una.

“He laughed and he cried with joy, because he had
been released at last, and could go away. But he was
an honest Old Thing. He had worked for his living
and he paid his debts before he left. ‘‘I shall give that
novice a gift,” said Weland. ‘‘A gift that shall do him
good the wide world over and Old England after him.
Blow up my fire, Old Thing, while I get the iron for my
last task.” Then he made a sword—a dark gray, wavy-
lined sword—and I blew the fire while he hammered.
By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, I tell you, Weland was a
Smith of the Gods! He cooled that sword in running
water twice, and the third time he cooled it in the even-

22

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ing dew, and he laid it out in the moonlight and said
Runes (that’s charms) over it, and he carved Runes of
Prophecy on the blade. “‘Old Thing,” he said to me,
wiping his forehead, “‘this is the best blade that Weland
ever made. Even the user will never know how good
it is. Come to the monastery.”

‘We went to the dormitory where the monks slept,
we saw the novice fast asleep in his cot, and Weland put
the sword into his hand, and I remember the young
fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland strode as
far as he dared into the Chapel and threw down all
his shoeing-tools—his hammer, and pincers, and rasps
—to show that he had done with them for ever. It
sounded like suits of armour falling, and the sleepy
monks ran in, for they thought the monastery had been
attacked by the French. The novice came first of all,
waving his new sword and shouting Saxon battle-cries.
When they saw the shoeing-tools they were very be-
wildered, till the novice asked leave to speak, and told
what he had done to the farmer, and what he had said
to Wayland-Smith, and how, though the dormitory
light was burning, he had found the wonderful rune-
carved sword in his cot.

‘The Abbot shook his head at first, and then he
laughed and said to the novice: “Son Hugh, it needed
no sign from a heathen God to show me that you will
never be a monk. Take your sword, and keep your
sword, and go with your sword, and be as gentle as you
are strong and courteous. We will hang up the Smith’s
tools before the Altar,”’ he said, “‘because, whatever the
Smith of the Gods may have been in the old days, we
know that he worked honestly for his living and made
gifts to Mother Church.” Then they went to bed again,
23

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F BSriasEsaee ee. a ne i he ee i Ske he ae he ee eke ee)

   

PUGNH( OF“ RPOOKS i HFLL

all except the novice, and he sat up in the garth play-
ing with his sword. Then Weland said to me by the
stables: “‘Farewell, Old Thing; you had the right of
it. You saw me come to England, and you see me go.
Farewell!”
| “With that he strode down the hill to the corner of the
Great Woods—Woods Corner, you call it now—to the
very place where he had first landed—and I heard him
moving through the thickets towards Horsebridge for a
little,and then hewas gone. That was howit happened.
I saw it.’

Both children drew a long breath.

‘But what happened to Hugh the novice?’ said Una.

‘And the sword?’ said Dan.

Puck looked down the meadow that lay all quiet and
cool in the shadow of Pook’s Hill. A corncrake jarred
in a hay-field near by, and the small trouts of the brook
began to jump. A big white moth flew unsteadily from
the alders and flapped round the children’s heads, and
| the least little haze of water-mist rose from the brook.

‘Do you really want to know?’ Puck said.

‘We do,’ cried the children. ‘Awfully!’

‘Very good. I promised you that you shall see What
you shall see, and you shall hear What you shall hear,
though It shall have happened three thousand year;
but just now it seems to me that, unless you go back to
the house, people will be looking for you. Ill walk
with you as far as the gate.’

“Will you be here when we come again?’ they asked.

‘Surely, sure-ly,’ said Puck. ‘I’ve been here some
time already. One minute first, please.’

He gave them each three leaves—one of Oak, one of
Ash, and one of Thorn.

   
 
   
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
    
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

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Py i ARON AAR” N33 : Mitt tie ietale SEEMS ae SLE Mee Stee eae I Be "ieWELAND’S SWORD

‘Bite these,’ said he. ‘Otherwise you might be talk-
ing at home of what you’ve seen and heard, and—i I
know human beings—they’d send forthe doctor. Bite!’

They bit hard, and found themselves walking side by
side to the lower gate. Their father was leaning over it.

‘And how did your play go?’ he asked.

‘Oh, splendidly,’ said Dan. ‘Only afterwards, I
think, we went to sleep. It was very hot and quiet.
Don’t you remember, Una?’

Una shook her head and said nothing.

‘T see,’ said her father.

‘Late—late in the evening Kilmeny came home,
For Kilmeny had been she could not tell where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.

But why are you chewing leaves at your time of life,
daughter? For fun?’
‘No. It was for something, but I can’t azactly re-

member,’ said Una.
And neither of them could till—Ee eaeer ee Laas

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Of all the trees that grow so fair,
Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun,
Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs
(All of a Midsummer morn)!
Surely we sing no little thing,
In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
Or ever /Eneas began;
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
When Brut was an outlaw man;
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
(From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard mould,
He breedeth a mighty bow;

Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
And beech for cups also.

But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,

And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Dik

 

He

sO0G

SoHBUCS OF POOKS HEE

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
Till every gust be laid,

To drop a limb on the head of him,
That anyway trusts her shade:

But whether a lad be sober or sad,
Or mellow with ale from the horn,

Te will take no wrong when he lieth along
*"Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
Or he would call it a sin;

But—we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in!

And we bring you news by word of mouth—
Good news for cattle and corn—

Now is the Sun come up from the South,
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs
(All of a Midsummer morn)!

England shall bide till Judgment Tide,

By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sa ee

hee ste eet ce ee ee, Steer ee ee ark |YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

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BOM Rt ; eu BOB tyYOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

HEY were fishing, a few days later, in the bed of
the brook that for centuries had cut deep into
the soft valley soil. The trees closing overhead

made long tunnels through which the sunshine worked
in blobs and patches. Down in the tunnels were bars
of sand and gravel, old roots and trunks covered with
moss or painted red by the irony water; foxgloves grow-
ing lean and pale towards the light; clumps of fern
and thirsty shy flowers who could not live away from
moisture and shade. In the pools you could see the
wave thrown up by the trouts as they charged hither
and yon, and the pools were joined to each other—
except in flood time, when all was one brown rush—
by sheets of thin broken water that poured themselves
chuckling round the darkness of the next bend.

This was one of the children’s most secret hunting-
srounds, and their particular friend, old Hobden the
hedger, had shown them how to use it. Except for the
click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and tussle
among the young ash-leaves as a line hung up for the
minute, nobody in the hot pasture could have guessed
what game was going on among the trouts below the
banks.

‘We’s got half-a-dozen,’ said Dan, after a warm, wet
hour. ‘I vote we go up to Stone Bay and try Long
Pool.’

 

BePUCK OF POOK'’S HIE

Una nodded—most of her talk was by nods—and they
crept from the gloom of the tunnels towards the tiny
weir that turns the brook into the mill-stream. Here
the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the after-
noon sun on the Long Pool below the weir makes your
eyes ache.

When they were in the open they nearly fell down
with astonishment. A huge gray horse, whose tail-
hairs crinkled the glassy water, was drinking in the pool,
and the ripples about his muzzle flashed like melted
gold. On his back sat an old, white-haired man dressed
in a loose glimmery gown of chain-mail. He was bare-
headed, and a nut-shaped iron helmet hung at his sad-
dle-bow. His reins were of red leather, five or six
inches deep, scalloped at the edges, and his high padded
saddle with its red girths was held fore and aft by a red
leather breastband and crupper.

‘Look!’ said Una, as though Dan were not staring his

' very eyes out. ‘It’s like the picture in your room—
. ‘Sir Isumbras at the Ford.’’’

The rider turned towards them, and his thin, long
face was just as sweet and gentle as that of the knight
who carries the children in that picture.

“They should be here now, Sir Richard,’ said Puck’s
deep voice among the willow-herb.

“They are here,’ the knight said, and he smiled at Dan
with the string of trouts in his hand. ‘There seems no
great change in boys since mine fished this water.’

‘If your horse has drunk, we shall be more at ease in
the Ring,’ said Puck; and he nodded to the children as
though he had never magicked away their memories a
week before.

The great horse turned and hoisted himself into the

 
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
    
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

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YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR
pasture with a kick and a scramble that tore the clods
down rattling.

‘Your pardon!’ said Sir Richard to Dan. ‘When
these lands were mine, I never loved that mounted men
should cross the brook except by the paved ford. But
my Swallow here was thirsty, and I wished to meet you.’

‘We're very glad you’ve come, sir,’ said Dan. ‘It
doesn’t matter in the least about the banks.’

He trotted across the pasture on the sword side of the
mighty horse, and it was a mighty iron-handled sword
that swung from Sir Richard’s belt. Una walked be-
hind with Puck. She remembered everything now.

‘I’m sorry about the Leaves,’ he said, ‘but it would
never have done if you had gone home and told, would
it?’

‘I s’pose not,’ Una answered. ‘But you said that all
the fair—People of the Hills had left England.’

‘So they have; but I told you that you should come
and go and look and know, didn’t 1? The knight isn’t
a fairy. He’s Sir Richard Dalyngridge, a very old
friend of mine. He came over with William the Con-
queror, and he wants to see you particularly.’

‘What for?’ said Una.

‘On account of your great wisdom and learning,’
Puck replied, without a twinkle.

‘Us?’ said Una. ‘Why, I don’t know my Nine Times
—not to say it dodging, and Dan makes the most awful
mess of fractions. He can’t mean us!’

‘Una!’ Dan called back. ‘Sir Richard says he is
going to tell what happened to Weland’s sword. He’s
got it. Isn’t it splendid?’

‘Nay—nay,’ said Sir Richard, dismounting as they
reached the Ring, in the bend of the mill-stream bank.
30ee eee

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
    
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘It is you that must tell me, for I hear the youngest child
in our England to-day is as wise as our wisest clerk.’
He slipped the bit out of Swallow’s mouth, dropped the
ruby-red reins over his head, and the wise horse moved
off to graze.

Sir Richard (they noticed he limped a little) unslung
his great sword.

*That’s it,’ Dan whispered to Una.

“This is the sword that Brother Hugh had from
Wayland-Smith,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Once he gave it
me, but I would not take it; but at the last it became
mine after such a fight as never christened man fought.
See!’ He half drew it from its sheath and turned it
before them. On either side just below the handle,
where the Runic letters shivered as though they were
alive, were two deep gouges in the dull, deadly steel.
“Now, what Thing made those?’ said he. ‘I know not,
but you, perhaps, can say.’

‘Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard,’ said Puck. ‘It
concerns their land somewhat.’

“Yes, from the very beginning,’ Una pleaded, for the
knight’s good face and the smile on it more than ever
reminded her of ‘Sir Isumbras at the Ford.’

They settled down to listen, Sir Richard bare-headed
to the sunshine, dandling the sword in both hands, while
the gray horse cropped outside the Ring, and the hel-
met on the saddle-bow clinged softly each time he jerked
his head.

‘From the beginning, then,’ Sir Richard said, ‘since
it concerns your land, I will tell the tale. When our
Duke came out of Normandy to take his England, great
knights (have ye heard?) came and strove hard to serve
the Duke, because he promised them lands here, and
04

  

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YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

small knights followed the great ones. My folk in
Normandy were poor; but a great knight, Engerrard of
the Eagle—Engenulf De Aquila—who was kin to my
father, followed the Earl of Mortain, who followed
William the Duke, and I followed De Aquila. Yes,
with thirty men-at-arms out of my father’s house and a
new sword, I set out to conquer England three days after
I was made knight. I did not then know that England
would conquer me. We went up to Santlache with the
rest—a very great host of us.’

‘Does that mean the Battle of Hastings—Ten Sixty-
Six?’ Una whispered, and Puck nodded, so as not to
interrupt.

‘At Santlache, over the hill yonder’—he pointed
south-eastward towards Fairlight—‘we found Harold’s
men. We fought. At the day’s end they ran. My
men went with De Aquila’s to chase and plunder, and
in that chase Engerrard of the Eagle was slain, and his
son Gilbert took his banner and his men forward. This
I did not know till after, for Swallow here was cut in
the flank, so I stayed to wash the wound at a brook by
a thorn. There a single Saxon cried out to me in
French, and we fought together. I should have known
his voice, but we fought together. For a long time
neither had any advantage, till by pure ill-fortune his
foot slipped and his sword flew from his hand. Now |
had but newly been made knight, and wished, above all,
to be courteous and fameworthy, so I forbore to strike
and bade him get his sword again. “A plague on my
sword,” said he. ‘‘It has lost me my first fight. You
have spared my life. Take my sword.” He held it out
tome, but as I stretched my hand the sword groaned like
a stricken man, and I leaped back crying, “‘Sorcery!”’

30sis toreenininatannanebenr eM MNAUMMME 7.75757." 5 2 ele dele = 3 eis tetele eo eielal eis ie ee ee e's

    
 
 
 
  
    
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
   
 
  
   
 
  

PUCK ‘OF POOK'S/HIEL

[The children looked at the sword as though it might
speak again.]

‘Suddenly a clump of Saxons ran out upon me and,
seeing a Norman alone, would have killed me, but my
Saxon cried out that I was his prisoner, and beat them
off. Thus, see you, he saved my life. He put me on
my horse and led me through the woods ten long miles
to this valley.’

‘To here, d’you mean?’ said Una.

‘To this very valley. Wecame in by the Lower Ford
under the King’s Hill yonder’—he pointed eastward
where the valley widens.

‘And was that Saxon Hugh the novice?’ Dan asked.

“Yes, and more than that. He had been for three
years at the monastery at Bec by Rouen, where’—Sir
Richard chuckled— the Abbot Herluin would not suffer
me to remain.’

“Why wouldn’t he?’ said Dan.

‘Because I rode my horse into the refectory, when the
scholars were at meat, to show the Saxon boys we
Normans were not afraid of an abbot. It was that very
Saxon Hugh tempted me to do it, and we had not met
since that day. I thought I knew his voice even inside
my helmet, and, for all that our Lords fought, we each
rejoiced we had not slain the other. He walked by my
side, and he told me how a Heathen God, as he believed,
had given him his sword, but he said he had never
heard it sing before. I remember I warned him to be-
ware of sorcery and quick enchantments.’ Sir Richard
smiled to himself. ‘I was very young—very young!

“When we came to his house here we had almost for-
gotten that we had been at blows. It was near mid-
night, and the Great Hall was full of men and women
36

  

TRE TN ORRAR PE aE TERI ET I SuSE ae

BOO nO RaPerr eT te
Serta)
Pores Wert niet tst Seo aeta tetatr ty

  

YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

waiting news. There I first saw his sister, the Lady
ZElueva, of whom he had spoken to us in France. She
cried out fiercely at me, and would have had me hanged
in that hour, but her brother said that I had spared his
life—he said not how he saved mine from the Saxons
—and that our Duke had won the day; and even while
they wrangled over my poor body, of a sudden he fell
down in a swoon from his wounds.

‘This is thy fault,’ said the Lady Alueva to me,
and she kneeled above him and called for wine and
cloths.

‘Tf IT had known,” I answered, “‘he should have
ridden and I walked. But he set me on my horse; he
made no complaint; he walked beside me and spoke
merrily throughout. I pray I have done him no harm.”

‘“Thou hast need to pray,” she said, catching up her
underlip. ‘‘If he dies, thou shalt hang.”

‘They bore off Hugh to his chamber; but three tall
men of the house bound me and set me under the beam
of the Great Hall with a rope round my neck. The end
of the rope they flung over the beam, and they sat them
down by the fire to wait word whether Hugh lived or
died. They cracked nuts with their knife-hilts the
while.’

‘And how did you feel?’ said Dan.

‘Very weary; but I did heartily pray for my school-
mate Hugh his health. About noon I heard horses in
the valley, and the three men loosed my ropes and fled
out, and De Aquila’s men rode up. Gilbert de Aquila
came with them, for it was his boast that, like his father,
he forgot no man that served him. He was little, like
his father, but terrible, with a nose like an eagle’s nose
and yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall war-horses

o7

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
     

 

SoS eerie
tetaEee Se Ths

SEMEL
SarisPUGKIOR POOK?S HILL

—roans, which he bred himself—and he could never
abide to be helped into the saddle. He saw the rope
hanging from the beam and laughed, and his men
laughed, for I was too stiff to rise.

‘This is poor entertainment for a Norman knight,”
he said, “‘but, such as it is, let us be grateful. Show
me, boy, to whom thou owest most, and we will pay
them out of hand.’’’

‘What did he mean? To kill ’em?’ said Dan.

‘Assuredly. But I looked at the Lady /Elueva where
she stood among her maids, and her brother beside her.
De Aquila’s men had driven them all into the Great
Fall?

“Was she pretty?’ said Una.

‘In all my long life I have never seen woman fit to
strew rushes before my Lady lueva,’ the knight re-
plied, quite simply and quietly. ‘As I looked at her I
thought I might save her and her house by a jest.

‘Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and without

warning,” said I to De Aquila, “‘I have no fault to find

| with the courtesy that these Saxons have shown me.”
But my voice shook. It is—it was not good to jest
with that little man.

‘All were silent awhile, till De Aquila laughed. ““Look,
men—a miracle,” said he. ‘The fight is scarce sped,
my father is not yet buried, and here we find our young-
est knight already set down in his Manor, while his
Saxons—ye can see it in their fat faces—have paid him
homage and service! By the Saints,” he said, rubbing
his nose, ““I never thought England would be so easy
won! Surely I can do no less than give the lad what
he has taken. This Manor shall be thine, boy,” he
said, “till I come again, or till thou art slain. Now,

38

 

SS Gz

Ssesese yee

  

iRACE ee RE RTA ON eee POC lee ere OLN) erie RT PCE LOk ADR SRG He Coke Tere Te bce

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

mount, men, andride. We follow our Duke into Kent
to make him King of England.”

‘He drew me with him to the door while they brought
his horse—a lean roan, taller than my Swallow here,
but not so well girthed.

‘<‘Tfark to me,” he said, fretting with his great war-
gloves. ‘‘I have given thee this Manor, which is a
Saxon hornets’ nest, and I think thou wilt be slain in a
month—as my father was slain. Yet if thou canst keep
the roof on the hall, the thatch on the barn, and the
plough in the furrow till I come back, thou shalt hold
the Manor from me; for the Duke has promised our
Earl Mortain all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain
will give me of them what he would have given my
father. God knows if thou or I shall live till England
is won: but remember, boy, that here and now fighting
is foolishness and’’—he reached for the reins—‘*‘craft
and cunning is all.”’

‘«* Alas, J have no cunning,” said I.

‘Not yet,” said he, hopping abroad, foot in stirrup,
and poking his horse in the belly with his toe. ‘“Not
yet, but I think thou hast a good teacher. Farewell!
Hold the Manor and live. Lose the Manor and hang,”’
he said, and spurred out, his shield-straps squeaking
behind him.

‘So, children, here was I, little more than a boy, and
Santlache fight not two days old, left alone with my
thirty men-at-arms, in a land I knew not, among a

people whose tongue I could not speak, to hold down
the land which I had taken from them.’

‘And that was here at home?’ said Una.

‘Yes, here. See! From the Upper Ford, Weland’s
Ford; to the Lower Ford, by the Belle Allee, west and
39

 

 

aeOeil ns eine eS

   
  
  
    
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

PUCK ‘(OF POOK’S HILL

east it ran half a league. From the Beacon of Brunan-
burgh behind us here, south and north it ran a full
league—and all the woods were full of broken men from
Santlache, Saxon thieves, Norman plunderers, robbers,
and deer-stealers. A hornets’ nest indeed!

“When De Aquila had gone, Hugh would have thanked
me for saving their lives; but the Lady AZlueva said
that I had done it only for the sake of receiving the
Manor.

‘““How could I know that De Aquila would give it
me?’ I said. “If I had told him I had spent my night
in your halter he would have burned the place twice
over by now.”

‘Tf any man had put my neck in a rope,” she said,
“I would have seen his house burned thrice over before
I would have made terms.”

‘““But it was a woman,” I said; and I laughed, and
she wept and said that I mocked her in her captivity.

‘“Lady,”’ said I, “‘there is no captive in this valley
except one, and he is not a Saxon.”

‘At this she cried that I was a Norman thief, who came
with false, sweet words, having intended from the first
to turn her out in the fields to beg her bread. Into
the fields!) She had never seen the face of war!

‘I was angry, and answered, ‘‘This much at least I
can disprove, for I swear”—and on my sword-hilt I
swore it in that place—‘‘I swear I will never set foot in
the Great Hall till the Lady 4lueva herself shall sum-
mon me there.”

‘She went away, saying nothing, and I walked out,
and Hugh limped after me, whistling dolorously (that
is a custom of the English), and we came upon the three
Saxons that had bound me. They were now bound by

AQ

  

ay

PaaS Sete he Tee Dk Te REL OL OE LTE oe kk ok
heRRR ETI UA ater rere ie rooms et tetas aN

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

my men-at-arms, and behind them stood some fifty
stark and sullen churls of the House and the Manor,
waiting to see what should fall. We heard De Aquila’s
trumpets blow thin through the woods Kentward.

«Shall we hang these?” said my men.

“Then my churls will fight,’ said Hugh, beneath his
breath: but I bade him ask the three what mercy they
hoped for.

“None,” said they all. ““She bade us hang thee if
our master died. And we would have hanged thee.
There is no more to it.”

‘As I stood doubting a woman ran down from the
oak wood above the King’s Hill yonder, and cried out
that some Normans were driving off the swine there.

‘“’Niorman or Saxon,” said I, ““we must beat them
back, or they will rob us every day. Out at them with
any arms ye have!” Sol loosed those three carles and
we ran together, my men-at-arms and the Saxons with
bills and bows which they had hidden in the thatch of
their huts, and Hughledthem. Half-way up the King’s
Hill we found a false fellow from Picardy—a sutler that
sold wine in the Duke’s camp—with a dead knight’s
shield on his arm, a stolen horse under him, and some
ten or twelve wastrels at his tail, all cutting and slashing
at the pigs. We beat them off, and saved our pork.
One hundred and seventy pigs we saved in that great
battle.’ Sir Richard laughed.

‘That, then, was our first work together, and I bade
Hugh tell his folk that so would I deal with any man,
knight or churl, Norman or Saxon, who stole as much

as one egg from our valley. Said he to me, riding home:
‘“Thou hast gone far to conquer England this evening.”
I answered: “England must be thine and mine, then.
41

 

 

 

peste shtassteness
iest tris ME

ee oeeeeorsceree... eae wea ne ie Ste we ae te Be be he ee ee

 

     
 
 
   
  
    
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
 
 
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Help me, Hugh, to deal aright with these people. Make
them to know that if they slay me De Aquila will surely
send to slay them, and he will put a worse man in my
place.” ‘‘That may well be true,’ said he, and gave
me hishand. “Better the devil we know than the devil
we know not, till we can pack you Normans home.”
And so, too, said his Saxons; and they laughed as we
drove the pigs downhill. But I think some of them,
even then, began not to hate me.’

‘I like Brother Hugh,’ said Una, softly.

‘Beyond question he was the most perfect, courteous,
valiant, tender, and wise knight that ever drew breath,’
said Sir Richard, caressing the sword. ‘He hung up his
sword—this sword—on the wall of the Great Hall,
because he said it was fairly mine, and never he took
it down till De Aquila returned, as I shall presently show.
For three months his men and mine guarded the val-
ley, till all robbers and nightwalkers learned there was
nothing to get from us save hard tack and a hanging.

Side by side we fought against all who came—thrice a
: week sometimes we fought—against thieves and land-
less knights looking for good manors. Then we were
in some peace, and I made shift by Hugh’s help to
govern the valley—for all this valley of yours was my
Manor—as a knight should. I kept the roof on the hall
and the thatch on the barn, but . . . The English
are a bold people. His Saxons would laugh and jest
with Hugh, and Hugh with them, and—this was mar-
vellous to me—if even the meanest of them said that
such and such a thing was the Custom of the Manor,
then straightway would Hugh and such old men of the
Manor as might be near forsake everything else to de-
bate the matter—I have seen them stop the mill with
42

Aa ES

—

pasaaees

  

nen
SESS Peery
cscaeeseoesenteaseeases

SUE es ERR SS SSS Ss SS SSSYOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

the corn half ground—and if the custom or usage were
proven to be as it was said, why, that was the end of it,
even though it were flat against Hugh, his wish and
command. Wonderful!’

‘Aye,’ said Puck, breaking in for the first time. ‘The
Custom of Old England was here before your Norman
knights came, and it outlasted them, though they fought
against it cruel.’

‘Not I,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I let the Saxons go their
stubborn way, but when my own men-at-arms, Nor-
mans not six months in England, stood up and told me
what was the custom of the country, then I was angry.
Ah, good days! Ah, wonderful people! And I loved
them all.’

The knight lifted his arms as though he would hug the
whole dear valley, and Swallow, hearing the chink of his
chain-mail, looked up and whinnied softly.

‘At last,’ he went on, ‘after a year of striving and

contriving and some little driving, De Aquila came te
the valley, alone and without warning. I saw him first
at the Lower Ford, with a swineherd’s brat on his saddle-
bow.

‘There is no need for thee to give any account of
thy stewardship,” said he. “I have it all from the
child here.” And he told me how the young thing had
stopped his tall horse at the Ford, by waving of a
branch, and crying that the way was barred. “And
if one bold, bare babe be enough to guard the Ford in
these days, thou hast done well,” said he, and puffed
and wiped his head.

‘He pinched the child’s cheek, and looked at our cattle
in the flat by the river.

‘Both fat,” said he, rubbing his nose. “This 1s
43

rn=DeoG:

we

 

sapestievagttspcrastecsesceases BEERS 12
eT Rift eRe eeLhee bebe

weadueet

yore aa— Pre ers Tee IE Tete

   

PUCK TOF POOK(S/HIEL

craft and cunning such as I love. What did I tell thee
when I rode away, boy?”

“Hold the Manor or hang,” said I. I had never
forgotten it.

‘True. And thou hast held.’ He clambered from
his saddle and with his sword’s point cut out a turf
from the bank and gave it me where I kneeled.’

Dan looked at Una, and Una looked at Dan.

‘That’s seizin,’ said Puck, in a whisper.

‘Now thou art lawfully seized of the Manor, Sir
Richard,” said he—’twas the first time he ever called
me that—‘‘thou and thy heirs for ever. This must
serve till the King’s clerks write out thy title on a parch-
ment. England is all ours—if we can hold it.’

“What service shall I pay?” I asked, and I remem-
ber I was proud beyond words.

‘Knight’s fee, boy, knight’s fee!” said he, hopping
round his horse on one foot. (Have I said he was little,
and could not endure to be helped to his saddle?) “Six
mounted men or twelve archers thou shalt send me when-
ever I call for them, and—where got you that corn?”’
said he, for it was near harvest, and our corn stood well.
“I have never seen such bright straw. Send me three
bags of the same seed yearly, and furthermore, in
memory of our last meeting—with the rope round thy
neck—entertain me and my men for two days of each
year in the Great Hall of thy Manor.”

‘* Alas!” said I, “then my Manor is already forfeit.
J am under vow not to enter the Great Hall.” And I

told him what I had sworn to the Lady Elueva.’

‘And hadn’t you ever been into the house since?’ said
Una.

‘Never,’ Sir Richard answered smiling. ‘I had made
44

 
 
 
  
    
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

  

zune nS Sa sorsorounnagatinaantitstalelsjsainiginabreevtey eras poise tawaasaistniin pers

    
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
    

YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

me a little hut of wood up the hill, and there I did jus-
tice and slept. . . . De Aquila wheeled aside, and
his shield shook on his back. ‘‘No matter, boy,’’ said
he. ‘‘I will remit the homage for a year.”’’

‘He meant Sir Richard needn’t give him dinner there
the first year,’ Puck explained.

‘De Aquila stayed with me in the hut, and Hugh,
who could read and write and cast accounts, showed
him the Roll of the Manor, in which were written all
the names of our fields and men, and he asked a thousand
questions touching the land, the timber, the grazing,
the mill, and the fish-ponds, and the worth of every man
in the valley. But never he named the Lady /Elueva’s
name, nor went he near the Great Hall. By night he
drank with us in the hut. ‘Yes, he sat on the straw like
an eagle ruffled in her feathers, his yellow eyes rolling
above the cup, and he pounced in his talk like an eagle,
swooping from one thing to another, but always binding
fast. Yes; he would lie still awhile, and then rustle in
the straw, and speak sometimes as though he were King
William himself, and anon he would speak in parables
and tales, and if at once we saw not his meaning he
would yerk us in the ribs with his scabbarded sword.

‘Took you, boys,” said he, “I am born out of my
due time. Five hundred years ago I would have made
all Ensland such an England as neither Dane, Saxon, nor
Norman should have conquered. Five hundred years
hence I should have been such a councillor to Kings as
the world hath never dreamed of. ’Tis all here,” said
he, tapping his big head, “but it hath no play in this
black age. Now Hugh here is a better mar than thou
art, Richard.’ He had made his voice harsh and croak-
ing, like a raven’s.

45—

See ele Ce i a a ie nee eC a eed

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

“Truth,” said I. “But for Hugh, his help and pa-
tience and long-suffering, I could never have kept the
Manor.”

‘Nor thy life either,” said De Aquila. ‘Hugh has
saved thee not once, but a hundred times. Be still,
Hugh!” he said. “Dost thou know, Richard, why Hugh
slept, and why he still sleeps, among thy Norman men-
at-arms?”’

‘“To be near me,” said I, for I thought this was truth.

‘““Fool!” said De Aquila. ‘‘It is because his Saxons
have begged him to rise against thee, and to sweep every
Norman out of the valley. No matter how I know.
It is truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself an
hostage for thy life, well knowing that if any harm befell
thee from his Saxons thy Normans would slay him with-
out remedy. And this his Saxons know. Is it true,
Hugh?”

‘In some sort,” said Hugh, shamefacedly; ‘‘at least,
it was true half a yearago. My Saxons would not harm
Richard now—I think they know him—but I judged it
best to make sure.”

‘Look, children, what that man had done—and I had
never guessed it! Night after night had he lain down
among Ny men-at-arms, knowing that if one Saxon had
lifted knife against me his life would have answered for
mine.

“Yes,” said De Aquila. ‘And he is a swordless
man.” He pointed to Hugh’s belt, for Hugh had put
away his sword—did I tell you2?—the day after it flew
from his hand at Santlache. He carried only the short
knife and the long-bow. ‘‘Swordless and landless art
thou, Hugh; and they call thee kin to Earl Goodwin.”
(Hugh was indeed of Goodwin’s blood.) ‘‘The ManorYOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

that was thine is given to this boy and to his children
forever. Sit up and beg, for he can turn thee out like a
dog, Hugh.”

‘Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth grind, and I
bade De Aquila, my own overlord, hold his peace, or I
would stuff his words down his throat. Then De
Aquila laughed till the tears ran down his face.

‘**T warned the King,”’ said he, “‘what would come of
giving England to us Norman thieves. Here art thou,
Richard, less than two days confirmed in thy Manor,
and already thou hast risen against thy overlord. What
shall we do to him, Sir Hugh?”

‘““T am a swordless man,”’ said Hugh. ‘‘Do not jest
with me,”’ and he laid his head on his knees and groaned.

‘The greater fool thou,” said De Aquila, and all his
voice changed; “‘for I have given thee the Manor of
Dallington up the hill this half-hour since,” and he
yerked at Hugh with his scabbard across the straw.

‘<To me?” said Hugh. ‘I am a Saxon, and, except
that I love Richard here, I have not sworn fealty to any
Norman.”

‘Tn God’s good time, which because of my sins I
shall not live to see, there will be neither Saxon nor
Norman in England,” said De Aquila. “If I knowmen,
thou art more faithful unsworn than a score of Normans
I could name. Take Dallington, and join Sir Richard
to fight me to-morrow, if it please thee!”

“Nay,” said Hugh. ‘I amnochild. Where I take
a gift, there I render service’; and he put his hands
between De Aquila’s, and swore to be faithful, and, as
I remember, I kissed him, and De Aquila kissed us both.

‘We sat afterwards outside the hut while the sun rose,
and De Aquila marked our churls going to their work
47

 

 

ies

oe

metres:

Ee

3?

1D

a
Rahs

RRS Ste

aoe et tatesSSS ee

Spates

mais
ae
Stessasosts!

SO ee

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

in the fields, and talked of holy things, and how we
should govern our manors in time to come, and of hunt-
ing and of horse-breeding, and of the King’s wisdom
and unwisdom; for he spoke to us as though we were in
all sorts now his brothers. Anon a churl stole up to
me—he was one of the three I had not hanged a year
ago—and he bellowed—which is the Saxon for whisper-
ing—that the Lady Ailueva would speak to me at the
Great House. She walked abroad daily in the Manor,
and it was her custom to send me word whither she went,
that I might set an archer or two behind and in front
to guard her. Very often I myself lay up in the woods
and watched on her also.

‘I went swiftly, and as I passed the great door it
opened from within, and there stood my Lady /Elueva,
and she said to me: ‘“‘Sir Richard, will it please you
enter your Great Hall?”’ Then she wept, but we were
alone.’

The knight was silent for a long time, his face turned
across the valley, smiling.

“Oh, well done!’ said Una, and clapped her hands
very softly. ‘She was sorry, and she said so.’

“Aye, she was sorry, and she said so,’ said Sir Richard,
coming back with a little start. ‘Very soon—but he
said it was two full hours later—De Aquila rode to the
door, with his shield new scoured (Hugh had cleansed
it), and demanded entertainment, and called me a false
knight, that would starve his overlord to death. Then
Hugh cried out that no man should work in the valley
that day, and our Saxons blew horns, and set about
feasting and drinking, and running of races, and dancing
and singing; and De Aquila climbed upon a horse-block
and spoke to them in what he swore was good Saxon,
48YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR

but no man understood it. At night we feasted in the
Great Hall, and when the harpers and the singers were
gone we four sat late at the high table. As I remember,
it was a warm night with a full moon, and De Aquila
bade Hugh take down his sword from the wall again,
for the honour of the Manor of Dallington, and Hugh
took it gladly enough. Dust lay on the hilt, for I saw
him blow it off.

‘She and I sat talking a little apart, and at first we
thought the harpers had come back, for the Great Hall
was filled with a rushing noise of music. De Aquila
leaped up; but there was only the moonlight fretty on
the floor.

‘«<Hearken!”’ said Hugh. “It is my sword,” and as
he belted it on the music ceased.

‘Over Gods, forbid that I should ever belt blade like
that,’ said De Aquila. ‘‘ What does it foretell?”

‘The Gods that made it may know. Last time it
spoke was at Hastings, when I lost all my lands. Belike
it sings now that I have new lands and am a man again, ”
said Hugh.

‘He loosed the blade a little and drove it back happily
into the sheath, and the sword answered him low and
crooningly, as—as a woman would speak to a man, her
head on his shoulder.

‘Now that was the second time in all my life I heard
this Sword sing.’

‘Look!’ said Una. ‘There’s mother coming down the
Long Slip. What will she say to Sir Richard? She can’t
help seeing him.’

‘And Puck can’t magic us this time,’ said Dan.

‘Are you sure?’ said Puck; and he leaned forward
AQPUGK OF POOK'S; BILE

and whispered to Sir Richard, who, smiling, bowed his
head.

‘But what befell the sword and my brother Hugh I
will tell on another time,’ said he, rising. ‘Ohe, Swal-
low!’

The great horse cantered up from the far end of the
meadow, close to mother.

They heard mother say: ‘Children, Gleason’s old
horse has broken into the meadow again. Where did
he get through?’

‘Just below Stone Bay,’ said Dan. ‘He tore down
simple flobs of the bank! We noticed it just now.
And we’ve caught no end of fish. We've been at it all
the afternoon.’

And they honestly believed that they had. They
never noticed the Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves that Puck
had slyly thrown into their laps.

4
7
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PARAS

sears,
eee

Repetto

LI ER FRA eee ieee arSIR RICHARD’S SONG

I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;

But now this game is the other way over—

But now England hath taken me!

I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy’s heart, so whole and free;

But now I sing in another manner—
But now England hath taken me!

As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea;
He will remember his own hour—

Tell him England hath taken me!

As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly;
She will remember a maiden’s power—
Tell her England hath taken me!

As for iny Brother in Rouen city,

A nimble and naughty page is he;
But he will come to suffer and pity—
Tell him England hath taken me!
51PUCK OF POOKS HIE

As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie;
Tell her youth is the time for mating—
Tell her England hath taken me!

As for my Comrades in camp and highway,
That lift their eyebrows scornfully;

Tell them their way is not my way—
Tell them England hath taken me!

Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;

Hear me a little before I am blamed—
Seeing England hath taken me!

Howso great man’s strength be reckoned,

There are two things he cannot flee;
Love is the first, and Death is the second—
And Love, in England, hath taken me!

FS SSS SS SS SI SS SSS Sa Ss EPREoe uit

 

 

 

 

 

THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURERe ares

SRS ee ee annHARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN

What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old gray Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in—
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters,—
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,

The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
To pitch her sides and go over her cables!

D0PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow:
And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old gray Widow-maker?

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THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

T was too hot to run about in the open, so Dan asked
their friend, old Hobden, to take their own dinghy
from the pond and put her on the brook at the bot-

tom of the garden. Her painted name was the * Daisy,’
but for exploring expeditions she was the ‘Golden Hind’
or the ‘Long Serpent,’ or some such suitable name.
Dan hiked and howked with a boat-hook (the brook was
too narrow for sculls), and Una punted with a piece of
hop-pole. When they came to a very shallow place
(the ‘Golden Hind’ drew quite three inches of water)
they disembarked and scuffled her over the gravel by her
tow-rope, and when they reached the overgrown banks
beyond the garden they pulled themselves up stream
by the low branches.

That day they intended to discover the North Cape
like ‘Othere, the old sea-captain,’ in the book of verses
which Una had brought with her; but on account
of the heat they changed it to a voyage up the Ama-
zon and the sources of the Nile. Even on the shaded
water the air was hot and heavy with drowsy scents, [
while outside, through breaks in the trees, the sunshine a
burned the pasture like fire. The kingfisher was asleep
on his watching-branch, and the blackbirds scarcely
took the trouble to dive into the next bush. Dragon-
tlies wheeling and clashing were the only things at
work, except the moor-hens and a big Red Ad-
neWee de aeaks sae bela neat Lote se he ee eee es

    
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
 

PUCK OF POOKS HILL

miral, who flapped down out of the sunshine for a
drink.

When they reached Otter Pool the ‘Golden Hind’
grounded comfortably on a shallow, and they lay be-
neath a roof of close green, watching the water trickle
over the flood-gates down the mossy brick chute from
the mill-stream to the brook. <A big trout—the children
knew him well—rolled head and shoulders at some fly
that sailed round the bend, while once in just so often
the brook rose a fraction of an inch against all the wet
pebbles, and they watched the slow draw and shiver
of a breath of air through the tree-tops. Then the little

1 voices of the slipping water began again.

‘It’s like the shadows talking, isn’t it?’ said Una.
She had given up trying to read. Dan lay over the
bows, trailing his hands in the current. They heard
feet on the gravel-bar that runs half across the pool and
saw Sir Richard Dalyngridge standing over them.

‘Was yours a dangerous voyage?’ he asked, smiling.

‘She bumped a lot, sir,’ said Dan. ‘There’s hardly
any water this summer.’

‘Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when my children
played at Danish pirates. Are you pirate-folk?’

‘Oh, no. We gave up being pirates years ago,’ ex-
plained Una. ‘We’re nearly always explorers now.
Sailing round the world, you know.’

‘Round?’ said Sir Richard. He sat him in the com-

\ fortable crotch of an old ash-root on the bank. ‘How
can it be round?’

*Wasn’t it in your books?’ Dan suggested. He had

been doing geography at his last lesson.
‘I can neither write nor read,’ he replied. ‘Canst
thou read, child?’

  

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‘Yes,’ said Dan, ‘barring the very long words.’

‘Wonderful! Read to me, that I may hear for my-
self.’

Dan flushed, but opened the book and began—gab-
bling a little—at ‘The Discoverer of the North Cape.’

‘Othere, the old sea-captain,

Who dwelt in Helgoland,

To Alfred, lover of truth,

Brought a snow-white walrus tooth,
That he held in his right hand.’

‘But—but—this I know! This is an old song! This
I have heard sung! This is a miracle,’ Sir Richard in-
terrupted. ‘Nay, do not stop!’ He leaned forward,
and the shadows of the leaves slipped and slid upon his
chain-mail.

‘I ploughed the land with horses,
But my heart was ill at ease,
For the old sea-faring men
Came to me now and then
With their Sagas of the Seas.’

His hand fell on the hilt of the great sword. ‘This is
truth,’ he cried, ‘for so did it happen to me, ’ and he
beat time delightedly to the tramp of verse after verse.

‘“¢ And now the land,” said Othere,
‘Bent southward suddenly,

And I followed the curving shore,
And ever southward bore

Into a nameless sea.’’’
59

 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
   

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PUCK. OF POOK’S HILL

“A nameless sea!’ he repeated. ‘So did I—so did
Hugh and I.’

‘Where did you go? Tell us,’ said Una.

“Wait. Let me hear all first... So Dan read to the
poem’s very end.

‘Good,’ said the knight. ‘That is Othere’s tale—
even as I have heard the men in the Dane ships sing it.
Not in those same valiant words, but something like to
them.’

‘Have you ever explored North?’ Dan shut the
book.

‘Nay. My venture was South. Farther South than
any man has fared, Hugh and I went down with Witta
and his heathen.’ He jerked the tall sword forward,
and leaned on it with both hands; but his eyes looked
long past them.

‘I thought you always lived here,’ said Una, timidly.

‘Yes; while my Lady /Elueva lived. But she died.
She died. Then, my eldest son being a man, I asked
De Aquila’s leave that he should hold the Manor while
I went on some journey or pilgrimage—to forget. De
Aquila, whom the Second William had made Warden of
Pevensey in Earl Mortain’s place, was very old then,
but still he rode his tall roan horses, and in the saddle
he looked like a little white falcon. When Hugh, at
Dallington over yonder, heard what I did, he sent for
my second son, whom being unmarried he had ever
looked upon as his own child, and, by De Aquila’s leave,
gave him the Manor of Dallington to hold till he should
return. Then Hugh came with me.’

‘When did this happen?’ said Dan.

‘That I can answer to the very day, for as we rode
with De Aquila by Pevensey—have I said that he was
60THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

Lord of Pevensey and of the Honour of the Eagle?— tc
the Bordeaux ship that fetched him his wines yearly out
of France, a Marsh man ran to us crying that he had
seen a great black goat which bore on his back the body
of the King, and that the goat had spoken to him. On
that same day Red William our King, the Conqueror’s
son, died of:a secret arrow while he hunted in a forest.
“This is a cross matter,” said De Aquila, ““to meet on
the threshold of a journey. If Red William be dead I
may have to fight for my lands. Wait a little.”

‘My Lady being dead, I cared nothing for signs and
omens, nor Hugh either. We took that wine-ship to
go to Bordeaux; but the wind failed while we were yet
in sight of Pevensey, a thick mist hid us, and we drifted
with the tide along the cliffs to the west. Our company
was, for the most part, merchants returning to France,
‘and we were laden with wool and there were three couple
of tall hunting-dogs chained to the rail. Their master
was a knight of Artois. His name I never learned, but
his shield bore gold pieces on a red ground, and he limped,
much as I do, from a wound which he had got in his
youth at Mantes siege. He served the Duke of Bur-
gundy against the Moors in Spain, and was returning
to that war with his dogs. He sang us strange Moorish
songs that first night, and half persuaded us to go with
him. I was on pilgrimage to forget—which is what no pil-
grimage brings. I think I would have gone, but

‘Look you how the life and fortune of man changes!
Towards morning a Dane ship, rowing silently, struck
against us in the mist, and while we rolled hither and
yon Hugh, leaning over the rail, fell outboard. I leaped
after him, and we two tumbled aboard the Dane, and
were caught and bound ere we could rise. Our own
61PUCK OF POOK’S HILE

ship was swallowed up in the mist. I judge the Knight
of the Gold Pieces muzzled his dogs with his cloak, lest
they should give tongue and betray the merchants, for
I heard their baying suddenly stop.

“We lay bound among the benches till morning, when
the Danes dragged us to the high deck by the steering-
place, and their captain—Witta, he was called—turned
us over with his foot. Bracelets of gold from elbow to
armpit he wore, and his red hair was long as a woman’s,
and came down in plaited locks on his shoulder. He
was stout, with bowed legs and long arms. He spoiled
us of all we had, but when he laid hand on Hugh’s sword
and saw the runes on the blade hastily he thrust it back.
| Yet his covetousness overcame him and he tried again

and again, and the third time the Sword sang loud and

angrily, so that the rowers leaned on their oars to listen.

Here they all spoke together, screaming like gulls, and a

Yellow Man, such as I have never seen, came to the

high deck and cut our bonds. He was yellow—not from
| sickness, but by nature—yellow as honey, and his eyes
stood endwise in his head.’

‘How do you mean?’ said Una, her chin on her hand.

‘Thus,’ said Sir Richard. He put a finger to the cor-
ner of each eye, and pushed it up till his eyes narrowed
to slits.

‘Why, you look just like a Chinaman!’ cried Dan.
‘Was the man a Chinaman?’

‘I know not what that may be. Witta had found him
half dead among ice on the shores of Muscovy. We
thought he was a devil. He crawled before us and
brought food in a silver dish which these sea-wolves had
robbed from some rich abbey, and Witta with his own
hands gave us wine. He spoke a little in French, a little
62

  

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THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

in South Saxon, and much in the Northman’s tongue.
We asked him to set us ashore, promising to pay him
better ransom than he would get price if he sold us to
the Moors—as once befell a knight of my acquaintance
sailing from Flushing.

‘““Not by my father Guthrum’s head,” saidhe. “The
Gods sent ye into my ship for a luck-offering.”

‘At this I quaked, for I knew it was still the Danes’
custom to sacrifice captives to their gods for fair weather.

‘A plague on thy four long bones!’ said Hugh.

‘‘What profit canst thou make of poor old pilgrims that :
can neither work nor fight?”

‘*©Gods forbid I should fight against thee, poor Pil-
srim with the Singing Sword,” said he. “‘Come with us
and be poornomore. ‘Thy teeth are far apart, which is
a sure sign thou wilt travel and grow rich.”

‘<< What if we will not come?” said Hugh.

‘Swim to England or France,” said Witta. “We
are midway between the two. Unless ye choose to
drown yourselves no hair of your head will be harmed
here aboard. We think ye bring us luck, and I myself
know the runes on that Sword are good.” He turned
and bade them hoist sail.

‘Hereafter all made way for us as we walked about the
ship, and the ship was full of wonders.’

‘What was she like?’ said Dan.

‘Long, low, and narrow, bearing one mast with a red
sail,androwedby fifteen oars a-side,’ the knight answered.
‘At her bows was a deck under which men might lie,
and at her stern another shut off by a painted door from
the rowers’ benches. Here Hugh and I slept, with Witta
and the Yellow Man, upon tapestries as soft as wool.
I remember’—he laughed to himself—‘when first we
63PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

entered there a loud voice cried, ‘““Out swords! Out
swords! Kill, kill!” Seeing us start, Witta laughed,
and showed us it was but a great-beaked gray bird with
a red tail. He sat her on his shoulder, and she called
for bread and wine hoarsely, and prayed him to kiss her.
Yet she was no more than a silly bird. But—ye knew
this?’ He looked at their smiling faces.

“We weren't laughing at you,’ said Una. ‘That must
have been a parrot. It’s just what Pollies do.’

‘So we learned later. But here is another marvel.
The Yellow Man, whose name was Kitai, had with him
a brown box. In the box was a blue bowl with red
marks upon the rim, and within the bowl, hanging from
a fine thread, was a piece of iron no thicker than that
grass stem, and as long, maybe, as my spur, but straight.
In this iron, said Witta, abode an Evil Spirit which Kitai,
the Yellow Man, had brought by Art Magic out of his
own country that lay three years’ journey southward.
The Evil Spirit strove day and night to return to his
country, and therefore, look you, the iron needle pointed
continually to the South.’

‘South?’ said Dan, suddenly, and put his hand into
his pocket.

“With my own eyes I saw it. Every day and all day
long, though the ship rolled, though the sun and the
moon and the stars were hid, this blind Spirit in the iron
knew whither it would go, and strained to the South.
Witta called it the Wise Iron, because it showed him his
way across the unknowable seas.’ Again Sir Richard
looked keenly at the children. ‘How think ye? Was
it sorcery?’

‘Was it anything like this?’ Dan fished out his old
brass pocket-compass, that generally lived with his

Oi OP OL TOT SS HLT ANI LTT 5 Ea a a aE TTY
LS RRR ey Baie nen atrathh ie tere eee SETHE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

knife and key-ring. ‘The glass has got cracked, but the
needle waggles all right, sir.’

The knight drew a long breath of wonder. ‘Yes, yes.
The Wise Iron shook and swung in just this fashion.
Now it is still. Now it points to the South.’

‘North.’ said Dan.

‘Nay, South! There is the South,’ said Sir Richard.
Then they both laughed, for naturally when one end of a
straight compass-needle points to the North, the other
must point to the South.

‘Te,’ said Sir Richard, clicking his tongue. ‘There
can be no sorcery if a child carries it. Wherefore does
it point South—or North?’

‘Father says that nobody knows,’ said Una.

Sir Richard looked relieved. ‘Then it may still be
magic. It was magic to us. And so we voyaged.
When the wind served we hoisted sail, and lay all up
along the windward rail, our shields on our backs to
break the spray. When it failed, they rowed with long
oars: the Yellow Man sat by the Wise Iron, and Witta
steered. At first I feared the great white-flowering
waves, but as I saw how wisely Witta led his ship among
them I grew bolder. Hugh liked it well from the first.
My skill is not upon the water; and rocks, and whirlpools
such as we saw by the West Isles of France, where an

oar caught on a rock and broke, are much against my
stomach. We sailed South across a stormy sea, where
by moonlight, between clouds, we saw a Flanders ship
roll clean over and sink. Again, though Hugh laboured
with Witta all night, I lay under the deck with the Talk-
ing Bird, and cared not whether I lived or died. ‘There
is a sickness of the sea which for three days is pure death!
When we next saw land Witta said it was Spain, and we
65

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

 

iesPUCK OF POOK’S HILL

stood out to sea. That coast was full of ships busy in
the Duke’s war against the Moors, and we feared to be
hanged by the Duke’s men or sold into slavery by the
Moors. So we put into a small harbour which Witta
knew. At night men came down with loaded mules,
and Witta exchanged amber out of the North against
little wedges of iron and packets of beads in earthen
pots. ‘The pots he put under the decks, and the wedges
of iron he laid on the bottom of the ship after he had
cast out the stones and shingle which till then had been
our ballast. Wine, too, he bought for lumps of sweet-
smelling gray amber—a little morsel no bigger than a
thumbnail purchased a cask of wine. But I speak like
a merchant.’

‘No, no. ‘Tell us what you had to eat,’ cried Dan.

‘Meat dried in the sun, and dried fish and ground
beans, Witta took in; and corded frails of a certain sweet,
soft fruit, which the Moors use, which is like paste of
figs, but with thin, long stones. Aha! Dates is the

name.

‘““Now,” said Witta, when the ship was loaded, ‘‘I
counsel you strangers to pray to your gods, for, from
here on, our road is No Man’s road.”’ He and his men
killed a black goat for sacrifice on the bows; and the
Yellow Man brought out a small, smiling image of dull-
green stone and burned incense before it. Hugh and I

| commended ourselves to God, and Saint Barnabas, and
} Our Lady of the Assumption who was specially dear to
my Lady. We were not young, but I think no shame
to say whenas we drove out of that secret harbour at
) sunrise over a still sea, we two rejoiced and sang as did
the knights of old when they followed our great Duke
to England. Yet was our leader an heathen pirate; all
66

   
  
 
   
  
 
    
   
    
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
    
  
   

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THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

our proud fleet but one galley perilously overloaded;
for guidance we leaned on a pagan sorcerer; and our
port was beyond the world’s end. Witta told us that
his father Guthrum had once in his life rowed along the
shores of Africa to a land where naked men sold gold for
iron and beads. There had he bought much gold, and
no few elephants’ teeth, and thither by help of the Wise
Iron would Witta go. Witta feared nothing—except
to be poor.

‘““ My father told me,” said Witta, “that a great Shoal
runs three days’ sail out from that land, and south of
the shoal lies a Forest which grows in the sea. South
and east of the Forest my father came to a place where
the men hid gold in their hair; but all that country, he
said, was full of Devils who lived in trees, and tore folk
limb from limb. How think ye?”

‘«*Gold or no gold,” said Hugh, fingering his sword,
‘it is a joyous venture. Have at these devils of thine,
Witta!”’

‘““Venture!’’ said Witta, sourly. ‘“‘I am only a poor
sea-thief. I do not set my life adrift on a plank for joy,
or the venture. Once I beach ship again at Stavanger,
and feel the wife’s arms round my neck, I’ll seek no
more ventures. A ship is heavier care than a wile or
cattle.”

‘He leaped down among the rowers, chiding them for
their little strength and their great stomachs. Yet
Witta was a wolf in fight, and a very fox in cunning.

‘We were driven South by a storm, and for three days
and three nights he took the stern-oar, and threddled
the long-ship through the sea. When it rose beyond
measure he brake a pot of whale’s oil upon the water,
which wonderfully smoothed it, and in that anointed
67

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PUCK ‘OF POOK'S BIEL

patch he turned her head to the wind and threw out
oars at the end of a rope, to make, he said, an anchor at
which we lay rolling sorely, but dry. This craft his
father Guthrum had shown him. He knew, too, all the
Leech-Book of Bald, who was a wise doctor, and he knew
the Ship-Book of Hlaf the Woman, who robbed Egypt.
He knew all the care of a ship.

‘After the storm we saw a mountain whose top was
covered with snow and pierced the clouds. The grasses
under this mountain, boiled and eaten, are a good cure
for soreness of the gums and swelled ankles. We lay
there eight days, till men in skins threw stones at us.
When the heat increased Witta spread a cloth on bent
sticks above the rowers, for the wind failed between the
Island of the Mountain and the shore of Africa, which is
east of it. That shore is sandy, and we rowed along it
within three bowshots. Here we saw whales, and fish
in the shape of shields, but longer than our ship. Some
slept, some opened their mouths at us, and some danced

' on the hot waters. The water was hot to the hand,
and the sky was hidden by hot, gray mists, out of which
blew a fine dust that whitened our hair and beards of a
morning. Here, too, were fish that flew in the air like
birds. They would fall on the laps of the rowers, and

. when we went ashore we would roast and eat them.’

The knight paused to see if the children doubted him,
but they only nodded and said, ‘Go on.’

) ‘The yellow land lay on our left, the gray sea on our
right. Knight though I was, I pulled my oar amongst
the rowers. I caught seaweed and dried it, and stuffed

it between the pots of beads lest they should break.
Knighthood is for the land. At sea, look you, a man is
but a spurless rider on a bridleless horse. I learned to

68

  

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THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

make strong knots in ropes—yes, and to join two ropes
end to end, so that even Witta could scarcely see where
they had been married. But Hugh had tenfold more
sea-cunning than I. Witta gave him charge of the
rowers of the left side. Thorkild of Borkum, a man
with a broken nose, that wore a Norman steel cap, had
the rowers of the right, and each side rowed and sang
against the other. They saw that no man was idle.
Truly, as Hugh said, and Witta would laugh at him, a
ship is all more care than a Manor.

‘How? Thus. There was water to fetch from the
shore when we could find it, as well as wild fruit and
grasses, and sand for scrubbing of the decks and benches
to keep them sweet. Also we hauled the ship out on
low islands and emptied all her gear, even to the iron
wedges, and burned off the weed, that had grown on her,
with torches of rush, and smoked below the decks with
rushes dampened in salt water, as Hlaf the Woman
orders in her Ship-Book. Once when we were thus
stripped, and the ship lay propped on her keel, the bird
cried, ‘““Out swords!” as though she saw an enemy.
Witta vowed he would wring her neck.’

‘Poor Polly! Did he?’ said Una.

‘Nay. She was the ship’s bird. She could call all
the rowers by name. Those were good days—
for a wifeless man—with Witta and his heathen—beyond
the world’s end. . . . After many weeks we came
on the Great Shoal which stretched, as Witta’s father
had said, far out tosea. Weskirted it till we were giddy
with the sight and dizzy with the sound of bars and
breakers, and when we reached land again we found a
naked black people dwelling among woods, who for one
wedge of iron loaded us with fruits and grasses and eggs.
69

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Witta scratched his head at them in sign he would buy
gold. They had no gold, but they understood the sign
(all the gold-traders hide their gold in their thick hair),
for they pointed along the coast. ‘They beat, too, on
their chests with their clenched hands, and that, if we
had known it, was an evil sign.’

‘What did it mean?’ said Dan.

‘Patience. Ye shall hear. We followed the coast
eastward sixteen days (counting time by sword-cuts on
the helm-rail) till we came to the Forest in the Sea.
Trees grew there out of mud, arched upon lean and high
roots, and many muddy waterways ran all whither into
darkness under the trees. Here we lost the sun. We
followed the winding channels between the trees, and
where we could not row we laid hold of the crusted roots
and hauled ourselves along. ‘The water was foul, and
great glittering flies tormented us. Morning and even-
ing a blue mist covered the mud, which bred fevers.
Four of our rowers sickened, and were bound to their
benches, lest they should leap overboard and be eaten
by the monsters of the mud. The Yellow Man lay
sick beside the Wise Iron, rolling his head and talking
in his own tongue. Only the Bird throve. She sat on
Witta’s shoulder and screamed in that noisome, silent
darkness. Yes; I think it was the silence we most
feared.’

He paused to listen to the comfortable home noises of
the brook.

‘When we had lost count of time among those black
gullies and swashes we heard, as it were, a drum beat
far off, and following it we broke into a broad, brown
river by a hut in a clearing among fields of pumpkins.
We thanked God to see the sun again. ‘The people of
70

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THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

the village gave the good welcome, and Witta scratched
his head at them (for gold), and showed them our iron
and beads. They ran to the bank—we were still in the
ship—and pointed to our swords and bows, for always
when near shore we lay armed. Soon they fetched store
of gold in bars and in dust from their huts, and some
great blackened elephant teeth. These they piled on
the bank, as though to tempt us, and made signs of
dealing blows in battle, and pointed up to the tree-tops,
and to the forest behind. Their captain or chief sor-
cerer then beat on his chest with his fists, and gnashed
his teeth.

‘Said Thorkild of Borkum: ‘‘Do they mean we must
fight for all this gear?” and he half drew sword.

“Nay,” said Hugh. “I think they ask us to league
against some enemy.”

‘“<T like this not,” said Witta, of a sudden. ‘*Back
into mid-stream.”’

‘So we did, and sat still all, watching the black folk
and the gold they piled on the bank. Again we heard
drums beat in the forest, and the people fled to their
huts, leaving the gold unguarded.

‘Then Hugh, at the bows, pointed without speech,
and we saw a great Devil come out of the forest. He
shaded his brows with his hand, and moistened his pink
tongue between his lips—thus.’

‘A Devil!’ said Dan, delightfully horrified.

‘Yea. Taller than a man; covered with reddish hair.
When he had well regarded our ship, he beat on his chest
with his fists till it sounded like rolling drums, and came
to the bank swinging all his body between his long arms,
and gnashed his teeth at us. Hugh loosed arrow, and
pierced him through the throat. He fell roaring, and

71

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Grieg
at
SartCRRA RO Retna

 

     
  
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
   
    
   
   
   

PUCK’ OF POOKsS HILL

three other Devils ran out of the forest and hauled him
into a tall tree out of sight. Anon they cast down the
blood-stained arrow, and lamented together among the
leaves. Witta saw the gold on the bank; he was loath
to leave it. “‘Sirs,’’ said he (no man had spoken till
then), ““yonder is what we have come so far and so pain-
fully to find, laid out to our very hand. Let us row in
while these Devils bewail themselves, and at least bear
off what we may.”

“Bold as a wolf, cunning as a fox was Witta! He set
four archers on the foredeck to shoot the Devils if they
should leap from the tree, which was close to the bank.
He manned ten oars a-side, and bade them watch his
hand to row in or back out, and so coaxed he them to-
wards the bank. Butnone would set foot ashore, though
the gold was within ten paces. No man is hasty to his
hanging! They whimpered at their oars like beaten
hounds, and Witta bit his fingers for rage.

‘Said Hugh of a sudden, ““Hark!”’ At first we thought

: it was the buzzing of the glittering flies on the water:
but it grew loud and fierce, so that all men heard.’

‘What?’ said Dan and Una.

“It was the Sword.’ Sir Richard patted the smooth
hilt. “It sang as a Dane sings before battle. ‘‘I go,”
said Hugh, and he leaped from the bows and fell among
the gold. I was afraid to my four bones’ marrow, but
for shame’s sake I followed, and Thorkild of Borkum
} leaped afterme. None othercame. ‘‘Blame me not,”

cried Witta behind us, “‘I must abide by my ship.” We
three had no time to blame or praise. We stooped to
the gold and threw it back over our shoulders, one hand
on our swords and one eye on the tree, which nigh over-
hung us.
We,

  

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SRSA ER Rane

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Attar ae eerie en cimuuleaicitiat tal eaters Mita — :
Sana teen eS oo Seesite age aesiteeea tis oiiaaeeseneabanita ae aati roan alinenenety

  

THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

‘I know not how the Devils leaped down, or how the
fight began. IheardHughcry: ~ Out! out!” as though
he were at Santlache again; I saw Thorkild’s steel cap
smitten off his head by a great hairy hand, and I felt an
arrow from the ship whistle past my ear. They say
that till Witta took his sword to the rowers he could not
bring his ship inshore; and each one of the four archers
said afterwards that he alone had pierced the Devil that
fought me. I do not know. I went to it in my mail-
shirt, which saved my skin. With longsword and belt-
dagger I fought for the life against a Devil whose very
feet were hands, and who whirled me back and forth like
a dead branch. He had me by the waist, my arms to
my side, when an arrow from the ship pierced him be<
tween the shoulders, and he loosened grip. I passed
my sword twice through him, and he crutched himself
away between his long arms, coughing and moaning.
Next, as I remember, I saw Thorkild of Borkum bare-
headed and smiling, leaping up and down before a Devil
that leaped and gnashed his teeth. Then Hugh passed,
his sword shifted to his left hand, and I wondered why
I had not known that Hugh was a left-handed man; and
thereafter I remembered nothing till I felt spray on my
face, and we were in sunshine on the open sea. That
was twenty days after.’

‘What had happened? Did Hugh die?’ the children
asked.

‘Never was such a fight fought by christened man,’
said Sir Richard. ‘An arrow from the ship had saved
me from my Devil, and Thorkild of Borkum had given
back before his Devil, till the bowmen on the ship could
shoot it all full of arrows from near by; but Hugh’s Devil
was cunning, and had kept behind trees, where no arrow

is

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SHER TESS

Sears
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Peete eT

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PUGK’ OF POOK?S HILL

could reach. Body to body there, by stark strength of
sword and hand, had Hugh slain him, and, dying, the
Thing had clenched his teeth on the sword. Judge what
teeth they were!’

Sir Richard turned the sword again that the children
might see the two great chiselled gouges on either side
of the blade.

‘Those same teeth met in Hugh’s right arm and side,’
Sir Richard went on. ‘I? Oh, I had no more than a
broken foot anda fever. Thorkild’s ear was bitten, but
Hugh’s arm and side clean withered away. I saw him
where he lay along, sucking a fruit in his left hand. His
flesh was wasted off his bones, his hair was patched with
white, and his hand was blue-veined like a woman’s.
He put his left hand round my neck and whispered,
“Take my sword. It has been thine since Hastings, O
my brother, but I can never hold hilt again.” We lay
there on the high deck talking of Santlache, and, I think,
of every day since Santlache, and it came so that we
both wept. I was weak, and he little more than a
shadow.

‘“Nay—nay,’’ said Witta, at the helm-rail. “Gold
is a good right arm to any man. Look—look at the
gold!’’ He bade Thorkild show us the gold and the
elephants’ teeth, as though we had been children. He
had brought away all the gold on the bank, and twice
as much more, that the people of the village gave him
for slaying the Devils. They worshipped us as gods,

Thorkild told me: it was one of their old women healed
up Hugh’s poor arm.’

‘How much gold did you get?’ asked Dan.

‘How can I say? Where we came out with wedges
of iron under the rowers’ feet we returned with wedges

74REAP RRE Rae lr ner emer rer net titer rseertee rte MrT eae EET Lec LUO Sa re

tee eM EC OL Cm trerts been gc)
merece be Sobre mE eMC TE ML MLE aka ts br 76

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
    

THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

of gold hidden beneath planks. There was dust of gold
in packages where we slept and along the side, and cross-
wise under the benches we lashed the blackened ele-
phants’ teeth.

<«T had sooner have my right arm,”’ said Hugh, when
he had seen all.

‘“ Ahai! That wasmy fault,” said Witta. “I should
have taken ransom and landed you in France when first
you came aboard, ten months ago.”

‘“*Tt is over-late now,” said Hugh, laughing.

‘Witta plucked at his long shoulder-lock. ‘‘But
think!” said he. ‘‘If I had let ye go—which I swear I
would never have done, for I love ye more than brothers
—if I had let ye go, by now ye might have been horribly
slain by some mere Moor in the Duke of Burgundy’s
war, or ye might have been murdered by land-thieves,
or ye might have died of the plague at aninn. Think
of this and do not blame me overmuch, Hugh. See!
I will only take a half of the gold.”

‘““T blame thee not at all, Witta,”’ said Hugh. “ht
was a joyous venture, and we thirty-five here have done
what never men have done. If I live till England, I
will build me a stout keep over Dallington out of my
share.”

‘<7 will buy cattle and amber and warm red cloth for
the wife,” said Witta, ‘‘and I will hold all the land at
the head of Stavanger Fiord. Many will fight for me
now. But first we must turn North, and with this hon-
est treasure aboard I pray we meet no pirate ships.”

‘We did not laugh. We were careful. We were
afraid lest we should lose one grain of our gold, for which
we had fought Devils.

<<‘ Where is the Sorcerer?” said I, for Witta was look-
75

 

 

 

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prpscrererts cUspeM eee bs Ey

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syeresRoR eee
HUGHES
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PUCK’OF POOK’S HILL

ing at the Wise Iron in the box, and I could not see the
Yellow Man.

‘““He has gone to his own country,” said he. “He
rose up in the night while we were beating out of that
forest in the mud, and said that he could see it behind
the trees. He leaped out on to the mud, and did not
answer when we called; so we called no more. He left
the Wise Iron, which is all that I care for—and see, the
Spirit still points to the South.”’

‘We were troubled for fear that the Wise Iron should
fail us now that its Yellow Man had gone, and when we
saw the Spirit still served us we grew afraid of too strong
winds, and of shoals, and of careless leaping fish, and of
all the people on all the shores where we landed.’

‘Why?’ said Dan.

‘Because of the gold—because of our gold. Gold
changes men altogether. Thorkild of Borkum did not
change. He laughed at Witta for his fears, and at us
for our counselling Witta to furl sail when the ship
pitched at all.

*““Better be drowned out of hand,” said Thorkild of
Borkum, “than go tied to a deck-load of yellow dust.”

‘He was a landless man, and had been slave to some
King in the East. He would have beaten out the gold
into deep bands to put round the oars, and round the
prow.

‘Yet, though he vexed himself for the gold, Witta
waited upon Hugh like a woman, lending him his
shoulder when the ship rolled, and tying of ropes from
side to side that Hugh might hold by them. But for
Hugh, he said—and so did all his men—they would never
have won the gold. I remember Witta made a little,
thin gold ring for our Bird to swing in.

- TESTS LOTT SLY) LL a a a a a a a a

AMIGOBERRA Re NUR EOE EEN Tr

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

‘Three months we rowed and sailed and went ashore
for fruits or toclean the ship. When we saw wild horse-
men, riding among sand-dunes, flourishing spears, we
knew we were on the Moors’ coast, and stood over north
to Spain; and a strong south-west wind bore us in ten
days to a coast of high red rocks, where we heard a
hunting-horn blow among the yellow gorse and knew it
was England.

‘““Niow find ye Pevensey yourselves,” said Witta. “I
love not these narrow shipped-filled seas.”

‘He set the dried, salted head of the Devil, which
Hugh had killed, high on our prow, and all boats fled us.
Yet, for our gold’s sake, we were more afraid than they.
We crept along the coast by night till we came to the
chalk cliffs, and so east to Pevensey. Witta would not
come ashore with us, though Hugh promised him wine
at Dallington enough to swimin. He was on fire to see
his wife, and ran into the Marsh after sunset, and there
he left us and our share of gold, and backed out on the
same tide. He made no promise; he swore no oath; he
looked for no thanks; but to Hugh, an armless man, and
to me, an old cripple whom he could have flung into the
sea, he passed over wedge upon wedge, packet upon
packet of gold and dust of gold, and only ceased when
we would take no more. As he stooped from the rail
to bid us farewell he stripped off his right-arm bracelets
and put them all on Hugh’s left, and he kissed Hugh on
the cheek. I think when Thorkild of Borkum bade the
rowers give way we were near weeping. It is true that
Witta was an heathen and a pirate; true it is he held us
by force many months in his ship, but I loved that bow-
legged, blue-eyed man for his great boldness, his cun-
ning, his skill, and, beyond all, for his simplicity.’

77

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SthPUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Did he get home all right?’ said Dan.

‘Inever knew. We saw him hoist sail under the moon-
track and stand away. Ihave prayed that he found his
wife and the children.’

‘And what did you do?’

“We waited on the Marsh till the day. Then I sat by
the gold, all tied in an old sail, while Hugh went to
Pevensey, and De Aquila sent us horses.’

Sir Richard crossed hands on his sword-hilt, and
stared down stream through the soft warm shadows.

‘A whole shipload of gold!’ said Una, looking at the
little “Golden Hind.’ ‘But I’m glad I didn’t see the
Devils.’

‘I don’t believe they were Devils,’ Dan whispered
back.

‘Eh?’ said Sir Richard. ‘Witta’s father warned him
they were unquestionable Devils. One must believe
one’s father, and not one’s children. What were my
Devils, then?’

Dan flushed all over. ‘I—I only thought,’ he stam-
mered; ‘I’ve got a book called ‘“‘The Gorilla Hunters’ —
it’s a continuation of ‘Coral Island,” sir—and it says
there that the gorillas (they’re big monkeys, you know)
were always chewing iron up.’

‘Notalways,’said Una. ‘Only twice.” They had been
reading ‘The Gorilla Hunters’ in the orchard.

‘Well, anyhow, they always drummed on their chests,
like Sir Richard’s did, before they went for people.
And they built houses in trees, too.’

‘Hal’ Sir Richard opened hiseyes. ‘Houses like flat
nests did our Devils make, where their imps lay and
looked at us. I did not see them (I was sick after the
fight), but Witta told me, and, lo, ye know it also?

SCT PTAA AD ET eT PeesECR NAP CoN a phe TN ee rac eter moe OLCOTT oH hcepacorar roe (OLN arr nee COLCA

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
     

THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE

Wonderful! Were our Devils only nest-building apes?
Is there no sorcery left in the world?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Dan, uncomfortably. ‘I’ve
seen a man take rabbits out of a hat, and he told us we
could see how he did it, if we watched hard. And we
did.’

‘But we didn’t,’ said Una, sighing. ‘Oh! there’s Puck!’

The little fellow, brown and smiling, peered between
two stems of an ash, nodded, and slid down the bank
into the cool beside them.

‘No sorcery, Sir Richard?’ he laughed, and blew on a
full dandelion head he had picked.

‘They tell me that Witta’s Wise Iron wasatoy. The
boy carries such an iron with him. They tell me our
Devils were apes, called gorillas!’ said Sir Richard, in-
dignantly.

‘That is the sorcery of books,’ said Puck. ‘I warned
thee they were wise children. All people can be wise by
reading of books.’

‘But are the books true?’ Sir Richard frowned. ‘I
like not all this reading and writing.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Puck, holding the naked dandelion head
at arm’s length. ‘But if we hang all fellows who write
falsely, why did De Aquila not begin with Gilbert, the
Clerk? He was false enough.’

‘Poor false Gilbert. Yet, in his fashion, he was bold,’
said Sir Richard.

‘What did he do?’ said Dan.

‘He wrote,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Is the tale meet for
children, think you?’ He looked at Puck; but ‘Tell us!
Tell us!’ cried Dan and Una together.adhe Eh Paea ag ade ASE ane

 

SERSSSS SS

SRS Sa
sessasctstss

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: eae :

Sey OMe i iran) .

= OTL WutTHORKILD’S SONG

There’s no wind along these seas, ‘i
Out oars for Stavanger!
Forward all for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze, \
Let fall for Stavanger!
A long pull for Stavanger!

Oh, hear the benches creak and strain!
(A long pull for Stavanger!)

She thinks she smells the Northland rain! \
(A long pull for Stavanger!) |

She thinks she smells the Northland snow,
And she’s as glad as we to go.

She thinks she smells the Northland rime,
And the dear dark nights of winter-time.

Her very bolts are sick for shore,
And we—we want it ten times more!

So all you Gods that love brave men,
Send us a three-reef gale again!

Send us a gale, and watch us come,
With close-cropped canvas slashing home!
81Lae Eee pineal

 

FUCK OF BOOKS HILL

But—there’s no wind in all these seas,
A long pull for Stavanger!

So we must wake the white-ash breeze,
A long pull for Stavanger!OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

a
it
-
atSeaectie

US AMAIUTC EELS tv te oy eaeOLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

‘ J T has nought to do with apes or devils,’ Sir Richard
wenton,inanundertone. ‘It concerns De Aquila,
than whom there was never bolder nor craftier, nor

more hardy knight born. And remember he was an old,
old man at that time.’

*“When?’ said Dan.

‘When we came back from sailing with Witta.’

‘What did you do with your gold?’ said Dan.

‘Have patience. Link by link ischain-mailmade. I
will tell all in its place. We bore the gold to Pevensey
on horseback—three loads of it—and then up to the
north chamber, above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle,
where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a
little white falcon, turning his head swiftly from one to
the other as we told our tale. Jehan the Crab, an old
sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but De Aquila
bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down both
leather curtains over the door. It was Jehan whom
De Aquila had sent to us with the horses, and only Jehan
had loaded the gold. When our story was told, De
Aquila gave us the news of England, for we were as men
waked from a year-long sleep. The Red King was dead
—slain (ye remember?) the day we set sail—and Henry,
his younger brother, had made himself King of England
over the head of Robert of Normandy. This was the
very thing that William the Red King had done to
85SELENA Sah uF Pia ea Pattee Beata tad be APSE ar Med BaP oe

   
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
  
  
 
    
 
 
 
 
    
 
  
  
  
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Robert when our Great William died. Then Robert of
Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of
this kingdom, had sent an army against England, which
army had been well beaten back to their ships at Ports-
mouth. A little earlier, and Witta’s ship would have
rowed through them.

‘And now,” said De Aquila, “half the great Barons
of the north and west are out against the King between
Salisbury and Shrewsbury, and half the other half wait
to see which way the game shall go. They say Henry
is overly English for their stomachs, because he hath
married an English wife and she hath coaxed him to give
back their old laws to our Saxons. (Better ride a horse
on the bit he knows, I say.) But that is only a cloak to
their falsehood.’ He cracked his finger on the table
where the wine was spilt, and thus he spoke :—

“William crammed us Norman barons full of good
English acres after Santlache. I had my share too,”’ he
said, and clapped Hugh on the shoulder: “but I warned
him—I warned him before Odo rebelled—that he should
have bidden the Barons give up their lands and lordships
in Normandy if they would be English lords. Now
they are all but princes both in England and Normandy
—trencher-fed hounds, with a foot in one trough and
both eyes on the other! Robert of Normandy has sent
them word that if they do not fight for him in England
he will sack and harry out their lands in Normandy.
Therefore Clare has risen, FitzOsborne has risen, Mont-
gomery has risen—whom our First William made an
English earl. Even D’Arcy is out with his men, whose
father I remember a little hedge-sparrow knight nearby
Caen. If Henry wins, the Barons can still flee to Nor-
mandy, where Robert will welcome them. If Henry

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OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

loses, Robert, he says, will give them more lands in
England. Oh, a pest—a pest on Normandy, for she will
be our England’s curse this many a long year!”

“Amen,” said Hugh. ‘“‘But will the war come our
ways, think you?”

“Not from the north,” said De Aquila. “But the
sea is always open. If the Barons gain the upper hand
Robert will send another army into England for sure,
and this time I think he will land there—where his father,
the Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your pigs to
a pretty market! Half England alight, and gold enough
on the ground’—he stamped on the bars beneath the
table—‘‘to set every sword in Christendom fighting.”

‘“What is to do?” said Hugh. “I have no keep
at Dallington; and if we buried it, whom could we
trust?”

‘Me.’ said De Aquila. ‘‘Pevensey walls are strong.
No man but Jehan, who is my dog, knows what is be-
tween them.” He drew a curtain by the shot-window
and showed us the shaft of a well in the thickness of the
wall.

<“<T made it for a drinking-well,” he said, “but we
found salt water, and it rises and falls with the tide.
Hark!” We heard the water whistle and blow at the
bottom. ‘“‘ Will it serve?” said he.

‘Needs must,” said Hugh. “Our lives are in thy
hands.” So we lowered all the gold down except one
small chest of it by De Aquila’s bed, which we kept as
much for his delight in its weight and colour as for any
our needs.

‘In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, he said:
“T do not say farewell; because ye will return and bide
here. Not for love nor for sorrow, but to be with the
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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

gold. Have a care,” he said, laughing, “‘lest I use it
to make myself Pope. Trust me not, but return!’’’

Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly.

‘In seven days, then, we returned from our Manors—
from the Manors which had been ours.’

‘And were the children quite well?’ said Una.

‘My sons were young. Land and governance belong
by right to young men.’ Sir Richard was talking to
himself. ‘It would have broken their hearts if we had
taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome,
but we could see—Hugh and I could see—that our day
was done. I was a cripple and he a one-armed man.
No!’ He shook his head. ‘And therefore’—he raised
his voice—‘we rode back to Pevensey.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Una, for the knight seemed very sor-
rowtful.

‘Little maid, it all passedlongago. They were young;
we were old. We let them rule the Manors. “Aha!”
cried De Aquila from his shot-window, when we dis-
mounted. ‘Back again to earth, old foxes?”’ but when
we were in his chamber above the Hall he puts his arms
about us and says, “‘ Welcome, ghosts! Welcome, poor
ghosts!” . . . Thus it fell out that we were rich
beyond belief, and lonely. And lonely!’

‘What did you do?’ said Dan.

‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,’ said the
knight. ‘De Aquila was like Witta. He suffered no
idleness. In fair weather we would ride along between
Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other—some-
times with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout
hares both on the Marsh and the Downland), but always
with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets from Normandy.
In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower,

Bisa Caa a monn an GET pe ty Coe Sy WEN teeta]OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

frowning against the rain—peering here and pointing
there. It always vexed him to think how Witta’s ship
had come and gone without his knowledge. When the
wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf’s edge he
would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking
fish, would call to the mariners for their news from
France. His other eye*he kept landward for word of
Henry’s war against the Barons.

‘Many brought him news—jongleurs, harpers, pedlars,
sutlers, priests, and the like; and, though he was secret
enough in small things, yet, if their news misliked him,
then, regarding neither time nor place nor people, would
he curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have
heard him cry aloud by the fishing-boats: “‘If I were King
of England I would do thus and thus”’; and when I rode
out to see that the warning-beacons were laid and dry,
he hath often called to me from the shot-window: “‘ Look
to it, Richard! Do not copy our blind King, but see
with thine own eyes and feel with thine own hands.”’
I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And so
we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the
Hall.

“One foul night came word that a messenger of the
King waited below. We were chilled after a long riding
in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an easy place for
ships to land. De Aquila sent word the man might
either eat with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan,
at the stair-head, cried that he had called for horse, and
was gone. ‘‘Pest on him!” said De Aquila. “I have
more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every
gadling the King sends. Left he no word?”

***None,” said Jehan, ‘‘except”—he had been with
De Aquila at Santlache—‘“‘except he said that if an old
89Ee SARA ERA OVE husk kis

 

 

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
  

PUCK /OF POOK’S! HILE

dog could not learn new tricks it was time to sweep out
the kennel.”

*“ Oho!” said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, ‘‘to whom
did he say that?”’

*“To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse’s flank
as he was girthing up. I followed him out,”’ said Jehan
the Crab. °

“What was his shield-mark?”’

***Gold horseshoes on black,” said the Crab.

“That is one of Fulke’s men,” said De Aquila.’

Puck broke in very gently, ‘Gold horseshoes on black
is not the Fulkes’ shield. The Fulkes’ arms are—’

The knight waved one hand statelily.

‘Thou knowest that evil man’s true name,’ he replied,
‘but I have chosen to call him Fulke because I promised
him I would not tell the story of his wickedness so that
any man might guess it. I have changed all the names
in my tale. His children’s children may be still alive.’

*True—true,’ said Puck, smiling softly. ‘It is knightly
to keep faith—even after a thousand years.’

Sir Richard bowed a little and went on:—

‘Gold horseshoes on black?” said De Aquila. ‘I
had heard Fulke had joined the Barons, but if this is
true our King must be of the upper hand. No matter,
all Fulkes are faithless. Still, I would not have sent the
man away empty.”

**“He fed,” said Jehan. “Gilbert the Clerk fetched
} him meat and wine from the kitchens. He ate at Gil-
bert’s table.”

‘This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who
kept the accounts of the Manor of Pevensey. He was
tall and pale-coloured, and carried those new-fashioned
beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown

    

RS SS ne s ee

Shean

ISSOOLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

nuts or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his penner
and inkhorn they clashed when he walked. His place
was in the great fireplace. There was his table of ac-
counts, and there he lay o’ nights. He feared the hounds
in the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on
the warm ashes, and would slash at them with his beads
—lke a woman. When De Aquila sat in Hall to do
justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so write
it in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to
feed our guests, or to let them depart without his lord’s
knowledge.

‘Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the stair:
“Hugh, hast thou ever told my Gilbert thou canst read
Latin hand-of-write?”’

“No,” said Hugh. ‘He is no friend to me, or to
Odo my hound either.” ‘“‘No matter,” said De Aquila.
Let him never know thou canst tell one letter from its
fellow, and’’—here he jerked us in the ribs with his
scabbard—“watch him both of ye. There be devils in
Africa, as I have heard, but by the Saints there be greater
devils in Pevensey!” And that was all he would say.

‘It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman
man-at-arms would wed a Saxon wench of the Manor,
and Gilbert (we had watched him well since De Aquila
spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave.
Since De Aquila would give them a field of good land,
if she were free, the matter came up at the justice in
Great Hall before De Aquila. First the wench’s father
spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the Hall
rang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his
hands. ‘Write her free,’ he called to Gilbert by the
fireplace. ‘‘A’ God’s Name write her free, before she
deafens me! Yes, yes,’ he said to the wench that was
91MES? pais sypasereri oes isbn nicrpt a teactect certs
Pera deceit re pees Reastgitts eit

Stipa C aiden dadnen CAI as aP sed Nene eeaegPara ake

   
  
 
    
    
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

on her knees at him; “‘thou art Cerdic’s sister, and own
cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In
fifty years there will be neither Norman nor Saxon, but
all English,” said he, ‘“‘and these are the men that do
our work!” He clapped the man-at-arms, that was
Jehan’s nephew, on the shoulder, and kissed the wench,
and fretted with his feet among the rushes to show it
was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter cold.)
I stood at his side; Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fire-
place making to play with wise rough Odo. He signed
to De Aquila, who bade Gilbert measure the new field
for the new couple. Out then runs our Gilbert between
man and maid, his beads clishing at his waist, and the
Hall being empty, we three sit by the fire.

‘Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearthstones, “I saw
this stone move under Gilbert’s foot when Odo snuffed
at it. Look!’ De Aquila digged in the ashes with
his sword; the stone tilted; beneath it lay a parch-
ment folden, and the writing atop was: “‘ Words spoken
against the King by our Lord of Pevensey—the second
part.”’

“Here was set out (Hugh read it us whispering) every
jest De Aquila had made to us touching the King; every
time he had called out to me from the shot-window; and
every time he had said what he would do if he were King
of England. Yes, day by day had his daily speech,
which he never stinted, been set down by Gilbert, tricked
out and twisted from its true meaning, yet withal so
cunningly that none could deny who knew him that
De Aquila had in some sort spoken those words. Ye
see?’

Dan and Una nodded.

‘Yes,’ said Una, gravely. ‘It isn’t what you say so

   

Oe U sonar iua DOuuU EaOLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

much. It’s what you mean when you say it. Like
calling Danabeastinfun. Only grown-ups don’t always
understand.’

“He hath done this day by day before our very
face?”’ said De Aquila.

‘Nay, hour by hour,” said Hugh. “‘When De Aquila
spoke even now, in the Hall, of Saxons and Normans,
I saw Gilbert write on a parchment, which he kept beside
the Manor-roll, that De Aquila said soon there would be
no Normans left in England if his men-at-arms did their
work aright.”

‘Bones of the Saints!’ said De Aquila. ‘“‘ What
avail is honour or a sword against a pen? Where did
Gilbert hide that writing? He shall eat it.”

***In his breast when he ran out,” said Hugh. “‘ Which
made me look to see where he kept his finished stuff.
When Odo scratched at this stone here, I saw his face
change. So I was sure.”

**He is bold,’”’ said De Aquila. “Do him justice.
In his own fashion, my Gilbert is bold.”

**Overbold,” said Hugh. ‘“Hearken here,’ and he
read: ““Upon the Feast of St. Agatha, our Lord of Peven-
sey, lying in his upper chamber, being clothed in his
second fur gown reversed with rabbit—”

‘Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!”’ said De
Aquila, and Hugh and I laughed.

“**Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over the marshes,
did wake Sir Richard Dalyngridge, his drunken cup-
mate” (here they laughed at me) “‘and said, “Peer out,
old fox, for God is on the Duke of Normandy’s side.’”

‘So did I. It was a black fog. Robert could have
landed ten thousand men, and we none the wiser. Does
he tell how we were out all day riding the marsh, and
93SS a ee ee ee ae a a eee ee ee
ne ee eee Se he eae 0 ee eee ae i a

 

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

how I near perished in a quicksand, and coughed like a
sick ewe for ten days after?” cried De Aquila.

‘No,’ said Hugh. “But here is the prayer of Gil-
bert himself to his master Fulke.”

‘*** Ah,” said De Aquila. ‘“‘ Well I knew it was Fulke.
What is the price of my blood?”

*<*Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of Pevensey is
stripped of his lands on this evidence which Gilbert hath,
with fear and pains, collected—”’

‘“*Rear and pains is a true word,” said De Aquila, and
sucked in his cheeks. ‘‘But how excellent a weapon is a
pen! I must learn it.”

‘**He prays that Fulke will advance him from his
present service to that honour in the Church which Fulke
promised him. And lest Fulke should forget, he has
written below, ‘To be Sacristan of Battle.’”’

‘At this De Aquila whistled. ““A man who can plot
against one lord can plot against another. When I am
stripped of my lands Fulke will whip off my Gilbert’s
foolish head. None the less Battle needs a new Sacris-
tan. They tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort of
rule there.”’

‘Tet the Abbot wait,” said Hugh. “It is our heads
and our lands that are in danger. This parchment is
the second part of the tale. The first has gone to Fulke,
and so to the King, who will hold us traitors.”

‘“* Assuredly,”? said De Aquila. “‘Fulke’s man took
} the first part that evening when Gilbert fed him, and
our King is so beset by his brother and his Barons (small
blame, too!) that he is mad with mistrust. Fulke has
his ear, and pours poison into it. Presently the King

gives him my land and yours. This is old,” and he
leaned back and yawned.
94

 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

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OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

*** And thou wilt surrender Pevensey without word or
blow?” said Hugh. ‘We Saxons will fight your King
then. I will go warn my nephew at Dallington. Give
me a horse!”

*““Give thee a toy and a rattle,’ said De Aquila.
“Put back the parchment, and rake over the ashes. If
Fulke is given my Pevensey, which is England’s gate,
what will he do with it? He is Norman at heart, and
his heart is in Normandy, where he can kill peasants at
his pleasure. He will open England’s gate to our sleepy
Robert, as Odo and Mortain tried to do, and then there
will be another landing and another Santlache. There-
fore I cannot give up Pevensey.”

***Good,” said we two.

*““Ah, but wait! If my King be made, on Gilbert’s
evidence, to mistrust me, he will send his men against
me here, and, while we fight, England’s gate is left un-
guarded. Whowill be the first to come through thereby?
Even Robert of Normandy. Therefore I cannot fight
my King.’ He nursed his sword—thus.

“This is saying and unsaying like a Norman,’
Hugh. ‘What of our Manors?”

*“T do not think for myself,” said De Aquila, “‘nor for
our King, nor for your lands. I think for England, for
whom neither King nor Baron thinks. I amnot Norman,
Sir Richard, nor Saxon, Sir Hugh. English am I.”

***Saxon, Norman, or English,”’ said Hugh, “‘our lives
are thine, however the game goes. When do we hang
Gilbert?”

‘**Never,” said De Aquila. ‘‘Who knows he may
yet be Sacristan of Battle, for, to do him justice, he is a
good writer. Dead men make dumb witnesses. Wait.”

‘But the King may give Pevensey to Fulke. And
95

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

our Manors go with it,” said I. ‘Shall we tell our
sons?”’

‘No. The King will not wake up a hornets’ nest in
the south till he has smoked out the bees in the north.
He may hold me a traitor; but at least he sees I am not
fighting against him, and every day that I lie still is so
much gain to him while he fights the Barons. If he
were wise he would wait till that war were over before
he made new enemies. But I think Fulke will play
upon him to send for me, and if I do not obey the sum-
mons-that will, to Henry’s mind, be proof of my treason.
But mere talk, such as Gilbert sends, is no proof nowa-
days. We Barons follow the Church, and, like Anselm,
we speak what we please. Let us go about our day’s
dealings, and say naught to Gilbert.”

‘*“Then we do nothing?” said Hugh.

‘““We wait,” said De Aquila. “I am old, but still I
find that the most grievous work I know.”

‘And so we found it, but in the end De Aquila was
right.

‘A little later in the year, armed men rode over the
hill, the Golden Horseshoes flying behind the King’s
banner. Said De Aquila, at the window of our chamber:
“How did I tell you? Here comes Fulke himself to
spy out his new lands which our King hath promised
him if he can bring proof of my treason.”

‘“How dost thou know?” said Hugh.

‘** Because that is what I would do if I were Fulke, but
I should have brought more men. My roan horse to
your old shoes,” said he, “‘Fulke brings me the King’s
Summons to leave Pevensey and join the war.” He
sucked in his cheeks and drummed on the edge of the
shaft, where the water sounded all hollow.

  

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Pettenitiniieertittaanniale ra
SrreseriPazives i ErUtearc aac HL LNT bots a Sem Hw ET ee CYTO ae eeOLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

*“Shall we go?” said I.

*“Go! At this time of year? Stark madness,” said
he. ““Take me from Pevensey to fisk and flyte through
fern and forest, and in three days Robert’s keels would
be lying on Pevensey mud with ten thousand men!
Who would stop them—Fulke?”’

“The horns blew without, and anon Fulke cried the
King’s Summons at the great door that De Aquila with
all men and horse should join the King’s camp at Salis-
bury.

**“How did I tell you?” said De Aquila. ‘“‘There are
twenty Barons ’twixt here and Salisbury could give King
Henry good land service, but he has been worked upon
by Fulke to send south and call me—me!—off the Gate
of England, when his enemies stand about to batter it
in. See that Fulke’s men lie in the big south barn,”
said he. ‘‘Give them drink, and when Fulke has eaten
we will drink in my chamber. The Great Hall is too
cold for old bones.”

‘As soon as he was off-horse Fulke went to the chapel
with Gilbert to give thanks for his safe coming, and
when he had eaten—he was a fat man, and rolled his
eyes greedily at our good roast Sussex wheatears—we
led him to the little upper chamber, whither Gilbert had
already gone with the Manor-roll. I remember when
Fulke heard the tide blow and whistle in the shaft he
leaped back, and his long down-turned stirrup-shoes
caught in the rushes and he stumbled, so that Jehan
behind him found it easy to knock his head against the
wall.’

‘Did you know it was going to happen?’ said Dan.

‘Assuredly,’ said Sir Richard, with a sweet smile. ‘I
put my foot on his sword and plucked away his dagger,
97oO aul di ee OES eee pee tee eae tl Bee ee ee

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

but he knew not whether it was day or night for awhile.
He lay rolling his eyes and bubbling with his mouth,
and Jehan roped him like a calf. He was cased all in
that new-fangled armour which we call lizard-mail.
Not rings like my hauberk here’—Sir Richard tapped
his chest—“‘but little pieces of dagger-proof steel over-
lapping on stout leather. We stripped it off (no need
to spoil good harness by wetting it), and in the neck-
piece De Aquila found the same folden piece of parch-
ment which we had put back under the hearthstone.

‘At this Gilbert would have run out. I laid my hand
on his shoulder. It sufficed. He fell to trembling and
praying on his beads.

***Gilbert,”? said De Aquila, “‘here be more notable
sayings and doings of our Lord of Pevensey for thee to
write down. Take penner and inkhorn, Gilbert. We
cannot all be Sacristans of Battle.”’

‘Said Fulke from the floor, ““Ye have bound a King’s
messenger. Pevensey shall burn for this.”

*““Maybe. I have seen it besieged once,” said De
Aquila, “‘but heart up, Fulke. I promise thee that thou
shalt be hanged in the middle of the flames at the end
of that siege, if I have to share my last loaf with thee;
and that is more than Odo would have done when we
starved out him and Mortain.”’

‘Then Fulke sat up and looked long and cunningly at
De Aquila.

*““By the Saints,” said he, ““why didst thou not say
thou wast on Duke Robert’s side at the first?”’

*““Am I?” said De Aquila.

‘Fulke laughed and said, ‘‘No man who serves King
Henry dare do this much to his messenger. When didst
thou come over to the Duke? Let me up and we can

NINO SOUS SoS) ed eei ee a bate abel | | IE Rey RST CSOT eer RaCN ee OO eer NENT CT ECE ee eC

    
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

smooth it out together.’”’ And he smiled and becked ri
and winked.

‘Ves we will smooth it out,” said De Aquila. He
nodded to me, and Jehan and I heaved up Fulke—he
was a heavy man—and lowered him into the shaft by a Wy
rope, not so as to stand on our gold, but dangling by his
shoulders a little above. It was turn of ebb, and the
water came to his knees. He said nothing, but shivered
somewhat.

‘Then Jehan of a sudden beat down Gilbert’s wrist
with his sheathed dagger. ‘‘Stop!’’ he said. “He
swallows his beads.”

‘““Doison, belike,” said De Aquila. “It is good for
men who know too much. I have carried it these thirty
years. Give me!”

‘Then Gilbert wept and howled. De Aquila ran the |
beads through his fingers. The last one—I have said fy
they were large nuts—opened in two halves on a pin, |
and there was a small folded parchment within. On it
was written: “The Old Dog goes to Salisbury to be
beaten. I have his Kennel. Come quickly.”

‘“This is worse than poison,” said De Aquila, very
softly, and sucked in hischeeks. Then Gilbert grovelled
in the rushes, and told us all he knew. The letter, as
we guessed, was from Fulke to the Duke (and not the
first that had passed between them); Fulke had given it i
to Gilbert in the chapel, and Gilbert thought to have Na
taken it by morning to a certain fishing-boat at the
wharf, which trafficked between Pevensey and the
French shore. Gilbert was a false fellow, but he found
time between his quakings and shakings to swear that
the master of the boat knew nothing of the matter.

““<TIe hath called me shaved head,” said Gilbert, |
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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

“‘and he hath thrown haddock-guts at me; but for all
that, he is no traitor.”’

***T will have no clerk of mine mishandled or miscalled,”’
said De Aquila. ‘That seaman shall be whipped at his
own mast. Write me first a letter, and thou shalt bear
it, with the order for the whipping, to-morrow to the
boat.”

‘At this Gilbert would have kissed De Aquila’s hand
—he had not hoped to live until the morning—and when
he trembled less he wrote a letter as from Fulke to the
Duke, saying that the Kennel, which signified Pevensey,
was shut, and that the Old Dog (which was De Aquila)
sat outside it, and, moreover, that all had been betrayed.

‘Write to any man that all is betrayed,” said De
Aquila, “‘and even the Pope himself would sleep uneasily.
Eh, Jehan? If one told thee all was betrayed, what
wouldst thou do?”

*“T would run away,” said Jehan. ‘It might be true.”

‘Well said,” quoth De Aquila. ‘‘ Write, Gilbert,
that Montgomery, the great Earl, hath made his peace
with the King, and that little D’Arcy, whom I hate, hath
been hanged by the heels. We will give Robert full
measure to chew upon. Write also that Fulke himself
is sick to death of a dropsy.”’

‘Nay! cried Fulke, hanging in the well-shaft.
“Drown me out of hand, but do not make a jest of me.”’

“Jest? 12” said De Aquila. “‘I am but fighting for
life and lands with a pen, as thou hast shown me, Fulke.”’

‘Then Fulke groaned, for he was cold, and, ‘‘Let me
confess,’’ said he.

“Now, this is right neighbourly,” said De Aquila,
leaning over the shaft. ‘“‘Thou hast read my sayings
and doings—or at least the first part of them—and thou
100

>ECE E Te TCE Te
ohare pares ee ale sizivislsisitar titer start atalasta ie pel y pty

ney

     
   
   
    
    
 
 
 
  
   
    
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 

OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

art minded to repay me with thy own doings and sayings. i

Take penner and inkhorn, Gilbert. Here is work that |

will not irk thee.”’
‘Let my men go without hurt, and I will confess my

treason against the King,” said Fulke.
**“Now, why has he grown so tender of his men of a

sudden?” said Hugh to me; for Fulke had no name for

mercy to his men. Plunder he gave them, but pity, a

none.
“Tel Te!” said De Aquila. ‘‘Thy tredson was all
confessed long ago by Gilbert. It would be enough to

hang Montgomery himself.”
‘““Nay; but spare my men,” said Fulke; and we heard
him splash like a fish in a pond, for the tide was rising.
‘**All in good time,” said De Aquila. ‘‘The night is
young; the wine is old; and we need only the merry tale.
Begin the story of thy life since when thou wast a lad at \
Tours. Tell it nimbly!” |
“Ye shame me to my soul,” said Fulke.
‘Then I have done what neither King nor Duke
could do,” said De Aquila. “But begin, and forget
nothing.”
***Send thy man Jehan away then,” said Fulke.
‘That much can I do,”’ said De Aquila. “But, re-
member, I am like the Danes’ King; I cannot turn the
tide.”’ |
***How long will it rise?” said Fulke, and splashed
anew.
‘““For three hours,” said De Aquila. “Time to tell
all thy good deeds. Begin, and Gilbert—I have heard
thou art somewhat careless—do not twist his words from
their true meaning.”
‘So—fear of death in the dark being upon him—Fulke
101ee eee
sa Bitar eRe tara toad ar ae eal

 

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

began, and Gilbert, not knowing what his fate might
be, wrote it word by word. I have heard many tales,
but never heard I aught to match the tale of Fulke,
his black life, as Fulke told it hollowly, hanging in the
shaft.’

‘Was it bad?’ said Dan, awestruck.

‘Beyond belief,’ Sir Richard answered. ‘None the
less, there was that in it which forced even Gilbert to
laugh. We three laughed till we ached. At one place
his teeth so chattered that we could not well hear, and
we reached him down a cup of wine. Then he warmed
to it, and smoothly set out all his shifts, malices, and
treacheries, his extreme boldnesses (he was desperate
bold); his retreats, shufflings, and counterfeitings (he
was also inconceivably a coward); his lack of gear and
honour; his despair at their loss; his remedies, and well-
coloured contrivances. Yes, he waved the filthy rags
of his life before us, as though they had been some proud
banner. When he ceased, we saw by torches that the
tide stood at the corners of his mouth, and he breathed
strongly through his nose.

‘We had him out, and rubbed him; we wrapped him
in a cloak, and gave him wine, and we leaned and looked
upon him, the while he drank. He was shivering, but
shameless.

‘Of a sudden we heard Jehan at the stairway wake,
but a boy pushed past him, and stood before us, the hall
} rushes in his hair, all slubbered with sleep. ‘‘My father!

My father! I dreamed of treachery,” he cried, and
babbled thickly.
‘““There is no treachery here,” said Fulke. “Go,”
and the boy turned, even then not fully awake, and
Jehan led him by the hand to the Great Hall.
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OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

**'Thy only son!” said De Aquila. ‘‘ Why didst thou
bring the child here?”’

***Heis my heir. I dared not trust him to my brother,”’
said Fulke, and now he was ashamed. De Aquila said
nothing, but sat weighing a wine-cup in his two hands—
thus. Anon, Fulke touched him on the knee.

***Let the boy escape to Normandy,” said he, ‘‘and
do with me at thy pleasure. Yea, hang me to-morrow,
with my letter to Robert round my neck, but let the
boy go.”

***Be still,” said De Aquila. “I think for England.”

‘So we waited what our Lord of Pevensey should de-
vise; and the sweat ran down Fulke’s forehead.

“At last said De Aquila: “‘I am too old to judge, or to
trust any man. I do not covet thy lands, as thou hast
coveted mine; and whether thou art any better or any
worse than any other black Angevin thief, it is for
thy King to find out. Therefore, go back to thy King,
Fulke.”

‘And thou wilt say nothing of what has passed?”
said Fulke.

*““Why should I? Thy son will stay with me. Ifthe
King calls me again to leave Pevensey, which I must
guard against England’s enemies; if the King sends his
men against me for a traitor; or if I hear that the King
in his bed thinks any evil of me or of my two knights,
thy son will be hanged from out this window, Fulke.”’’

‘But it hadn’t anything to do with his son,’ cried
Una, startled.

“How could we have hanged Fulke?’ said Sir Richard.
“We needed him to make our peace with the King. He
would have betrayed half England for the boy’s sake.
Of that we were sure.’

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘But I think it was
simply awful.’
‘So did not Fulke. He was well pleased.’
“What? Because his son was going to be killed?’
‘Nay. Because De Aquila had shown him how he
might save the boy’s life and his own lands and honours.
“IT will do it,” he said. ‘“‘I swear I will do it. I will
tell the King thou art no traitor, but the most excellent,
valiant, and perfect of us all. Yes, I will save thee.”

‘De Aquila looked still into the bottom of the cup,
rolling the wine-dregs to and fro.

" “Ay,” he: said.» “If I had a.son, I ‘would, Iythmink,
save him. But do not by any means tell me how thou
wilt go about it.”

‘** Nay, nay,” said Fulke, nodding his bald head wisely.
“That is my secret. But rest at ease, De Aquila, no
hair of thy head nor rood of thy land shall be forfeited,”
and he smiled like one planning great good deeds.

“And henceforward,” said De Aquila, “‘I counsel thee
to serve one master—not two.”

“What?” said Fulke. ‘“‘Can I work no more honest
trading between the two sides these troublous times?”

***Serve Robert or the King—England or Normandy,”
said De Aquila. ‘‘I care not which it is, but make thy
choice here and now.”’

“The King, then,” said Fulke, “‘for I see he is better

u served than Robert. Shall I swear it?”’

-}) ‘““No need,” said De Aquila, and he laid his hand on

i the parchments which Gilbert had written. “‘It shall be

; some part of my Gilbert’s penance to copy out the sa-

iB | voury tale of thy life, till we have made ten, twenty, an
hundred, maybe, copies. How many cattle, think you,
would the Bishop of Tours give for that tale? Or thy

104SOO
hese

    
    
    
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   

OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

brother? Or the Monks of Blois? Minstrels will turn }
it into songs which thy own Saxon serfs shall sing behind \{
their plough-stilts, and men-at-arms riding through thy |
Norman towns. From here to Rome, Fulke, men will
make very merry over that tale, and how Fulke told it,
hanging in a well, like a drowned puppy. This shall be
thy punishment, if ever I find thee double-dealing with
thy King any more. Meantime, the parchments stay
here with thy son. Him [ will return to thee when thou
hast made my peace with the King. The parchments
never.”

‘Fulke hid his face and groaned.

**“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila, laughing.
“The pen cuts deep. I could never have fetched that
grunt out of thee with any sword.”

**“But so long as I do not anger thee, my tale will be
secret?” said Fulke.

‘Just solong. Does that comfort thee, Fulke?” said
De Aquila.

‘** What other comfort have ye left me?” he said, and
of a sudden he wept hopelessly like a child, dropping his
face on his knees.’

‘Poor Fulke,’ said Una.

‘I pitied him also,’ said Sir Richard.

‘** After the spur, corn,” said De Aquila, and he threw |
Fulke three wedges of gold that he had taken from our i =
little chest by the bedplace. 1

‘**Tf I had known this,’ said Fulke, catching his breath, y
‘“‘T would never have lifted hand against Pevensey.

Only lack of this yellow stuff has made me so unlucky
in my dealings.”

‘It was dawn then, and they stirred in the Great Hall
below. We sent down Fulke’s mail to be scoured, and
105Mossi senapi steel et

ait

RieseSa Sete

ot 3 iS 2

See eae

2
ES

na et ete

Na Sette acts ahs

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

when he rode away at noon under his own and the King’s
banner very splendid and stately did he show. He
smoothed his long beard, and called his son to his stirrup
and kissed him. De Aquila rode with him as far as the
New Mill landward. We thought the night had been
all a dream.’

‘But did he make it right with the King?’ Dan asked.
‘About your not being traitors, I mean?’

Sir Richard smiled. ‘The King sent no second sum-
mons to Pevensey, nor did he ask why De Aquila had
not obeyed the first. Yes, that was Fulke’s work. I
know not how he did it, but it was well and swiftly done.’

‘Then you didn’t do anything to his son?’ said Una.

‘The boy? Oh, he wasanimp. He turned the keep
doors out of dortoirs while we had him. He sang foul
songs, learned in the Barons’ camps—poor fool; he set
the hounds fighting in hall; he lit the rushes to drive out,
as he said, the fleas; he drew his dagger on Jehan, who
threw him down the stairway for it; and he rode his
horse through crops and among sheep. But when we
had beaten him, and showed him wolf and deer, he fol-
lowed us old men like a young, eager hound, and called
us “‘uncle.” His father came the summer’s end to take
him away, but the boy had no lust to go, because of the
otter-hunting, and he stayed on till the fox-hunting. I
gave him a bittern’s claw to bring him good luck at
shooting. An imp, if ever there was!’

‘And what happened to Gilbert?’ said Dan.

‘Not even a whipping. De Aquila said he would
sooner a clerk, however false, that knew the Manor-roll
than a fool, however true, that must be taught his work
afresh. Moreover, after that night I think Gilbert
loved as much as he feared De Aquila. At least he
106SVU Lees!
Re
Seo nceenEEeCoun sce rr

     
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY

would not leave us—not even when Vivian, the King’s
Clerk, would have made him Sacristan of Battle Abbey. i
A false fellow, but, in his fashion, bold.’

‘Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all?’ Dan
went on.

“We guarded the coast too well while Henry was fight-
ing his Barons; and three or four years later, when Eng-
land had peace, Henry crossed to Normandy and showed .
his brother some work at Tenchebrai that cured Robert
of fighting. Many of Henry’s men sailed from Pevensey
to that war. Fulke came, I remember, and we all four
lay in the little chamber once again, and drank together.

De Aquila was right. One should not judge men. Fulke
was merry. Yes, always merry—with a catch in his
breath.’

‘And what did you do afterwards?’ said Una.

“We talked together of times past. That is all men (
can do when they grow old, little maid.’ |

The bell for tea rang faintly across the meadows.

Dan lay in the bows of the ‘Golden Hind’; Una in the
stern, the book of verses open in her lap, was reading
from “The Slave’s Dream’ :—

‘Again in the mist and shadow of sleep
He saw his native land.’ |

‘I don’t know when you began that,’ said Dan, sleepily. |
On the middle thwart of the boat, beside Una’s sun- (|
bonnet, lay an Oak leaf, an Ash leaf, and a Thorn leaf,
that must have dropped down from the trees above;
and the brook giggled as though it had just seen some
joke.

107— —— oer
SO ee Kea ised se noni ked catadeledebeleitsty te teleley

 

Py
ri

i
hieTHE RUNES ON WELAND’S SWORD

A Smith makes me rte
To betray my Man
In my first fight.

To gather Gold
At the world’s end
I am sent.

The Gold I gather
Comes into England
Out of deep Water.

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing. )

The Gold I gather |
A King covets {|
For an ill use.

The Gold I gather
Is drawn up

Out of deep Water.
109See SG Dakskeaetaes aD

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.

Bee

bersepbusess>
eee eeeRent:
Seciua city

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETHSone

 

i
4
i
7
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4

On nearsUAT ET PRTC eT Tre ener
Rote tehs seed or Seb ache MSCUSLN ad Meas eras edhetah oseoas tee O ie whet artreee re

BALE ME Teor,

   
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
  
   

Cities and Thrones and Powers,
Stand in Time’s eye,

Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:

But, as new buds put forth, rte
To glad new men,

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,

The Cities rise again.

This season’s Daffodil,
She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year’s:
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small, |
Esteems her seven days’ continuance
To be perpetual.

So Time that is o’er-kind,
To all that be,

Ordains us e’en as blind,
As bold as she:

That in our very death, |
And burial sure, hy

Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith, ye

‘See how our works endure!’DRA A AR Oates wie scsce oa dade iat ella MU PASS ReaPeinea eka an Y " tAlsbeioselabeigniasela

~

Tere rg ee =STL eeds sia rink titan yaar ratatatnetpleivialeiv nie piri talytcdelel obeitlels piniy

 

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
   
 
   

AN had come to grief over his Latin, and was at
kept in; so Una went alone to Far Wood. Dan’s
big catapult and the lead bullets that Hobden

had made for him were hidden in an old hollow beech-
stub on the west of the wood. They had named the
place out of the verse in ‘Lays of Ancient Rome.’

‘From lordly Volaterrae,
Where scowls the far-famed hold, |
Piled by the hands of giants \
For Godlike Kings of old.’ i
They were the ‘Godlike Kings,’ and when old Hobden
piled some comfortable brushwood between the big
wooden knees of Volaterrae, they called him ‘Hands of
Giants.’
Una slipped through their private gap in the fence,
and sat still awhile, scowling as scowlily and lordlily as .
she knew how; for ‘Volaterrae’ is an important watch- |
tower that juts out of Far Wood just as Far Wood juts
out of the hillside. Pook’s Hill lay below her, and all (!
the turns of the brook as it wanders out of the Willing-
ford Woods, between hop-gardens, to old Hobden’s cot-
tage at the Forge. The Sou’-West wind (there is always
a wind by Volaterrae) blew from the bare ridge where
Cherry Clack Windmill stands. :
115RCT cet Peete eee Seat eee e eee eet ee eee eee ae

Daa EAA ee

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Now wind prowling through woods sounds like ex-
citing things going to happen, and that is why on blowy
days you stand up in Volaterrae and shout bits of the
‘Lays’ to suit its noises.

Una took Dan’s catapult from its secret place,
and made ready to meet Lars Porsena’s army stealing
through the wind-whitened aspens by the brook. A
gust boomed up the valley, and Una chanted sorrow-
fully:

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

*“Verbenna down to Ostia
Hath wasted all the plain;
Astur hath stormed Janiculum
And the stout guards are slain.’

But the wind, not charging fair to the wood, started
aside and shook a single oak in Gleason’s pasture. Here
it made itself all small and crouched among the grasses,
waving the tips of them as a cat waves the tip of her tail
before she springs.

“Now welcome—welcome Sextus,’ sang Una, loading
the catapult—

| “Now welcome to thy home,
\ Why dost thou stay and turn away?
I Here lies the road to Rome.’

She fired into the face of the lull, to wake up the
cowardly wind, and heard a grunt from behind a thorn
a in the pasture.
my | ‘Oh, my Winkie!’ she said aloud, and that was some-
| thing she had picked up from Dan. ‘I b’lieve I’ve
tickled up a Gleason cow.’
116Pans bP RSE Aa ee AL heed IED Oo ete ey ee

WECM pe stot tr tr seston:

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
   
 
  
 
 

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

“You little painted beast!’ a voice cried. ‘I’ll teach
you to sling your masters!’ {
She looked down most cautiously, and saw a young
man covered with hoopy bronze armour all glowing
among the late broom. But what Una admired beyond
all was his great bronze helmet with a red horse-tail that |
flicked in the wind. She could hear the long hairs rasp 3
on his shimmery shoulder-plates. |
“What does the Faun mean,’ he said, half aloud to him-
self, “by telling me that the Painted People have changed?’
He caught sight of Una’s yellow head. ‘Have you seena
painted lead-slinger?’ he called.
“No-o,’ said Una. ‘But if you’ve seen a bullet—’
‘Seen?’ cried the man. ‘It passed within a hair’s
breadth of my ear.’
“Well, that was me. I’m most awfully sorry.’
‘Didn’t the Faun tell you I was coming?’ He smiled. \
‘Not if you mean Puck. I thought you were a Glea-
son cow. I—I didn’t know you werea—a— Whatare
you?’
He laughed outright, showing a set of splendid teeth.
His face and eyes were dark, and his eyebrows met above
his big nose in one bushy black bar.
‘They call me Parnesius. I have been a Centurion of
the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth Legion—the Ulpia |
Victrix. Did you sling that bullet?’ }
‘I did. I was using Dan’s catapult,’ said Una. |
‘Catapults!’ said he. ‘I ought to know something :
about them. Show me!’
He leaped the rough fence with a rattle of spear,
shield, and armour, and hoisted himself into Volaterrae as
quickly as a shadow.
‘A sling on a forked stick. I understand!’ he cried, |
117 |— ”
Sree eee eees +

EDS ay Pr hdadadh wen oa se pian winag aedeieJateassabo, Inlay oe ats. ee Pe Ie i SERRE ee Se Tee SERRE Se ee!

 

    
    
  
   
  
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
 
 
 
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

and pulled at the elastic. ‘But what wonderful beast

yields this stretching leather?’

‘It’s lacey—elastic. You put the bullet into that
loop, and then you pull hard.’

The man pulled, and hit himself square on his thumb-
nail.

‘Each to his own weapon,’ he said, gravely, handing it
back. ‘I am better with the bigger machine, little
maiden. But it’s a pretty toy. A wolf would laugh at
it. Aren’t you afraid of wolves?’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Una.

‘Never believe it! A wolf’s ike a Winged Hat. He
comes when he isn’t expected. Don’t they hunt wolves
here?’

“We don’t hunt,’ said Una, remembering what she had
heard from grown-ups. ‘We preserve—pheasants. Do
you know them?’

‘I ought to,’ said the young man, smiling again, and
he imitated the cry of the cock-pheasant so perfectly
that a bird answered out of the wood.

“What a big painted clucking fool is a pheasant,’ he
said. ‘Just like some Romans!’

‘But you’re a Roman yourself, aren’t you?’ said Una.

“Ye-es andno. I’m one of a good few thousands who
have never seen Rome except in a picture. My people
have lived at Vectis for generations. Vectis. That
island West yonder that you can see from so far in clear
weather.’

‘Do you mean the Isle of Wight? It lifts up just be-
fore rain, and you see it from the Downs.’

‘Very likely. Our Villa’s on the South edge of the
Island, by the Broken Cliffs. Most of it is three hun-
dred years old, but the cow-stables, where our first an-
118A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

cestor lived, must be a hundred years older. Oh, quite
that, because the founder of our family had his land
given him by Agricola at the Settlement. It’s not a
bad little place for its size. In spring-time violets grow
down to the very beach. I’ve gathered sea-weeds for
myself and violets for my Mother many a time with our
old nurse.’

“Was your nurse a—a Romaness too?’

“No,a Numidian. Godsbe good to her! A dear, fat,
brown thing with a tongue like a cow-bell. She was a
free woman. By the way, are you free, maiden?’

‘Oh, quite,’ said Una. ‘At least, till tea-time; and
in summer our governess doesn’t say much if we’re late.’

The young man laughed again—a proper understand-
ing laugh.

‘I see,’ said he. ‘That accounts for your being in the
wood. We hid among the cliffs.’

‘Did you have a governess, then?’

‘Did we not? A Greek, too. Shehada way of clutch-
ing her dress when she hunted us among the gorse-bushes
that made us laugh. Then she’d say she’d get us whipped.
She never did, though, bless her! Aglaia was a thor-
ough sportswoman, for all her learning.’

‘But what lessons did you do—when—when you were
little?’

‘Ancient history, the Classics, arithmetic, and so on,’
he answered. ‘My sister and I were thick-heads, but
my two brothers (I’m the middle one) liked those things,
and, of course, Mother was clever enough for any six.
She was nearly as tall as I am, and she looked like the
new statue on the Western Road—the Demeter of the
Baskets, you know. And funny! Roma Dea! How
Mother could make us laugh!’

119I a ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee a
ae eee ba oe eee ee ae eae Pe eee ar eee or ee

    
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S TILE

‘What at?’
‘Little jokes and sayings that every family has.
Don’t you know?’

‘I know we have, but I didn’t know other people had
them too,’ said Una. ‘Tell me about all your family,
please.’

| ‘Good families are very much alike. Mother would

. sit spinning of evenings while Aglaia read in her corner,

and Father did accounts, and we four romped about the
passages. When our noise grew too loud the Pater
would say, “Less tumult! Less tumult! Have you
never heard of a Father’s right over his children? He
can slay them, my loves—slay them dead, and the Gods
highly approve of the action!” Then Mother would
prim up her dear mouth over the wheel and answer:
*“H’m! I’m afraid there can’t be much of the Roman
Father about you!” Then the Pater would roll up his
accounts, and say, “‘I’ll show you!” and then—then,
he’d be worse than any of us!’

‘Fathers can—if they like,’ said Una, her eyes dancing.
‘Didn’t I say all good families are very much the
same?’

| ‘What did you do in summer?’ said Una. ‘Play

| | about, like us?’

\ ‘Yes, and we visited our friends. There are no wolves

a in Vectis. We had many friends, and as many ponies

: | I as we wished.’ |

i ‘It must have been lovely,’ said Una. ‘I hope it

lasted for ever.’

‘Not quite, lithe maid. When I was about sixteen or
seventeen, the Father felt gouty, and we all went to the
Waters.’

“What waters?’

120

7 a ‘'

g ty

mitvd eas
RSS Ni

/PAPAS EF STA Ade aa see Anh ED eae nee e nt ee

    

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

“At Aquae Sulis. Every one goes there. You ought
to get your Father to take you some day.’

‘But where? I don’t know,’ said Una.

The young man looked astonished for a moment.
‘Aquae Sulis,’ he repeated. ‘The best baths in Britain.
Just as good, I’m told, as Rome. All the old gluttons
sit in hot water, and talk scandal and politics. And the
Generals come through the streets with their guards
behind them; and the magistrates come in their chairs
with their stiff guards behind them; and you meet for-
tune-tellers, and goldsmiths, and merchants, and philos-
ophers, and feather-sellers, and ultra-Roman Britons,
and ultra-British Romans, and tame tribesmen pretend-
ing to be civilised, and Jew lecturers, and—oh, every-
body interesting. We young people, of course, took no
interest in politics. We had not the gout: there were
many of our age like us. We did not find life sad.

‘But while we were enjoying ourselves without think-
ing, my sister met the son of a magistrate in the west—
and a year afterwards she was married to him. My
young brother, who was always interested in plants and
roots, met the First Doctor of a Legion from the City
of the Legions, and he decided that he would be an Army
doctor. I do not think it is a profession for a well-born
man, but then—I’m not my brother. He went to Rome
to study medicine, and now he’s First Doctor of a Legion
in Egypt—at Antinoé, I think, but I have not heard
from him for some time.

‘My eldest brother came across a Greek philosopher,
and told my Father that he intended to settle down on
the estate as a farmer and a philosopher. You see’—
the young man’s eyes twinkled— his philosopher was a
long-haired one!’

121es

Nalelo leorprsestatslofo lye leleltitslutetelplele in estees stele bebe iertateTelelelelereiedtetatiteleleiencantetelyiele eieititatytelelele lars
Ve hesrseseatstsle hele ele ieitats Wty! phe let estes stele lee eatstee elt stipe ea titetetert ere tet teeth e Ber oe ee ete ee re ae ee

 

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘I thought philosophers were bald,’ said Una.

‘Not all. She was very pretty. I don’t blame him.
Nothing could have suited me better than my eldest
brother’s doing this, for I was only too keen to join the
Army. I had always feared I should have to stay at
home and look after the estate while my brother took
this.’

He rapped on his great glistening shield that never
seemed to be in his way.

‘So we were well contented—we young people—and
we rode back to Clausentum along the Wood Road very
quietly. But when we reached home, Aglaia, our gover-
ness, saw what had come to us. I remember her at
the door, the torch over her head, watching us climb
the cliff-path from the boat. “Aie! Aie!’’ she said.
“Children you went away. Men and a woman you
return!”? Then she kissed Mother, and Mother wept.
Thus our visit to the Waters settled our fates for each
of us, maiden.’

He rose to his feet and listened, leaning on the shield-
rim.
‘I think that’s Dan—my brother,’ said Una.

‘Yes: and the Faun is with him,’ he replied, as Dan
with Puck stumbled through the copse.

‘We should have come sooner,’ Puck called, “but the

beauties of your native tongue, O Parnesius, have en-

thralled this young citizen.’
Parnesius looked bewildered, even when Una explained.
‘Dan said the plural of “‘dominus” was ‘‘ dominoes,”

and when Miss Blake said it wasn’t he said he supposed

it was “backgammon,” and so he had to write it out

twice—for cheek, you know.’

Dan had climbed into Volaterrae, hot and panting.

HIER ISVCITD SSS TINIE PGE He IETS TIN ILS CIE) CP TT HEM HEED
Uy tis}t y i y OPS CULT deren Pas Sen pong caeg

OER ey ee ee ee
Houmu aL wa UA bse ius tua menor aia ua Ci Oaths ats ea ill a a aaahSee terri Me POCA eC i ON cee ADO RT KSEE a Cob erne te Beato us ate aot Ca Cettha Ceeo Dead ery EL

    
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

‘I’ve run nearly all the way,’ he gasped, ‘and then I
Puck met me. How do you do, Sir?’ |
‘I am in good health,’ Parnesius answered. ‘See! I :
have tried to bend the bow of Ulysses, but—’ He held
up his thumb.
‘I’m sorry. You must have pulled off too soon,’ said |
Dan. ‘But Puck said you were telling Una a story.’
‘Continue, O Parnesius,’ said Puck, who had perched
himself on a dead branch above them. ‘I will be chorus.
Has he puzzled you much, Una?’
‘Not a bit, except—I didn’t know where Ak—Ak
something was,’ she answered.
‘Oh, Aquae Sulis. That’s Bath, where the buns come
from. Let the hero tell his own tale.’
Parnesius pretended to thrust his spear at Puck’s legs, |
but Puck reached down, caught at the horse-tail plume,
and pulled off the tall helmet. |
‘Thanks, jester,’ said Parnesius, shaking his curly dark
head. ‘Thatiscooler. Nowhangitupforme. .. .
‘I was telling your sister how I joined the Army,’ he
said to Dan.
‘Did you have to pass an Exam?’ Dan asked, eagerly.
‘No. I went to my Father, and said I should like to
enter the Dacian Horse (I had seen some at Aquae Sulis) ;
but he said I had better begin service in a regular Legion HH
from Rome. Now, like many of our youngsters, I was (|
not too fond of anything Roman. The Roman-born |
officers and magistrates looked down on us British- {
born as though we were barbarians. I told my Father
SO.
‘**T know they do,” he said; “‘but remember, after all,
we are the people of the Old Stock, and our duty 1s to
the Empire.”
123Ce lIMEPOUT ately ee lasts totale + gfe ec MNS eel Seo SETTER eer rer eee eT eee ee eee

 

 

 

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘“°To which Empire?” I asked. ‘“‘ We split the Eagle
before I was born.”’

‘““What thieves’ talk is that?” said my Father. He
hated slang.

‘< Well, Sir,” I said, ‘‘we’ve one Emperor in Rome,
and I don’t know how many Emperors the outlymg
Provinces have set up from time to time. Which am I
to follow?”

‘**Gratian,” said he. ‘‘At least he’s a sportsman.”

‘“‘TTe’s all that,” I said. ‘‘Hasn’t he turned himself
into a raw-beef-eating Scythian?”

‘«“Where did you hear of it?” said the Pater.

‘At Aquae Sulis,”’ I said. It was perfectly true.
This precious Emperor Gratian of ours had a bodyguard
of fur-cloaked Scythians, and he was so crazy about
them that he dressed like them. In Rome of all places
in the world! It was as bad as if my own Father had
painted himself blue!

‘No matter for the clothes,’”’ said the Pater. ‘They
are only the fringe of the trouble. It began before your
time or mine. Rome has forsaken her Gods, and must
be punished. The great war with the Painted People
broke out in the very year the temples of our Gods were
destroyed. We beat the Painted People in the very
year our temples were rebuilt. Go back farther still.”

He went back to the time of Diocletian; and to
listen to him you would have thought Eternal Rome
herself was on the edge of destruction, just because a few
people had become a little large-minded.

‘I knew nothing about it. Aglaia never taught us the
history of our own country. She was so full of her an-
cient Greeks.

‘There is no hope for Rome,’’ said the Pater, at last.
124ob Reltetpirisbtie raven nets area delyeblddeiseuinin rr

  

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

“She has forsaken her Gods, but if the Gods forgive us
here, we may save Britain. To do that, we must keep
the Painted People back. Therefore, I tell you, Parne-
sius, as a Father, that if your heart is set on service, your
place is among men on the Wall—and not with women
among the cities.’’’

‘What Wall?’ asked Dan and Una at once.

‘Father meant the one we call Hadrian’s Wall. T’ll
tell you about it later. It was built long ago, across
North Britain, to keep out the Painted People—Picts
you callthem. Father had fought in the great Pict War
that lasted more than twenty years, and he knew what
fighting meant. Theodosius, one of our sreat Generals,
had chased the little beasts back far into the North be-
fore I was born: down at Vectis of course we never
troubled our heads about them. But when my Father
spoke as he did, I kissed his hand, and waited for orders.
We British-born Romans know what is due to our par-
ents.’

‘If I kissed my Father’s hand, he’d laugh,’ said Dan.

‘Customs change; but if you do not obey your father,
the Gods remember it. You may be quite sure of that.

‘After our talk, seeing I was in earnest, the Pater sent
me over to Clausentum to learn my foot-drill in a bar-
rack full of foreign auxiliaries—as unwashed and un-
shaved a mob of mixed barbarians as ever scrubbed a
breastplate. It was your stick in their stomachs and
your shield in their faces to push them into any sort of
formation. WhenI had learned my work the Instructor
gave me a handful—and they were a handful!—of Gauls
and Iberians to polish up till they were sent to their
stations up-country. I did my best, and one night a
villa in the suburbs caught fire, and I had my handful
125

  
    
 
 
 
  
  
    
   
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
  
  
    
  
  
 

eo brsa
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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

out and at work before any of the other troops. I no-
ticed a quiet-looking man on the lawn, leaning on a stick.
He watched us passing buckets from the pond, and at
last he said to me: ‘‘ Who are you?”

‘«A probationer, waiting for a command,’’ I answered.
I didn’t know who he was from Deucalion! |

‘**Born in Britain?” he said.

‘Ves, if you were born in Spain,” I said, for he
neighed his words like an Iberian mule.

‘** And what might you call yourself when you are at
home?” he said, laughing.

«That depends,” I answered; “sometimes one thing
and sometimes another. But now I’m busy.”

‘He said no more till we had saved the family gods
(they were respectable householders), and then he
srunted across the laurels: “‘Listen, young sometimes-
one-thing-and-sometimes-another. In future call your-
self Centurion of the Seventh Cohort to the Thirtieth,
the Ulpia Victrix. That will help me to remember you.
Your Father and a few other people call me Maximus.”

‘He tossed me the polished stick he was leaning on,
and went away. You might have knocked me down
with it!’

“Who was he?’ said Dan.

‘Maximus himself, our great General! The General
of Britain who had been Theodosius’s right hand in the
Pict War! Not only had he given me my Centurion’s
stick direct, but three steps in a good Legion as well! A
new man generally begins in the Tenth Cohort of his
Legion, and works up.’

‘And were you pleased?’ said Una.

‘Very. I thought Maximus had chosen me for my
good looks and fine style in marching, but, when I went
126rie Sees ECPM Seale eine SE Tt TMOO ETC eee ee ete OE TR Peet ee ee een fle Tene

     
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

home, the Pater told me he had served under Maximus in
the great Pict War, and had asked him to befriend me.’
‘A child you were!’ said Puck, from above.
‘I was,’ said Parnesius. ‘Don’t begrudge it me, Faun.
Afterwards—the Gods know I put aside the games!’
And Puck nodded, brown chin on brown hand, his big
eyes still.
“The night before I left we sacrificed to our ancestors .
—the usual little Home Sacrifice—but I never prayed
so earnestly to all the Good Shades, and then I went with
my Father by boat to Regnum, and across the chalk
eastwards to Anderida yonder.’
‘Regnum? Anderida?’ The children- turned their
faces to Puck.
‘“Regnum’s Chichester,’ he said, pointing towards
Cherry Clack, and—he threw his arm South behind him
—‘ Anderida’s Pevensey.’ \
‘Pevensey again!’ said Dan. ‘ Where Weland landed?’
‘Weland and a few others,’ said Puck. ‘Pevensey
isn’t young—even compared to me!’
‘The headquarters of the Thirtieth lay at Anderida
in summer, but my own Cohort, the Seventh, was on the
Wall up North. Maximus was inspecting Auxiliaries—
the Abulci, I think—at Anderida, and we stayed with
him, for he and my Father were very old friends. I was )
only there ten days when I was ordered to go up with |
thirty men to my Cohort.’ He laughed merrily. ‘A
man never forgets his first march. I was happier than :
any Emperor when I led my handful through the North
Gate of the Camp, and we saluted the guard and the
Altar of Victory there.’
“How? How?’ said Dan and Una.
Parnesius smiled, and stood up, flashing in his armour.
127 |Phe a taal oe hy I NID Ee ee ee eee ee ee ee

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘So!’ said he; and he moved slowly through the beau-
tiful movements of the Roman Salute, that ends with a
hollow clang of the shield coming into its place between
the shoulders.

‘Hai!’ said Puck. ‘That sets one thinking!’

‘We went out fully armed,’ said Parnesius, sitting
down; ‘but as soon as the road entered the Great Forest,
my men expected the pack-horses to hang their shields
; on. ‘No!’ I said; ‘“‘you can dress like women in An-
derida, but while you’re with me you will carry your
own weapons and armour.”’

‘But it’s hot,’ said one of them, ‘‘and we haven’t a
doctor. Suppose we get sunstroke, or a fever?”

‘<“Then die,”’ I said, ‘‘and a good riddance to Rome!
Up shield—up spears, and tighten your foot-wear!”

‘Don’t think yourself Emperor of Britain already,”
a fellow shouted. I knocked him over with the butt of
my spear, and explained to these Roman-born Romans
that, if there were any further trouble, we should go on
with one man short. And, by the Light of the Sun, I
meant it too! My raw Gauls at Clausentum had never
treated me so.

‘Then, quietly as a cloud, Maximus rode out of the
fern (my Father behind him), and reined up across the
road. He wore the Purple, as though he were already
Emperor; his leggings were of white buckskin laced with
gold.

‘My men dropped like—like partridges.

‘He said nothing for some time, only looked, with his
eyes puckered. Then he crooked his forefinger, and my
5 | men walked—crawled, I mean—to one side.

‘“*Stand in the sun, children,’ he said, and they

formed up on the hard road.
£28

—
—SPuy Shel ss OiePei bc out ol piubal a abehe [eSHetelrebeeitieterisiriransh titers carretera erele ipl sip riir taratal lglelelte erin tt

    
  
  
  
     
   
   
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

‘What would you have done?” he said to me, “‘if I |
had not been here?’’
***T should have killed that man,” I answered.
*** Kall him now,” he said. ‘‘He will not move a limb.”
“No,” I said. “‘You’ve taken my men out of my
command. Ishould only be your butcher if I killed him |
now.’ Do you see what I meant?’ Parnesius turned to :
Dan. |
‘Yes,’ said Dan. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair, some-
how.’
‘That was what I thought,’ said Parnesius. ‘But
Maximus frowned. ‘‘You’ll never be an Emperor,” he
said. “‘Not even a General will you be.’’
‘I was silent, but my Father seemed pleased.
‘““T came here to see the last of you,”’ he said.
**“You have seen it,’ said Maximus. “I shall never
need your son any more. He will live and he will die \
an officer of a Legion—and he might have been Prefect
of one of my Provinces. Now eat and drink with us,”
he said. ‘“‘ Your men will wait till you have finished.”
‘My miserable thirty stood like wine-skins glistening
in the hot sun, and Maximus led us to where his people
had set a meal. Himself he mixed the wine.
“A year from now,” he said, ‘‘you will remember
that you have sat with the Emperor of Britain—and .
Gaul.” i
***“Yes,”’ said the Pater, ‘“‘you can drive two mules— |
Gaul and Britain.” d
***Five years hence you will remember that you have
drunk’’—he passed me the cup and there was blue bor-
age in it—‘‘with the Emperor of Rome!” bit
***No; you can’t drive three mules; they will tear you
in pieces,” said my Father.
129meneame

eee RA ee MU UY dann i Lda ee Lee eka agen ernie ieee yn SoD ODE tts enna

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
    
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

*** And you on the Wall, among the heather, will weep
because your notion of justice was more to you than the
: favour of the Emperor of Rome.”

‘I sat quite still. One does not answer a General who
wears the Purple.

***T am not angry with you,” he went on; “‘I owe too
much to your Father—”’

‘You owe me nothing but advice that you never
took,”’ said the Pater.
‘**__to be unjust to any of your family. Indeed, I
say you may make a good Tribune; but, so far as I am
| concerned, on the Wall you will live. and on the Wall
; you will die,” said Maximus.

‘Very like,” said my Father. “But we shall have
the Picts and their friends breaking through before long.
You cannot move all troops out of Britain to make you
Emperor, and expect the North to sit quiet.”

***T follow my destiny,” said Maximus.

‘Follow it, then,” said my Father, pulling up a fern
root; ‘“‘and die as Theodosius died.”

*<* Ah!” said Maximus. ‘“‘My old General was killed
because he served the Empire too well. I may be killed,
but not for that reason,” and he smiled a little pale gray
smile that made my blood run cold.

| \ ‘**Then I had better follow my destiny,” I said, “‘and

i take my men to the Wall.”
| | ‘He looked at me a long time, and bowed his head
el! slanting like a Spaniard. ‘Follow it, boy,” he said.

That was all. I was only too glad to get away, though

I had many messagesforhome. I found my men stand-

) ing as they had been put—they had not even shifted
| their feet in the dust, and off I marched, still feeling that
terrific smile like an east wind up my back. I never

130

SisRan ARES enE RET aS

SSS

Shot

  

SOE

ssibeyee RT eee ee

  

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

halted them till sunset, and’—he turned about and looked
at Pook’s Hill below him—‘then I halted yonder.’ He
pointed to the broken, bracken-covered shoulder of the
Forge Hill behind old Hobden’s cottage.

“There? Why, that’s only the old Forge—where they
made iron once,’ said Dan.

‘Very good stuff it was too,’ said Parnesius, calmly.
“We mended three shoulder-straps here and had a spear-
head riveted. The forge was rented from the Govern-
ment by a one-eyed smith from Carthage. I remember
we called him Cyclops. He sold me a beaver-skin rug
for my sister’s room.’

‘But it couldn’t have been here,’ Dan insisted.

‘But it was! From the Altar of Victory at Anderida
to the First Forge in the Forest here is twelve miles
seven hundred paces. It is all in the Road Book. A
man doesn’t forget his first march. I think I could tell
you every station between this and—’ He leaned for-
ward, but his eye was caught by the setting sun.

It had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hill, and
the light poured in between the tree trunks so that you
could see red and gold and black deep into the heart of
Far Wood; and Parnesius in his armour shone as though
he had been afire.

‘Wait,’ he said, lifting a hand, and the sunlight jinked
on his glass bracelet. ‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’

He rose and stretched his arms westward, with deep,
splendid-sounding words.

Then Puck began to sing too, in a voice like bells toll-
ing, and as he sang he slipped from Volaterrae to the
ground, and beckoned the children to follow. They
obeyed; it seemed as though the voices were pushing
them along; and through the goldy-brown light on the
131

BitteLe LAA AAAS ear nite

  

PUCK OF POOK’S' HILL

beech leaves they walked, while Puck between them
chanted something like this:—

    
  
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
  

‘Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria
Cujus prosperitas est transitoria?
Tam cito labitur ejus potentia
Quam vasa figuli que sunt fragilia.’

They found themselves at the little locked gates of the
wood.

‘Quo Cesar abiit celsus imperio?
Vel Dives splendidus totus in prandio?
Dic ubi Tullius—’

Still singing, he took Dan’s hand and wheeled him
round to face Una as she came out of the gate. It shut
behind her, at the same time as Puck threw the memory-
magicking Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves over their heads.

“Well, you are jolly late,’ said Una. ‘Couldn’t you
get away before?’

‘I did,’ said Dan. ‘I got away in lots of time, but—
but I didn’t know it was so late. Where’ve you been?’
‘In Volaterrae—waiting for you.’

‘Sorry, said Dan. ‘It was all that beastly Latin.’

 

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A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG
(A. D. 406) “lf

  
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
   

My father’s father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come,
To look on that so-holy spot—
The very Rome—

Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height— |
The Race began! |

Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,
To Rome’s thrice-hammered hardihood—
In arduous things.

Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round—
In us thy Sons, {

Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require bly
Thee,—thee to guard ’gainst home-born ills,
The Imperial Fire!
133Sup Tee elle

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ON THE GREAT WALL

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ON THE GREAT WALL

“When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake
By the Legions’ Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)
And I’ve tramped Britain and I’ve tramped Gaul
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
As cold as the heart of Lalage!
And I’ve lost Britain and I’ve lost Gaul,’

(the voice seemed very cheerful about it),

‘And I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all,
I’ve lost Lalage!’

HEY were standing by the gate to Far Wood
when they heard this song. Without a word
they hurried to their private gap and wriggled

through the hedge almost atop of a jay that was feeding
from Puck’s hand.

‘Gently!’ said Puck. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Parnesius, of course,’ Dan answered. ‘We’ve only
just remembered yesterday. It isn’t fair.’

Puck chuckled as he rose. ‘I’m sorry, but children
who spend the afternoon with me and a Roman Cen-
137= SR Ses
———

PRD RRP AT DS EHIAI One tat | Lie Pe arate ae tene rhs rer aed aad at

PUCK OF VROOK'S HIEL

turion need a little settling dose of Magic before they
go to tea with their governess. Ohe, Parnesius!’ he
called.

“Here, Faun!’ came the answer from Volaterrae.
They could see the shimmer of bronze armour in the
beech crotch, and the friendly flash of the great shield
uplifted.

‘I have driven out the Britons.’ Parnesius laughed
like a boy. ‘I occupy their high forts. But Rome is
merciful! You may come up.’ And up they three all
scrambled.

“What was the song you were singing just now?’ said
Una, as soon as she had settled herself.

“That? Oh, “Rimini.” It’s one of the tunes that
are always being born somewhere in the Empire. They
run like a pestilence for six months or a year, till another
one pleases the Legions, and*then they march to that.’

“Tell them about the marching, Parnesius. Few
people nowadays walk from end to end of this country,’
said Puck.

“The greater their loss. I know nothing better than
the Long March when your feet are hardened. You
begin after the mists have risen, and you end, perhaps,
an hour after sun-down.’

‘And what do you have to eat?’ Dan asked, promptly.

‘Fat bacon, beans, and bread, and whatever wine
happens to be in the rest-houses. But soldiers are born
grumblers. Their very first day out, my men com-
plained of our water-ground British corn. They said it
wasn't so filling as the rough stuff that is ground in the
Roman ox-mills. However, they had to fetch and eat
it.’

‘Fetch it? Where from?’ said Una.

138ON THE GREAT WALL

‘From that newly-invented water-mill below the
Forge.’

‘That’s Forge Mill—our Mill!’ Una looked at Puck.

‘Yes; yours,’ Puck putin. ‘How old did you think it
was?’

‘I don’t know. Didn’t Sir Richard Dalyngridge talk
about it?’

‘He did, and it was old in his day,’ Puck answered.
‘Hundreds of years old.’

‘It was new in mine,’ said Parnesius. ‘My men looked
at the flour in their helmets as though it had been a nest
of adders. They did it to try my patience. But I—
addressed them, and we became friends. ‘To tell the
truth, they taught me the Roman Step. You see, I’d
only served with quick-marching Auxiliaries. A Le-
gion’s pace is altogether different. It is a long, slow
stride, that never varies from sunrise to sunset. ““Rome’s
Race—Rome’s Pace,” as the proverb says. Twenty-
four miles in eight hours, neither more nor less. Head
and spear up, shield on your back, cuirass collar open
one hand’s breadth—and that’s how you take the Eagles
through Britain.’

‘And did you meet any adventures?’ said Dan.

‘There are no adventures South the Wall,’ said Par-
nesius. ‘The worst thing that happened me was having
to appear before a magistrate up North, where a wan-
dering philosopher had jeered at the Eagles. Iwas able
to show that the old man had deliberately blocked our
road; and the magistrate told him, out of his own Book,
I believe, that, whatever his Gods might be, he should
pay proper respect to Cesar.’

‘What did you do?’ said Dan.

‘Went on. Why should I care for such things, my
139EAR Aer ste tar ir ee SOO t PO a te ae ee ae ta

 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK: OF’ POOK:'S iHIEL

business being to reach my station? It took me twenty
days.

“Of course, the farther North you go the emptier are
the roads. At last you fetch clear of the forests and
climb bare hills, where wolves howl in the ruins of our
cities that have been. No more pretty girls; no more
jolly magistrates who knew your Father when he was
young, and invite you to stay with them; no news at the
temples and way-stations except bad news of wild beasts.
There’s where you meet hunters, and trappers for the
Circuses, prodding along chained bears and muzzled
wolves. Your pony shies at them, and your men laugh.

‘The houses change from gardened villas to shut forts
with watch-towers of gray stone, and great stone-walled
sheepfolds, guarded by armed Britons of the North
Shore. In the naked hills beyond the naked houses,
where the shadows of the clouds play like cavalry charg-
ing, you see puffs of black smoke from the mines. The
hard road goes on and on—and the wind sings through
your helmet-plume—past altars to Legions and Generals
forgotten, and broken statues of Gods and Heroes, and
thousands of graves where the mountain foxes and hares
peep at you. Red-hot in summer, freezing in winter, is
that big, purple heather country of broken stone.

‘Just when you think you are at the world’s end, you
see asmoke from East to West as far as the eye can turn,
and then, under it, also as far as the eye can stretch,
houses and temples, shops and theatres, barracks and
granaries, trickling along like dice behind—always be-
hind—one long, low, rising and falling, and hiding and
showing line of towers. And that is the Wall!’

‘Ah!’ said the children, taking breath.

_*You may well,’ said Parnesius. ‘Old men who have
140

ot

WSEAS

naON THE GREAT WALL

followed the Eagles since boyhood say nothing in the
Empire is more wonderful than first sight of the Wall!’

‘Is it just a Wall? Like the one round the kitchen-
garden?’ said Dan.

‘No, no! Itis the Wall. Along the top are towers
with guard-houses, small towers, between. Even on
the narrowest part of it three men with shields can walk a
abreast, from guard-house to guard-house. A little cur-
tain wall, no higher than a man’s neck, runs along the
top of the thick wall, so that from a distance you see the
helmets of the sentries sliding back and forth like beads.
Thirty feet high is the Wall, and on the Picts’ side, the
North, is a ditch, strewn with blades of old swords and
spear-heads set in wood, and tyres of wheels joined by
chains. The Little People come there to steal iron for
their arrow-heads. |

‘But the Wall itself is not more wonderful than the
town behind it. Long ago there were great ramparts
and ditches on the South side, and no one was allowed to
build there. Now the ramparts are partly pulled down
and built over, from end to end of the Wall; making a
thin town eighty mileslong. Think ofit! One roaring,
rioting, cock-fighting, wolf-baiting, horse-racing town,
from Ituna on the West to Segedunum on the cold east-
ern beach! On one side heather, woods and ruins where le
Picts hide, and on the other, a vast town—long like a ea
snake, and wicked like a snake. Yes, a snake basking }
beside a warm wall!

‘My Cohort, I was told, lay at Hunno, where the |
Great North Road runs through the Wall into the Prov- Bh
ince of Valentia.’ Parnesius laughed scornfully. ‘The |
Province of Valentia! We followed the road, therefore,
into Hunno town, and stood astonished. The place was
141SeuRN RRS:

RAE eet eerie aoa etree eats:

Bt PC eee ca ee

 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK. OF POOK’S HILL

a fair—a fair of peoples from every corner of the Empire.
Some were racing horses: some sat in wine-shops: some
watched dogs baiting bears, and many gathered in a
ditch to see cocks fight. A boy not much older than
myself, but I could see he was an officer, reined up before
me and asked what I wanted.

*““My station,” I said, and showed him my shield.’
Parnesius held up his broad shield with its three X’s like
letters on a beer-cask.

‘Lucky omen!” said he. “‘ Your Cohort’s the next
tower to us, but they’re all at the cock-fight. Thisisa
happy place. Come and wet the Eagles.” He meant
to offer me a drink.

*“*When I’ve handed over my men,” I said. _ If felt
angry and ashamed.

***Oh, you'll soon outgrow that sort of nonsense,”’ he
answered. ‘But don’t let me interfere with your hopes.
Go on to the Statue of Roma Dea. You can’t miss it.
The main road into Valentia!”’ and he laughed and rode
off. I could see the statue not a quarter of a mile away,
and there I went. At some time or other the Great
North Road ran under it into Valentia; but the far end
had been blocked up because of the Picts, and on the
plaster a man had scratched, “Finish!” It was like
marching into a cave. We grounded spears together,
my little thirty, and it echoed in the barrel of the arch,
but none came. ‘There was a door at one side painted
with our number. We prowled in, and I found a cook
asleep, and ordered him to give us food. Then I climbed
to the top of the Wall, and looked out over the Pict
country, and I—thought,’ said Parnesius. ‘The bricked-
up arch with “‘Finish!’’ on the plaster was what shook
me, for I was not much more than a boy.’

142ON THE GREAT WALL

“What ashame!’ said Una. ‘But did you feel happy
after you'd had a good—’ Dan stopped her with a nudge. !

‘Happy?’ said Parnesius. ‘When the men of the
Cohort I was to command came back unhelmeted from
the cock-fight, their birds under their arms, and asked
me who I was? No, I was not happy; but I made my
new Cohort unhappy too. . . . Iwrotemy Mother
I was happy, but, oh, my friends’—he stretched arms
over bare knees—‘I would not wish my worst enemy to
suffer as I suffered through my first months on the Wall.
Remember this: among the officers was scarcely one,
except myself (and I thought I had lost the favour of |
Maximus my General), scarcely one who had not done
something of wrong orfolly. Either he had killed a man,
or taken money, or insulted the magistrates, or blas-
phemed the Gods, and so had been sent to the Wall asa
hiding-place from shame or fear. And the men were as
the officers. Remember, also, that the Wall was manned
by every breed and race in the Empire. No two towers
spoke the same tongue, or worshipped the same Gods.
In one thing only we were all equal. No matter what
arms we had used before we came to the Wall, on the
Wall we were all archers, like the Scythians. The Pict |
cannot run away from the arrow, orcrawlunderit. He
is a bowman himself. He knows!’ Hh

‘I suppose you were fighting Picts all the time,’ said |
Dan.

‘Picts seldom fight. I never saw a fighting Pict for \
half a year. The tame Picts told us they had all gone
North.’

“What is a tame Pict?’ said Dan. |

‘A Pict—there were many such—who speaks a few
words of our tongue, and slips across the Wall to sell |
143 |

a
stents

hice

a3

ee
SeMeyepiote peur eearie ts

pots

TaaeSear een inne

pyreparicay
Saseersesese

ai

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

ponies and wolf-hounds. Without a horse and a dog,
and a friend, man would perish. The Gods gave me all
three, and there is no gift like friendship. Remember
this’—Parnesius turned to Dan—‘when you become a
young man. For your fate will turn on the first true
friend you make.’

‘He means,’ said Puck, grinning, ‘that if you try to
make yourself a decent chap when you’re young, you'll
make rather decent friends when you growup. If you’re
a beast, you'll have beastly friends. Listen to the Pious
Parnesius on Friendship!’

‘I am not pious,’ Parnesius answered, ‘but I know
what goodness means; and my friend, though he was
without hope, was ten thousand times better than I.
Stop laughing, Faun!’

‘Oh Youth Eternal and All-believing,’ cried Puck, as
he rocked on the branch above. ‘Tell them about your
Pertinax.’

‘He was that friend the Gods sent me—the boy whd
spoke to me when I first came. Little older than my-
self, commanding the Augusta Victoria Cohort on the
tower next to us and the Numidians. In virtue he was
far my superior.’ |

‘Then why was he on the Wall?’ Una asked, quickly.
‘They’d all done something bad. You said so your-
self.’

‘He was the nephew, his Father had died, of a great
rich man in Gaul who was not always kind to his Mother.
When Pertinax grew up he discovered this, and so his
uncle shipped him off, by trickery and force, to the Wall.
We came to know each other at a ceremony in our l’em-
ple—in the dark. It was the Bull Killing,’ Parnesius
explained: to Puck.

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

144ON THE GREAT WALL

“I see,’ said Puck, and turned to the children. ‘That’s ||
something you wouldn’t quite understand. Parnesius |
means he met Pertinax in church.’

“Yes—in the Cave we first met, and we were both
raised to the Degree of Gryphons together.’ Parnesius
lifted his hand towards his neck foraninstant. ‘Hehad
been on the Wall two years, and knew the Picts well.
He taught me first how to take Heather.’

*What’s that?’ said Dan.

‘Going out hunting in the Pict country with a tame
Pict. You are quite safe so long as you are his guest, |
and wear a sprig of heather where it can be seen. If |
you went alone you would surely be killed, if you were
not smothered first in the bogs. Only the Picts know
their way about those black and hidden bogs. Old Allo, |
the one-eyed, withered little Pict from whom we bought
our ponies, was our special friend. At first we went
only to escape from the terrible town, and to talk to-
gether about our homes. Then he showed us how to
hunt wolves and those great red deer with horns like
Jewish candlesticks. "The Roman-born officers rather
looked down on us for doing this, but we preferred the
heather to their amusements. Believe me,’ Parnesius
turned again to Dan, ‘a boy is safe from all things that
really harm when he is astride a pony or after a deer.
Do you remember, O Faun,’ he turned to Puck, ‘the Bi aed
little altar I built to the Sylvan Pan by the pine-forest |
beyond the brook?’

‘Which? The stone one with the line from Xenophon?’
said Puck, in quite a new voice.

‘No. What do I know of Xenophon? That was Hi
Pertinax—after he had shot his first mountain-hare with
an arrow—by chance! Mine I made of round pebbles
145

meat
teers“Ht ooo ae

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

in memory of my first bear. It took me one happy day
to build.” Parnesius faced the children quickly.

‘And that was how we lived on the Wall for two years
—a little scuffling with the Picts, and a great deal of
hunting with old Allo in the Pict country. He called us
his children sometimes, and we were fond of him and his
barbarians, though we never let them paint us Pict
fashion. The marks endure till you die.’

‘How’s it done?’ said Dan. ‘Anything like tattoo-
mg?’

‘They prick the skin till the blood runs, and rub in
coloured juices. Allo was painted blue, green, and red
from his forehead to his ankles. He said it was part
of his religion. He told us about his religion (Pertinax
was always interested in such things), and as we came
to know him well, he told us what was happening in
Britain behind the Wall. Many things took place be-
hind us in those days. And by the Light of the Sun,’
said Parnesius, earnestly, ‘there was not much that
those little people did not know! He told me when
Maximus crossed over to Gaul, after he made himself
Emperor of Britain, and what troops and emigrants he
had taken with him. We did not get the news on the
Wall till fifteen days later. He told me what troops
Maximus was taking out of Britain every month to help
him to conquer Gaul; and I always found the numbers
were ashesaid. Wonderful! And I tell another strange
thing!’

He jointed his hands across his knees, and leaned his
head on the curve of the shield behind him.

‘Late in the summer, when the first frosts begin and
the Picts kill their bees, we three rode out after wolf with
some new hounds. Rutilianus, our General, had given
146vale ey

  

ON THE GREAT WALL

us ten days’ leave, and we had pushed beyond the Second ti
Wall——beyond the Province of Valentia—into the higher |
hills, where there are not even any of Rome’s old ruins.

We killed a she-wolf before noon, and while Allo was
skinning her he looked up and said to me, “‘ When you
are Captain of the Wall, my child, you won’t be able to
do this any more!”

‘I might as well have been made Prefect of Lower
Gaul, so I laughed and said, “‘ Wait till I am Captain.”

“No, don’t wait,” said Allo. ‘“‘Take my advice and go
home—both of you.” ‘We have no homes,” said Per-
tinax. “You know that as well as we do. We're fin-
ished men—thumbs down against both of us. Only men
without hope would risk their necks on your ponies.”
The old man laughed one of those short Pict laughs— :
like a fox barking on a frosty night. “I’m fond of you
two,” he said. “Besides, I’ve taught you what little (
you know about hunting. Take my advice andgo home.”

‘“We can't,’ I said. “I’m out of favour with my
General, for one thing; and for another, Pertinax has an
uncle.”

***T don’t know about his uncle,”’ said Allo, “but the
trouble with you, Parnesius, is that your General thinks
well of you.”

‘Roma Dea!’ said Pertinax, sitting up. “‘ What .
can you guess what Maximus thinks, you old horse- ie
coper?”’ [ |) ie

‘Just then (you know how near the brutes creep when ({!
one is eating?) a great dog-wolf jumped out behind us,
and away our rested hounds tore after him, with us at
their tails. Heran us far out of any country we'd ever | |
heard of, straight as an arrow till sunset, towards. the
sunset. We came at last to long capes stretching into
147oekee eee sea

Pasar ma SRP oe age

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

winding waters, and on a gray beach below us we saw
ships drawn up. Forty-seven we counted—not Roman
galleys but the raven-winged ships from the North
where Rome does not rule. Men moved in the ships,
and the sun flashed on their helmets—winged helmets
of the red-haired men from the North where Rome does
not rule. We watched, and we counted, and we won-
dered, for though we had heard rumours concerning
these Winged Hats, as the Picts called them, never be-
fore had we looked upon them.

‘Come away! come away!”’ said Allo. “‘My Heather
won’t protect you here. We shall all be killed!” His
legs trembled like his voice. Back we went—hack across
the heather under the moon, till it was nearly morning,
and our poor beasts stumbled on some ruins.

‘When we woke, very stiff and cold, Allo was mixing
the meal and water. One does not light fires in the Pict
country except neara village. The little men are always
signalling to each other with smokes, and a strange
smoke brings them out buzzing like bees. They can
sting, too!

‘““ What we saw last night was a trading-station,”’ said
Allo. ‘“‘Nothing but a trading-station.”’

“I do not like lies on an empty stomach,” said Perti-
nax. ‘‘I suppose’ (he had eyes like an eagle’s)—*I
suppose that is a trading-station also?’’ He pointed to
a smoke far off on a hill-top, ascending in what we call
the Picts’ Call:—Puff—double-puff: double-puff—puff!
They make it by raising and dropping a wet hide ona
fire.

‘**No,”’ said Allo, pushing the platter back into the
bag. ‘‘That is for you and me. Your fate is fixed.
Come.”

 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

 

148ON THE GREAT WALL

‘We came. When one takes Heather, one must obey
one’s Pict—but that wretched smoke was twenty miles
distant, well over on the east coast, and the day was as
hot as a bath.

“Whatever happens,” said Allo, while our ponies
srunted along, “I want you to remember me.”

““T shall not forget,” said Pertinax. ‘‘You have
cheated me out of my breakfast.”

‘“’ What is a handful of crushed oats to a Roman?” he
said. Then he laughed his laugh that was not a laugh.
“What would you do if you were a handful of oats being
crushed between the upper and lower stones of a mill?”

***T’m Pertinax, not a riddle-guesser,”’ said Pertinax.

‘**You’re a fool,” said Allo. ‘Your Gods and my
Gods are threatened by strange Gods, and all you can do
is to laugh.”’

‘Threatened men live long,” I said.

‘““T pray the Gods that may be true,” he said. ‘But
I ask you again not to forget me.”’

‘We climbed the last hot hill and looked out on the
eastern sea, three or four miles off. There was a small
sailing-galley of the North Gaul pattern at anchor, her
landing-plank down and her sail half up; and below us,
alone in a hollow, holding his pony, sat Maximus, Em-
peror of Britain! He was dressed like a hunter, and he
leaned on his little stick; but I knew that back as far as
I could see it, and I told Pertinax.

***You’re madder than Allo!” he said. ‘‘It must be
the sun!”’

‘Maximus never stirred till we stood before him.
Then he looked me up and down, and said: ‘‘Hungry
again? It seems to be my destiny to feed you whenever
we meet. I have food here. Allo shall cook it.”

149—

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘*“Nio,” said Allo. ‘‘A Prince in his own land does
not wait on wandering Emperors. I feed my two chil-
dren without asking your leave.” He began to blow
up the ashes.

‘«T was wrong,” said Pertinax. “‘We are all mad.
Speak up, O Madman called Emperor!”

‘Maximus smiled his terrible tight-lipped smile, but
two years on the Wall do not make a man afraid of mere
looks. So I was not afraid.

‘“T meant you, Parnesius, to live and die a Centurion
of the Wall,” said Maximus. ‘‘Butit seems from these,”
he fumbled in his breast, ‘“‘youcan think as well as draw.”’
He pulled out a roll of letters I had written to my people,
full of drawings of Picts, and bears, and men I had met
on the Wall. Mother and my sister always. liked my
pictures.

‘He handed me one that I had called “‘Maximus’s
Soldiers.” It showed a row of fat wine-skins, and our
old Doctor of the Hunno hospital snuffing at them.
Each time that Maximus had taken troops out of Britain
to help him to conquer Gaul, he used to send the garri-
sons more wine—to keep them quiet, I suppose. On
the Wall, we always called a wine-skin a “Maximus.”
Oh, yes; and I had drawn them in Imperial helmets.

‘Not long since,” he went on, “men’s names were
sent up to Cesar for smaller jokes than this.”

‘True, Cesar,’ said Pertinax; “but you forget that
was before I, your friend’s friend, became such a good
spear-thrower. ”’

‘He did not actually point his hunting spear at Maxi-
mus, but balanced it on his palm—so!

‘«“T was speaking of time past,’ said Maximus, never
fluttering aneyelid. ‘‘ Nowadays one is only too pleased
150ON THE GREAT WALL

to find boys who can think for themselves, and their
friends.”” Henodded at Pertinax. ‘‘ Your Father lent
me the letters, Parnesius, so you run no risk from me.”

**“None whatever,’ said Pertinax, and rubbed the
spear-point on his sleeve.

*““T have been forced to reduce the garrisons in Brit-
ain, because I need troops in Gaul. Now I come to
take troops from the Wall itself,”’ said he.

‘““T wish you joy of us,’ said Pertinax. ‘‘We’re the
last sweepings of the Empire—the men without hope.
Myself, I’d sooner trust condemned criminals.’’

***You think so?” he said, quite seriously. ‘‘But it
will only be till I win Gaul. One must always risk one’s
life, or one’s soul, or one’s peace—or some little thing.”

‘Allo passed round the fire with the sizzling deer’s
meat. He served us two first.

“Ah!” said Maximus, waiting histurn. ‘I perceive
you are in your own country. Well, you deserve it.
They tell me you have quite a following among the Picts,
Parnesius.”’

*““T have hunted with them,’ Isaid. ‘“‘MaybeI have
a few friends among the Heather.”

“**He is the only armoured man of you all who under-
stands us,” said Allo, and he began a long speech about
our virtues, and how we had saved one of his grand-
children from a wolf the year before.’

‘Had you?’ said Una.

“Yes; but that was neither here nor there. The little
green man orated like a—like Cicero. He made us out
to be magnificent fellows. Maximus never took his eyes
off our faces.

*“*Enough,”’ he said. ‘“‘I have heard Allo on you. I
wish to hear you on the Picts.”’

151Sasa

SS

co

faux
see

Suan eas

So ke

mn

en eR ee ee et ae

 

 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
   

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘I told him as much as I knew, and Pertinax helped
me out. There is never harm in a Pict if you but take
the trouble to find out what he wants. Their real griev-
ance against us came from our burning their heather.
The whole garrison of the Wall moved out twice a year,
and solemnly burned the heather for ten miles North.
Rutilianus, our General, called it clearing the country.
The Picts, of course, scampered away, and all we did was
to destroy their bee-bloom in the summer, and ruin their
sheep-food in the spring.

‘True, quite true,” said Allo. “How can we make
our holy heather-wine, if you burn our bee-pasture?”’

‘We talked long, Maximus asking keen questions that
showed he knew much and had thought more about the
Picts. He said presently to me: “If I gave you the old
Province of Valentia to govern, could you keep the Picts
contented till I won Gaul? Stand away, so that you do
not see Allo’s face; and speak your own thoughts.”

“No,” Lsaid. ‘You cannot remake that Province.
The Picts have been free too long.”

‘“T eave them their village councils, and let them fur-
nish their own soldiers,’ he said. ‘“‘You, I am sure,
would hold the reins very lightly.”

‘“‘Byven then, no,” Isaid. “‘Atleast notnow. They
have been too oppressed by us to trust anything with a
Roman name for years and years.”

‘IT heard old Allo behind me mutter: “‘Good child!”

‘“«Then what do you recommend,” said Maximus, “*to
keep the North quiet till I win Gaul?”

‘*<T eave the Picts alone,” I said. “Stop the heather-
burning at once, and—they are improvident little ani-
mals—send them a shipload or two of corn now and
then.”’

152ON THE GREAT WALL

*““Their own men must distribute it—not some cheat-
ing Greek accountant,” said Pertinax.

“Yes, and allow them to come to our hospitals when
they are sick,” I said.

‘““Surely they would die first,’’ said Maximus.

‘““Not if Parnesius brought them in,” said Allo. ° ‘I
could show you twenty wolf-bitten, bear-clawed Picts
within twenty miles of here. But Parnesius must stay
with them in Hospital, else they would go mad with
fear.”

“I see,’ said Maximus. “Like everything else in
the world, it is one man’s work. You, I think, are that
one man.”’

***Pertinax and I are one,”’ I said.

‘As you please, so long as you work. Now, Allo,
you know that I mean your people no harm. Leave us
to talk together,” said Maximus.

‘““No need!” said Allo. ‘‘I am the corn between the
upper and lower millstones. I must know what the
lower millstone means to do. These boys have spoken
the truth as far as they know it. I, a Prince, will tell
you the rest. I am troubled about the Men of the
North.” He squatted like a hare in the heather, and
looked over his shoulder.

‘TI also,’ said Maximus, ‘‘or I should not be
here.”

“Listen,” said Allo. ‘‘Long and long ago the Winged
Hats’’—he meant the Northmen—‘‘came to our beaches
and said, ‘Rome falls!) Push her down!’ We fought
you. Yousent men. Wewere beaten. After that we
said to the Winged Hats, ‘You are liars! Make our
men alive that Rome killed, and we will believe you.’
They went away ashamed. Now they come back bold,
153

>PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

and they tell the old tale, which we begin to believe—
that Rome falls!”

‘““Give me three years’ peace on the Wall,” cried
Maximus, ‘‘and I will show you and all the ravens how
they le!”

“““Ah, IT wish it too! I wish to save what is left of the
corn from the millstones. But you shoot us Picts when
we come to borrow a little iron from the Iron Ditch; you
burn our heather, which is all our crop; you trouble us
with your great catapults. Then you hide behind the
Wall, and scorch us with Greek fire. How can I keep
my young men from listening to the Winged Hats—in
winter especially, when we are hungry? My young men
will say, ‘Rome can neither fight norrule. She is taking
her men out of Britain. The Winged Hats will help us
to push down the Wall. Let us show them the secret
roads across the bogs.’ Do I want that? No!” He
spat like an adder. “I would keep the secrets of my
people though I were burned alive. My two children
here have spoken truth. Leave us Picts alone. Com-
fort us, and cherish us, and feed us from far off—with the
hand behind your back. Parnesius understands us.
Let him have rule on the Wall, and I will hold my young
men quiet for’—he ticked it off on his fingers—“ one
year easily: the next year not so easily: the third year,
perhaps! See, I give you three years. If then you do
not show us that Rome is strong in men and terrible in
arms, the Winged Hats, I tell you, will sweep down the
Wall from either sea till they meet in the middle, and
you will go. I shall not grieve over that, but well I
know tribe never helps tribe except for one price. We
Picts will go too. The Winged Hats will grind us to
this!” He tossed a handful of dust in the air.

154DLOSae PLSbt lei es shese ert! oi biphsl  siebeteje?-te dic 5. iil Net OTN Are (settee seO oe eT Rt seakekak rtd O Caer coh cent tetera tor apoe fe

    
 
   
    
   
   
   
 
    
  
    
   
   
 
  
   
  
   
 
 

ON THE GREAT WALL

"Oh, Roma Dea!” said Maximus, half aloud. “It ie
is always one man’s work—always and everywhere!”

‘And one man’s life,” said Allo. ‘‘Youare Emperor,
but not a God. You may die.”

‘“T have thought of that too,” said he. “Very good.
If this wind holds, I shall be at the East end of the Wall
by morning. To-morrow, then, I shall see you two tit
when I inspect, and I will make you Captains of the .
Wall for this work.”’

‘One instant, Cesar,” said Pertinax. <“ Al] men
have their price. I am not bought yet.”

‘Do you also begin to bargain so early?” said Maxi-
mus. ‘°° Well?”

‘Give me justice against my uncle Icenus, the Du-
umvir of Divio in Gaul,” he said.

“Only a life? I thought it would be money or an
office. Certainly you shall have him. Write his name \
on these tablets—on the red side; the other is for the
living!” And Maximus held out his tablets.

‘He is of no use to me dead,” said Pertinax. “My
mother is a widow. I am far off. I am not sure he
pays her all her dowry.”

‘No matter. My arm is reasonably long. We
will look through your uncle’s accounts in due time.

Now, farewell till to-morrow, O Captains of the
Wall!” | 4

‘We saw him grow small across the heather as he Hh
walked to the galley. There were Picts, scores, each |
side of him, hidden behind stones. He never looked
left or right. He sailed away Southerly, full spread be-
fore the evening breeze, and when we had watched him
out to sea, we were silent. We understood that Earth
bred few men like to this man.

155ITs eteie weit 2.7 .8te'e let,

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Presently Allo brought the ponies and held them for
us to mount—a thing he had never done before.

‘““Woit awhile,’ said Pertinax, and he made a little
altar of cut turf, and strewed heather-bloom atop, and
laid upon it a letter from a girl in Gaul.

“What do you do, O my friend?” I said.

‘**T sacrifice to my dead youth,” he answered, and,
when the flames had consumed the letter, he ground
them out with his heel. Then we rode back to that Wall
of which we were to be Captains.’

Parnesius stopped. The children sat still, not even
asking if that were all the tale. Puck beckoned, and
pointed the way out of the wood. ‘’Sorry,’ he whis-
pered, ‘but you must go now.’

‘We haven’t made him angry, have we?’ said Una.
‘He looks so far off, and—and—thinky.’

‘Bless your heart, no. Wait tillto-morrow. It won't
be long. Remember, you’ve been playing “Lays of
Ancient Rome.’’’

And as soon as they had scrambled through their gap
where Oak, Ash, and Thorn grew, that was all they re-
membered.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

35
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A SONG TO MITHRAS

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the
Wall!
“Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!’ |
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are
marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the |
heat, .

Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our
feet.

Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,

Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again! l
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is

drawn, |
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn! |

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull
dies,

Look on thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice! | |

Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the
Light, |

Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!ee Ae Laos eae ara Paesidaly afsretkeihead aaa ear EL eat eo Pa raeae Sota

aati »
ints

bRT Sa hs

THE WINGEDoon Areal ene erate ? ebeayetite feledede topeee te ieiel

-THE WINGED HATS

HE next day happened to be what they called a

Wild Afternoon. Father and Mother went out

to pay calls; Miss Blake went for a ride on her
bicycle, and they were left all alone till eight o’clock.

When they had seen their dear parents and their dear
preceptress politely off the premises they got a cabbage-
leaf full of raspberries from the gardener, and a Wild
Tea from Ellen. They ate the raspberries to prevent
their squashing, and they meant to divide the cabbage-
leaf with Three Cows down at the Theatre, but they
came across a dead hedgehog which they simply had to
bury, and the leaf was too useful to waste.

Then they went on to the Forge and found old Hobden
the hedger at home with his son, the Bee Boy who is not
quite right in his head, but who can pick up swarms of
bees in his naked hands; and the Bee Boy told them the
rhyme about the slow-worm :—

‘If I had eyes as I could see,
No mortal man would trouble me.’

They all had tea together by the hives, and Hobden
said the loaf-cake which Ellen had given them was almost
as good as what his wife used to make, and he showed
them how to set a wire at the right height for hares.
They knew about rabbits already.

161PUCK OF POOKS HIEE

Then they climbed up Long Ditch into the lower end
of Far Wood. This is sadder and darker than the Vola-
terrae end because of an old marlpit full of black water,
where weepy, hairy moss hangs round the stumps of the
willows and alders. But the birds come to perch on the
dead branches, and Hobden says that the bitter willow-
water is a sort of medicine for sick animals.

They sat down on a felled oak-trunk in the shadows of
the beech undergrowth, and were looping the wires Hob-
den had given them, when they saw Parnesius.

‘How quietly you came!’ said Una, moving up to
make room. ‘Where’s Puck?’

‘The Faun and I have disputed whether it is better
that I should tell you all my tale, or leave it untold,’ he
replied.

‘I only said that if he told it as it happened you
wouldn’t understand it,’ said Puck, jumping up like a
squirrel from behind the log.

‘I don’t understand all of it,’ said Una, ‘but I lke
hearing about the little Picts.’

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Dan, ‘is how Maxi-
mus knew all about the Picts when he was over in Gaul.’

‘He who makes himself Emperor anywhere must know
everything, everywhere,’ said Parnesius. ‘We had this
| much from Maximus’s mouth after the Games.’
| ‘Games? What Games?’ said Dan.

Parnesius stretched his arm out stiffly, thumb pointed

} to the ground. ‘Gladiators! That sort of game,’ he
: said. ‘There were two days’ Games in his honour when
he landed all unexpected at Segedunum on the East end
of the Wall. Yes, the day after we had met him we held
two days’ games; but I think the greatest risk was rv%
not by the poor wretches on the sand, but by Maximus.
162THE WINGED HATS

In the old days the Legions kept silence before their i}
Emperor. So did not we! You could hear the solid |
roar run West along the Wall as his chair was carried
rocking through the crowds. The garrison beat round
him—clamouring, clowning, asking for pay, for change
of quarters, for anything that came into their wild heads.
That chair was like a little boat among waves, dipping
and falling, but always rising again after one had shut
the eyes.’ Parnesius shivered.
“Were they angry with him?’ said Dan.
‘No more angry than wolves in a cage when their
trainer walks among them. If he had turned his back
an instant, or for an instant had ceased to hold their
eyes, there would have been another Emperor made on
the Wall that hour. Was it not so, Faun?’
‘Soit was. So it always will be,’ said Puck.
“Late in the evening his messenger came for us, and
we followed to the Temple of Victory, where he lodged
with Rutilianus, the General of the Wall. I had hardly
seen the General before, but he always gave me leave
when I wished to take Heather. He was a great glutton,
and kept five Asian cooks, and he came of a family that
believed in oracles. We could smell his good dinner
when we entered, but the tables were empty. He lay
snorting on a couch. Maximus sat apart among long
rolls of accounts. Then the doors were shut. |
‘*“-These are your men,’ said Maximus to the General, HH
who propped his eye-corners open with his gouty fingers,
and stared at us like a fish.
***T shall know them again, Cesar,” said Rutilianus.
*“Very good,” said Maximus. “Now hear! You
are not to move man or shield on the Wall except as these
boys shall tell you. You will do nothing, except eat,
163ln \, ee ie ee ee ae eet eae eee ah

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

without their permission. They are the head and arms.
You are the belly!”

: “© As Cesar pleases,” the old man grunted. “If my
| pay and profits are not cut, you may make my Ancestors’
| Oracle my master. Romehasbeen! Rome has been!”
= Then he turned on his side to sleep.

‘<“Te has it,” said Maximus. ‘‘ We will get to what
I need.”’

‘He unrolled full copies of the number of men and
supplies on the Wall—down to the sick that very day
in Hunno Hospital. Oh, but I groaned when his pen
marked off detachment after detachment of our best—
of our least worthless men! He took two towers of our
Scythians, two of our North British auxiliaries, two Nu-
midian cohorts, the Dacians all, and half the Belgians.
It was like an eagle pecking a carcass.

‘And now, how many catapults have you?” He
turned up a new list, but Pertinax laid his open hand
there.

‘No, Cesar,’ saidhe. ‘‘Do not tempt the Gods too
far. Take men, or engines, but not both; else we refuse.”’’

‘Engines?’ said Una.

‘The catapults of the Wall—huge things forty feet
high to the head—firing nets of raw stone or forged bolts.

Nothing can stand against them. He left us our cata-
pults at last, but he took a Cesar’s half of our men with-
out pity. We were a shell when he rolled up the lists!

‘Foil, Caesar! We, about to die, salute you!” said
Pertinax, laughing. ‘‘If any enemy even leans against
the Wall now, it will tumble.”

‘«‘ Give me the three years Allo spoke of,”’ he answered,

ie ‘“‘and you shall have twenty thousand men of your own
i choosing up here. But now it is a gamble—a gameTHE WINGED HATS

played against the Gods, and the stakes are Britain, if
Gaul, and perhaps, Rome. You play on my side?” if
‘** We will play, Cesar,’ I said, for I had never met a
man like this man.
***Good. To-morrow,” said he, “I proclaim you Cap- |
tains of the Wall before the troops.” |
‘So we went into the moonlight, where they were AG
cleaning the ground after the Games. We saw great
Roma Dea atop of the Wall, the frost on her helmet, and
her spear pointed towards the North Star. We saw the
twinkle of night-fires all along the guard towers, and the :
line of the black catapults growing smaller and smaller
in the distance. All these things we knew till we were
weary; but that night they seemed very strange to us,
because the next day we knew we were to be their mas-
ters.
‘The men took the news well; but when Maximus went
away with half our strength, and we had to spread our-
selves into the emptied towers, and the townspeople
complained that trade would be ruined, and the Autumn
gales blew—it was dark days forus two. Here Pertinax
was more than my right hand. Being born and bred
among the great country-houses in Gaul, he knew the f
proper words to address to all—from Roman-born Cen-
turions to those dogs of the Third—the Libyans. And
he spoke to each as though that man were as high- |
minded as himself. Now I saw so strongly what things |
were needed to be done, that I forgot things are only
accomplished by means of men. That was a mistake.
‘I feared nothing from the Picts, at least for that year, |
but Allo warned me that the Winged Hats would soon
come in from the sea at each end of the Wall to prove
to the Picts how weak we were. So I made ready in
165PD Cos Lind sig eet eee DLLs Liat ek badly eh geod eas cette tae | ated ies yea you sala bs. 2 ill dla ea ed ee ee eee ee ie ee Be a

 

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
   

 

 

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PUCK’ DF POOR'S HILL

haste, and none too soon. I shifted our best men to the
ends of the Wall, and set up screened catapults by the
beach. The Winged Hats would drive in before the
snow-squalls—ten or twenty boats at a time—on Sege-
dunum or Ituna, according as the wind blew.

‘Now a ship coming in to land men must furl her sail.
If you wait till you see her men gather up the sail’s foot,
your catapults can jerk a net of loose stones (bolts only
cut through the cloth) into the bag ofit. Thenshe turns
over, and the sea makes everything clean again. A few
men may come ashore, but very few. . . . It was
not hard work, except the waiting on the beach in blow-
ing sand and snow. And that was how we dealt with
the Winged Hats that winter.

‘Early in the Spring, when the East winds blow like
skinning-knives, they gathered again off Segedunum with
many ships. Allo told me they would never rest till they
had taken a tower in open fight. Certainly they fought
in the open. We dealt with them thoroughly through
a long day: and when all was finished, one man dived
clear of the wreckage of his ship, and swam towards shore.
I waited, and a wave tumbled him at my feet.

‘As I stooped, I saw he wore such a medal as I wear.’
Parnesius raised his hand to his neck. ‘Therefore, when
he could speak, I addressed him a certain Question which
can only be answered in a certain manner. He an-
swered with the necessary Word—the Word that belongs
to the Degree of Gryphons in the science of Mithras my
God. I put my shield over him till he could stand up.
You see I am not short, but he was a head taller than I.
He said: “‘ What now?” I said: “At your pleasure, my
brother, to stay or go.”

‘He looked out across the surf. There remained oneTHE WINGED. HATS

ship unhurt, beyond range of our catapults. I checked I
the catapults and he waved her in. She came as a

hound comes to a master. When she was yet a hundred

paces from the beach, he flung back his hair, and swam

out. They hauled himin, and wentaway. I knew that
those who worship Mithras are many and of all races,

so I did not think much more upon the matter.

‘A month later I saw Allo with his horses—by the
Temple of Pan, O Faun—and he gave me a great neck-
lace of gold studded with coral.

‘At first I thought it was a bribe from some tradesman
in the town—meant for old Rutilianus. ‘“‘Nay,’’ said |
Allo. ‘‘This is a gift from Amal, that Winged Hat
whom you saved on the beach. He says you are a
Man.”’ :

‘“Heisa Man,too. Tell him I can wear his gift,” I
answered.

‘“*Oh, Amal is a young fool; but, speaking as sensible
men, your Emperor is doing such great things in Gaul
that the Winged Hats are anxious to be his friends, or,
better still, the friends of his servants. They think you
and Pertinax could lead them to victories.”” Allo looked
at me like a one-eyed raven.

‘*< Allo,”’ I said, ‘‘you are the corn between the two
millstones. Be content if they grind evenly, and don’t
thrust your hand between them.”’ ie

“«19” said Allo. ‘‘I hate Rome and the Winged Hats
equally; but if the Winged Hats thought that some day
you and Pertinax might join them against Maximus,
they would leave you in peace while you considered.

Time is what we need—you and I and Maximus. Let
me carry a pleasant message back to the Winged Hats |
—something for them to make acouncil over. We bar-

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PUCK: OF POOR'S ‘HILL

barians are allalike. We sit up half the night to discuss
anything a Roman says. Eh?”

‘““We have no men. We must fight with words,”
said Pertinax. ‘‘Leave it to Allo and me.”

‘So Allo carried word back to the Winged Hats that
we would not fight them if they did not fight us; and
they (I think they were a little tired of losing men in the
sea) agreed to a sort of truce. I believe Allo, who being
a horse-dealer loved lies, also told them we might some
day rise against Maximus as Maximus had risen against
Rome.

“Indeed, they permitted the corn-ships which I sent
to the Picts to pass North that season without harm.
Therefore the Picts were well fed that winter, and since
they were in some sort my children, I was glad of it.
We had only two thousand men on the Wall, and I wrote
many times to Maximus and begged—prayed—him to
send me only one cohort of my old North British troops.
He could not spare them. He needed them to win more
victories in Gaul.

‘Then came news that he had defeated and slain the
Emperor Gratian, and thinking he must now be secure,
{ wrote again formen. He answered: ‘‘ You will learn
that I have at last settled accounts with the pup Gratian.
There was no need that he should have died, but he
became confused and lost his head, which is a bad thing
to befall any Emperor. Tell your Father I am content
to drive two mules only; for unless my old General’s son
thinks himself destined to destroy me, I shall rest Em-
peror of Gaul and Britain, and then you, my two children,
will presently get all the men you need. Just now I can
spare none.’’’

‘What did he mean by his General’s son?’ said Dan.
168THE WINGED HATS

“He meant Theodosius Emperor of Rome, who was the hI
son of Theodosius the General under whom Maximus had |
fought in the old Pict War. The two men never loved |
each other, and when Gratian made the younger Theo-
dosius Emperor of the East (at least, so I’ve heard),
Maximus carried on the war to the second generation.
It was his fate, and it was his fall. But Theodosius the ete
Emperor is a good man. AsI know.’ Parnesius was
silent for a moment and then continued.
‘I wrote back to Maximus that, though we had peace
on the Wall, I should be happier with a few more men :
and some new catapults. He answered: ““You must
live a little longer under the shadow of my victories, till
I can see what young Theodosius intends. Hemay wel-
come me as a brother-Emperor, or he may be preparing
anarmy. Ineither case I cannot spare men just now.”’’
‘But he was always saying that,’ cried Una.
‘It was true. He did not make excuses; but thanks,
as he said, to the news of his victories, we had no trouble
on the Wall for a long, long time. The Picts grew fat
as their own sheep among the heather, and as many of |
my men as lived were well exercised in their weapons. |
Yes, the Wall looked strong. For myself, I knew how i!
weak we were. I knew that if even a false rumour of
any defeat to Maximus broke loose among the Winged |
Hats, they might come down in earnest, and then—the | i
Wall must go! For the Picts I never cared, but in thuse Hi |
years I learned something of the strength of the Winged
Hats. They increased their strength every day, but
I could not increase my men. Maximus had emptied |
Britain behind us, and I felt myself to be a man with
a rotten stick standing before a broken fence to turn
bulls.
169A Bereta toe eee er Ch ee CPE are Pe

ee eae eet ph iene) ee mara a ety fdei ie aayri oie saps), ee ee Shae de Dee eer nets erat eae

   
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
    
 
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
   

PUCK (OF POOKS- HILL

‘thus, my friends, we lived on the Wall, waiting
-—waiting—waiting for the men that Maximus never
sent.

‘Presently he wrote that he was preparing an army
against Theodosius. He wrote—and Pertinax read it
over my shoulder in our quarters: “‘Tell your Father
that my destiny orders me to drive three mules or be
torn in pieces by them. I hope within a year to finish
with Theodosius, son of Theodosius, once and for all.
Then you shall have Britain to rule, and Pertinax, if he
chooses, Gaul. ‘To-day I wish strongly you were with
me to beat my Auxiliaries into shape. Do not, I pray
you, believe any rumour of my sickness. I havea little
evil in my old body which I shall cure by riding swiftly
into Rome.”

‘Said Pertinax: “It is finished with Maximus. He
writes as aman without hope. I, a man without hope,
can see this. What does he add at the bottom of the
roll? ‘Tell Pertinax I have met his late Uncle, the
Dunmvir of Divio, and that he accounted to me quite
truthfully for all his Mother’s monies. I have sent her
with a fitting escort, for she is the mother of a hero, to
Nicaea, where the climate is warm.’

| ***That is proof,’ said Pertinax. “‘Nicaea is not far

\ by sea from Rome. A woman there could take ship and

fly to Rome in time of war. Yes, Maximus foresees his

death, and is fulfilling his promises one by one. But I
am glad my Uncle met him.”

“You think blackly to-day?”’ I asked.

““TI think truth. The Gods weary of the play we
have played against them. Theodosius will destroy
Maximus. It is finished!”

“Will you write him that?’ I said.

170THE WINGED HATS

***See what I shall write,’’ he answered, and he took Fi
pen and wrote a letter cheerful as the light of day, tender |
as a woman’s and full of jests. Even I, reading over his
shoulder, took comfort from it till—I saw his face!

‘““And now,” he said, sealing it, ““we be two dead
men, my brother. Let us go to the Temple.”

‘We prayed awhile to Mithras, where we had many
times prayed before. After that, we lived day by day
among evil rumours till winter came again.

‘It happened one morning that we rode to the East
shore, and found on the beach a fair-haired man, half
frozen, bound to some broken planks. Turning him
over, we saw by his belt-buckle that he was a Goth of
an Eastern Legion. Suddenly he opened his eyes and
cried loudly, ““He is dead! ‘The letters were with me,
but the Winged Hats sank the ship.’ So saying, he
died between our hands. \

“We asked not who was dead. We knew! We raced
before the driving snow to Hunno, thinking perhaps
Allo might be there. We found him already at our
stables, and he saw by our faces what we had heard.

*““It was in a tent by the sea,’ he stammered. “He
was beheaded by Theodosius. He sent a letter to you,
written while he waited to be slain. The Winged Hats
met the ship and took it. The news is running through
the heather like fire. Blame me not! I cannot hold |
back my young men any more.” |

‘*““T would we could say as much for our men,” said
Pertinax, laughing. “‘But, Gods be praised, they can-
not run away.”

‘**What do you do?” said Allo. “I bring an order—

a message—from the Winged Hats that you join them
with your men, and march South to plunder Britain.”
71Uae

   

ee ey ee a okie: ee ee

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Tt grieves me,” said Pertinax, “‘but we are stationed
here to stop that thing.”

‘Tf T carry back such an answer they will kill me,”
said Allo. “I always promised the Winged Hats that
you would rise when Maximus fell. I—I did not think
he could fall.”’

‘* Alas! my poor barbarian,” said Pertinax, still laugh-
ing. ‘Well, you have sold us too many good ponies to
be thrown back to your friends. We will make you a
prisoner, although you are an ambassador.”’

‘Ves that will be best,” said Allo, holding out a
halter. We bound him lightly, for he was an old
man.

‘Presently the Winged Hats may come to look for
you, and that will give us more time. See how the habit
of playing for time sticks to a man!”’ said Pertinax, as
he tied the rope.

‘No,’ Isaid. ‘“‘Timemay help. If Maximus wrote
us a letter while he was a prisoner, Theodosius must have
sent the ship that brought it. If he can send ships, he
can send men.”

‘Tow will that profit us?” said Pertinax. “We
serve Maximus, not Theodosius. Even if by some
miracle of the Gods Theodosius down South sent and
saved the Wall, we could not expect more than the
death Maximus died.”

‘‘Tt concerns us to defend the Wall, no matter what
Emperor dies, or makes die,” I said.

‘That is worthy of your brother the philosopher,”
said Pertinax. ‘‘Myself I am without hope, so I do not
say solemn and stupid things! Rouse the Wall!”

‘We armed the Wall from end to end; we told the
officers that there was a rumour of Maximus’s death
172THE WINGED HATS

which might bring down the Winged Hats, but we were
sure, even if it were true, that Theodosius, for the sake
of Britain, would send us help. Therefore, we must
stand fast. . . . My friends, it is above all things
strange to see how men bear ill news! Often the strong-
est till then become the weakest, while the weakest, as
it were, reach up and steal strength from the Gods.
So it was with us. Yet my Pertinax by his jests and his
courtesy and his labours had put heart and training into
our poor numbers during the past years—more than I
should have thought possible. Even our Libyan cohort
—the Thirds—stood up in their padded cuirasses and
did not whimper.

‘In three days came seven chiefs and elders of the
Winged Hats. Among them was that tall young man,
Amal, whom I had met on the beach, and he smiled
when he saw my necklace. We made them welcome,
for they were ambassadors. Weshowed them Allo, alive
but bound. They thought we had killed him, and I saw
it would not have vexed them if we had. Allo saw it too,
and it vexed him. Then in our quarters at Hunno we
came to Council.

‘They said that Rome was falling, and that we must
jointhem. ‘They offered me all South Britain to govern
after they had taken a tribute out of it.

‘I answered, ‘‘Patience. This Wall is not weighed
off like plunder. Give me proof that my General is
dead.”’

‘““Nay,’ said one elder, ‘prove to us that he lives”’;
and another said, cunningly, ‘‘What will you give us
if we read you his last words?”

‘«“We are not merchants to bargain,” cried Amal.
“Moreover, I owe this man my life. He shall have his
173

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PUCK! OF 'POOK’S HILL

proof.’’ He threw across to me a letter (well I knew
the seal) from Maximus.

‘<“We took this out of the ship we sank,” hecried. ‘“‘I
cannot read, but I know one sign, at least, which makes
me believe.”’ He showed me a dark stain on the outer
roll that my heavy heart perceived was the valiant
blood of Maximus.

***Read!’’ said Amal. ‘“‘Read, and then let us hear
whose servants you are!”

‘Said Pertinax, very softly, after he had looked
through it: “I will read it all. Listen, barbarians!”
He read that which I have carried next my heart ever
since.’

Parnesius drew from his neck a folded and spotted
piece of parchment, and began in a hushed voice:—

*““'To Parnesius and Pertinax, the not unworthy Cap-
tains of the Wall, from Maximus, once Emperor of Gaul
and Britain, now prisoner waiting death by the sea in
the camp of Theodosius—Greeting and Good-bye!”

‘““Enough,”’ said young Amal; ‘“‘there is your proof!
You must join us now!”’

‘Pertinax looked long and silently at him, till that fair
man blushed like a girl. Then read Pertinax:—

‘“*T have joyfully done much evil in my life to those
who have wished me evil, but if ever I did any evil to
you two I repent, and I ask your forgiveness. The
three mules which I strove to drive have torn me in
pieces as your Father prophesied. The naked swords
wait at the tent door to give me the death I gave to
Gratian. Therefore I, your General and your Emperor,
send you free and honourable dismissal from my service,
which you entered, not for money or office, but, as it
makes me warm to believe, because you loved me!”’
174THE WINGED HATS

*“By the Light of the Sun,’’ Amal brokein. ‘This
was in some sorta Man! Wemay have been mistaken
in his servants!”’

‘And Pertinax read on: ‘‘ You gave me the time for
which I asked. If I have failed to useit, do not lament.
We have gambled very splendidly against the Gods, but
they hold weighted dice, and I must pay the forfeit.
Remember, I have been; but Romeis; and Rome will be.
Tell Pertinax his Mother is in safety at Nicaea, and her
monies are in charge of the Prefect at Antipolis. Make
my remembrances to your Father and to your Mother,
whose friendship was great gain to me. Give also to
my little Picts and to the Winged Hats such messages as
their thick heads can understand. I would have sent
you three Legions this very day if all had gone aright.
Do not forget me. We have worked together. Fare-
well! Farewell! Farewell!’

‘Now, that was my Emperor’s last letter.” (The
children heard the parchment crackle as Parnesius re-
turned it to its place.)

***T was mistaken,’’ said Amal. ‘“‘The servants of
such a man will sell nothing except over the sword. I
am glad of it.” He held out his hand to me.

‘**But Maximus has given you your dismissal,”’ said
anelder. ‘‘ You arecertainly free to serve—or to rule—
whom you please. Join—do not follow—join us!”

‘<“We thank you,” said Pertinax. “But Maximus
tells us to give you such messages as—pardon me, but I
use his words—your thick heads can understand.” He
pointed through the door to the foot of acatapult wound
up.

‘*“We understand,” said an elder. ‘“‘The Wall must
be won at a price?”

 

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PUCK OF -POOK'S HILL

‘Tt grieves me,”’ said Pertinax, laughing, “but so it
must be won,”’’ and he gave them of our best Southern
wine.

‘They drank, and wiped their yellow beards in silence
till they rose to go.

‘Said Amal, stretching himself (for they were barba-
rians), ‘‘ We be a goodly company; I wonder what the
ravens and the dogfish will make of some of us before
this snow melts.”

‘*“Think rather what Theodosius may send,” I an-
swered; and though they laughed, I saw that my chance
shot troubled them.

‘Only old Allo lingered behind a little.

‘*“Vou see,” he said, winking and blinking, “‘I am no
more thantheirdog. WhenI haveshown their men the
secret short ways across our bogs, they will kick me
like one.”’

‘**Then I should not be in haste to show them those
ways,”’ said Pertinax, ‘‘till I was sure that Rome could
not save the Wall.”

‘“-Vouthinkso? Woeisme!’’saidtheoldman. “I
only wanted peace for my people,” and he went out
stumbling through the snow behind the tall Winged
laits.

‘In this fashion then, slowly, a day at a time, which
is very bad for doubting troops, the War came upon us.
At first the Winged Hats swept in from the sea as they
had done before, and there we met them as before—
with the catapults; and they sickened of it. Yet fora
long time they would not trust their duck-legs on land,
and I think when it came to revealing the secrets of the
tribe, the little Picts were afraid or ashamed to show
them all the roads across the heather. I had this from
176eae ee ea a ee ee cc

  

THE WINGED HATS

a Pict prisoner. They were as much our spies as our
enemies, for the Winged Hats oppressed them, and took
their winter stores. Ah, foolish Little People!

“Then the Winged Hats began to roll us up from each
end of the Wall. Isent runners Southward to see what
the news might be in Britain, but the wolves were very
bold that winter, among the deserted stations where the
troops had once been, and none came back. We had
trouble too with the forage for the ponies along the
Wall. I kept ten, and so did Pertinax. We lived and
slept in the saddle, riding east or west, and we ate our
worn-out ponies. ‘The people of the town also made us
some trouble till I gathered them all in one quarter
behind Hunno. We broke down the Wall on either side
of it tomakeasit wereacitadel. Ourmen fought better
in close order.

‘By the end of the second month we were deep in the
War as a man is deep ina snowdrift orina dream. I
think we fought in our sleep. At least I know I have
gone on the Wall and come off again, remembering
nothing between, though my throat was harsh with
giving orders, and my sword, I could see, had been used.

‘The Winged Hats fought like wolves—all in a pack.
Where they had suffered most, there they charged in
most hotly. This was hard for the defender, but it held
them from sweeping on into Britain.

‘In those days Pertinax and I wrote on the plaster of
the bricked archway into Valentia the names of the
towers, and the days on which they fellone by one. We
wished for some record.

‘And the fighting? The fight was always hottest to
left and right of the great statue of Roma Dea, near to
Rutilianus’s house. By the Light of the Sun, that old
BATieee teed

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

fat man, whom we had not considered at all, grew young
again among the trumpets! I remember he said his
sword was an oracle! ‘‘Let us consult the Oracle,’* he
would say, and put the handle against his ear, and shake
his head wisely. ‘“‘And this day is allowed Rutilianus
to live,’’ he would say, and, tucking up his cloak, he
would puff and pant and fight well. Oh, there were jests
in plenty on the Wall to take the place of food!

‘We endured for two months and seventeen days—
always being pressed from three sides into a smaller
space. Several times Allo sent in word that help was
at hand. We did not believe it, but it cheered our
men.

“The end came not with shoutings of joy, but, like the
rest,asinadream. The Winged Hats suddenly left us
in peace for one night, and the next day; which is too
long forspentmen. Weslept at first lightly, expecting
to be roused, and then like logs, each where he lay.
May you never need such sleep! When I waked, our
towers were full of strange, armed men, who watched us
snoring. [roused Pertinax, and we leaped up together.

‘““ What?’ said a young man incleanarmour. “‘Do
you fight against Theodosius? Look!”

‘North we looked over the red snow. No Winged
Hats werethere. South we looked over the white snow,
and behold there were the Eagles of two strong Legions
encamped. East and west we saw flame and fighting,
but by Hunno all was still.

*“Trouble no more,” said the young man. ‘“‘Rome’s
armislong. Where are the Captains of the Wall?”

‘We said we were those men.

‘**But you are old and gray-haired,’’ hecried. ‘“‘Maxi-
mus said that they were boys.”’

178THE WINGED HATS

‘Yes, that was true some years ago,” said Pertinax.
“What is our fate to be, you fine and well-fed child?”

‘Tam called Ambrosius, a secretary of the Emperor,”
he answered. “‘Show mea certain letter which Maxi-
mus wrote from a tent at Aquileia, and perhaps I will
believe.”’

‘I took it from my breast, and when he had read it he
saluted us, saying: ‘‘ Your fate is in yourownhands. If
you choose to serve Theodosius, he will give you a
Legion. If it suits you to go to your homes, we will
give you a Triumph.”

‘““T would like better a bath, wine, food, razors, soaps,
oils, and scents,” said Pertinax, laughing.

“Oh, I see you are a boy,” said Ambrosius. “And
you?” turning to me.

“We bear no ill-will against Theodosius, but in
War—’’ I began.

' “In War it is as it is in Love,” said Pertinax.
~ Whether she be good or bad, one gives one’s best once,
tooneonly. That given, there remains no second worth
giving or taking.”’

*“ That is true,” said Ambrosius. ‘‘I was with Maxi-
Mus before he died. He warned Theodosius that you
would never serve him, and frankly I say I am sorry for
my Emperor.’’

‘““He has Rome to console him,” said Pertinax. “I
ask you of your kindness to let us go to our homes and
get this smell out of our nostrils.’’

‘None the less they gave us a Triumph!’

‘It was well earned,’ said Puck, throwing some leaves
into the still water of the marlpit. The black, oily
circles spread dizzily as the children watched them.
179tT Laat Cae eae eerie

     
    
     
   
  
  
 
    
    

 

 

OT ee RR Ey ee Ree Tar rE,
AT te OPar eater aaeaae tS aaah Pata arias ed fad Poon PPeeeaean Pains eer aot Sea Nae

 

PUCKNOBRSCPOOKS EUILL

‘IT want to know, oh, ever so many things,’ said Dan.
“What happened to old Allo? Did the Winged Hats
ever come back? And what did Amal do?’

“And what happened to the fat old General with the
five cooks?’ said Una. ‘And what did your Mother say
when you came home?

‘She’d say you're settin’ too iene over this old pit, so
late as “tis already,’ said old Hobden’s voice behind
them. ‘Hst!’ he whispered.

He stood still, for not twenty paces away a magnifi-
cent dog-fox sat on his haunches and looked at the
children as though he were an old friend of theirs.

‘Oh, Mus’ Reynolds, Mus’ Reynolds!’ said Hobden,
under his breath. ‘If I knowed all was inside your
head, I’d know something wuth knowin’. Mus’ Dan
an’ Miss Una, come along o’ me while I lock up my
liddle hen-house.’ee

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

A PICT SONG

Rome never looks where she treads,
Always her heavy hooves fall,
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads3
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on—that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords. |

We are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate.

Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the Great!

We are the worm in the wood?
Weare the rot at the root!

We are the germ in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak—
Rats gnawing cables in two—
Moths making holes in a cloak—
How they must love what they do!
Yes,—and we Little Folk too,
We are as busy as they—
Working our works out of view—
Watch, and you'll see it some day!
181DBT HPP acoeae ode PSL Yeh ear Pa aed eea parent oie Parser nar nek Th aoe? ttaleiniepeyaet UE es VE eae Seca ee Pd CoE Ee

     
   
  
 
  
  
   

PUCK OF POOK S BMIEE

No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you—you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!

We are the Little Folk, we, ete.HAL O’ THE DRAFTProphets have honour all over the Earth,

Except in the village where they were born;
Where such as knew them boys from birth,
Nature-ally hold ’em in scorn.

When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,
They make a won’erful grievance of it;
(You can see by their writings how they complain),
But O, ’tis won’erful good for the Prophet! |

There’s nothing Nineveh Town can give
(Nor being swallowed by whales between),
Makes up for the place where a man’s folk live,
That don’t care nothing what he has been.
He might ha’ been that, or he might ha’ been this,
But they love and they hate him for what he is.Re as

a

 

 

 

1
4

ra saeaiest.HAL O’ THE DRAFT

RAINY afternoon drove Dan and Una over to
play pirates in the Little Mill. If you don’t
mind rats on the rafters and oats in your shoes,
the mill-attic, with its trap-doors and inscriptions on the
beams about floods and sweethearts, is a splendid place.
It is lighted by a foot-square window, called Duck Win-
dow, that looks across to Little Lindens Farm, and the
spot where Jack Cade was killed.

When they had climbed the attic ladder (they called
it ‘the mainmast-tree,’ out of the ballad of Sir Andrew ]
Barton, and Dan ‘swarved it with might and main,’ as
the ballad says) they sawa man sitting on Duck Window-
sill. He was dressed in a plum-coloured doublet and
tight plum-coloured hose, and he drew busily in a red-
edged book.

“Sit ye! Sit ye!’ Puck cried from a rafter overhead. h
‘See what it is to be beautiful! Sir Harry Dawe—
pardon, Hal—says I am the very image of a head fora
gargoyle.’ ie

The man laughed and raised his dark velvet cap to the |
children, and his grizzled hair bristled out in a stormy
fringe. He was old—forty at least—but his eyes were
young, with funny little wrinkles all round them. <A
satchel of embroidered leather hung from his broad belt,
which looked interesting.

‘May we see?’ said Una, coming forward.

187Por eS RANE ate DS PaeS aa SoD SAND TIPO eae ane Deo PSE NE PEN Pa Ate DOT SPP Dae SEE, oo

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOKS BIEL

‘Surely—sure-ly!’ he said, moving up on the window-
seat, and returned to his work with a silver-pointed
pencil. Puck sat as though the grin were fixed for ever
on his broad face, while they watched the quick, certain
fingers that copied it. Presently the man took a reed
pen from his satchel, and trimmed it with a little ivory
knife, carved in the semblance of a fish.

‘Oh, what a beauty!’ cried Dan.

‘*Ware fingers! That blade is perilous sharp. I
made it myself of the best Low Country cross-bow steel.
And so, too, this fish. When his back-fin travels to his
tail—so—he swallows up the blade, even as the whale
swallowed Gaffer Jonah. . . . Yes, and that’s my
ink-horn. Imadethefoursilversaintsroundit. Press
Barnabas’s head. It opens, and then—’ He dipped
the trimmed pen, and with careful boldness began to put
in the essential lines of Puck’s rugged face, that had
been but faintly revealed by the silver-point.

The children gasped, for it fairly leaped from the
page.

As he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, he talked
—now clearly, now muttering, now breaking off to
frown or smile at his work. He told them he was born
at Little Lindens Farm, and his father used to beat him
for drawing things instead of doing things, till an old
priest called Father Roger, who drew illuminated letters
in rich people’s books, coaxed the parents to let him
take the boy asa sort of painter’s apprentice. Then he
went with Father Roger to Oxford, where he cleaned
plates and carried cloaks and shoes for the scholars of a
College called Merton.

‘Didn’t you hate that?’ said Dan after a great many
other questions.HAL O’ THE DRAFT

‘I never thought on’t. Half Oxford was building new i
colleges or beautifying the old, and she had called to \|
her aid the master-craftsmen of all Christendie—kings |
in their trade and honoured of Kings. I knew them.
I worked for them: that was enough. No wonder—’
He stopped and laughed. !
‘You became a great man, Hal,’ said Puck.
They said so, Robin. Even Bramante said so.’
‘Why? What did you do?’ Dan asked.
The artist looked at him queerly. ‘Things in stone
and such, up and down England. You would not have
heard of ’°em. To come nearer home, I re-builded this
little St. Barnabas’ Church of ours. It cost me more
trouble and sorrow than aught I’ve touched in my life,
But ’twas a sound lesson.’
‘Um,’ said Dan. ‘We’ve had lessons this morning.’
‘I'll not afflict ye, lad,’ said Hal, while Puck roared.
‘Only *tis strange to think how that little church was
re-built, re-roofed, and made slorious, thanks to some
few godly Sussex ironmasters, a Bristow sailor lad, a
proud ass called Hal o’ the Draft because, d’you see, he
was always drawing and drafting; and’—he dragged the
words slowly—‘and a Scotch pirate.’ iA
‘Pirate?’ said Dan. He wriggled like a hooked
fish. He
‘Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on the Hd
Stair just now.’ He dipped again in the ink-well, and }
held his breath over a sweeping line, as though he had
forgotten everything else.
‘Pirates don’t build churches, do they?’ said Dan. |
‘Or do they?’
‘They help mightily,’ Hallaughed. ‘But you were at
your lessons this morn, Jack Scholar.’
189Bay
yes

Te rye
Si

CPP aP Poca Nodes ak SPS SEL AERIS PREPS ES pL Aet taee Peg) bee Bee

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Oh, pirates aren’tlessons. It was only Bruce and his
silly old spider,’ said Una. ‘Why did Sir Andrew Bar-
ton help you?’

‘I question if he ever knew it,’ said Hal, twinkling.
‘Robin, how a’ mischief’s name am J to tell these inno-
cents what comes of sinful pride?’

‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Una pertly. at
you get too beany—that’s cheeky—you get sat upon, of
course.’

Hal considered a moment, pen in air, and Puck said
some long words.

‘Aha! that was my case too,’ hecried. “Beany—you
say—but certainly I did not conduct myself well. Iwas
proud of—of such things as porches—a Galilee porch
at Lincoln for choice—proud of one Torrigiano’s arm on
my shoulder, proud in some sort of my knighthood when
I made the gilt scroll-work for the ‘‘Sovereign’’—our
King’s ship. But Father Roger sitting in Merton Col-
lege Library, he did not forget me. At the top of my
pride, when I and no other should have builded the
porch at Lincoln, he laid it on me with his terrible fore-
finger to go back to my Sussex clays and re-build, at my
own charges, my own church, where us Dawes have
been buried for six generations. “Out! Son of my
Art!” said he. ‘‘Fight the Devil at home ere you call
yourself aman and acraftsman.”’ And I quaked, and
I went. . . . How’s yon, Robin?’ He flourished
the finished sketch before Puck.

‘Me! Me past peradventure,’ said Puck, smirking
like aman atamirror. ‘Ah, see! The rain has took
off! I hate housen in daylight.’

‘Whoop! Holiday!’ cried Hal, leaping up. “Who’s
for my Little Lindens? We can talk there.’

190HAL 0’ THE DRAFT

They tumbled downstairs, and turned past the drip-
ping willows by the sunny mill-dam.

‘Body o’ me,’ said Hal, staring at the hop-garden,
where the hops were just ready to blossom. ‘What are
these? Vines? No, not vines, and they twine the wrong
way to beans.’ He began to draw in his ready book.

‘Hops. New since your day,’ said Puck. *They’re
an herb of Mars, and their flowers dried flavour ale.
We say—

“Turkeys, Heresy, Hops, and Beer
Came into England all in one year.’

‘Heresy Iknow. I’ve seen Hops—God be praised for
their beauty! What is your Turkis?’

The children laughed. They knew the Lindens tur-
keys, and as soon as they reached Lindens orchard on
the hill the full flock charged at them.

Out came Hal’s book at once. ‘Hoity-toity!’ he
cried. ‘“Here’s Pridein purplefeathers! Here’s wrathy
contempt and the Pomps of the Flesh! How d’you call
them?’

‘Turkeys! Turkeys!’ the children shouted, as the old
gobbler raved and flamed against Hal’s plum-coloured
hose.

‘’Save Your Magnificence!’ he said. ‘I’ve drafted
two good new things to-day.’ And he doffed his cap
to the bubbling bird.

Then they walked through the grass to the knoll
where Little Lindens stands. The old farmhouse,
weather-tiled to the ground, took almost the colour of a
blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked
at the mortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had
191PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

lived under the tiles since it was built filled the hot
August air with their booming; and the smell of the box-
tree by the dairy-window mixed with the smell of earth
after rain, bread after baking, and a tickle of wood-
smoke.

The farmer’s wife came to the door, baby on arm,
shaded her brows against the sun, stooped to pluck a
sprig of rosemary, and turned down the orchard. The
old spaniel in his barrel barked once or twice to show he
was in charge of the empty house. Puck clicked back
the garden-gate.

‘D’you marvel that I love it?’ said Hal, in a whisper.
‘What can town folk know of the nature of housen—or
land?’

They perched themselves arow on the old hacked oak
bench in Lindens garden, looking across the valley of
the brook at the fern-covered dimples and hollows of
the Forge behind Hobden’s cottage. The old man was
cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. It was
quite a second after his chopper fell that the chump of
the blow reached their lazy ears.

‘Eh—yeh!’ said Hal. ‘I mind when where that old
gaffer stands was Nether Forge—Master John Collins’s
foundry. Many anight has his big trip-hammer shook
meinmybedhere. ‘‘Boom-bitty! Boom-bitty!” If
| the wind was east, I could hear Master Tom Collins’s
iy forge at Stockens answering his brother, ‘““Boom-oop!
Boom-oop!”’ and midway between, Sir John Pelham’s
sledge-hammers at Brightling would strike in like a
pack o’ scholars, and ‘‘ Hic-haec-hoc”’ they’d say, “‘ Hic-
i haec-hoc,”’ till I fell asleep. Yes. The valley was as
| full o’ forges and fineries as a May shaw o’ cuckoos.
i All gone to grass now!’

on
oy

NATRR TETRIS

Tae a Ol ae hak aaa Os a aaFAL O? THE ‘DRAPT

‘What did they make?’ said Dan.

‘Guns for the King’s ships—and for others. Serpen-
tines and cannon mostly. When the guns were cast,
down would come the King’s Officers, and take our
plough-oxen to haul them to the coast. Look! Here's
one of the first and finest craftsmen of the Sea!’

He fluttered back a page of his book, and showed
them a young man’s head. Underneath was written:
“Sebastianus.’

‘He came down with a King’s Order on Master John
Collins for twenty serpentines (wicked little cannon
they be!) to furnish a venture of ships. I drafted him
thus sitting by our fire telling Mother of the new lands
he’d find the far side the world. And he found them,
too! There’s a nose to cleave through unknown seas!
Cabot was his name—a Bristol lad—half a foreigner.
I set a heap by him. He helped me to my church-
building.’

‘I thought that was Sir Andrew Barton,’ said Dan.

‘Ay, but foundations before roofs,’ Hal answered.
‘Sebastian first put me in the way of it. I had come
down here, not to serve God as acraftsman should, but
to show my people how great acraftsmanI was. They
cared not, and it served me right, one split straw for
my craft or my greatness. What a murrain call had I,
they said, to mell with old St. Barnabas’? Ruinous the
church had been since the Black Death, and ruinous
she should remain; and I could hang myself in my new
scaffold-ropes! Gentle and simple, high and low—the
Hayes, the Fowles, the Fenners, the Collinses—they
were all in a tale against me. Only Sir John Pelham
up yonder at Brightling bade me heart-up and go on.
Yet how could 12 Did I ask Master Collins for his
193PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

timber-tug to haul beams? The oxen had gone to
Lewes after lime. Did he promise me a set of iron
cramps or ties for the roof? They never came to hand,
or else they were spaulty or cracked. So with every-
thing. Nothing said, but naught done except I stood
by them, and then done amiss. [ thought the country-
side was fair bewitched.’

‘It was, sure-ly,’ said Puck, knees under chin. ‘Did
you never suspect ary one?’

‘Not till Sebastian came for his guns, and John Collins
played him the same dog’s tricks as he’d played me with
my ironwork. Week in, week out, two of three serpen-
tines would be flawed in the casting, and only fit, they
said, to be remelted. Then John Collins would shake
his head, and vow he could pass no cannon for the King’s
service that were not perfect. Saints! How Sebastian
stormed! I know, for we sat on this bench sharing our
sorrows inter-common.

‘When Sebastian had fumed away six weeks at Lin-
dens and gotten just six serpentines, Dirk Brenzett,
Master of the ‘‘Cygnet’’ hoy, sends me word that the
block of stone he was fetching me from France for our
new font he’d hove overboard to lighten his ship, chased
by Andrew Barton up to Rye Port.’

‘Ah! The pirate!’ said Dan.

‘Yes. And while I am tearing my hair over this,
Ticehurst Will, my best mason, comes to me shaking,
and vowing that the Devil, horned, tailed, and chained,
has run out on him from the church-tower, and the men
would work thereno more. SoI took ’em off the foun-
dations, which we were strengthening, and went into the
Bell Tavern foracupofale. Says Master John Collins:

‘Have it yeur own way, lad; but if I was you, I’d take
194HAL 0’ THE DRAFT

the sinnification o’ the sign, and leave old Barnabas’
Church alone!”’ And they all wagged their sinful heads,
and agreed. Less afraid of the Devil than of me—as ]
saw later.

‘When I brought my sweet news to Lindens, Sebas-
tian was limewashing the kitchen-beams for Mother.
He loved her like a son.

‘“*Cheer up, lad,” he says. ‘‘God’s where He was.
Only you and I chance to be pure pute asses. We've
been tricked, Hal, and more shame to me, a Sailor, that
I did not guess it before! You must leave your belfry
alone, forsooth, because the Devil is adrift there; and I
cannot get my serpentines because John Collins cannot
cast them aright. Meantime Andrew Barton hawks
off the Port of Rye. And why? To take those very
serpentines which poor Cabot must whistle for; the said
serpentines, I’ll wager my share of new Continents, be-
ing now hid away in St. Barnabas’ church-tower. Clear
as the Irish coast at noonday!”’

‘““They’d sure never dare to do it,’’ I said; ‘‘and, for
another thing, selling cannon to the King’s enemies is
black treason—hanging and fine.”

‘““Itis sure, large profit. Men’ll dare any gallows for
that. I have been a trader myself,” says he. ‘‘We
must be upsides with ’em for the honour of Bristol.”

‘Then he hatched a plot, sitting on the limewash
bucket. We gave out torideo’ Tuesday to London and
made a show of taking farewells of our friends—especially
of Master John Collins. But at Wadhurst Woods we
turned; rode home to the water-meadows: hid our horses
in a willow-tot at the foot of the glebe, and, come night,
Stole a-tiptoe up hill to Barnabas’ Church again. A
thick mist, and a moon striking through.

19534]
Wit)

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Thad no sooner locked the tower-door behind us than
over goes Sebastian full length in the dark.

<< Pest!? he says. ‘‘Step high and feel low, Hal.
I’ve stumbled over guns before.”

‘I groped, and one by one—the tower was pitchy dark
J counted the lither barrels of twenty serpentines laid
out on pease straw. No conceal at all!

‘<< There’s two demi-cannon my end,”’ says Sebastian,
slappingmetal. ~ They'll be for Andrew Barton’s lower
deck. Honest—honest John Collins! So this is his
warehouse, his arsenal, his armoury! Now, see you why
your pokings and pryings have raised the Devil in Sus-
sex? You've hindered John’s lawful trade for montis,”
and he laughed where he lay.

‘A clay-cold tower 1s no fireside at midnight, so we
climbed the belfry stairs, and there Sebastian trips over
4 cow-hide with its horns and tail.

«Aha! Your Devil has left his doublet! Does
it become me, Hal?” He draws it on and capers
in the slits of window-moonlight won’erful devilish-
like. Then he sits on the stairs, rapping with his tail

on a board, and his back-aspect was dreader than his
front, and a howlet lit in, and screeched at the horns of
him.

‘Tf you'd keep out the Devil, shut the door,” he
whispered. ‘And that’s another false proverb, Hal, for
I can hear your tower-door opening.”

‘“Tlockedit. Who a-plague has another key, then?”’
I said.

<All the congregation, to judge by their feet,’ he
says, and peers into the blackness. ‘‘Still! Still, Hal!
Hear ’em grunt! That’smoreo’ my serpentines, Ill be
bound. One—two—three—four they bear in! Faith,
196HAL O°: THE DRAFT

Andrew equips himself like an admiral! Twenty-four
serpentines in all!”

‘As if it had been an echo, we heard John Collins’s
voice come up all hollow: “‘ Twenty-four serpentines and
two demi-cannon. That’s the full tally for Sir Andrew
Barton.”

‘Courtesy costs naught,’ whispers Sebastian.
‘Shall I drop my dagger on his head?”’

'*“They go over to Rye o’ Thursday in the wool-wains,
hid under the wool packs. Dirk Brenzett meets them
at Udimore, as before,”’ says John.

‘“*Lord! What a worn, handsmooth trade it is!’
says Sebastian. ‘“‘I lay we are the sole two babes in the
village that have not our lawful share in the venture.”’

‘There was a full score folk below, talking like all
Robertsbridge Market. We counted them by voice.

‘Master John Collins pipes: “‘ The guns for the French
carrack must lieherenext month. Will, when does your
young fool (me, so please you!) come back from Lun-
non?”

***No odds,” I heard Ticehurst Will answer. ‘‘Lay
‘em just where you’ve a mind, Mus’ Collins. We’re
all too afraid o’ the Devil to mell with the tower now.”
And the long knave laughed.

*** Ah! ’tis easy enow for you to raise the Devil, Will,”
says another—Ralph Hobden of the Forge.

‘*“Aaa-men!’’ roars Sebastian, and ere I could hold
him, he leaps down the stairs—won’ erful devilish-like—
howling no bounds. He had scarce time to lay out for
the nearest than they ran. Saints, how they ran! We
heard them pound on the door of the Bell Tavern, and
then we ran too.

*““What’s next?”’ says Sebastian, looping up his cow-
197Q
aa

 

 

 

yi
Tee
Jyhyh

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

tail as he leaped the briars. ‘‘I’ve broke honest John’s
face.”

‘<‘Ride to Sir John Pelham’s,’’ I said. ‘‘He is the
only one that ever stood by me.”

‘We rode to Brightling, and past Sir John’s lodges,
where the keepers would have shot at us for deer-stealers,
and we had Sir John down into his Justice’s chair, and
when we had told him our tale and showed him the cow-
hide which Sebastian wore still girt about him, he
laughed till the tears ran.

‘<< Wel-a-well!’’ hesays. ‘‘I’ll see justice done before
daylight. What’s your complaint?’ Master Collins is
my old friend.”’

‘<<TJe’s none of mine,’ Icried. ‘“‘WhenI think how
he and his likes have baulked and dozened and cozened
me at every turn over the church”—and I choked at
the thought.

«* Ah but ye see now they needed it for another use,”
says he, smoothly.

‘““So they did my serpentines,” Sebastian cries. “I
should be half across the Western Ocean by now if my
guns had been ready. But they’re sold to a Scotch
pirate by your old friend.”

‘«“Where’s your proof?”’ says Sir John, stroking his
beard.

««T broke my shins over them not an hour since, and I
heard John give order where they were to be taken,”
says Sebastian.

‘Words! Words only,” says Sir John. “Master
Collins is somewhat of a liar at best.”

‘He carried it so gravely that, for the moment, I
thought he was dipped in this secret traffick too, and
that there was not an honest ironmaster in Sussex.

198HAL 0’ THE DRAFT

‘““Name o’ Reason!” says Sebastian, and raps with
his cow-tail on the table, ‘‘whose guns are they, then?” i

**“Yours, manifestly,’ says Sir John. ‘‘You come
with the King’s Order for ’em, and Master Collins casts
them in his foundry. If he chooses to bring them up
from Nether Forge and lay ’em out in the church-tower,
why they are e’en so much the nearer to the main road,
and you are saved a day’s hauling. What a coil to
make of a mere act of neighbourly kindness, lad!”

‘IT fear I have requited him very scurvily,” says
Sebastian, looking at his knuckles. ‘‘But what of the
demi-cannon? I could do with ’em well, but they are
not in the King’s Order.”’

‘“ Kindness—loving-kindness,”’ says Sir John. ‘“‘Ques-
tionless, in his zeal for the King and his love for you,

John adds those two cannon as a gift. ’Tis plain as
this coming daylight, ye stockfish!”’ \

*“*So itis,” says Sebastian. ‘‘Oh, Sir John, Sir John,
why did you never use the sea? You are lost ashore.”’
And he looked on him with great love.

**“*T do my best in my station.’’ Sir John strokes his
beard again and rolls forth his deep drumming Justice’s
voice thus: ‘‘But—suffer me!—you two lads, on some
midnight frolic into which I probe not, roystering around
the taverns, surprise Master Collins at his’”—he thinks |
a moment—“‘at his good deeds done by stealth. Ye | |
surprise him, I say, cruelly.”’

“Truth, Sir John. If you had seen him run!” says
Sebastian.

***On this you ride breakneck to me with a tale of
pirates, and wool-wains, and cow-hides, which, though
it hath moved my mirth as a man, offendeth my reason
asamagistrate. SoI will e’en accompany you back to
199— PPE Pr eear ie MTSE a Tete er Ce ae eC

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

the tower with, perhaps, some few of my own people,
and three-four wagons, and I’ll be your warrant that
Master John Collins will freely give you your guns and
your demi-cannon, Master Sebastian.’’ He breaks into
his proper voice—‘‘I warned the old tod and his neigh-
bours long ago that they’d come to trouble with their
side-sellings and bye-dealings; but we cannot have half
Sussex hanged for a little gun-running. Are ye con-
tent, lads?”

‘“<1’d commit any treason for two demi-cannon, ” said
Sebastian, and rubs his hands.

“Ve have just compounded with rank treason-felony
for the same bribe,” says Sir John. “Wherefore to
horse, and get the guns.”’’

‘But Master Collins meant the guns for Sir Andrew
Barton all along, didn’t he?’ said Dan.

‘Questionless, that he did,’ said Hal. ‘But he lost
them. We poured into the village on the red edge of
dawn, Sir John horsed, in half-armour, his pennon flying;
behind him thirty stout Brightling knaves, five abreast;
behind them four wool-wains, and behind them four
trumpets to triumph over the Jest, blowing: “‘Our King
went forth to Normandie.” When we halted and rolled
the ringing guns out of the tower, ’twas for all the world
like Friar Roger’s picture of the French siege in the
Queen’s Missal-book.’

‘And what did we—I mean, what did our village do?’
said Dan.

‘Oh! Bore it nobly—nobly,’ cried Hal. ‘Though
they had tricked me, I was proud of them. They
came out of their housen, looked at that little army
as though it had been a post, and went their shut-
mouthed way. Neverasign! Never aword! They'd
200HAL O’ THE DRAFT

ha’ perished sooner than let Brightling overcrow us.
Even that villain, Ticehurst Will, coming out of the
Bell for his morning ale, he all but runs under Sir
John’s horse.

‘“* Ware, Sirrah Devil!’ cries Sir John, reining
back.

“Oh!” says Will. ‘“‘ Market day, isit? And all the
bullocks from Brightling here?”’

‘I spared him his belting for that—the brazen knave!

‘But John Collins was our masterpiece! He hap-
pened along-street (his jaw tied up where Sebastian had
clouted him) when we were trundling the first demi-
cannon through the lych-gate.

*““T reckon you'll find her middlin’ heavy,’’ he says.
“Tf you’ve a mind to pay, I’ll loan ye my timber-tug.
She won’t lie easy on ary wool-wain.”’

“That was the one time I ever saw Sebastian taken
flat aback. He opened and shut his mouth, fishy-
like.

***No offence,” says Master John. ‘‘You’ve got her
reasonable good cheap. I thought ye might not grudge
mea groatif I helped move her.”’ Ah, he was a master-
piece! They say that morning’s work cost our John
two hundred pounds, and he never winked an eye-
lid, not even when he saw the guns all carted off to
Lewes.’

‘Neither then nor later?’ said Puck.

‘Once. ’Twas after he gave St. Barnabas’ the new
chime of bells. (Oh, there was nothing the Collinses,
or the Hayes, or the Fowles, or the Fenners would not
do for the church then! ‘‘Ask and have’’ was their
song.) We had rung ’em in, and he was in the tower
with Black Nick Fowle, that gave us our rood-screen.
201PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

The old man pinches the bell-rope one hand and scratches
his neck with t’other. ‘‘’Sooner she was pulling yon
clapper than my neck,” he says. That was all! That
was Sussex—seely Sussex for everlastin’!’

‘And what happened after?’ said Una.

‘T went back into England,’ said Hal, slowly. ‘I'd
had my lesson against pride. But they tell me I left
St. Barnabas’ a jewel—justabout a jewel! Wel-a-well!
>Twas done for and among my own people, and—Father
Roger was right—I never knew such trouble or such
triumph since. That’s the nature o’ things. A dear—
dear land.’ He dropped his chin on his chest.

‘There’s your Father at the Forge. What’s he talk-
ing to old Hobden about?’ said Puck, opening his hand
with three leaves in it.

Dan looked towards the cottage.

‘Oh, I know. It’s that old oak lying across the brook.
Pater always wants it grubbed.’

In the still valley they could hear old Hobden’s deep
tones.

‘Have it as you’ve a mind to,’ he was saying. “But
the vivers of her roots they hold the bank together. If
you grub her out, the bank she’ll all come tearin’ down,
an’ next floods the brook’ll swarve up. But have it as
you’ve a mind. The mistuss she sets a heap by the
ferns on her trunk.’

‘Oh! I’ll think it over,’ said the Pater.

Una laughed a little bubbling chuckle.

‘What Devil’s in that belfry?’ said Hal, with a lazy
laugh. ‘That should be a Hobden by his voice.’

‘Why, the oak is the regular bridge for all the rabbits
between the Three Acre and our meadow. The best
place for wires on the farm, Hobden says. He’s got

202HAL O’ THE DRAFT

two there now,’ Una answered. ‘He won’t ever let it
be grubbed!’

“Ah, Sussex! Silly Sussex for everlastin’,’ murmured
Hal; and the next moment their Father’s voice calling
across to Little Lindens broke the spell as little St.
Barnabas’ clock struck five.Serre Moa Ld?

Caan
a ~A SMUGGLER’S SONG

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in thestreet.
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,

’Baccy for the Clerk;

Laces for a lady; letters for a spy;

And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen
go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find

Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine;

Don’t you shout to come and look, nor take ’em for your
play;

Put the brishwood back again,—and they'll be gone
next day!

If you see the stableyard setting open wide;

If you see a tired horse lying down inside;

If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;

If the lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more!
205sensusrsesesnsnananesesesinesrenatnamaieceuiariaiteiaren sainmncmmmmoamusmaaiaMMi° 3774775737." .lsalelsie1d)S7s]e 141+ le lek -ini sta]

   
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,

You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.

If they call you ‘pretty maid,’ and chuck you ‘neath the
chin,

Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s
been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles after
dark—
You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb
they lie!
They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, ’likely there’s a chance,
You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—

A present from the Gentlemen, along 0’ being good!

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
’Baccy for the Clerk.

Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Arr THe
ere?
are tet et

toons Et
tits RENE?

“DYMCHURCH FLIT’THE ‘BEE ' BOY’S. SONG

Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!

‘Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,

But all that has happened, to us you must tell.

Or else we will give you no honey to sell!’

A maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they'll fly away.
Fly away—die away— ]

Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don’t deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.

Marriage, birth or buryin’,
News across the seas,
All you’re sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell em coming in an’ out,
Where the Fanners fan, Hy
’Cause the Bees are justabout
As curious as a man.

Don’t you wait where trees are,
When the lightnings play;
209PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Nor don’t you hate where Bees are,
Or else they'll pine away.
Pine away—dwine away—
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees’ll never grieve you.me he 4 0 op ehele.@ eio.6 © % eb ipls|& Sleletole ol arore &

‘DYMCHURGH, FEIT’

UST at dusk, a soft September rain began to fall
on the hop-pickers. The mothers wheeled the
bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins
were put away, and tally-books made up. The young
couples strolled home, two to each umbrella, and the
single men walked behind them laughing. Dan and
Una, who had been picking after their lessons, marched
off to roast potatoes at the oast-house, where old Hob-
den, with Blue-eyed Bess, his lurcher dog, lived all the
month through, drying the hops.

They settled themselves, as usual, on the sack-strewn
cot in front of the fires, and, when Hobden drew up the
shutter, stared, as usual, at the flameless bed of coals
spouting its heat up the dark well of the old-fashioned
roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh pieces of
coal, packed them, with fingers that never flinched, ex-
actly where they would do most good; slowly he reached
behind him till Dan tilted the potatoes into his iron
scoop of a hand; carefully he arranged them round the
fire, and then stood for a moment, black against the
glare. As he closed the shutter, the oast-house seemed
dark before the day’s end, and he lit the candle in the
lanthorn. The children liked all these things because
they knew them so well.

The Bee Boy, Hobden’s son, who is not quite right in
his head, though he can do anything with bees, slipped
211BOR Ped erat RAPS Dae Tease rear Fes aa Dad Prey erat da Pa ea aae Later near ae nD eh PSP ae hens aa coe

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

in like a shadow. They only guessed it when Bess’s
stump-tail wagged against them.
A big voice began singing outside in the drizzle:—

‘Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been
dead,

She heard the hops were doing well, and then popped up
her head.’

‘There can’t be two people made to holler like that!’
cried old Hobden, wheeling round.

‘For, says she, ‘‘The boys I’ve picked with when I was
young and fair,
They’re bound to be at hoppin’, and ’m—’””’

A man showed at the doorway.

‘Well, well! They do say hoppin’ll draw the very
deadest, and now I belieft ’em. You, Tom? Tom
Shoesmith!’ Hobden lowered his lanthorn.

‘You’re a hem of a time makin’ your mind to it,
Ralph!’ The stranger strode in—three full inches
taller than Hobden, a gray-whiskered, brown-faced
giant with clear blue eyes. They shook hands, and the
children could hear the hard palms rasp together.

‘You ain’t lost none o’ your grip,’ said Hobden. ‘Was
it thirty or forty year back you broke my head at Peas-
marsh Fair?’

‘Only thirty an’ no odds ’tween us regardin’ heads,
neither. Youhadit back atmewithahop-pole. How
did we get home that night? Swimmin’?’

‘Same way the pheasant come into Gubbs’s pocket—
by a little luck an’ a deal o’ conjurin’.’ Old Hobden
laughed in his deep chest.
212‘DYMCHURCH FLIT*

‘I see you’ve not forgot your way about the woods.
D’ye do any o’ this still?’ The stranger pretended to
look along a gun.

Hobden answered with a quick movement of the hand
as though he were pegging down a rabbit-wire.

‘No. That’s all that’s left me now. Age she must
as Age she can. An’ what’s your news since all these
years?’

‘Oh, I’ve bin to Plymouth, I’ve bin to Dover—
I’ve bin ramblin’, boys, the wide world over,’

the man answered cheerily. ‘I reckon I know as much
of Old England as most.’ He turned towards the chil-
dren and winked boldly.

‘I lay they told you a sight o’ lies, then. I’ve been
into England fur as Wiltsheer once. I was cheated
proper over a pair of hedging-gloves,’ said Hobden.

‘There’s fancy-talkin’ everywhere. You’ve cleaved
to your own parts pretty middlin’ close, Ralph.’

*“Can’t shift an old tree ’thout it dyin’,’ Hobden
chuckled. ‘An’ I be no more anxious to die than you
look to be to help me with my hops to-night.’

The great man leaned against the brick-work of the
roundel, and swung his arms abroad. ‘Hire me!’ was
all he said, and they stumped upstairs laughing.

The children heard their shovels rasp on the cloth
where the yellow hops lie drying above the fires, and all
the oast-house filled with the sweet, sleepy smell as
they were turned.

‘Who is it?’ Una whispered to the Bee Boy.

‘Dunno, no more’n you—if you dunno,’ said he, and
smiled.

213a I es Ty ie eth eae che gt). id ie eae
65 55 t B55 Abe A665 50 Boras SOOO ASO Se SP eae ee ee

   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

The voices on the drying-floor talked and chuckled
together, and the heavy footsteps moved back and forth.
Presently a hop-pocket dropped through the press-hole
overhead, and stiffened and fattened as they shovelled
it full. ‘Clank!’ went the press, and rammed the loose
stuff into tight cake.

‘Gentle!’ they heard Hobden cry. ‘You'll bust her
crop if you lay on so. You be as careless as Glea-
son’s bull, Tom. Come an’ sit by the fires. She'll do
now.’

They came down, and as Hobden opened the shutter
to see if the potatoes were done Tom Shoesmith said to
the children, ‘Put a plenty salt on ’em. That’ll show
you the sort o’ manI be.’ Again he winked, and again
the Bee Boy laughed and Una stared at Dan.

‘I know whatsort 0’ man you be,’ old Hobden grunted,
sroping for the potatoes round the fire.

‘Do ye?’ Tom went on behind his back. ‘Some of us
can’t abide Horseshoes, or Church Bells, or Running
Water; an’, talkin’ o’ runnin’ water’—he turned to
Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel—‘d’you
mind the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the miller’s
man was drowned in the street?’

‘Middlin’ well.’ Old Hobden let himself down on the

\ coals by the fire door. ‘I was courtin’ my woman on
the Marsh that year. Carter to Mus’ Plum I was,
gettin’ ten shillin’s week. Mine was a Marsh woman.’
‘Won’erful odd-gates place—Romney Marsh,’ said
Tom Shoesmith. ‘I’ve heard say the world’s divided
like into Europe, Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky, Australy, an’
Romney Marsh.’
‘The Marsh folk think so,’ said Hobden. ‘I had a
hem o’ trouble to get my woman to leave it.’
214

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  

 

SUE

apart taragtt te
ARSC esesthes

Sepia ten eee

nnayashs*DYMCHURCH FLIT’

“Where did she come out of? I’ve forgot, Ralph.’ i}
‘Dymchurch under the Wall,’ Hobden answered, a
potato in his hand.
‘Then she’d be a Pett—or a Whitgift, would she?’
‘“Whitgift.. Hobden broke open the potato and ate
it with the curious neatness of men who make most of
their mealsin the blowy open. ‘She growed to be quite
reasonable-like after livin’ in the Weald awhile, but our
first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned, no
bounds. Andshe wasawon’erfulhand with bees.’ He
cut away a little piece of potato and threw it out to the
door.
‘Ah! I’ve heard say the Whitgifts could see farther
through a millstone than most,’ said Shoesmith. ‘Did
she, now?’
‘She was honest-innocent of any nigromancin’,’ said
Hobden. ‘Only she’d read signs and sinnifications out |
0’ birds flyin’, stars fallin’, bees hivin’, and such. An’
she’d lie awake—listenin’ for calls, she said.’
*That don’t prove naught,’ said Tom. ‘All Marsh
folk has been smugglers since time everlastin’. *ITwould
be in her blood to listen out o’ nights.’
‘Nature-ally,’ old Hobden replied, smiling. ‘I mind he
when there was smugglin’ a sight nearer us than what
the Marsh be. But that wasn’t my woman’s trouble. i
’Twas a passel 0’ no-sense talk,’ he dropped his voice,
‘about Pharisees.’ i
‘Yes. I’ve heard Marsh men belieft in ’em.’ Tom It]
looked straight at the wide-eyed children beside Bess.
‘Pharisees?’ cried Una. ‘Fairies? Oh, I see!’
‘People o’ the Hills,’ said the Bee Boy, throwing hall
of his potato towards the door. |
‘There you be!’ said Hobden, pointing athim. ‘My
215eer Nye iay snark’; h >. a i i rae ak Se ae aed eee are Seee

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

boy, he has her eyes and her out-gate senses. That’s
what she called ’em!’

‘And what did you think of it all?’

‘Um—um,’ Hobden rumbled. ‘A man that uses
fields an’ shaws after dark as much as I’ve done, he don’t
go out of his road excep’ for keepers.’

‘But settin’ that aside?’ said Tom, coaxingly. ‘Isaw
ye throw the Good Piece out-at-doors just now. Do
ye believe or—do ye?’

‘There was a great black eye to that tater,’ said Hob-
den, indignantly.

‘My liddle eye didn’t see un, then. It looked as if
you meant it for—for Any One that might need it. But
settin’ that aside. D’ye believe or—do ye?’

‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, because I’ve heard naught, an’
I’veseen naught. Butif you was to say there was more
things after dark in the shaws than men, or fur, or
feather, or fin, I dunno as I’d go far about to call youa
liar. Now turn again, Tom. What’s your say?’

‘I’mlikeyou. Isaynothin’. ButI’ll tell youa tale,
an’ you can fit it as how you please.’

‘Passel o’ no-sense stuff,’ growled Hobden, but he
filled his pipe.

‘The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit,’ Tom
went on slowly. ‘Hap you have heard it?’

‘My woman she’ve toldit mescoreso’ times. Dunno
as I didn’t end by belieftin’ it—sometimes.’

Hobden crossed over as he spoke, and sucked with his
pipe at the yellow lanthorn flame. Tom rested one
great elbow on one great knee, where he sat among the
coal.

‘Have you ever bin in the Marsh?’ he said to Dan.

“Only as far as Rye, once,’ Dan answered.

216

 

 

Kt

Dy
ta

art‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

‘Ah, that’s but the edge. Back behind of her there’s
steeples settin’ beside churches, an’ wise women settin’
beside their doors, an’ the sea settin’ above the land,
an’ ducks herdin’ wild in the diks’ (he meant ditches).
*The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an’ sluices,
an’ tide-gates an’ water-lets. Youcan hear’em bubblin’
an’ grummelin’ when the tide works in ’em, an’ then
you hear the sea rangin’ left and right-handed all up
along the Wall. You’ve seen how flat she is—the
Marsh? You’d think nothin’ easier than to walk eend-
onacrost her? Ah, but the diks an’ the water-lets, they
twists the roads about as ravelly as witch-yarn on the
spindles. So ye get all turned round in broad daylight.’

‘That’s because they’ve dreened the waters into the
diks,’ said Hobden. ‘When I courted my woman the
rushes was green—Eh me! the rushes was green—an’
the Bailiff 0’ the Marshes, he rode up and down as free
as the fog.’

“Who was he?’ said Dan.

“Why, the Marsh fever an’ ague. He’ve clapped me
on the shoulder once or twice till I shook proper. But
now the dreenin’ off of the waters have done away with
the fevers; so they make a joke, like, that the Bailiff o’
the Marshes broke his neck ina dik. A won’erful place
for bees an’ ducks ’tis too.’

“An’ old,’ Tom wenton. ‘Flesh an’ Blood have been
there since Time Everlastin’ Beyond. Well, now,
speakin’ among themselves, the Marsh men say that
from Time Everlastin’ Beyond, the Pharisees favoured
the Marsh above the rest of Old England. I lay the
Marsh men ought to know. They’ve been out after
dark, father an’ son, smugglin’ some one thing or t’other,
since ever wool grew to sheep’s backs, ‘They say there
DVT,ana

rats &

 

 

AE a Te Re hh er Tete aera ITE anon POL Lag Ay oor
Sr eetataTa alate seatia te eld it eet eee eee eI CUE

     
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

was always a middlin’ few Pharisees to be seen on the
Marsh. Impidentasrabbits, they was. They'd dance
on the nakid roads in the nakid daytime; they’d flash
their liddle green lights along the diks, comin’ an’ goin’,
like honest smugglers. Yes, an’ times they’d lock the
church doors against parson an’ clerk of Sundays.’

‘That ’ud be smugglers layin’ in the lace or the brandy
till they could run it out o’ the Marsh. I’ve told my
woman so,’ said Hobden.

‘T’ll lay she didn’t belieft it, then—not if she was a
Whitgift. A won’erful choice place for Pharisees, the
Marsh, by all accounts, till Queen Bess’s father he come
in with his Reformatories.’

‘Would that be a Act o’ Parliament like?’ Hobden
asked.

‘Sure-ly. ’Can’t do nothing in Old England without
Act, Warrant, an’ Summons. He got his Act allowed
him, an’, they say, Queen Bess’s father he used the par-
ish churches something shameful. Justabout tore the
gizzards out of I dunnamany. Some folk in England
they held with ’en; but some they saw it different, an’
it eended in ’em takin’ sides an’ burnin’ each other no
bounds, accordin’ which side was top, time bein’. That
tarrified the Pharisees: for Good-will among Flesh an’
Blood is meat an’ drink to ’em, an’ ill-will is poison.’

‘Same as bees,’ said the Bee Boy. ‘Bees won't stay
by a house where there’s hating.’

‘True,’ said Tom. ‘This Reformations tarrified the
Pharisees same as the reaper goin’ round a last stand O°
wheat tarrifies rabbits. They packed into the Marsh
from all parts, and they says, “Fair or foul, we must flit
out o’ this, for Merry England’s done with, an’ we're

reckoned among the Images.’’’
218‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

‘Did they all see it that way?’ said Hobden.

‘All but one that was called Robin—if you’ve heard
of him. What are you laughing at?’ Tom turned to
Dan. ‘The Pharisees’s trouble didn’t tech Robin, be-
cause he’d cleaved middlin’ close to people like. No
more he never meant to go out of Old England—not he:
so he was sent messagin’ for help among Flesh an’ Blood.
But Flesh an’ Blood must always think of their own
concerns, an’ Robin couldn’t get through at ’em, ye see.
They thought it was tide-echoes off the Marsh.’

‘What did you—what did the fai—Pharisees want?’
Una asked.

‘Aboat,tobesure. Theirliddle wings could no more
cross Channel than so many tired butterflies. A boat
an’ a crew they desired to sail ’em over to France, where
yet awhile folks hadn’t tore down the Images. They
couldn’t abide cruel Canterbury Bells ringin’ to Bulver-
hithe for more pore men an’ women to be burnded, nor
the King’s proud messenger ridin’ through the land
givin’ orders to tear down the Images. They couldn’t
abideitnoshape. Nor yet they couldn’t get their boat
an’ crew to flit by without Leave an’ Good-will from
Flesh an’ Blood; an’ Flesh an’ Blood came an’ went
about its own business the while the Marsh was swarvin’
up, an’ swarvin’ up with Pharisees from all England over,
striving all means to get through at Flesh an’ Blood to
tell ’em their sore need. I don’t know as you’ve
ever heard say Pharisees are like chickens?’

‘My woman used to say that too,’ said Hobden, fold-
ing his brown arms.

‘They be. You run too many chickens together, an’
the ground sickens like, an’ you get a squat, an’ your
chickens die. "Same way, you crowd Pharisees all in
219eet ae

 

 

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

one place—they don’t die, but Flesh an’ Blood walkin’
among ’em is apt to sick up an’ pine off. They don’t
mean it, an’ Flesh an’ Blood don’t know it, but that’s
the truth—as I’ve heard. The Pharisees through bein’
all stenched up an’ frighted, an’ tryin’ to come through
with their supplications, they nature-ally changed the
thin airs and humoursin Fleshan’ Blood. Itlay on the
Marsh like thunder. Men saw their churches ablaze
with the wildfire in the windows after dark; they saw
their cattle scatterin’ and no man scarin’; their sheep
flockin’ and no man drivin’; their horses latherin’ an’
no man leadin’; they saw the liddle low green lights more
than ever in the dik-sides; they heard the liddle feet
patterin’ more than ever round the houses; an’ night
an’ day, day an’ night, *twas all as though they were
bein’ creeped up on, and hinted at by Some One or other
that couldn’t rightly shape their trouble. Oh, I lay
they sweated! Man an’ maid, woman an’ child, their
Nature done’em no service all the weeks while the Marsh
was swarvin’ up with Pharisees. But they was Flesh
an’ Blood, an’ Marsh men before all. They reckoned
the signs sinnified trouble for the Marsh. Or that the
sea ’ud rear up against Dymchurch Wall an’ they’d
be drownded like Old Winchelsea; or that the Plague
was comin’. So they looked for the meanin’ in the
sea or in the clouds—far an’ high up. They never
thought to look near an’ knee-high, where they could
see naught.

‘Now there was a poor widow at Dymchurch under
the Wall, which, lacking man or property, she had the
more time for feeling; and she come to feel there was a
Trouble outside her doorstep bigger an’ heavier than
aught she’d ever carried over it. She had two sons—

220“‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

one born blind, and t’other struck dumb through fallin’
off the Wall when he was liddle. They was men grown,
but not wage-earnin,’ an’ she worked for ’em, keepin’
bees and answerin’ Questions.’

‘What sort of questions?’ said Dan.

‘Like where lost things might be found, an’ what to
put about a crooked baby’s neck, an’ how to join parted
sweethearts. She felt the Trouble on the Marsh same
as eelsfeel thunder. She wasa wise woman.’

‘My woman was won’erful weather-tender, too,’ said
Hobden. ‘I’ve seen her brish sparks like off a anvil out
of her hairin thunderstorms. But she never laid out to
answer Questions.’

“This woman was a Seeker like, an’ Seekers they some-
times find. One night, while she lay abed, hot an’ ach-
ing, there come a Dream an’ tapped at her window, and
“Widow Whitgift,’’ it said, ‘‘ Widow Whitgift!”

‘First, by the wings an’ the whistling, she thought it
was peewits, but last she arose an’ dressed herself, an’
opened her door to the Marsh, an’ she felt the Trouble
an’ the Groaning all about her, strong as fever an’ ague,
an’ she calls: ““Whatisit? Oh, what is it?”

‘Then ’twas all like the frogs in the diks peeping: then
‘twas all like the reeds in the diks clip-clapping; an’ then
the great Tide-wave rummelled along the Wall, an’ she
couldn’t hear proper.

‘Three times she called, an’ three times the Tide-wave
did her down. But she catched the quiet between, an’
she cries out, ‘‘ What is the Trouble on the Marsh that’s
been lying down with my heart an’ arising with my body
this month gone?’”’ She felt a liddle hand lay hold on
her gown-hem, an’ she stooped to the pull o’ that liddle
hand.’

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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Tom Shoesmith spread his huge fist before the fire and
smiled at it as he went on.

‘“Will the sea drown the Marsh?” she says. She
was a Marsh-woman first an’ foremost.

““*No,”’ says the liddle voice. ‘‘Sleep sound for all 0’
pate

‘“Ts the Plague comin’ to the Marsh?” she says.
Them was all the ills she knowed.

‘“No. Sleep sound for all o’ that,” says Robin.

‘She turned about, half mindful to go in, but the liddle
voices grieved that shrill an’ sorrowful she turns back,
an’ she cries: ‘‘If it is not a Trouble of Flesh an’ Blood,
what can I do?”

‘The Pharisees cried out upon her from all round to
fetch them a boat to sail to France, an’ come back no
more.

‘<<There’s a boat on the Wall,” she says, ‘but 1 can’t
push it down to the sea, nor sail it when ’tis there.”

‘<‘T end us your sons,’ says all the Pharisees. ‘‘Give
*om Leave an’ Good-will to sail it for us, Mother—O
Mother!”’

«“©One’s dumb, an’ t’other’s blind,” she says. “But
all the dearer me for that; and you'll lose them in the
big sea.’’ The voices justabout pierced through her;
an’ there was children’s voices too. She stood out all
she could, but she couldn’t rightly stand against that.
So she says: ‘‘If you can draw my sons for your job,
Vl not hinder ’em. You can't ask no more of a
Mother.’

‘She saw them liddle green lights dance an’ cross till
she was dizzy; she heard them liddle feet patterin’ by the
thousand; she heard cruel Canterbury Bells ringing to
Bulverhithe, an’ she heard the great Tide-wave ranging

222‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

along the Wall. That was while the Pharisees was
workin’ a Dream to wake her two sons asleep: an’ while
she bit on her fingers she saw them two she’d bore come
out an’ pass her with never a word. She followed ’em,
cryin’ pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, an’ that they
took an’ runned down to the Sea.

“When they’d stepped mast an’ sail the blind son
speaks: “‘Mother, we’re waitin’ your Leave an’ Good-
will to take Them over.’’’

Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut his
eyes.

‘Eh, me!’ he said. ‘She was a fine, valiant woman,
the Widow Whitgift. She stood twistin’ the eends of
her long hair over her fingers, an’ she shook like a poplar,
makin’ up her mind. The Pharisees all about they
hushed their children from cryin’ an’ they waited dumb-
still. She wasalltheirdependence. ’Thout her Leave an’
Good-will they could not pass; for she was the Mother.
So she shook like a aps-tree makin’ up hermind. ’Last
she drives the word past her teeth, an’ ‘‘Go!”’ she says.
*“Go with my Leave an’ Good-will.”’

‘Then I saw—then, they say, she had to brace back
same as if she was wadin’ in tide-water; forthe Pharisees
justabout flowed past her—down the beach to the boat,
I dunnamany of ’em—with their wives an’ children an’
valooables, all escapin’ out of cruel Old England. Silver
you could hear clinkin’, an’ liddle bundles hove down
dunt on the bottom-boards, an’ passels 0’ liddle swords
an’ shields raklin’, an’ liddle fingers an’ toes scratchin’
on the boatside to board her when the two sons pushed
her off. That boat she sunk lower an’ lower, but all the
Widow could see in it was her boys movin’ hampered-
like to get at the tackle. Up sail they did, an’ away
223we |

 

 

RT RT ae HPO RT ne SS SAN i ae: ) ko

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

they went, deep as a Rye barge, away into the off-shore
mistes, an’ the Widow Whitgift she sat down and eased
her grief till mornin’ light.’

‘T never heard she was all alone,’ said Hobden.

‘I remember now. ‘The one called Robin he stayed
with her, they tell. She was all too grievious to listen to
his promises.’

‘Ah! She should ha’ made her bargain beforehand.
[ allus told my woman so!’ Hobden cried.

‘No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan, bein’
as she sensed the Trouble on the Marshes, an’ was sim-
ple good-willing to ease it.’ Tom laughed softly. ‘She
done that. Yes, she done that! From Hithe to Bul-
verhithe, fretty man an’ petty maid, ailin’ woman an’
wailin’ child, they took the advantage of the change in
the thin airs just about as soon as the Pharisees flitted.
Folks come out fresh an’ shining all over the Marsh like
cnailsafter wet. An’ that while the Widow Whitgift sat
srievin’ on the Wall. She might have belieft us—she
might have trusted her sons would be sent back! She
fussed, no bounds, when their boat come in after three
days.’

‘And, of course, the sons were both quite cured?’ said
Una.

‘No-o. That would have been out o’ Nature. She
got em back as she sent ‘em. The blind man he hadn’t
seen naught of anything, an’ the dumb man nature-ally,
he couldn’t say aught of what he'd seen. I reckon that
was why the Pharisees pitched on ’em for the ferrying
job.’

‘But what did you—what did Robin promise the
Widow?’ said Dan.

‘What did he promise, now?’ Tom pretended to think.
224“‘DYMCHURCH FULIT’ :
“Wasn’t your woman a Whitgift, Ralph? Didn’t she il
{

  
 
    
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 

ever say?’

‘She told me a passel o’ no-sense stuff when he was
born.” Hobden pointed athisson. ‘There was always
to be one of ’em that could see farther into a millstone
than most.’

‘Me! That’s me!’ said the Bee Boy so suddenly that
they all laughed.

‘I’ve got it now!’ cried Tom, slapping his knee. ‘So
long as Whitgift blood lasted, Robin promised there
would allers be one o’ her stock that—that no Trouble
‘ud lie on, no Maid ’ud sigh on, no Night could frighten,
no Fright could harm, no Harm could make sin, an’ no
Woman could make a fool of.’

‘Well, ain’t that just me?’ said the Bee Boy, where he
sat in the silver square of the great September moon
that was staring into the oast-house door.

‘They was the exact words she told me when we first
found he wasn’t like others. But it beats me how you
known ’em,’ said Hobden.

‘Aha! There’smore under my hat besides hair!’ Tom
laughed and stretched himself. ‘When I’ve seen these
two young folk home, we’ll make a night of old days,
Ralph, with passin’ old tales—eh? An’ where might
you live?’ he said, gravely, to Dan. ‘An’ do you think |
your Pa ’ud give me a drink for takin’ you there, Missy?’ | K

They giggled so at this that they had torunout. Tom hi]
picked them both up, set one on each broad shoulder,
and tramped across the ferny pasture where the cows
puffed milky puffs at them in the moonlight.

‘Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right from when
you talked about the salt. How could you ever do it?’

Una cried, swinging along delighted.
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PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Do what?’ he said, and climbed the stile by the pol-
lard oak.

‘Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,’ said Dan, and they
ducked to avoid the two little ashes that grow by the
bridge over the brook. ‘Tom was almost running.

‘Yes. That’smy name, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, hurrying
over the silent shining lawn, where a rabbit sat by the
big white-thorn near the croquet sround. ‘Here you
be. Hestrode into theold kitchen yard, and slid them

| down as Ellen came to ask questions.
} ‘I’m helping in Mus’ Spray’s oast-house,’ he said to
her. ‘No, I’m no foreigner. I knowed this country
‘fore your Mother was born; an’—yes, it’s dry work
oasting, Miss. Thank you.’
Ellen went to get a jug, and the children went in—
magicked once more by Oak, Ash, and Thorn!

 

 

Lamy
a

Ranney

eeeeesteA THREE-PART SONG

  
  
   
  
   
  
 
  
  
   

I’m just in love with all these three,

The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countrie;

Nor I don’t know which I love the most,

The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk coast! :

I’ve buried my heart in a ferny hill,

Twix’ a liddle low shaw an’ a great high gill.
Oh hop-bine yaller and wood-smoke blue,

I reckon you’ll keep her middling true!

I’ve loosed my mind for to out and run,

On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun;
Oh Romney Level and Brenzett reeds,

I reckon you know what my mind needs!

I’ve given my soul to the Southdown grass, |
And sheep-bells tinkled where you pass. N
Oh Firle an’ Ditchling an’ sails at sea,

I reckon you keep my soul for me!ee na ee

— ae

 

 

af ee yy
SouBete ut
vial Get ae
ECE UT

THE TREASURE AND THE LAWaeecereert
Soseges

Sesatey
azeatese

Sety tens
aoa ks

THEE

\
Les \ i enn
Mf Vy ees ti
; > mySONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER

 
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
    

When first by Eden Tree, he
The Four Great Rivers ran,

To each was appointed a Man

Her Prince and Ruler to be.

But after this was ordained,
(The ancient legends tell),
There came dark Israel,

For whom no River remained.

Then He That is Wholly Just,
Said to him: ‘Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow dust,

And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,

In secret the Earth around;

And Her secret evermore

Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.’

So it was said and done. i
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,

Or sap the power of Kings,

The Fifth Great River had birth, |
Even as it was foretold— ’
The Secret River of Gold!

DakSy rie hy io, a ie a Une ae eee eee Te eee Bee ean ee a

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HIZE

And Israel laid down

His sceptre and his crown,

To brood on that River bank,
Where the waters flashed and sank,
And burrowed in earth and fell,
And bided a season below;

For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel.

He is Lord of the Last—

The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past

And Her Song is in his blood.

He can foresay: ‘She will fall,’

For he knows which fountain dries,
Behind which desert-belt

A thousand leagues to the South.
He can foresay: ‘She will rise.’

He knows what far snows melt;
Along what mountain-wall

A thousand leagues to the North.
He snuffs the coming drought

As he snuffs the coming rain,

He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.

A Prince without a Sword,
A Ruler without a Throne;
Israel follows his quest.

In every land a guest,

Of many lands a lord,

232.Lect etit
ere asni bt filet

SONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER

In no land King is he.

But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps

For Israel alone,

As it was ordered to be.THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

OW it was the third week in November, and the
woods rang with the noise of pheasant-shooting.
No one hunted that steep, cramped country ex-
cept the village beagles, who, as often as not, escaped
from their kennels and made a day of their own. Dan
and Una found a couple of them towling round the
kitchen-garden after the laundry cat. The little brutes
were only too pleased to go rabbiting, so the children
ran them all along the brook pastures and into Little
Lindens farm-yard, where the old sow vanquished them
—and up to the quarry-hole, where they started a fox.
He headed for Far Wood, and there they frightened out
all the pheasants, who were sheltering from a big beat
across the valley. Then the cruel guns began again,
and they grabbed the beagles lest they should stray and
get hurt.

‘I wouldn’t be a pheasant—in November—for a lot,’
Dan panted, as he caught Folly by the neck. ‘Why did
you laugh that horrid way?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Una, sitting on Flora, the fat lady-dog.
‘Oh, look! The silly birds are going back to their own
woods instead of ours, where they would be safe.’

‘Safe till it pleased you to kill them.’ An old man,
so tall he was almost a giant, stepped from behind the
clump of hollies by Volaterrae. The children jumped,
and the dogs dropped like setters. He wore a sweep-
235Natsteteteladeleet Pottatsteleleie it E,Totelele* ED AE el cieted ace PT een area aay? saloheigiemen enenerernenta RSE 7 8 TT a shee we 5 oie es eleleia,siaie © #6 wwe

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOKS BILE

ing gown of dark thick stuff, lined and edged with
yellowish fur, and he bowed a bent-down bow that made
them feel both proud and ashamed. ‘Then he looked
at them steadily, and they stared back without doubt
or fear.

“You are not afraid?’ he said, running his hands
through his splendid gray beard. ‘Not afraid that
those men yonder’—he jerked his head towards the in-
cessant ‘pop-pop’ of the guns from the lower woods—
‘will do you hurt?’

‘We-ell’—Dan liked to be accurate, especially when
he was shy—‘ old Hobd—a friend of mine told me that
one of the beaters got peppered last week—hit in the
leg, I mean. You see, Mr. Meyer will fire at rabbits.
But he gave Waxy Garnett a quid—sovereign, I mean
—and Waxy told Hobden he’d have stood both barrels
for half the money.’

‘He doesn’t understand,’ Una cried, watching the
pale, troubled face. ‘Oh, I wish—’

She had scarcely said it when Puck rustled out of the
hollies and spoke to the man quickly in foreign words.

) Puck wore a long cloak too—the afternoon was just

frosting down—and it changed his appearance alto-

gether.

‘Nay, nay!’ he said atlast. ‘You did not understand
the boy. A freeman was a little hurt, by pure mischance,
at the hunting.’

Q ) ‘I know that mischance! What did his Lord do?

: Laugh and ride over him?’ the old man sneered.

Bh ‘It was one of your own people did the hurt, Kadmiel.’

Fi | Puck’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘So he gave the free-

: man a piece of gold, and no more was said.’

‘A Jew drew blood from a Christian and no more was
236

iTHE TREASURE AND THE LAW

said?’ Kadmielcried. “Never! Whendid they torture
him?’

‘No man may be bound, or fined, or slain till he has
been judged by his peers,’ Puck insisted. ‘Thereis but
one Law in Old England for Jew or Christian—the Law
that was signed at Runnymede.’

“Why, that’s Magna Charta!’ Dan whispered. It
was one of the few history dates that he could remember.
Kadmiel turned on him with a sweep and a whirr of his
spicy-scented gown.

‘Dost thou know of that, babe?’ he cried, and lifted
his hands in wonder.

‘Yes,’ said Dan, firmly.

‘Magna Charta was signed by John,
That Henry the Third put his heel upon.

And old Hobden says that if it hadn’t been for her (he
calls everything “‘her,’’ you know), the keepers would
have him clapped in Lewes Gaol all the year round.’

Again Puck translated to Kadmiel in the strange,
solemn-sounding language, and at last Kadmiel laughed.

‘Out of the mouths of babes do we learn,’ said he.
‘But tell me now, and I will not call you a babe buta
Rabbi, why did the King sign the roll of the New Law
at Runnymede? For he was a King.’

Dan looked sideways at his sister. It was her turn.

‘Because he jolly well had to,’ said Una, softly. ‘The
Barons made him.’

‘Nay,’ Kadmiel answered, shaking his head. “You
Christians always forget that gold does more than the
sword. Our good King signed because he could not
borrow more money from us bad Jews.’ He curved his
237ee he aera

  

 

 

he <8, = a a) ea PPh eee PEER Pe eee yy epee
Bors Cais EP AT sh a ates) Tree pt oma ee bee eae ke We Pru Me ery eR Pe SP et eh ROR Lr
bo Ree iets AEE ame am sate WU sitet Me eae ah Hoar ete fr 3

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

shoulders as hespoke. ‘A King without gold isa snake
with a broken back, and’—his nose sneered up and his
eyebrows frowned down—‘it is a good deed to break a
snake’s back. That was my work,’ he cried, trium-
phantly, to Puck. ‘Spirit of Earth, bear witness that
that was my work!’ He shot up to his full towering
height, and his words rang like a trumpet. He had a
voice that changed its tone almost as an opal changes
colour—sometimes deep and thundery, sometimes thin
and waily, but always it made you listen.

‘Many people can bear witness to that,’ Puck an-
swered. ‘Tell these babes how it was done. IRemem-
ber, Master, they do not know Doubt or Fear.’

‘So I saw in their faces when we met,’ said Kadmiel.
‘Yet surely, surely they are taught to spit upon Jews?’

‘Are they?’ said Dan, much interested. ‘Where at?’

Puck fell back a pace, laughing. ‘Kadmiel is think-
ing of King John’s reign,’ he explained. ‘His people
were badly treated then.’

‘Oh, we know that,’ they answered, and (it was very
rude of them, but they could not help it) they stared
straight at Kadmiel’s mouth to see if his teeth were all
there. It stuck in their lesson-memory that King John
used to pull out Jews’ teeth to make them lend him
money.

Kadmiel understood the look and smiled bitterly.

‘No. Your King never drew my teeth: I think, per-
haps, I drew his. Listen! I was not born among
Christians, but among Moors—in Spain—in a little
white town under the mountains. Yes, the Moors are
cruel, but at least their learned men dare to thinks 41g
was prophesied of me at my birth that I should be a
Lawgiver to a People of a strange speech and a hard
238.”THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

language. We Jews are always looking for the Prince
and the Lawgiver to come. Why not? My people in
the town (we were very few) set me apart as a child of
the prophecy—the Chosen of the Chosen. We Jews
dream so many dreams. You would never guess it to
see us slink about the rubbish-heaps in our quarter; but
at the day’s end—doors shut, candles lit—aha! then we
become the Chosen again.’

He paced back and forth through the wood as he
talked. The rattle of the shot-guns never ceased, and
the dogs whimpered a little and lay flat on the leaves.

‘Iwasa Prince. Yes! Think of a little Prince who
had never known rough words in his own house handed
over to shouting, bearded Rabbis, who pulled his ears
and filliped his nose, all that he might learn—learn—
learn to be King when his time came. He! Such a
little Prince it was! One eye he kept on the stone-
throwing Moorish boys, and the other it roved about
the streets looking for his Kingdom. Yes, and he learned
to cry softly when he was hunted up and down those
streets. He learned to do all things without noise. He
played beneath his father’s table when the Great Candle
was lit, and he listened as children listen to the talk of
his father’s friends above the table. They came across
the mountains, from out of all the world, for my Prince’s
father was their councillor. They came from behind
the armies of Sala-ud-Din: from Rome: from Venice:
from England. ‘They stole down our alley, they tapped
secretly at our door, they took off their rags, they ar-
rayed themselves, and they talked to my father at the
wine. All over the world the heathen fought each other.
They brought news of these wars, and while he played
beneath the table, my Prince heard these meanly-dressed
239CPi Thsae Sear Seae ted eae te La Par

Pe ey aie noi esi / a Ee UE ERC IE Se eee eae Te ee Ea a

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
 
    

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

ones decide between themselves how, and when, and for
how long King should draw sword against King, and
People rise up against People. Why not? ‘There can
be no war without gold, and we Jews know how the
earth’s gold moves with the seasons, and the crops, and
the winds: circling and looping and rising and sinking
away like ariver—a wonderful underground river. How
should the foolish Kings know that while they fight and
steal and kill?’

The children’s faces showed that they knew nothing
at all as, with open eyes, they trotted and turned beside
the long-striding old man. He twitched his gown over
his shoulders, and a square plate of gold, studded with
jewels, gleamed for an instant through the fur, like a
star through flying snow.

‘Nomatter,’ hesaid. ‘But, credit me, my Prince saw
peace or war decided not once, but many times, by the
fall of a coin spun between a Jew from Bury and a
Jewess from Alexandria, in his father’s house, when the
Great Candle was lit. Such power had we Jews among
the Gentiles. Ah, my little Prince! Do you wonder
that he learned quickly? Why not?’ He muttered to
himself and went on:—

‘My trade was that of a physician. When I had
learned it in Spain I went to the East to find my King-
dom. Why not? A Jew is as free as a sparrow—or a
dog. He goes where he is hunted. Inthe East I found
libraries where men dared to think—schools of medicine
where they dared to learn. I was diligent in my busi-
ness. Therefore I stood before Kings. I have been a
brother to Princes and a companion to beggars, and I
have walked between the living and the dead. There
was no profit init. I did not find my Kingdom. So,
240THE TREASURE AND THE’ LAW

in the tenth year of my travels, when I had reached the
Uttermost Eastern Sea, I returned to my father’s house.
God had wonderfully preserved my people. None had
been slain, none even wounded, and only a few scourged.
I became once more a son in my father’s house. Again
the Great Candle was lit; again the meanly-apparelled
ones tapped on our door after dusk; and again I heard
them weigh out peace and war, as they weighed out the
gold on the table. But I was not rich—not very rich.
Therefore, when those that had power and knowledge
and wealth talked together, I sat in the shadow. Why
not?

‘Yet all my wanderings had shown me one sure thing,
which is, that a King without money is like a spear with-
out ahead. Hecannot do much harm. JI said, there-
fore, to Elias of Bury, a great one among our people:
~ Why do our people lend any more to the Kings that
oppressus?”’ “Because,” said Elias, ‘‘if we refuse they
stir up their people against us, and the People are tenfold
more cruel than Kings. If thou doubtest, come with
me to Bury in England and live as I live.”’

‘I saw my mother’s face across the candle flame, and
I said, “I will come with thee to Bury. Maybe my
Kingdom shall be there.”’

‘So I sailed with Elias to the darkness and the cruelty
of Bury in England, where there are no learned men.
How cana man be wise if he hate? At Bury I kept his
accounts for Elias, and I saw men kill Jews there by the
tower. No—none laid handson Elias. He lent money
to the King, and the King’s favour was about him. A
King will not take the life so long as there is any gold.
This King—yes, John—oppressed his people bitterly
because they would not give him money. Yet his land
241eseiatstobeteteteminsonnta etal eeseletectie:telelele eonleieretustetstaienea un rarslulsleeleiectitis
RB rare Pear eee APCS cle PPT a aap Sara) IRR A erSe Tk Toes See ae Ie Mgr rN aos ook LMR. SP
Ce er) i ness, me Hee Ee eae ae SPER Ret One Re Te eC eo a RE

 

    
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
    

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

was a good land. If he had only given it rest he might
have cropped it as a Christian crops his beard. But even
that little he did not know, for God had deprived him
of all understanding, and had multiplied pestilence, and
famine, and despair upon the people. Therefore his
people turned against us Jews, who are all people’s dogs.
Why not? Lastly the Barons and the people rose to-
gether against the King because of his cruelties. Nay—
nay—the Barons did not love the people, but they saw
that if the King cut up and destroyed the common
people, he would presently destroy the Barons. They
joined then, as cats and pigs will join to slay asnake. I
kept the accounts, and I watched all these things, for I
remembered the Prophecy.

‘A great gathering of Barons (to most of whom we had
lent money) came to Bury, and there, after much talk
and a thousand runnings-about, they made a roll of the
New Laws that they would force on the King. If he
swore to keep those Laws, they would allow him a little
money. That wasthe King’s God—Money—to waste.
They showed us the roll of the New Laws. Why not?
We had lent them money. We knew all their counsels
—_-we Jews shivering behind our doors in Bury.’ He
threw out his hands suddenly. ‘We did not seek to be
paid allinmoney. Wesought Power—Power—Power!
| That is our Godin ourcaptivity. Power to use!

‘I said to Elias: ‘“‘These New Laws are good. Lend
no more money to the King: so long as he has money
he will lie and slay the people.”

a “Nay,” said Elias. ‘‘I know this people. They are
| madly cruel. Better one King thana thousand butchers.
: I have lent a little money to the Barons, or they would
| torture us, but my most I will lend to the King. He
242THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

hath promised me a place near him at Court, where my
wife and I shall be safe.”

‘But if the King be made to keep these New Laws,”’
I said, “the land will have peace, and our trade will grow.
If we lend he will fight again.”

‘Who made thee a Lawgiver in England?” said Elias.
“I know this people. Let the dogs tearoneanother! [
will lend the King ten thousand pieces of gold, and he
can fight the Barons at his pleasure.”’

‘There are not two thousand pieces of gold in all
England this summer,”’ I said, for I kept the accounts,
and I knew how the earth’s gold moved—that wonderful
underground river. Elias barred home the windows,
and, his hands about his mouth, he told me how, when
he was trading with small wares in a French ship, he had
come to the Castle of Pevensey.’

‘Oh!’ said Dan. ‘Pevensey again!’ and looked at
Una, who nodded and skipped.

‘There, after they had scattered his pack up and down
the Great Hall, some young knights carried him to an
upper room, and dropped him into a well in a wall, that
rose and fell with the tide. They called him Joseph, and
threw torches at his wet head. Why not?’

‘Why, of course,’ cried Dan. ‘Didn’t you know it
was—’° Puck held up his hand to stop him, and Kad-
miel, who never noticed, went on.

‘When the tide dropped he thought he stood on old
armour, but feeling with his toes, he raked up bar on
bar of soft gold. Some wicked treasure of the old days
put way, and the secret cut off by the sword. I have
heard the like before.’

‘So have we,’ Una whispered. ‘But it wasn’t wicked
a bit.’

243I eT ee Tens:
5a sg lolela Metgtctet Salata ler ceatetsts opel eratetetale eleighetontew ts lela eet sfeteleleinicjeieltetal at leietens tate nee epee po
figs u D eae ae gy) Sais hp ag | shoal hates) ih i She a ek ees eared kets baht earls

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

‘Elias took a little of the stuff with him, and thrice
yearly he would return to Pevensey as achapman, selling
at no price or profit, till they suffered him to sleep in the
empty room, where he would plumb and grope, and steal
away afew bars. The great store of it still remained,
and by long brooding he had come to look on it as his
own. Yet when we thought how we should lift and
convey it, we saw no way. This was before the Word
of the Lord hadcome tome. A walled fortress possessed
by Normans; in the midst a forty-foot tide-well out of
which to remove secretly many horse-loads of gold!
Hopeless! So Elias wept. Adah, his wife, wept too.
She had hoped to stand beside the Queen’s Christian
tiring-maids at Court, when the King should give them
that place at Court which he had promised. Why not?
She was born in England—an odious woman.

‘The present evil to us was that Elias, out of his strong
folly, had, as it were, promised the King that he would
arm him with more gold. Wherefore the King in his
camp stopped his ears against the Barons and the people.
Wherefore men died daily. Adah so desired her place
at Court that she besought Elias to tell the King where
the treasure lay, that the King might take it by force,
and—they would trust to his gratitude!) Why not?
This Elias refused to do, for he looked on the gold as his
own. They quarrelled, and they wept at the evening
meal, and late in the night came one Langton—a priest,
almost learned—to borrow more money for the Barons.
Elias and Adah went to their chamber.’

Kadmiel laughed scornfully in his beard. The shots
across the valley stopped as the shooting party changed
their ground for the last beat.

| ‘So it was I, not Elias,’ he went on, quietly, ‘that
244

1
,
ne)

sel
Wn!THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

made terms with Langton touching the fortieth of the
New Laws.’

“What terms?’ said Puck, quickly. ‘The Fortieth of
the Great Charter says: ‘‘To none will we sell, refuse, or
deny right or justice.’’’

‘True, but the Barons had written first: ‘‘To no free
man.’ It cost me two hundred broad pieces of gold to
change those narrow words. Langton, the priest, un-
derstood. ‘Jew though thou art,” said he, ‘‘the change
is Just, and if ever Christian and Jew come to be equal
in England thy people may thank thee.”” Then he went
out stealthily, as men do who deal with Israel by night.
I think he spent my gift upon his altar. Why not? I
have spoken with Langton. He was such a man as I
might have been if—if we Jews had beena people. But
yet, in many things, a child.

‘I heard Elias and Adah abovestairs quarrel, and,
knowing the woman was the stronger, I saw that Elias
would tell the King of the gold and that the King would
continue in his stubbornness. Therefore I saw that the
gold must be put away from the reach of anyman. Of
a sudden, the Word of the Lord came to me saying,
“The Morning is come, O thou that dwellest in the
land 277? :

Kadmiel halted, all black against the pale green sky
beyond the wood—a huge robed figure, like a Moses in
the picture-Bible.

‘I rose. I went out, and as I shut the door on that
House of Foolishness, the woman looked from the win-
dow.and whispered, ‘‘I have prevailed on my husband to
tell the King!’”’ I answered, “‘There is no need. ‘The
Lord is with me.”’

‘In that hour the Lord gave me full understanding of
245Se ea a a Rh aa Ree ae rE

 

PUCK .OF POOK’S HILL

all that I must do; and His Hand covered me in my
ways. First I went to London, to a physician of our
people, who sold me certain drugs that Ineeded. You
shall see why. Thence I went swiftly to Pevensey.
Men fought all around me, for there were neither rulers
nor judges in the abominable land. Yet when I walked
by them they cried out that I was one Ahasuerus, a Jew,
condemned, as they believe, to live for ever, and they
fled from me everyways. Thus the Lord saved me for
my work, and at Pevensey I bought me a little boat and
moored it on the mud beneath the Marsh-gate of the
Castle. That also God showed me.’

He was as calm as though he were speaking of some
stranger, and his voice filled the little bare wood with
rolling music.

‘I cast’—his hand went to his breast, and again the
strange jewel gleamed—‘I cast the drugs which I had
prepared into the common well of the Castle. Nay, I
did no harm. The more we physicians know, the less
do we do. Only the fool says: “I dare.” I caused a
blotched and itching rash to break out upon their skins,
but I knew it would fade in fifteen days. I did not
stretch out my hand against their life. They in the
Castle thought it was the Plague, and they ran out,
taking with them their very dogs.

‘A Christian physician, seeing that I was a Jew and a
stranger, vowed that I had brought the sickness from
London. This is the one time I have ever heard a
Christian leech speak truth of any disease. Thereupon
the people beat me, but a merciful woman said: ““Do
not kill him now. Push him into our Castle with his
plague, and if, as he says, it will abate on the fifteenth
day, we can kill him then.”” Why not? They drove
246THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

me across the drawbridge of the Castle, and fled back
to their booths. Thus I came to be alone with the |
treasure.’

‘But did you know this was going to happen just
right?” said Una.

“My Prophecy was that I should be a Lawsgiver to a |
People of a strange land and a hard speech. I knew I
should not die. I washed my cuts. I found the tide- |
well in the wall, and from Sabbath to Sabbath I dove
and dug there in that empty, Christian-smelling fortress.

He! I spoiled the Egyptians! He! If they had only
known! I drew up many good loads of gold, which
I loaded by night into my boat. There had been
golddust too, but that had been washed out by the
tides.’ |

‘Didn’t you ever wonder who had put it there?’ said |
Dan, stealing a glance at Puck’s calm, dark face under | \
the hood of his gown. Puck shook his head and pursed )
his lips.

‘Often; for the gold was new to me,’ Kadmiel replied.

‘I know the Golds. I can judge them in the dark; but
this was heavier and redder than any we dealin. _ Per-
haps it was the very gold of Parvaim. Eh, why not?
It went to my heart to heave it on to the mud, but I saw
well that if the evil thing remained, or if even the hope |
of finding it remained, the King would not sign the i
New Laws, and the land would perish.’

‘Oh, Marvel!’ said Puck, beneath his breath, rustling iy
in the dead leaves.

‘When the boat was loaded I washed my hands seven
times, and pared beneath my nails, for I would not keep
one grain. I went out by the little gate where the
Castle’s refuse is thrown. I dared not hoist sail lest
247fy

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RAAT

RAE eI A a aaa a re

rare Seer noe NE 7 1 el ee: PPE Ta hay TTT RCP E CoE TC Pca ee oe

 

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

men should see me; but the Lord commanded the tide
to bear me carefully, and I was far from land before the
morning.’

‘Weren’t you afraid?’ said Una.

‘Why? There were no Christians in the boat. At
sunrise I made my prayer, and cast the gold—all—all
that gold into the deep sea! A King’s ransom—no, the
ransom of a People! When I had loosed hold of the kast
bar, the Lord commanded the tide to return me to a
haven at the mouth of a river, and thence I walked
across a wilderness to Lewes, where I have brethren.
They opened the door to me, and they say—I had not
eaten for two days—they say that I fell across the thresh-
old, crying, ‘‘I have sunk an army with horsemen in the
Sed

‘But you hadn’t,’ said Una. ‘Oh, yes! Isee! You
meant that King John might have spent it on that?’

‘Even so,’ said Kadmiel.

The firing broke out again close behind them. The
pheasants poured over the top ofabelt oftallfirs. They
could see young Mr. Meyer, in his new yellow gaiters,
very busy and excited at the end of the line, and they
could hear the thud of the falling birds.

‘But what did Elias of Bury do?’ Puck demanded.
‘He had promised money to the Kins.’

Kadmiel smiled grimly. ‘I sent him word from Lon-
don that the Lord wasonmy side. Whenhe heard that
the Plague had broken out in Pevensey, and that a Jew
had been thrust into the Castle to cure it, he understood
my word was true. Heand Adah hurried to Lewes and
asked me foranaccounting. He stilllooked on the gold

as hisown. I told them where I had laid it, and I gave
them full leave to pick it up. Eh, well! The
248eae ee ee ee re Pe re Sera

    
    
  
  
   
    
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
    
   
 

THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

curses of a fool and the dust of a journey are two things i
no wise man can escape. . . . But pitied Elias! l
The King was wroth to him because he could not lend;
the Barons were wroth to him because they heard that
he would have lent to the King; and Adah was wroth
to him because she was an odious woman. They took
ship from Lewes to Spain. That was wise!’

‘And you? Did you see the signing of the Law at
Runnymede?’ said Puck, as Kadmiel laughed noise-
lessly.

‘Nay. Whoam I to meddle with things too high for
me? [returned to Bury, and lent money on the autumn
crops. Why not?’

There was acrackle overhead. <A cock-pheasant that
had sheered aside after being hit spattered down almost MI
on top of them, driving up the dry leaves like a shell. |
Flora and Folly threw themselves at it: the children bi
rushed forward, and when they had beaten them off
and smoothed down the plumage Kadmiel had dis-
appeared.

‘Well,’ said Puck, calmly, ‘what did you think of it?

Weland gave the Sword! The Sword gave the Treasure,
and the Treasure gave the Law. It’s as natural as an i
oak growing.’ s

‘I don’t understand. Didn’t he know it was Sir ite
Richard’s old treasure?’ said Dan. ‘And why did Sir te
Richard and Brother Hugh leave it lying about? And i
—and—

‘Never mind,’ said Una, politely. ‘He’ll let us come
and go, and look, and know another time. Won’t you,

Puck?’

‘Another time maybe,’ Puck answered. ‘Brr! It’s
cold—and late. I’ll race you towards home!’

249Beare) CAS Naess Salas WAC Ne Moder PL PRPS Se heen Pe Leta Dasara ted da RPSL TA Pasa Meas Tete Pe PSPAE AD Heteg a amas ge Bt Ys as

 

     
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

They hurried down into the sheltered valley. The
sun had almost sunk behind Cherry Clack, the trodden
ground by the cattle-gates was freezing at the edges,
and the new-waked north wind blew the night on them
from over the hills. They picked up their feet and flew
across the browned pastures, and when they halted,
panting in the steam of their own breath, the dead
leaves whirled up behind them. There was Oak and
Ash and Thorn enough in that year-end shower to magic
away a thousand memories.

So they trotted to the brook at the bottom of the
lawn, wondering why Flora and Folly had missed the
quarry-hole fox.

Old Hobden was just finishing some hedge-work.
They saw his white smock glimmer in the twilight where
he faggoted the rubbish.

‘Winter, he’s come, I rackon, Mus’ Dan,’ he called.
‘Hard times now till Heffle Cuckoo Fair. Yes, we'll
all be glad to see the Old Woman let the Cuckoo out 0’
the basket for to start lawful Spring in England.’

They heard acrash, andastamp anda splash of water
| as though a heavy old cow were crossing almost under
| their noses.

) Hobden ran forward angrily to the ford.

‘Gleason’s bull again, playin’ Robin all over the Farm!
Oh, look, Mus’ Dan—his great footmark as big as a
trencher. No bounds to his impidence! He might
count himself to be a man or—or Somebody—’

A voice the other side of the brook boomed:

‘IT wonder who his cloak would turn

When Puck had led him round,
| Or where those walking fires would burn—
250THE TREASURE AND THE LAW

Then the children went in singing ‘Farewell Rewards
and Fairies’ at the tops of their voices. They had
forgotten that they had not even said good-night to
Puck.%

th

RST eee

pa dager sarah st esate pe carhy

POIs Tet

aesaaee

iTHE CHILDREN’S SONG

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place,
As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,

Oh help Thy children when they call; |
That they may build from age to age, |
An undefiled heritage. ;

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth:
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.

Teach us to rule ourselves alway, |
Controlled and cleanly night and day; | :
That we may bring, if need arise, te
No maimed or worthless sacrifice. ]

Teach us to look in all our ends,

On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.

253De) creep ridin jn jas) | eae ee ee de ee ae ret er ca ae heen te

 

 

 

  

 

 

 
 
 
 

 

PUCK OF POOK’S HILL

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man’s strength to comfort man’s distress.

 

Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,

And Love to all men ’neath the sun!

Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,

For whose dear sake our fathers died;

O Motherland, we pledge to thee,

Head, heart, and hand through the years to be!

THE ENDACD K Ee ine Sai
ea Sees LES itch
fiat

‘
it

REWARDS AND FAIRIESA ,

a
eave ate

a 7
Pe SOU uaaCONTENTS

PAGE
FAGGOT <u. i coe ws oe ee ee

MTGOOUCULON « .) nih a me 6 tie eee ill

CO UMNO Mi tasin (cs Pier ep honeyed stern 3
COMAPITOM, © soins sepewerccd) Scene 6 Ge OD

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The Two Cousins reer ee 4G GY
ibheswooking=Glass,; 3... . sa a a f) |

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AS Druthiulesons 7... <i (
King Henry VII. and the Ghnemtais << oes |
Marklake Witches . . os oe Oe

The Way Through the oode! - 6 oes
Brookland@oaG:. = - 3 a eee ee
The Knife and the Naked Chalk «sje 3. eee nl
The Run ofthe Downs . . .) .° 3 ca ose
Song or the Men’s Side . . . « . 95) oseemias
Brother Square-Toes oe Le tony]
Philadelphia’ 5. ee 1
ae. | Me GT i
“A Priest in Smite a Himself’ ere OIG
A St.-Helena Lullaby... .-.. «.. .33) 9s eee

Poor -Hlonest: Men?) 20 2s we. 6 es
The Conversion of St. Wilfrid ere AT
Eddi’s Service ; i lente 16 ae eee 9

Song of the Red BontREWARDS AND FAIRIES

A Doctor of Medicine .
An Astrologer’s Song
‘Our Fathers of Old’
Simple Simon . .
The Thousandth Man :
Hrankies Drage « ...>
The Tree of Justice .
The Ballad of Minepit Shaw
anOle 6 oi 6s efet

 

A CHARM

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

AKE of English earth as much
As either hand may rightly clutch.
In the taking of it breathe
Prayer for all who lie beneath—
Not the great nor well bespoke,
But the mere uncounted folk
Of whose life and death is none
Report or lamentation. |
Lay that earth upon thy heart,
And thy sickness shall depart! [|

It shall sweeten and make whole
Fevered breath and festered soul:
It shall mightily restrain
Over-busy hand and brain:

It shall ease thy mortal strife
*Gainst the immortal woe of life,
Till thyself restored shall prove |
By what grace the Heavens do move. | i

Take of English flowers these—

Spring’s full-faced primroses,

Summer’s wild wide-hearted rose, |
Autumn’s wall-flower of the close,
And, thy darkness to illume,ee ee ce cee hee oe ae eee Be
Hee UND Ios yaaa Meee yaa ei Roe ey eI assess oe lehabaey Yonsei RE TE EOS Se

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Winter’s bee-thronged ivy-bloom.
Seek and serve them where they bide
From Candlemas to Christmas-tide.
| For these simples used aright
Shall restore a failing sight.

These shall cleanse and purify

Webbed and inward-turning eye;

a | These shall show thee treasure hid,
Thy familiar fields amid,

| At thy threshold, on thy hearth,

: Or about thy daily path;

And reveal (which is thy need)

Every man a King indeed!

'
,

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PS
SerrtrINTRODUCTION

  
 
 
  
   
  
   
   
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
 

NCE upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and
sister, living in the English country, had the
good fortune to meet with Puck, alias Robin

Goodfellow, alias Nick o’ Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-
the-Fire, the last survivor in England of those whom
mortals call Fairies. Their proper name, of course,
is “The People of the Hills.’ This Puck, by means

of the Magic of Oak, Ash, and Thorn, gave the children |
power—

To see what they should see and hear what they should
hear,

Though it should have happened three thousand year.

The result was that from time to time, and in different
places on the farm and in the fields and the country
about, they saw and talked to some rather interesting
people. One of these, for instance, wasa Knight of the |
Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a | .
Roman Legion stationed in England, another a builder | |
and decorator of King Henry VII.’s time; and so on and i
so forth; as I have tried to explain in a book called
‘Puck of Pook’s Hill.’

A year or so later, the children met Puck once more,
and though they were then older and wiser, and wore
boots regularly instead of going bare-footed when they

  

KrREWARDS AND FAIRIES

got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever, and
introduced them to more people of the old days.

He was careful, of course, to take away their memory
of their walks and conversations afterwards, but other-
wise he did not interfere; and Dan and Una would find
the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or woods.

In the stories that follow I am trying to tell something
about those people.ESESESEENe

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COLD IRON
(1909)

  
   
 
 
  
   
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

HEN Dan and Una had arranged to go out be-
fore breakfast, they did not remember that it
was Midsummer Morning. They only wanted
to see the otter which, old Hobden said, had been fishing
their brook for weeks; and early morning was the time
to surprise him. As they tiptoed out of the house into
the wonderful stillness, the church clock struck five.
Dan took a few steps across the dew-blobbed lawn, and \
looked at his black footprints.
‘I think we ought to be kind to our poor boots,’ he
said. ‘They’ll get horrid wet.’
It was their first Summer in boots, and they hated
them, so they took them off, and slung them round their
necks, and paddled joyfully over the dripping turf where f
the shadows lay the wrong way, like evening in the East.
The sun was well up and warm, but by the brook the |
last of the night mist still fumed off the water. They 1h |
picked up the chain of otter’s footprints on the mud, and | |
followed it from the bank, between the weeds and the te
drenched mowing, while the birds shouted with surprise. |
Then the track left the brook and became a smear, as
though a log had been dragged along. |
They traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the
mill-sluice to the Forge, round Hobden’s garden, and
3Ta Lil ata aataeeienan Ae ae

   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

then up the slope till it ran out on the short turf and
fern of Pook’s Hill, and they heard the cock-pheasants
crowing in the woods behind them.

‘No use!’ said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound.
‘The dew’s drying off, and old Hobden says otters’ll
travel for miles.’

‘I’m sure we’ve travelled miles.’ Una fanned herself
with her hat. ‘Howstillitis! It’s going to be a regu-
lar roaster.’ She looked down the valley, where no chim-
ney yet smoked.

‘Hobden’s up!’ Dan pointed to the open door of the
Forge cottage. ‘What d’you suppose he has for break-
fast?’

‘Oneofthem. Hesays they eat good all times of the
year.’ Una jerked her head at some stately pheasants
going down to the brook for a drink.

A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their
bare feet, yapped, and trotted off.

‘Ah, Mus’ Reynolds—Mus’ Reynolds’—Dan was
quoting from old Hobden,—‘if I knowed all you knowed,
I’d know something.”?

‘I say,’ Una lowered her voice, ‘you know that funny
feeling of things having happened before. I felt it when
you said “‘Mus’ Reynolds.”’’

‘So did I,’ Dan began. ‘What is it?’

They faced each other stammering with excitement.

‘Wait ashake! I’llrememberinaminute. Wasn’t
it something about a fox—last year. Oh, I nearly had
it then!’ Dan cried.

‘Be quiet!’ said Una, prancing excitedly. ‘There was
something happened before we met the fox last year.

1See ‘The Winged Hats’ in ‘‘ Puck of Pook’s Hill.”
4COLD IRON

Hills! Broken Hills—the play at the theatre—see what
you see—’

‘I remember now,’ Danshouted. ‘It’sasplainasthe
nose on your face—Pook’s Hill—Puck’s Hill—Puck!’

‘I remember, too,’ said Una. ‘And it’s Midsummer
Day again!’

The young fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked
out, chewing a green-topped rush.

“Good Midsummer Morning to you. Here’sa happy
meeting,’ said he. They shook hands all round, and
asked questions.

‘“You’ve wintered well,’ he said after a while, and
looked them up anddown. ‘Nothing much wrong with
you, seemingly.’

‘They’ve put us into boots,’ said Una. ‘Look at my
feet—they’re all pale white, and my toes are squdged
together awfully.’

‘“Yes—boots make a difference.’ Puck wriggled his
brown, square, hairy foot, and cropped a dandelion
flower between the big toe and the next.

‘IT could do that—last year,’ Dan said dismally, as he
tried and failed. ‘And boots simply ruin one’s climbing.’

‘There must be some advantage to them, I suppose,’
said Puck, ‘or folk wouldn’t wearthem. Shall we come
this way?’

They sauntered along side by side till they reached
the gate at the far end of the hillside. Here they halted
just like cattle, and let the sun warm their backs while
they listened to the flies in the wood.

‘Little Lindens is awake,’ said Una, as she hung with
her chin on the top rail. ‘See the chimney smoke?’

‘To-day’s Thursday, isn’t it?’ Puck turned to look
at the old pink farmhouse across the little valley.
5er SEED OEn EDGE tion Dorner
P é Sov iluwal ayn Wiatsbede ear done alae seo Sake ues EPA IG Be\any Doel s05t Sy). cA i dd da LE SMe ied eater aeed aoe ae

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| ‘Mrs. Vincey’s baking day. Bread should rise well this
weather.’ He yawned, and that set them both yawning.

The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in
every direction. They felt that little crowds were steal-
ing past.

‘Doesn’t that sound like—er—the People of the Hills?’
said Una.

‘It’s the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods
before people get about,’ said Puck, as though he were
Ridley the keeper.

‘Oh, we knowthat. I only said it sounded like.’

‘As I remember ’em, the People of the Hills used to
makemore noise. They’d settle down for the day rather
like small birds settling down for the night. But that
was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh,
me! The deeds that I’ve had act and part in, you'd
scarcely believe!’

| ‘T like that!’ said Dan. ‘After all you told us last

year, too!’

‘Only, the minute you went away, you made us forget
everything,’ said Una.

Puck laughed and shook his head. ‘I shall this year,
too. I’ve given you seizin of Old England, and I’ve

taken away your Doubt and Fear, but yourmemory and

\ remembrance between whiles I’ll keep where old Billy
Trott kept his night-lines—and that’s where he could
draw ’em up and hide ’em at need. Does that suit?’
He twinkled mischievously.

‘It’s got to suit,’ said Una, and laughed. ‘We can’t
magic back at you.’ She folded her arms and leaned
against the gate. ‘Suppose, now, you wanted to magic

me into something—an otter? Could you?’
| ‘Not with those boots round your neck.’
6

 

 

SRS

  

Soe

eeereoinirsesrenacrsse rariCOLD IRON

‘T’ll take them off.’ She threw them on the turf.
Dan’s followed immediately. ‘Now!’ she said,

‘Less than ever now you've trusted me. . Where
there’s true faith, there’s no call for magic.’ Puck’s
slow smile broadened all over his face.

‘But what have boots to do with it?’ said Una, perch-
ing on the gate.

‘“There’s cold iron in them,’ said Puck, and settled
beside her. ‘Nails in the soles, I mean. It makes a
difference.’

‘How?’

*“Can’t youfeelit does? You wouldn’t like to go back
to bare feet again, same as last year, would you? Not
really?’

‘No—o. IsupposeI shouldn’t—notforalways. I’m
growing up, you know,’ said Una.

‘But you told us last year, in the Long Slip—at the
theatre—that you didn’t mind Cold Iron,’ said Dan.

‘T don’t; but folk in housen, as the People of the Hills
call them, must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen
are born on the near side of Cold Iron—there’s iron in
every man’s house, isn’t there? They handle Cold Iron
every day of their lives, and their fortune’s made or
spoilt by Cold Iron in some shape or other. That's
how it goes with Flesh and Blood, and one can’t pre-
vent it.’

‘I don’t quite see. How do you mean?’ said Dan.

‘It would take me some time to tell you.’

‘Oh, it’s ever so long to breakfast,’ said Dan. ‘We
looked in the larder before we came out.’ He unpock-
eted one big hunk of bread and Una another, which they
shared with Puck.

‘That’s Little Lindens’ baking,’ he said, as his white
/La Sate eee ts totjtctene ein) titets tole Point peuTatateN ele IEA Tole leit pda ote eee ir eens eipaearetareteeleleieanitetefelelieipintetefefeteleigite! 2° 56” 6

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

teethsankinit. ‘I know Mrs. Vincey’shand.’ Heate
with a slow sideways thrust and grind, just like old
Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb.
The sun flashed on Little Lindens’ windows, and the
cloudless sky grew stiller and hotter in the valley.

; ‘Ah—Cold Iron,’ he said at last to the impatient
children. ‘Folk in housen, as the People of the Hills
say, grow so careless about Cold Iron. They’ll nail
the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put
it over the back. Then, some time or other, the People

| of the Hills slip in, find the cradle-babe in the corner,

and—’

‘Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,’ Una
cried.

‘No,’ said Puck firmly. ‘All that talk of changelings
is people’s excuse for their own neglect. Never believe
"em. I’d whip ’em at the cart-tail through three par-
ishes if I had my way!’

‘But they don’t do it now,’ said Una.

‘Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and
some fields never alter. But the People of the Hills
didn’t work any changeling tricks. They’d tiptoe in
and whisper and weave round the cradle-babe in the
iF | chimney-corner—a fag-end of a charm here, or half a

\ spell there—like kettles singing; but when the babe’s
| mind came to bud out afterwards, it would act differently
from other people in its station. That’s no advantage
tomanormaid. SoI wouldn’t allow it with my folks’
babies here. I told Sir Huon so once.’

= ‘Who was Sir Huon?’ Dan asked. Puck turned on

| him in quiet astonishment.

a ‘Sir Huon of Bordeaux—he succeeded King Oberon.

He had been a bold knight once, but he was lost on the

| 8COLD IRON

road to Babylon, a long while back. Have you ever
heard, ““How many miles to Babylon?’’’

“Of course,’ said Dan, flushing.

‘Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was new.
But about tricks on mortal babies. I said to Sir Huon
in the fern here, on just such a morning as this: ‘“‘If you
crave to act and influence on folk in housen, which I
know is your desire, why don’t you take some human
cradle-babe by fair dealing, and bring him up among
yourselves on the far side of Cold Iron—as Oberon did
in time past? Then you could make him a splendid
fortune, and send him out into the world?”

***'Time past is past time,’’ says Sir Huon. ‘“‘I doubt
if we could doit. For one thing, the babe would have
to be taken without wronging man, woman, or child.
For another, he’d have to be born on the far side of
Cold Iron—in some house where no Cold Iron ever
stood; and, for yet the third, he’d have to be kept from
Cold Iron all his days till we let him find his fortune.
No, it’s not easy,”’ he said, and he rode off, thinking.
You see, Sir Huon had been a man once.

‘I happened to attend Lewes Market next Woden’s
Day even, and watched the slaves being sold there—
same as pigs are sold at Robertsbridge Market nowa-
days. Only, the pigs have rings on their noses, and the
slaves had rings round their necks.’

‘What sort of rings?’ said Dan.

‘A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb
thick, just like a quoit, but with a snap to it for to snap
round the slave’s neck. They used to doa big trade in
slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship them to all parts
of Old England, packed in oak sawdust. But, as I was
saying, there was a farmer out of the Weald who had
9Pets SCS aa at PAU EL LRGRA PRPS PSE Sed Pedgtasy PPS Ooloes WPAm es sa SereR HMOs SE:

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

bought a woman with a babe in her arms, and he didn’t
want any encumbrances to her driving his beasts home
for him.’

‘Beast himself!’ said Una, and kicked her bare heel

on the gate.
‘So he blamed the auctioneer. “It’s none o’ my
baby,” the wench puts in. “I took it off a woman in

our gang who died on Terrible Downyesterday.”” “Tl
take it off to the Church then,’ says the farmer.
‘*Mother Church’ll make a monk of it, and we'll step
along home.”

‘It was dusk then. He slipped down to St. Pancras’
Church, and laid the babe at the cold chapel door. I
breathed on the back of his stooping neck—and—I’ve
heard he never could be warm at any fire afterwards. I
should have been surprised if he could! ThenI whipped
up the babe, and came flying home here like a bat to his
belfry.

‘On the dewy break of morning of Thor’s own day—
just such a day as this—I laid the babe outside the Hill
here, and the People flocked up and wondered at the
sight.

‘““Vou’ve brought him, then?” Sir Huon said, staring
like any mortal man.

‘““Ves, and he’s brought his mouth with him too,” I
said. The babe was crying loud for his breakfast.

‘““What is he?”’ says Sir Huon, when the womenfolk
had drawn him under to feed him.

‘**FRull Moon and Morning Star may know,’’ I says.
“TI don’t. By what I could make out of him in the
moonlight, he’s without brand or blemish. I'll answer
for it that he’s born on the far side of Cold Iron, for he
was born under a shaw on Terrible Down, and I’ve
10COLD IRON

wronged neither man, woman, nor child in taking him,
for he is the son of a dead slave woman.’’

*** All to the good, Robin,’’ Sir Huon said. ‘‘He’llbe
the less anxious to leave us. Oh, we'll give him a splen-
did fortune, and he shall act and influence on folk in
housen as we have always craved.’ His Lady came
up then, and drew him under to watch the babe’s won-
derful doings.’

“Who was his Lady?’ said Dan.

‘The Lady Esclairmonde. She had been a woman
once, till she followed Sir Huon across the fern, as we say.
Babies areno special treat tome—I’ve watched too many
of them—so I stayed on the Hill. Presently I heard
hammering down at the Forge there,’ Puck pointed
towards Hobden’s cottage. ‘It was too early for any
workmen, but it passed through my mind that the break-
ing day was Thor’s own day. A slow North-East wind
blew up and set the oaks sawing and fretting in a way I
remembered; so I slipped over to see what I could see.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘A smith forging something or other out of Cold Iron.
When it was finished, he weighed it in his hand (his back
was towards me), and tossed it from him a longish quoit-
throw down the valley. I saw Cold Iron flash in the
sun, but I couldn’t quite make out where it fell. That
didn’t trouble me. I knew it would be found sooner
or later by some one.’

‘How did you know?’ Dan went on.

“Because I knew the Smith that made it,’ said Puck
quietly.

‘Wayland Smith?’! Una suggested.

1See ‘ Weland’s Sword’ in ‘‘Puck of Pook’s Hill.’’
11ee

   

{oH
)
ahs

petite OOS A Se AP ae ay AMET. ee

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘No. I should have passed the time o’ day with
Wayland Smith, of course. This other was different.
So’—Puck made a queer crescent. in the air with his
finger—‘I counted the blades of grass under my nose
till the wind dropped and he had gone—he and his
Hammer.’

‘Was it Thor then?’ Una murmured under her
breath.

‘Whoelse? It was Thor’sownday.’ Puck repeated
the sign. ‘I didn’t tell Sir Huon or his Lady what I’d
seen. Borrow trouble for yourself if that’s yournature,
but don’t lend it to your neighbours. Moreover, I
might have been mistaken about the Smith’s work. He
might have been making things for mere amusement,
though it wasn’t like him; or he might have thrown
away anold piece of madeiron. Onecan never be sure.
So I held my tongue and enjoyed the babe. He was
a wonderful child—and the People of the Hills were so
set on him, they wouldn’t have believed me. He took
to me wonderfully. As soon as he could walk he’d
putter forth with me all about my Hill here. Fern
makes soft falling! He knew when day broke on earth
above, for he’d thump, thump, thump, like an old buck-
rabbit in a bury, and I’d hear him say “‘Opy!”’ till some
one who knew the Charm let him out, and then it would
be ‘Robin! Robin!’ all round Robin Hood’s barn, as
we say, till he’d found me.’

‘The dear!’ said Una. ‘I’d like to have seen him!’

‘Yes, he was a boy. And when it came to learning
his words—spells and such like—he’d sit on the Hill in
the long shadows, worrying out bits of charms to try
on passers-by. And when the bird flew to him, or the
tree bowed to him for pure love’s sake (like everything
12COLD IRON

else on my Hill), he’d shout, ‘‘Robin! Look—see!
Look, see, Robin!”’ and sputter out some spell or other
that they had taught him, all wrong-end-first, till I
hadn’t the heart to tell him it was his own dear self and
not the words that worked the wonder. When he got
more abreast of his words, and could cast spells for sure,
as we say, he took more and more notice of things and
people in the world. People, of course, always drew him,
for he was mortal all through.

‘Seeing that he was free to move among folk in housen,
under or over Cold Iron, I used to take him along with
me night-walking, where he could watch folk, and I
could keep him from touching Cold Iron. That wasn’t
so difficult as it sounds, because there are plenty of
things besides Cold Iron in housen to catch a boy’s
fancy. He .was a handful, though! I shan’t forget
when I took a to Little Lindens—his first night under
aroof. The smell of the rushlights and the bacon on
the beams—they were stuffing a feather-bed too, and it
was a drizzling warm night—got into his head. Before
I could stop him—we were hiding in the bakehouse—
he’d whipped up a storm of wildfire, with flashlights and
voices, which sent the folk shrieking into the garden,
and a girl overset a hive there, and—of course he didn’t
know till then such things could touch him—he got
badly stung, and came home with his face looking like
kidney potatoes!

‘You can imagine how angry Sir Huon and Lady Es.
clairmonde were with poor Robin! They said the Boy
was never to be trusted with me night-walking any more
—and he took about as much notice of their order as he
did of the bee-stings. Night after night, as soon as it
was dark, I’d pick up his whistle in the wet fern, and
13ee Oe eee em ir yi ea tio eol))- oe eR EE UE See I eee ee ee a

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
  
 
    

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

off we'd flit together among folk in housen till break of
day—he asking questions, and I answering according
to my knowledge. Then we fell into mischief again!’
Puck shook till the gate rattled.

‘We came across a man up at Brightling who was
beating his wife with a bat in the garden. I was just
going to toss the man over his own woodlump when the
Boy jumped the hedge and ran at him. Of course the
woman took her husband’s part, and while the man
beat him, the woman scratted his face. It wasn’t till I
danced among the cabbages like Brightling Beacon all
ablaze that they gave up and ran indoors. The Boy's
fine green-and-gold clothes were torn all to pieces, and
he had been welted in twenty places with the man’s bat,
and scratted by the woman’s nails to pieces. He looked
like a Robertsbridge hopper on a Monday morning.

‘Robin,’ said he, while I was trying to clean him
down with a bunch of hay, “‘I don’t quite understand
folkin housen. Iwentto help that old woman, and she
hit me, Robin!”

““‘ What else did youexpect?’”’ Isaid. ‘‘That was the
one time when you might have worked one of your
charms, instead of running into three times your
weight.”

““‘T didn’t think,” he says. ‘‘But I caught the man
one on the head that was as good as any charm. Did
you see it work, Robin? ie

‘Mind your nose,” I said. ‘‘Bleed it on a dockleaf
—not your sleeve, for pity’s sake.” I knew what the
Lady Esclairmonde would say.

‘He didn’t care. He was as happy as a gipsy with a
stolen pony, and the front part of his gold coat, all blood
and grass stains, looked like‘ancient sacrifices.

14COLD IRON

“Of course the People of the Hills laid the blame on
me. ‘The Boy could do nothing wrong, in their eyes.

“You are bringing him up to act and influence on
folk in housen, when you're ready to let him go,” I said.
“Now he’s begun to doit, why do youcry shame on me?
That’s no shame. It’s his nature drawing him to his
kind.”

“But we don’t want him to begin that way,” the
Lady Esclairmonde said. ‘‘ We intend a splendid for-
tune for him—not your flitter-by-night, hedge-jumping, |
sipsy-work.”’

***T don’t blame you, Robin,”’ says Sir Huon, “‘but I
do think you might look after the Boy more closely.”’

*““T’ve kept him away from Cold Iron these sixteen
years,’ I said. ‘‘You know as well as I do, the first
time he touches Cold Iron he’|! find his own fortune, in
spite of everything you intend for hm. You owe me
something for that.”

‘Sir Huon, having been a man, was going to allow me
the right of it, but the Lady Esclairmonde, being the
Mother of all Mothers, over-persuaded him.

*< We're very grateful,” Sir Huon said, “‘but we think
that just for the present you are about too much with lhe
him on the Hill.”

‘Though you have said it,”’ I said, “‘I will give youa 4
second chance.”’ I did not like being called to account | 1}
for my doings on my own Hill. I wouldn’t have stood (| i |
it even that far except I loved the Boy. (|

‘*“No! No!” says the Lady Esclairmonde. “He’s
never any trouble when he’s left tomeand himself. It’s
your fault.”

‘““Vouhavesaidit,’’ lanswered. “‘Hearme! From
now on till the Boy has found his fortune, whatever that
15SAAR OCEneiin at
FADED eae eee ees

edn estitatete's i heiteoay lets iit

 

 

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

may be, I vow to you all on my Hill, by Oak, and Ash,
and Thorn, and by the Hammer of Asa Thor’’’—again
Puck made that curious double-cut in the air—‘“‘that
you may leave me out of all your counts and reckon-
ings.” ThenI went out’—he snapped his fingers—‘like
the puff of a candle, and though they called and cried,
they made nothing by it. I didn’t promise not to keep
an eye on the Boy, though. I watched him close—close
—close!

‘When he found what his people had forced me to do,
he gave them a piece of his mind, but they all kissed and
cried round him, and being only a boy, he came over to
their way of thinking (I don’t blame him), and called
himself unkind and ungrateful; and it all ended in fresh
shows and plays, and Magics to distract him from folk
inhousen. Dear heart alive! How he used to call and
call on me, and I couldn’t answer, or even let him know
that I was near!’

‘Not even once?’ said Una. ‘Ifhewas very lonely?’

‘No, he couldn’t,’ said Dan, who had been thinking.
‘Didn’t you swear by the Hammer of Thor that you
wouldn’t, Puck?’

‘By that Hammer!’ was the deep rumbled reply.
Then he came back to his soft speaking voice. ‘And the
Boy was lonely, when he couldn't see me any more. He
began to try to learn all learning (he had good teachers),
but I saw him lift his eyes from the big black books to-
wards folk in housen all the time. He studied song-

i making (good teachers he had too!), but he sung those
: | songs with his back towards the Hill, and hisface towards
folk. Iknow! Ihave sat and grieved over him griev-
ing within arabbit’s jump ofhim. Then he studied the
| High, Low, and Middle Magic. He had promised the
| 4G
|COLD IRON

Lady Esclairmonde he would never go near folk in
housen; so he had to make shows and shadows for his
mind to chew on.’

‘What sort of shows?’ said Dan.

‘Just boy’s Magic as we say. I'll show you some,
some time. It pleased him for the while, and it didn’t
hurt any one in particular except a few men coming
home late from the taverns. But I knew what it wasa
sign of, and I followed him like a weasel follows a rabbit.
As good a boy as ever lived! I’ve seen him with Sir
Huon and the Lady Esclairmonde stepping just as they
stepped to avoid the track of Cold Iron in a furrow, or
walking wide of some old ash-tot because a man had
left his swop-hook or spade there; and all his heart ach-
ing to go straightforward among folk in housen all the
time. Oh, a good boy! They always intended a fine
fortune for him—but they could never find it in their
heart to let him begin. I’ve heard that many warned
them, but they wouldn’t be warned. Soit happened as
it happened.

‘One hot night I saw the Boy roving about here
wrapped in his flaming discontents. There was flash on
flash against the clouds, and rush on rush of shadows
down the valley till the shaws were full of his hounds
giving tongue, and the woodways were packed with his
knights in armour riding down into the water-mists—all
his own Magic, of course. Behind them you could see
great castles lifting slow and splendid on arches of
moonshine, with maidens waving their hands at the
windows, which all turned into roaring rivers; and then
would come the darkness of his own young heart wiping
out the wholeslateful. But boy’s Magic doesn’t trouble
me—or Merlin’s either for that matter. I followed the
17Sede esol art yee

 

 

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Boy by the flashes and the whirling wildfires of his dis-
content, and oh, but I grieved for him. Oh, but I
srieved for him! He pounded back and forth like a
bullock in a strange pasture—sometimes alone—some-
times waist-deep among his shadow-hounds—sometimes
/ leading his shadow-knights on a hawk-winged horse to
rescue his shadow-girls. I never guessed he had such
magic at his command; but it’s often that way with
boys.

‘Just when the owl comes home for the second time,
I saw Sir Huon and the Lady ride down my Hill, where
there’s not much magic allowed except mine. They
were very pleased at the Boy’s Magic—the valley flared
with it—and I heard them settling his splendid fortune
when they should find it in their hearts to let him go
to act and influence among folk in housen. Sir Huon
was for making him a great King somewhere or other,
and the Lady was for making him a marvellous wise
man whom all should praise for his skill and kindness.
She was very kind-hearted.

‘Of a sudden we saw the flashes of his discontent
turned back on the clouds, and his shadow-hounds
stopped baying.
| ‘*There’s Magic fighting Magic over yonder,”’ the
i Lady Esclairmonde cried, reining up. “Who is against
him?’

‘I could have told her, but I did not count it any
of my business to speak of Asa Thor’s comings and
Ssoings.’
‘How did you know?’ said Una.
‘A slow North-East wind blew up, sawing and fretting
through the oaks ina way I remembered.- The wildfire
roared up, one last time in one sheet, and snuffed out
| 18COLD IRON

like a rush-light, and a bucketful of stinging hail fell.
We heard the Boy walking in the Long Slip—where I
first met you.

‘“Here, oh, come here!”’ said the Lady Esclairmonde
and stretched out her arms in the dark.

“He was coming slowly, but he stumbled in the foot-
path, being, of course, mortal man.

“Why, what’s this?’ he said to himself. We three
heard him.

*““Hold, lad, hold! ’Ware Cold Iron!” said Sir Huon,
and they two swept down like night-jars, crying as they
rode.

‘I ran at their stirrups, but it was too late. We felt
that the Boy had touched Cold Iron somewhere in the
dark, for the Horses of the Hill shied off, and whipped
round, snorting.

‘Then I judged it was time for me to show myself in
my own shape; so I did.

*““Whatever it is,’’ I said, ‘“‘he has taken hold of it.
Now we must find out whatever it is that he has taken
hold of; for that will be his fortune.”’

***Come here, Robin,’ the Boy shouted, as soon as
he heard my voice. ‘‘I don’t know what I’ve hold
or,”’

“Tt is in your hands,”’ I called back. ‘‘Tell us if it
is hard and cold, with jewels atop. For that will bea
King’s Sceptre.”’

***Not by a furrow-long,’’ he said, and stooped and
tugged in the dark. We heard him.

‘“*Has it a handle and two cutting edges?” I called.
“For that’ll be a Knight’s Sword.”

‘““No,ithasn’t,” hesays. ‘‘It’s neither ploughshare,
whittle, hook, nor crook, nor aught I’ve yet seen men
19

?RAPES PS eaters Peis atl Poe SS eae ane OI AAS PR PTI RSet POOL US Ser asa i ee a a

 

     
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
    

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

handle.’? By this time he was scratting in the dirt to
prize it up.

“Whatever it is, you know who put it there, Robin,”
said Sir Huon to me, ‘‘or you would not ask those
questions. You should have told me as soon as you
knew.”

‘What could you or I have done against the Smith
that made it and laid it for him to find?’’ I said, and I
whispered Sir Huon what I had seen at the Forge on
| Thor’s Day, when the babe was first brought to the
| Hill.

‘‘Oh, good-bye, our dreams!” said Sir Huon. “It’s
neither sceptre, sword, nor plough! Maybe yet it’s a
bookful of learning, bound with iron clasps. There’s a
chance for a splendid fortune in that sometimes.”

‘But we knew we were only speaking to comfort our-
selves, andthe Lady Esclairmonde, having beenawoman,
said so.

‘“Thur aie! Thor help us!’ the Boy called. “It is
round, without end, Cold Iron, four fingers wide and a
thumb thick, and there is writing on the breadth of it.”

‘«‘Read the writing if you have the learning,”’ I called.
The darkness had lifted by then, and the owl was out
over the fern again.

‘He called back, reading the runes on the iron:

 

‘Few can see
Farther forth
Than when the child
Meets the Cold Iron.”

Saas
“iii

And there he stood, in clear starlight, with a new, heavy,
| | shining slave-ring round his proud neck.
20COLD IRON

“Ts this how it goes?’’ he asked, while the Lady Es-
clairmonde cried.

‘*“That is how it goes,’ I said. He hadn’t snapped
the catch home yet, though.

*** What fortune does it mean for him?” said Sir Huon,
while the Boy fingered thering. ‘‘ You who walk under
Cold Iron, you must tell us and teach us.”

***Tell I can, but teach I cannot,” I said. ‘‘The vir-
tue of the Ring is only that he must go among folk in
housen henceforward, doing what they want done, or
what he knows they need, all Old England over. Never
will he be his own master, nor yet ever any man’s. He
will get half he gives, and give twice what he gets, till
his life’s last breath; and if he lays aside his load be-
.ore he draws that last breath, all his work will go for
naught.”

“Oh, cruel, wicked Thor!” cried the Lady Esclair-
monde. ‘Ah, look, see, all of you! The catch is stilt
open! He hasn’t locked it. He can still take it off.
He can still come back. Come back!’? She went as
near as she dared, but she could not lay hands on Cold
Iron. The Boy could have taken it off, yes. Wewaited
to see if he would, but he put up his hand, and the snap
locked home.

*““What else could I have done?”’ said he.

“Surely, then, you will do,’ I said. ‘‘Morning’s
coming, and if you three have any farewells to make,
make them now, for, after sunrise, Cold Iron must be
your master.”’

‘So the three sat down, cheek by wet cheek, telling
over their farewells till morning light. As good a boy
as ever lived, he was.’

‘And what happened to him?’ asked Dan.

21eS

Sane

esate Sesersfarchuncherie
Sea aepees

4 A. iH Dre Siete
RRs

NE oT lel) ee ee
bts Dy RAB Bee adie) Pe Yelasasas ys ad oda ae ja) hearst, Nie ed el ded ta TE ede ead

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘When morning came, Cold Iron was master of him
and his fortune, and he went to work among folk in
housen. Presently he came across a maid like-minded
with himself, and they were wedded, and had bushels of
children, as the saying is. Perhaps you’ll meet some of
his breed, this year.’

‘Thank you,’ saidUna. ‘But what did the poor Lady
Esclairmonde do?’

‘What can you do when Asa Thor lays the Cold Iron
in alad’s path? She and Sir Huon were comforted to
think they had given the Boy good store of learning to
act and influence on folk in housen. For he was a good
boyleive a lesisn’tit getting'on for breakfast time?
[ll walk with you a piece.’

When they were well in the centre of the bone-dry
fern, Dan nudged Una, who stopped and put on a boot
as quickly as she could.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘you can’t get any Oak, Ash, and
Thorn leaves from here, and’—she balanced wildly on
one les—‘I’m standing on Cold Iron. What’ll you do
if we don’t go away?’

‘R-eh? Ofall mortal impudence!’ said Puck, as Dan,
also in one boot, grabbed his sister’s hand to steady
himself. He walked round them, shaking with delight.
‘You think I can only work with a handful of dead
leaves? This comes of taking away your Doubt and
Fear! I’ll show you!’

° . e

A minute later they charged into old Hobden at his
simple breakfast of cold roast pheasant, shouting that
there was a wasps’ nest in the fern which they had
nearly stepped on, and asking him to come and smoke
it out.

 

22COLD IRON

‘It’s too early for wops-nestes, an’ I don’t go diggin’
in the Hill, not for shillin’s,’ said the old man placidly.
‘You’ve a thorn in your foot, Miss Una. Sit down,
and put on your t’other boot. You’re too old to be
caperin’ barefoot on an empty stomach. Stay it with
this chicken 0’ mine.’Rey rae RS SAAS ade ead as Ae SgS Pie at RPAEL NES
Soi

= _ oa

 

 

 

athe
uu

eres youtCOED TRON

‘Gold is for the mistress—silver for the maid!

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.’

“Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

‘But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all!’

So he made rebellion ’gainst the King his liege,

Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege—

‘Nay!’ said the cannoneer on the castle wall,

“But Iron—Cold Iron—shall be master of you all!’ |

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid ’em all along!
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron—Cold Iron—was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (Oh, how kind a Lord!)
‘What if I release thee now and give thee back thy
sword?’ | .
‘Nay!’ said the Baron, ‘mock not at my fall, |
For Iron—Cold Iron—is master of men all.’ |

‘Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown—

Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.’
‘As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,

For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!’
20ernutonts ele PsP aPae ht Peder afoul ea ads Hoek aah ae Sls SP cneSa ae TL aa F Die nasil ys, oe ee ee oe See eat eat

     
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
‘Here is Bread and here is Wine—sit and sup with me.

Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall

How Iron—Cold Iron—can be master of men all!’

He took the Wine and blessed It; He blessed and brake
the Bread.

With His own Hands He served Them, and presently
He said:

‘Look! These Hands they pierced with nails outside
my city wall

Show Iron—Cold Iron—to be master of men all!

‘Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong,

Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with
wrong.

I forgive thy treason—I redeem thy fall—

For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!’

‘Crowns are for the valiant—sceptres for the bold!

Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take
and hold.’

‘Nay!’ said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,

‘But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of man all!

Iron, out of Calvary, is master of man all!’

iseanhente ew a RAT
rien te Wht

0
bate

prea

Bunt

GLORIANA

1
f
fed
t
fi
fCSSA

{

Saaeatis

a

SeeerreeS

saan saheauesararss
PEERSTHE TWO COUSINS

Valour and Innocence

Have latterly gone hence

To certain death by certain shame attended.
Envy—ah! even to tears!—

The fortune of their years

Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.

Scarce had they lifted up

Life’s full and fiery cup,

Than they had set it down untouched before them.
Before their day arose

They beckoned it to close—

Close in destruction and confusion o’er them.

They did not stay to ask

What prize should crown their task,
Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;
But passed into eclipse,

Her kiss upon their lips—

Even Belphcebe’s, whom they gave their lives for!Seed ae se De aeder aft PaPaPL ae Lda data Pas

 

 

2
e

FistsGLORIANA
(1909)

ILLOW SHAW, the little fenced wood where
the hop-poles are stacked like Indian wig-
wams, had been givento Dan and Una for their

very own kingdom when they were quite small. As they
grew older, they contrived to keep it most particularly
private. Even Phillips, the gardener, told them every
time that he came in to take a hop-pole for his beans,
and old Hobden would no more have thought of setting
his rabbit-wires there without leave, given fresh each
spring, than he would have torn down the calico and
marking-ink notice on the big willow which said:
‘Grown-ups not allowed in the Kingdom unless brought.’

Now you can understand their indignation when, one
blowy July afternoon, as they were going up for a potato-
roast, they saw somebody moving among the trees.
They hurled themselves over the gate, dropping half the
potatoes, and while they were picking them up Puck
came out of awigwam.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said Una. ‘We thought it was
people.’

‘I saw you were angry—tfrom your legs,’ he answered
with a grin.

‘Well, it’s our own Kingdom—not counting you, of

course.’
olTobe ie earats tess ia be lnsectatsl sale le titles o tee alee tree ir celts: Fie OPE eta le ol }! "RISE VIE IERIE ECS NT Te CE Sa

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘That’srather whyIcame. A lady here wants to see
you.’

‘What about?’ said Dan cautiously.

‘Oh, just Kingdoms and things. She knows about
Kingdoms.’

There was a lady near the fence dressed in along dark
cloak that hid everything except her high red-heeled
shoes. Her face was half covered by a black silk fringed
mask, without goggles. And yet she did not look in the
least as if she motored.

Puck led them up to her and bowed solemnly. Una
made thebest dancing-lesson curtsy she could remember.
The lady answered with a long, deep, slow, billowy one.

‘Since it seems that you are a Queen of this Kingdom,’
she said, ‘I can do no less than acknowledge your sov-
ereignty.’ She turned sharply on staring Dan. ‘What's
in your head, lad? Manners?’

‘I was thinking how wonderfully you did that curtsy,’
he answered.

She laughed a rather shrilllaugh. ‘You’re a courtier
already. Do you know anything of dances, wench—or
Queen, must I say?’

‘I’ve had some lessons, but I can’t really dance a bit,’
said Una.

‘You should learn then.’ The lady moved forward
as though she would teach her at once. ‘It gives a
woman alone among men or her enemies time to think
how she shall win or—lose. A womancan only work in
man’s play-time. Heigho!’ She sat down on the bank.

Old Middenboro, the lawn-mower pony, stumped
across the paddock and hung his sorrowful head over
the fence.

‘A pleasant Kingdom,’ said the lady, looking round.
32GLORIANA

‘Wellenclosed. And how does your Majesty govern it?
Who is your Minister?’

Una did not quite understand. ‘Wedon’t play that,’
she said.

‘Play?’ The lady threw up her hands and laughed.

‘We have it for our own, together,’ Dan explained.

‘And d’you never quarrel, young Burleigh?’

‘Sometimes, but then we don’t tell.’

The lady nodded. ‘I’ve no brats of my own, but I
understand keeping a secret between Queens and their
Ministers. Ay demi! But with no disrespect to pres-
ent majesty, methinks your realm is small, and there-
fore likely to be coveted by man and beast. For ex-
ample’—she pointed to Middenboro—‘ yonder old horse,
with the face of a Spanish friar—does he never break
in?’

‘He can’t. Old Hobden stops all our gaps for us,’
said Una, ‘and we let Hobden catch rabbits in the Shaw.’

Thelady laughed likeaman. ‘I see! Hobden catches
conies—rabbits—for himself, and guards your defences
for you. Does he make a profit out of his coney-
catching?’

‘We never ask,’ said Una. ‘Hobden’s a particular
friend of ours.’

‘Hoity-toity!’ the lady began angrily. Then she
laughed. ‘ButI forget. Itis your Kingdom. I knew
a maid once that had a larger one than this to defend,
and so long as her men kept the fences stopped, she
asked ’em no questions either.’

‘Was she trying to grow flowers?’ said Una.

‘No, trees—perdurable trees. Her flowers all with-
ered.’ The lady leaned her head on her hand.

‘They do if you don’t look after them. We’ve gota
doST A eT Sea eee TSE oe ar ar OCS Ieee el ear NET et Dark aber ea nee EPMA ae) Ieee Me aPaey ae Hea PSSST HE Rela ar aoa Puce Lia Salad Ae) oe <r

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

few. Would you like to see? Ill fetch you some.’
| Una ran off to the rank grass in the shade behind the
wigwam, and came back with a handful of red flowers.
‘Aren’t they pretty?’ she said. ‘They’re Virginia
| stock.’
® ‘Virginia?’ said the lady, and lifted them to the fringe
of her mask.

‘Yes. They come from Virginia. Did your maid
ever plant any?’

‘Not herselfi—but her men adventured all over the
earth to pluck or to plant flowers for her crown. They
judged her worthy of them.’

‘And was she?’ said Dan cheerfully.

‘Quien sabe? (Who knows?) But at least, while
her men toiled abroad she toiled in England, that they
might find a safe home to come back to.’

‘And what was she called?’

‘Gloriana—Belphcebe—Elizabeth of England.’ Her
voice changed at each word.

‘You mean Queen Bess?’

The lady bowed her head a little towards Dan. ‘You
name her lightly enough, young Burleigh. What might
you know of her?’ said she.

‘Well, I—I’ve seen the little green shoes she left at
Brickwall House—down the road, you know. They’re
in a glass case—awfully tiny things.’

e ‘Oh, Burleigh, Burleigh!’ she laughed. ‘You are a

) courtier too soon.’

iE ‘But they are,’ Daninsisted. ‘As little as dolls’ shoes.

: Did you really know her well?’

| ‘Well. She was a—woman. I’ve been at her Court

x all my life. Yes, I remember when she danced after the

: iy banquet at Brickwall. They say she danced Philip of
34GLORIANA

Spain out of a brand-new kingdom that day. Worth
the price of a pair of old shoes—hey?’

She thrust out one foot, and stooped forward to look
at its broad flashing buckle.

‘You've heard of Philip of Spain—long-suffering
Philip,’ she said, her eyes still on the shining stones.
‘Faith, what some men will endure at some women’s
hands passes belief! If I had been a man, and a woman
had played with me as Elizabeth played with Philip, I
would have—’ She nipped off one of the Virginia stocks
and held it up between finger and thumb. ‘But for all
that’—she began to strip the leaves one by one—‘they
say—and I am persuaded—that Philip loved her.’ She
tossed her head sideways.

‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Una.

‘The high heavens forbid that you should, wench!’
She swept the flowers from her lap and stood up in
the rush of shadows that the wind chased through the
wood.

‘IT should like to know about the shoes,’ said Dan.

‘So ye shall, Burleigh. So ye shall, if ye watch me.
Twill be as good as a play.’

‘We've never been to a play,’ said Una.

The lady looked at her and laughed. ‘I'll make one
foryou. Watch! Youare to imagine that she—Glori-
ana, Belphcebe, Elizabeth—has gone on a progress to
Rye to comfort her sad heart (maids are often melan-
cholic), and while she halts at Brickwall House, the
village—what was its name?’ She pushed Puck with
her foot.

‘Norgem,’ he croaked, and squatted by the wigwam.

‘Norgem village loyally entertains her with a masque
or play, and 4 Latin oration spoken by the parson, for
30OBES i aS bainc ean he NAAOS atti te'< a Ae se a ee es

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

whose false quantities, if I’?d made ’em in my girlhood,
I should have been whipped.’

“You whipped?’ said Dan.

‘Soundly, sirrah, soundly! She stomachs the affront
to her scholarship, makes her grateful, gracious thanks
from the teeth outwards, thus’—(the lady yawned)—
‘Oh, a Queen may love her subjects in her heart, and
yet be dog-wearied of ’em in body and mind—and so
sits down’—her skirts foamed about her as she sat—
‘to a banquet beneath Brickwall Oak. Here for her
sins she is waited upon by— What were the young
cockerels’ names that served Gloriana at table?’

‘Frewens, Courthopes, Fullers, Husseys,’ Puck began.

She held up her long jewelled hand. ‘Spare the rest!

They were the best blood of Sussex, and by so much
the more clumsy in handling the dishes and plates.
Wherefore’—she looked funnily over her shoulder—
‘you are to think of Gloriana in a green and gold-laced
habit, dreadfully expecting that the jostling youths
behind her would, of pure jealousy or devotion, spatter
it with sauces and wines. The gown was Philip’s gilt,
too! At this happy juncture a Queen’s messenger,
mounted and mired, spurs up the Rye road and delivers
her a letter’—she giggled—‘a letter from a good, simple,
frantic Spanish gentleman called—Don Philip.’
5S ‘That wasn’t Philip, King of Spain?’ Dan asked.
. | ‘Truly, it was. ”*Twixt you and me and the bedpost,
young Burleigh, these kings and queens are very like
men and women, and I’ve heard they write each other
fond, foolish letters that none of their ministers should
open.’

‘Did her ministers ever open Queen Elizabeth’s
letters?’ said Una.

36GLORIANA

‘Faith, yes! But she’d have done as much for theirs,
any day. You are to think of Gloriana, then (they
say she had a pretty hand), excusing herself thus to the
company—tor the Queen’s time is never her own—and,
while the music strikes up, reading Philip’s letter, as I
do.’ She drew a real letter from her pocket, and held it
out almost at arm’s length, like the old postmistress in
the village when she reads telegrams.

‘Hm! Hm! Hm! Philip writes as ever most lov-
ingly. Hesays his Gloriana is cold, for which reason he
burns for her through a fair written page.’ She turned
it with asnap. ‘What’s here? Philip complains that
certain of her gentlemen have fought against his gen-
erals in the Low Countries. He prays her to hang ’em
when they re-enter herrealms. (Hm, that’s as may be.)
Here’s a list of burnt shipping slipped between two
‘ows of burning adoration. Oh, poor Philip! His ad-
mirals at sea—no less than three of *em—have been
boarded, sacked, and scuttled on their lawful voyages
by certain English mariners (gentlemen, he will not call
them), who are now at large and working more piracies
in his American ocean, which the Pope gave him. (He
and the Pope should guard it, then!) Philip hears, but
his devout ears will not credit it, that Gloriana in some
fashion countenances these villains’ misdeeds, shares in
their booty, and—oh, shame!—has even lent them ships
royal for their sinful thefts. Therefore he requires
(which is a word Gloriana loves not), requires that she
shall hang ’em when they return to England, and after-
wards shall account to him for all the goods and gold
they have plundered. A mostloving request! If Glori-
ana will not be Philip’s bride, she shall be his broker and
his butcher! Should she still be stiff-necked, he writes
o7RA PPC a ante el daear arta ae eed SedgAarr SPoee ade Parr?

   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

—see where the pen digged the innocent paper!—that he
. hath both the means and the intention to be revenged
on her. Aha! Now we come to the Spaniard in his
shirt!’ (She waved the letter merrily.) ‘Listen here!
Philip will prepare for Gloriana a destruction from the
West—a destruction from the West—far exceeding that
which Pedro de Avila wrought upon the Huguenots.
And he rests and remains, kissing her feet and her hands,
her slave, her enemy, or her conqueror, as he shall find
that she uses him.’

She thrust back the letter under her cloak, and went
on acting, but in a softer voice. ‘AI] this while—hark
to it—the wind blows through Brickwall Oak, the music
plays, and, with the company’s eyes upon her, the Queen
of England must think what this means. She cannot
remember the name of Pedro de Avila, nor what he did
to the Huguenots, nor when, nor where. She can only
see darkly some dark motion moving in Philip’s dark
mind, for he hath never written before in this fashion.
She must smile above the letter as though it were good
news from her ministers—the smile that tires the mouth
and the poor heart. What shall she do?’ Again her
voice changed.

| ‘You are to fancy that the music of a sudden wavers
\ away. Chris Hatton, Captain of her bodyguard, quits
| the table all red and ruffled, and Gloriana’s virgin ear
=| | catches the clash of swords at work behind a wall. The
mothers of Sussex look round to count their chicks—I
mean those young game-cocks that waited on her. ‘Two
dainty youths have stepped aside into Brickwall garden
with rapier and dagger on a private point of honour.
| They are haled out through the gate, disarmed and
| glaring—the lively image of a brace of young Cupids
|

|

Saeeae

| 8GLORIANA

transformed into pale, panting Cains. Ahem! Glori-«
ana beckons awfully—thus! They come up for judg-
ment. ‘Their lives and estates lie at her mercy whom
they have doubly offended, both as Queen and woman.
But la! what will not foolish young men do for a beau-
tiful maid?’

“Why? What did she do? What had they done?’
said Una.

‘Hsh! Youmartheplay! Gloriana had guessed the
cause of the trouble. They were handsome lads. So
she frowns a while and tells “em not to be bigger fools
than their mothers had made ’em, and warns ’em, if
they do not kiss and be friends on the instant, she'll
have Chris Hatton horse and birch ’em in the style of
the new school at Harrow. (Chris looks sour at that.)
Lastly, because she needed time to think on Philip’s
letter burning in her pocket, she signifies her pleasure
to dance with ’em and teach ’em bettermanners. Where-
at the revived company call down Heaven’s blessing
on her gracious head; Chris and the others prepare
Brickwall House for a dance, and she walks in the clipped
garden between those two lovely young sinners who are
both ready to sink forshame. They confess their fault.
It appears that midway in the banquet the elder—they
were cousins—conceived that the Queen looked upon
him with special favour. The younger, taking the look
to himself, after some words gives the elder the le;
hence, as she guessed, the duel.’

‘And which had she really looked at?’ Dan asked.

‘Neither—except to wish them farther off. She was
afraid all the while they’d spill dishes on her gown.
She tells ’em this, poor chicks—and it completes their
abasement. When they had grilled long enough, she
39ScPiTa he Siqgie lent tats tole lele bears etole be eieiebedtotalé ahobelettatete lee leseieinetetelelele tbr

PM PEE A OI Tee Parma Taree US TD Dyas Parse Sedeteel fabeter aoa ar dare PaParary ih ebedes Paps ara bene letas argon ar Hove Deas tary PaCS da Pant sidied evade

   
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

says: “‘And so you would have fleshed your maiden
swords for me—for me?”’ Faith, they would have been
at it again if she’d egged ’em on! but their swords—oh,
prettily they said it!—had been drawn for her once or
twice already.
‘<*And where?” says she. “On your hobby-horses
before you were breeched?”’

*““Onmy own ship,’ saystheelder. ‘“‘My cousin was
vice-admiral of our venture in his pinnace. We would
not have you think of us as brawling children.”’

‘No, no,’ says the younger, and flames like a
very Tudor rose. “At least the Spaniards know us
better.”

‘** Admiral Boy—Vice-Admiral Babe,” says Gloriana,
“I cry your pardon. The heat of these present times
ripens childhood to age more quickly than I can follow.
But we are at peace with Spain. Where did you break
your Queen’s peace?”’

‘**On the sea called the Spanish Main, though ’tis no
more Spanish than my doublet,” says the elder. Guess
how that warmed Gloriana’s already melting heart!
She would never suffer any sea to be called Spanish in
her private hearing.

‘<*And why was I not told? What booty got you,
and where have you hidit? Disclose,’ saysshe. “You
stand in some danger of the gallows for pirates.”
‘<The axe, most gracious lady,”’ says the elder, “‘for

we are gentle born.”’ He spoke truth, but no woman

can brook contradiction. ‘‘Hoity-toity,”’ says she, and,

: but that she remembered that she was Queen, she’d have

P| cuffed the pairof’em. ‘‘Itshall be gallows, hurdle, and
dung-cart if I choose.”’

| ‘Fad our Queen known of our going beforehand,

AQ)Se eth irre arr eh ere r i at  Se ae

  

GLORIANA

Philip might have held her to blame for some small
things we did on the seas,”’ the younger lisps.

‘“* As for treasure,”’ says the elder, ‘“‘we brought back
but our bare lives. We were wrecked on the Gascons’
Graveyard, where our sole company for three months
was the bleached bones of De Avila’s men.”’

‘Gloriana’s mind jumped back to Philip’s last letter.

‘De Avila that destroyed the Huguenots? What
d’you know of him?’’ she says. The music called from
the house here, and they three turned back between the
yews.

‘Simply that De Avila broke in upon a plantation of
Frenchmen on that coast, and very Spaniardly hung
them all for heretics—eight hundred or so. The next
year Dominique de Gorgues, a Gascon, broke in upon
De Avila’s men, and very justly hung ’em all for mur-
derers—five hundred orso. No Christians inhabit there
now,’ says the elder lad, “though ’tis a goodly land
north of Florida.”

*“*How far is it from England?’ asks prudent Glori-
ana.

“With a fair wind, six weeks. They say that Philip
will plant it again soon.’ This was the younger, and
he looked at her out of the corner of his innocent eye.

‘Chris Hatton, fuming, meets and leads her into
Brickwall Hall, where she dances—thus. A woman can
think while she dances—can think. Ill show you.
Watch!’

She took off her cloak slowly, and stood forth in dove-
coloured satin, worked over with pearls that trembled
like running water in the running shadows of the trees.
Still talking—more to herself than to the children—she
swam into a majestical dance of thestateliest balancings,
AlRI ee ERT er rete Nar RET tes Mt a2
BLA ARAL aM eT eer SS a estar ye eee R tart aPaPat Ses ee aee PP SPaPe dated Papa See aIeoe Re PaPasar yaa) PSN NE NE

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

the haughtiest wheelings and turnings aside, the most
dignified sinkings, the gravest risings, all joined together
by the elaboratest interlacing steps and circles.
They leaned forward breathlessly to watch the splen-
did acting.
‘Would a Spaniard,’ she began, looking on the ground,
‘speak of his revenge till his revenge were ripe? No.
Yet a man who loved a woman might threaten her in the
hope that his threats would make her love him. Such
things have been.’ She moved slowly across a bar of
sunlight. ‘A destruction from the West may signify
that Philip means to descend on Ireland. But then
my Irish spies would have had some warning. The
Irish keep no secrets. No—itisnotIreland. Now why
—why—why ’—the red shoes clicked and paused— does
Philip name Pedro Melendez de Avila, a general in his
Americas, unless’—she turned more quickly—‘unless he
intends to work his destruction from the Americas?
Did he say De Avila only to put her off her guard, or
for this once has his black pen betrayed his black heart*
We’—she raised herself to her full height—‘ England
must forestall Master Philip. But not openly,’ she sank
again—‘we cannot fight Spain openly—not yet—not
yet.’ She stepped three paces as though she were peg-
ging down some snare with her twinkling shoe-buckles.
‘The Queen’s mad gentlemen may fight Philip’s poor
admirals where they find ’em, but England, Gloriana,
Harry’s daughter, must keep the peace. Perhaps, after
all, Philip loves her—as many men and boys do. That
| may help England. Oh, what shall help England?’
al She raised her head—the masked head that seemed to
; have nothing to do with the busy feet—and_ stared
! straight at the children.

 

 

A2GLORIANA

‘T think this is rather creepy,’ said Una with a shiver.
‘I wish she’d stop.’

The lady held out her jewelled hand as though she
were taking some one else’s hand in the Grand Chain.

‘Can a ship go down into the Gascons’ Graveyard and
wait there?’ she asked into the air, and passed on rus-
tling.

‘She’s pretending to ask one of the cousins, isn’t she?’
said Dan, and Puck nodded.

Back she came in the silent, swaying, ghostly dance.
They saw she was smiling beneath the mask, and they
could hear her breathing hard.

‘I cannot lend you any my ships for the venture:
Philip would hear of it,’ she whispered over her shoulder;
‘but as much guns and powder as you ask, if you do not
ask too—’ her voice shot up and she stamped her foot
thrice. ‘Louder! Louder, the music in the gallery!
Oh, me, but I have burst out of my shoe!’

She gathered her skirts in each hand, and began a
curtsy. ‘You will go at your own charges,’ she whis-
pered straight before her. ‘Oh, enviable and adorable
age of youth!’ Her eyes shone through the mask-holes.
‘But I warn you you'll repent it. Put not your trust in
princes—or Queens. Philip’s ships’ll blow you out of
water. You'll not be frightened? Well, we'll talk on
it again, when I return from Rye, dear lads.’

The wonderful curtsy ended. Shestoodup. Noth-
ing stirred on her except the rush of the shadows.

‘And so it was finished,’ she said to the children.
‘Why d’you not applaud?’

“What was finished?’ said Una.

‘The dance,’ the lady replied offendedly. ‘Anda pair
of green shoes.’

A3eee
Ca SSeS ANA RNeae aan AUN RSMAS LESS ARNEL ohne lestutaretatale}eitiesestdya tate leiesninleatangersteleleltarerateleleleleitlt peed telelele

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

is
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tse i fy 5 PESO aba taeh ioad 1

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I don’t understand a bit,’ said Una.

‘Eh? What did you make of it, young Burleigh?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Dan began, *“but—’

‘You never can be—with a woman. But—’

‘But I thought Gloriana meant the cousins to go back
to the Gascons’ Graveyard, wherever that was.’

‘’Twas Virginia afterwards. Her plantation of Vir-
ginia.’

‘Virginia afterwards, and stop Philip from taking it.
Didn’t she say she’d lend ’em guns?’

‘Right so. But not ships—then.’

‘And I thought you meant they must have told her
they’d do it off their own bat, without getting her into a
row with Philip. Was I right?’

‘Near enough for a Minister of the Queen. But re-
member she gave the lads full time to change their
minds. She was three long days at Rye Royal—knight-
ing of fat Mayors. When she came back to Brickwall,
they met her a mile down the road, and she could feel
their eyes burn through her riding-mask. Chris Hatton,
poor fool, was vexed at it.

‘You would not birch them when I gave you the
chance,” says she to Chris. ‘‘Now you must get me
half an hour’s private speech with ’em in Brickwall gar-
den. Eve tempted Adam ina garden. Quick, man, or
I may repent!’’’

‘She was a Queen. Why did she not send for them
herself?’ said Una.

The lady shook her head. ‘That was never her way.
I’ve seen her walk to her own mirror by bye-ends, and
the woman that cannot walk straight there is past pray-

ing for. Yet I would have you pray for her! What
else—what else in England’s name could she have done?’
44GLORIANA

She lifted her hand to her throat foramoment. ‘Faith,’
she cried, ‘I’d forgotten the little green shoes! She left
°em at Brickwall—so she did. And I remember she
gave the Norgem parson—John Withers, was he?—a
text for his sermon—‘“‘Over Edom have I cast out my
shoe.’? Neat, if he’d understood!’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘What about the two
cousins?’

“You are as cruel asa woman,’ the lady answered. ‘I
wasnottoblame. Itold youl gave ’em time to change
their minds. On my honour (ay de mi!), she asked no
more of ’em at first than to wait a while off that coast—
the Gascons’ Graveyard—to hover a little if their ships
chanced to pass that way—they had only one tall ship
and a pinnace—only to watch and bring me word of
Philip’s doings. One must watch Philip always. What
a murrain right had he to make any plantation there, a
hundred leagues north of his Spanish Main, and only
six weeks from England? By my dread father’s soul,
I tell you he had none—none!’ She stamped her red
foot again, and the two children shrunk back fora
second.

‘Nay, nay. You must not turn from me too! She
laid it all fairly before the lads in Brickwall garden be-
tween the yews. I told ’em that if Philip sent a fleet
(and to make a plantation he could not well send less),
their poor little cockboats could not sink it. They an-
swered that, with submission, the fight would be their
own concern. She showed ’em again that there could
be only one end to it—quick death on the sea, or slow
death in Philip’s prisons. They asked no more than to
embrace death for my sake. Many men have prayed
to me for life. I’ve refused ’em, and slept none the
45Sasrea teen teagan

at SaSaSiets tones:

a BARES tes ne ws

8

TPES EI PP a eI apa OO Teeary ae I ELON NT NRL Ia aaa NAPS Tit Lalas a bas

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

worse after; but when my men, my tall, fantastical
young men beseech me on their knees for leave to die
for me, it shakes me—ah, it shakes me to the marrow
of my old bones.’

Her chest sounded like a board as she hit it.

‘She showed ’em all. I told ’em that this was no
time for open war with Spain. If by miracle inconceiv-
able they prevailed against Philip’s fleet, Philip would
hold me accountable. For England’s sake, to save war,
I should e’en be forced (I told ’em so) to give him up
their young lives. If they failed, and again by some
miracle escaped Philip’s hand, and crept back to Eng-
land with their bare lives, they must lie—oh, I told *em
all—under my sovereign displeasure. She could not
know them, see them, nor hear their names, nor stretch
out a finger to save them from the gallows, if Philip
chose to ask it.

‘Be it the gallows, then,” says the elder. (I could
have wept, but that my face was made for the day.)

‘«< Hither way—any way—this venture is death, which
I know you fear not. But it is death with assured dis-
honour,’ I eried.

‘*“Vet our Queen will know in her heart what we have
done,’ says the younger.

<“Sweetheart,” I said. ‘“‘A Queen has no heart.”

‘«“But she is a woman, and a woman would not for-
set,” saystheelder. “‘Wewill go!” They knelt atmy
feet.

‘“Nay, dear lads—but here!”’ I said, and I opened
my arms to them and I kissed them.

‘Be ruled by me,” I said. ‘‘ We'll hire some ill-
featured old tarry-breeks of an admiral to watch the
Graveyard, and you shall come to Court.”

46GLORIANA

9

***Hire whom you please,” says the elder; ‘“‘we are
ruled by you, body and soul’’; and the younger, who
shook most when I kissed ’em, says between his white
lips, “‘I think you have power to make a god of a man.”’

**“Come to Court and be sure of it,’’ I says.

“They shook their heads and I knew—I knew, that go
they would. If I had not kissed them—perhaps I
might have prevailed.’

‘Then why did you do it?’ said Una.
you knew really what you wanted done.’

‘May it please your Majesty,’ the lady bowed her
head low, ‘this Gloriana whom I have represented for
your pleasure was a woman and a Queen. Remember
her when you come to your kingdom.’

‘But did the cousins go to the Gascons’ Graveyard?’
said Dan, as Una frowned.

“They went,’ said the lady.

‘Did they ever come back?’ Una began; but—
they stop King Philip’s fleet?’ Dan interrupted.

The lady turned to him eagerly.

‘D’you think they did right to go?’ she asked.

‘I don’t see what else they could have done,’ Dan
replied, after thinking it over.

*D’you think she did right to send ’em?’
voice rose a little.

‘Well,’ said Dan, ‘I don’t see what else she could have
done, either—do you? How did they stop King Philip
from getting Virginia?’

‘There’s the sad part of it. They sailed out that
autumn from Rye Royal, and there never came back so
much as a single rope-yarn to show what had befallen
them. The winds blew, and they were not. Does that
make you alter your mind, young Burleigh?’

47

‘I don’t think

‘Did

The lady’s

eaeSPP ELAS ara Gre aed dar atl MPSA LES aadesar Pater ha ee

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘IT expect they were drowned, then. Anyhow, Philip
. didn’t score, did he?’

‘Gloriana wiped out her score with Philip later. But
| if Philip had won, would you have blamed Gloriana for
wasting those lads’ lives?’

‘Of course not. She was bound to try to stop him.’

The lady coughed. ‘You have the root of the matter
in you. Were I Queen, I’d make you Minister.’

‘We don’t play that game,’ said Una, who felt that she
disliked the lady as much as she disliked the noise the
high wind made tearing through Willow Shaw.

‘Play!’ said the lady with a laugh, and threw up her
hands affectedly. The sunshine caught the jewels on
her many rings and made them flash till Una’s eyes
dazzled, and she had torub them. Then she saw Dan
on his knees picking up the potatoes they had spilled at
the gate.

‘There wasn’t anybody in the Shaw, after all,’ he
said. ‘Didn’t you think you saw some one?’

‘I’m most awfully glad there isn’t,’ said Una. Then
they went on with the potato-roast.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

i]
+
a

rye

Rese

eeeTHE LOOKING-GLASS

Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter!

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,
Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold.
Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair,
There came Queen Mary’s spirit and it stood behind her
chair,
Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may
you pass, .
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-
glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!’

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,

There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and it scratched upon

the door,

Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may

you pass,

But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!’

49Se AAS OOO ee SRA Neer IIE lca ys i elastic ie a ee ee
i Pek ithe says) pi eiseee 2 ile ee Oe LIS ead Reed be eed GREE ae

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| ; ;
| The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her

 

. |} head;

| .
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she

said:
‘Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve

been,

Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!’
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else
there was),
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty
pass
In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there
was!

tsNASTY wry Soh eee Soins or CAR ee st Pet roe tate
Fos Peer) he ust eaie Orig ect tachet hae utile
Baaiearic eric cta Cet UCT te cetera RRR eta Che a
FRetstreteh hirer wel: trees Hiitaitteoseto tee tere se Ht

papistersboryesesepeneee
Ste spae .

THE WRONG THING

eh
fee
x
ei

ats

ae

sat
crap ee eee

TE Stee

RSETBO AaDeD eneA TRUTHFUL SONG

I it
The Bricklayer :— |

  
   
 
  
  
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 

I tell this tale which is strictly true,
Just by way of convincing you i |
How very little since things were made
Things have altered in the building trade.

A year ago, come the middle 0’ March, |
We was building flats near the Marble Arch,

When a thin young man with coal-black hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a trick in brick or stone |
That this young man hadn’t seen or known;
Nor there wasn’t a tool from trowel to maul |
But this young man could use ’em all! I

Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold, We
Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold: ee
‘Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly say what your name might be?’

The young man kindly answered them:

‘It might be Lot or Methusalem,

Or it might be Moses (a man I hate),
Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.
53BARI OER Rathi abbas hice ana

—— ee eh ree
oes areata ee Te Ste See Seen

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Your glazing is new and your plumbing’s strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change,

And in less than a month if you do as I bid

I’d learn you to build me a Pyramid.’

I]

The sailor:

I tell this tale which is stricter true,
Just by way of convincing you
How very little since things was made
Things have altered in the shipwright’s trade.

In Blackwall Basin yesterday

A China barque re-fitting lay,

When a fat old man with snow-white hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a knot which the riggers knew
But the old man made it—and better too;

Nor there wasn’t a sheet, ora lift, or a brace,
But the old man knew its lead and place.

Then up and spake the caulkyers bold,

Which was packing the pump in the after-hold:
‘Since you with us have made so free,

Will you kindly tell what your name might be?’

The old man kindly answered them:

‘It might be Japhet, it might be Shem,

Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),
Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.

54A TRUTHFUL SONG

Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change,

And in less than a week, if she did not ground,
I’d sail this hooker the wide world round!’

Both: We tell these tales which are strictest true, etc.7 A ead x , , Ne e aadataea a daeTHE WRONG THING
(1909)

AN had gone in for building model boats: but
after he had filled the schoolroom with chips,
which he expected Una to clear away, they

turned him out of doors and he took all his tools up the
hill to Mr. Springett’s yard, where he knew he could
make as much mess as he chose. Old Mr. Springett
was a builder, contractor, and sanitary engineer, and
his yard, which opened off the village street, was always
full of interesting things. At one end of it was a long
loft, reached by a ladder, where he kept his iron-bound
scaffold planks, tins of paints, pulleys, and odds and
ends he had found in old houses. He would sit here by
the hour watching his carts as they loaded or unloaded
in the yard below, while Dan gouged and grunted at the
carpenter’s bench near the loft window. Mr. Springett
and Dan had always been particular friends, for Mr.
Springett was so old he could remember when railways
were being made in the southern counties of England,
and people were allowed to drive dogs in carts.

One hot, still afternoon—the tar-paper on the roof
smelt like ships—Dan, in his shirt sleeves, was smooth-
ing down a new schooner’s bow, and Mr. Springett was
talking of barns and houses he had built. He said he
never forgot any stick or stone he had ever handled, or
o7PEPE eee ACERT OLSON ian Pater PaCS Tee aPaPar AFOOT PPP ao Pana Oe oe ae geen Tareey REID PRTNe NP ReaD NT ars ECS dea
a dedeauneseynetateleheprstonerstaha sian ena eaten MN PRUNE -\° = 2 + -,° - © ¢)¢,¢ + 3.3 se ss wicie et sie ts te
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| any man, woman, or child he had ever met. Just then
i he was very proud of the village Hall at the entrance to
the village, which he had finished a few weeks before.
‘An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you, Mus’ Dan,’ he said,
‘that the Hall will be my last job top of this mortal
earth. I didn’t make ten pounds—no, nor yet five—
out o’ the whole contrac’, but my name’s lettered on the
foundation stone—‘‘Ralph Springett, Builder’’—and
the stone she’s bedded on four foot good concrete. Ti
she shifts any time these five hundred years, I’ll sure-ly
turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon architec’ so when
he come down to oversee my work.’

‘What did he say?’ Dan was sandpapering the
schooner’s port bow.

‘Nothing. The Hall ain’t more than one of his small
jobs for him, but ’tain’t small to me, an’ my name is cut
and lettered, frontin’ the village street, I do hope an’
pray, for time everlastin’. You'll want the little round
file for that holler in her bow. Who’s there?’ Mr.
Springett turned stiffly in his chair.

A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of
the loft. Dan looked, and saw Hal of the Draft’s tou-
zled head beyond them.’

‘Be you the builder of the village Hall?’ he asked of
' Mr. Springett.

| ‘I be,? was the answer. “Butif you wanta job—’
i Hallaughed. ‘No, faith!’ hesaid. * Only the Hall is
; as good and honest a piece of work as I’ve ever runa rule
over. So, being born hereabouts, and being reckoned a
master among masons, and accepted as a master mason,
| I made bold to pay my brotherly respects to the builder.’

he eet eke kata Ceneete te
Ribas see

ats

aes

| | 1See ‘Hal o’ the Draft’ in “Puck of Pook’s Hill.”
| 58THE WRONG THING

‘“Aa—um!’ Mr. Springett looked important. ‘Ibea
bit rusty, but I'll try ye!’

He asked Hal several curious questions, and the an-
swers must have pleased him, for he invited Hal to sit
down. Hal moved up, always keeping behind the pile
of planks so that only his head showed, and sat down on
a trestlein the dark corner at the back of Mr. Springett’s
desk. He took no notice of Dan, but talked at once to
Mr. Springett about bricks, and cement, and lead and
glass, and after a while Dan went on with his work.
He knew Mr. Springett was pleased, because he tugged
his white sandy beard, and smoked his pipe in short
pufis. The two men seemed to agree about everything,
but when grown-ups agree they interrupt each other
almost as much as if they were quarrelling. Hal said
something about workmen.

‘Why, that’s what I always say,’ Mr. Springett cried.
*A man who can only do one thing, he’s but next-above-
fool to the man that can’t do nothing. That’s where
the Unions make their mistake.’

“My thought to the very dot.’ Dan heard Hal slap
his tight-hosed leg. ‘I’ve suffered in my time from these
same Guilds—Unions d’you call *em? All their pre-
cious talk of the mysteries of their trades—why, what
does it come to?’

‘Nothin’! You’ve just about hit it,’ said Mr. Sprin-
sett, and rammed his hot tobacco with his thumb.

‘Take the art of wood-carving,’ Hal went on. He
reached across the planks, grabbed a wooden mallet,
and moved his other hand as though he wanted some-
thing. Mr. Springett without a word passed him one of
Dan’s broad chisels. ‘Ah! Wood-carving, for example,
If you can cut wood and have a fair draft of what ye
59

———

er Seee

RLF posers istyicirepiersss
Suntan treet ae eRe EP Ets ere

pecahasertrteteeeretrceree
Sessa eI rerieteee

 

—

eletigetetd ls lalebyieaeatetyte ebeleisleeesetatactely

 

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

mean to do, a’ Heaven’s name take chisel and mall and
let drive at it, say I! You'll soon find all the mystery,
forsooth, of wood-carving under your proper hand!’
Whack, came the mallet on the chisel, and a sliver of
wood curled up in front of it. Mr. Springett watched
like an old raven.

‘All art is one, man—one!’ said Hal between whacks;
‘and to wait on another man to finish out—’

‘To finish out your work ain’t no sense,’ Mr. Springett
cutin. ‘That’s what I’m always saying to the boy here.’
He nodded towards Dan. ‘That’s what I said when I
put the new wheel into Brewster’s Mill in Eighteen
hundred Seventy-two. I reckoned I was millwright
enough for the job ’thout bringin’ a man from Lunnon.
An’ besides, dividin’ work eats up profits, no bounds.’

Hal laughed his beautiful deep laugh, and Mr. Sprin-
gett joined in till Dan laughed too.

‘You handle your tools, I can see,’ said Mr. Springett.
‘IT reckon, if you’re any way like me, you’ve found your-
self hindered by those—Guilds, did you call ‘em?—
Unions, we say.’

‘You may say so!’ Hal pointed to a white scar on his
cheek-bone. ‘This is a remembrance from the Master
watching-Foreman of Masons on Magdalen Tower, be-
cause, please you, I dared to carve stone without their
leave. They said a stone had slipped from the cornice
by accident.’

‘I know them accidents. There’s no way to disprove
°em. An’ stones ain’t the only things that slip,’ Mr.
Spingettt grunted. Hal went on:

‘I’ve seen a scaffold-plank keckle and shoot a too-
clever workman thirty foot on to the cold chancel floor
below. Anda rope can break—’

60EL SEDC et eee Oe arr eerie at et ee

THE WRONG THING

‘Yes, natural as nature; an’ lime’ll fly up in a man’s
eyes without any breath o’ wind sometimes,’ said Mr.
Springett. ‘But who’s to show ’twasn’t a accident?’

‘Who do those things?’ Dan asked, and straightened
his back at the bench as he turned the schooner end-for-
end in the vice to get at her counter.

‘Them which don’t wish other men to work no better
nor quicker than they do,’ growled Mr. Springett.
‘Don’t pinch her so hard in the vice, Mus’ Dan. Puta
piece 0’ rag in the jaws, or you’ll bruise her. More than
that’—he turned towards Hal—‘if a man has his private
spite laid up against you, the Unions give him his excuse
.or working it off.’

‘Well I know it,’ said Hal.

“They never let you go, them spiteful ones. I knowed
a plasterer in Eighteen hundred Sixty-one—down to the
Wells. He was a Frenchy—a bad enemy he was.’

‘Thad minetoo. Hewasan Italian, called Benedetto.
I met him first at Oxford on Magdalen Tower when I
was learning my trade—or trades, I should say. A bad
enemy he was, as you say, but he came to be my singular
good friend,’ said Hal as he put down the mallet and
settled himself comfortably.

‘What might his trade have been—plasterin’?’ Mr.
Springett asked.

‘Plastering of a sort. He worked in stucco—fresco
we call it. Made pictures on plaster. Not but what
he had a fine sweep of the hand in drawing. He’d take
the long sides of a cloister, trowel on his stuff, and roll
out his great all-abroad pictures of saints and croppy-
topped trees quick as a webster unrolling cloth almost.
Oh, Benedetto could draw, but ’a was a little-minded
man, professing to be full of secrets of colour or plaster
61

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| —eommon tricks, all of *em—and his one single talk

. | was how Tom, Dick or Harry had stole this or t’other
secret art from him.’

‘I know that sort,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘There’s no

keeping peace or making peace with such. An’ they’re
mostly born an’ bone idle.’

‘True. Even his fellow-countrymen laughed at his
jealousy. We two came to loggerheads early on Mag-
dalen Tower. Iwasa youngsterthen. Maybe I spoke
my mind about his work.’

‘You shouldn’t never do that.’ Mr. Springett shook

| his head. ‘That sort lay it up against you.’

. ‘True enough. This Benedetto did most specially.
Body o’ me, the man lived to hate me! But I always
kept my eyes open on a plank or a scaffold. I was
mighty glad to be shut of him when he quarrelled with
his Guild foreman, and went off, nose in air, and paints
underhisarm. But’—Halleaned forward—'if you hate
a man or aman hates you—’

‘Iknow. You're everlastin’ running acrost him,’ Mr.
Springett interrupted. “Excuse me, sir. He leaned
out of the window, and shouted to a carter who was load-
ing up a cart with bricks.

} ‘Ain’t you no more sense than to heap ’em up that

| way?’ hesaid. ‘Take an’ throwa hundred of ’em off.

| It’s more than the team can compass. Throw ’em off,
|| I tell you, and make another trip for what’s left over.

Excuse me, sir. You was saying—’

‘I was saying that before the end of the year I went

5 to Bury to strengthen the lead-work in the great Abbey

|| | east window there.’

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  

 

| ‘Now that’s just one of the things I’ve never done.
| i But I mind there was a cheap excursion to Chichester in
H | 62THE WRONG THING

Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an’ I went an’ watched
‘em leading a won’ erful fine window in Chichester Cathe-
dral. I stayed watchin’ till twas time for us to go
back. Dunno as I had two drinks p’raps, all that day.’

Hal smiled. ‘At Bury then, sure enough, I met my
enemy Benedetto. He had painted a picture in plaster
on the south wall of the Refectory—a noble place for a
noble thing—a picture of Jonah.’

‘Ah! Jonah an’ his whale. I’ve never been as fur as
Bury. You’ve worked about a lot,’ said Mr. Springett,
with his eyes on the carter below.

‘No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah
and the pompion that withered. Butall that Benedetto
had shown was a peevish graybeard huggled up in angle-
edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden trellis.
This last, being a dead thing, he’d drawn it as ’twere to
the life. But fierce old Jonah, bared in the sun, angry
even to death that his cold prophecy was disproven—
Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing the children of
Nineveh running to mock him—ah, that was what
Benedetto had not drawn!’

“He better ha’ stuck to his whale, then,’ said Mr.
Springett.

‘He’d ha’ done no better with that. He draws the
damp cloth off the picture, an’ shows it tome. Iwasa
craftsman too, d’ye see?

**°Tis good,’ I said, ‘“‘but it goes no deeper than the
plaster.”

“What?” he said in a whisper.

‘**Be thy own judge, Benedetto,’ Ianswered. ‘‘Does
it go deeper than the plaster?”

‘He reeled against a piece of dry wall. ‘‘No,’’ he says,
“and I know it. I could not hate thee more than I
63———————
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BODE Ran aR ee ao ROTA TIE Ee DE Mn Re

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

! have done these five years, but if I live, I will try, Hal.
|} I will try.” Then he goes away. I pitied him, but I
had spoken truth. His picture went no deeper than the

plaster.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Springett, who had turned quite red.
‘You was talkin’ so fast I didn’t understand what you
was drivin’ at. I’ve seen men—good workmen they
was—try to do more than they could do, and—and they
couldn’t compass it. They knowed it, and it nigh
broke theirhearts like. You wasin your right, o’ course,
sir, to say what you thought o’ his work; but if you ll ex-
cuse me, was you in your duty?’

‘I was wrong to say it,’ Hal replied. ‘God forgive me
—I was young! He was workman enough himself to
know where he failed. But it all came evens in the long
run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o’ one Torri-
giano—Torrisany we called him?’

‘I can’t say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?’

‘No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian
builder, as vain as a peacock and as strong as a bull,
but, mark you, a master workman. More than that—
he could get his best work out of the worst men.’

‘Which it’s a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like
him once,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘He used to prod ’em
in the back like with a pointing-trowel, and they did
wonders.’

/ ‘I’ve seen our Torrisany lay a’prentice down with one
buffet and raise him with another—to make a mason of
| him. I worked under him at building a chapel in Lon-

S | don—a chapel and a tomb for the king.’

‘I never knew kings went to chapel much,’ said Mr.
Springett. ‘But I always hold with a man, don’t care
who he be, seein’ about his own grave before he dies.
64

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  

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EE

aa
eresTHE WRONG THING

Tidn’t the sort of thing to leave to your family after the
will’s read. I reckon ’twas a fine vault.’

‘None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the
contract for it, as you’d say. He picked master crafts-
men from all parts—England, France, Italy, the Low
Countries—no odds to him so long as they knew their
work, and he drove them like—like pigs at Brightling
Fair. He called us English all pigs. We suffered it be-
cause he was a master in his craft. If he misliked any
work that a man had done, with his own great hands
he’d rive it out, and tear it down before us all. °° Ah
you pig—you English pig!” he’d scream in the dumb
wretch’s face. ‘“‘You answer me? You look at me?
You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters.
I will teach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!”
But when his passion had blown out, he’d slip his arm
round theman’sneck, and impart knowledge worth gold.
‘Twould have done your heart good, Mus’ Springett,
to see the two hundred of us—masons, jewellers, carvers,
gilders, iron workers and the rest—all toiling like cock-
angels, and this mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to
next up and down the chapel. ’*Done your heart good,
it would!’

‘I believe you,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘In Eighteen
hundred Fifty-four, I mind, the railway was bein’ made
into Hastin’s. Therewas two thousand navvies on it—all
young—all strong—an’Iwasoneof’em. Oh,dearieme!
Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin’ with you?’

‘Benedetto? Besurehe was. He followed me likea
lover. He painted pictures on the chapel ceiling—slung
from achair. ‘Torrigiano made us promise not to fight
till the work should be finished. We were both master
craftsmen, do ye see, and he needed us. None the less,
65#2 ale ee tutte tote lope bea uty taTelele Mele ieeeath Whe wie telat tole

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  

i REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. I never went aloft to carve ’thout testing all my ropes
) and knots each morning. We were never far from each
other. Benedetto ’ud sharpen his knife on his sole
while he waited for his plaster to dry—‘‘wheet, wheet,
wheet.’’ I’d hear it where I hung chipping round a
pillar-head, and we’d nod to each other friendly-like.
Oh, he was a craftsman, was Benedetto, but his hate
spoiled his eye and his hand. I mind the night I had
finished the models for the bronze saints round the tomb;
‘Torrigiano embraced me before all the chapel, and bade
me to supper. I met Benedetto when I came out. He
was slavering in the porch like a mad dog.’
‘Working himself up to it?’ said Mr. Springett. “Did
he have it in at ye that night?’
‘No, no. That time he kept his oath to Torrigiano.
But I pitied him. Eh, well! Now I come to my own
follies. I had never thought too little of myself; but
‘after Torrisany had put his arm round my neck, I—I’—
Hal broke into a laugh—‘I lay there was not much odds
‘*twixt me and a cock-sparrow in his pride.’
‘I was pretty middlin’ young once on a time,’ said Mr.
Springett.
‘Then ye know that a man can’t drink and dice and
dress fine, and keep company above his station, but his
‘work suffers for it, Mus’ Springett.’
| ‘I never held much with dressin’ up, but—you’re
right! The worst mistakes I ever made they was made
of a Monday morning,’ Mr. Springett answered. ‘We've
‘all been one sort of fool or t’?other. Mus’ Dan, Mus’
ES ‘Dan, take the smallest gouge, or you'll be spluttin’ her
a) ‘stern works clean out. Can’t ye see the grain of the
i | wood don’t favour a chisel?’
| ‘T’ll spare you some of my follies. But there was a
| 66THE WRONG THING

man called Brygandyne—Bob Brygandyne—Clerk of
the King’s Ships, a little, smooth, bustling atomy, as
clever as a woman to get work done for nothin’—a won-
erful smooth-tongued pleader. He made much o’ me,
and asked me to draft him out a drawing, a piece oi
carved and gilt scroll-work for the bows of one of the
King’s ships—the “‘Sovereign”’ was her name.’

“Was she a man-of-war?’ asked Dan.

‘She was a war-ship, and a woman called Catherine of
Castile desired the King to give her the ship for a pleas-
ure-ship of her own. I did not know at the time, but
she’d been at Bob to get this scroll-work done and fitted
that the King might see it. I made him the picture,
in an hour, all of a heat after supper—one great heaving
play of dolphins and a Neptune or so reining in webby-
footed sea-horses, and Arion with his harp high atop of
them. It was to be twenty-three foot long, and maybe
nine foot deep—painted and gilt.’

‘It must ha’ just about looked fine,’ said Mr. Sprin-
sett.

‘That’s the curiosity of it. ’T'was bad—rank bad.
In my conceit I must needs show it to Torrigiano, in the
chapel. He straddles his legs; hunches his knife behind
him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a sleet-
shower. Benedetto was behind him. We were never
far apart, I’ve told you.

‘That is pig’s work,’ says our Master. “Swine’s
work. You make any more such things, even alter your
fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent away.”

‘Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. “Is it so bad
then, Master?’’ he says. ‘“‘What a pity!”

‘“Ves” says Torrigiano. ‘‘Scarcely you could do
things so bad. I will condescend to show.”

67

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no
swearing (it was too bad for that); but good, memorable
counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets me to draft out
a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the taste of my
naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron’s sweet stuff
if you don’t torture her, and hammered work is all pure,
truthful line, with a reason and a support for every
curve and bar of it. A week at that settled my stomach
handsomely, and the Master let me put the work through
the smithy, where Isweated out more of my foolish pride.’

‘Good stuff is good iron,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘I done
a pair of lodge-gates once in Eighteen hundred Sixty-
three.’

‘Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped
away my draft of the ship’s scroll-work, and would not
give it back to me to re-draw. He said *twould do
well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me too
busied toremember him. Body o’me, but I worked that
winter upon the gates and the bronzes for the tomb as I'd
never worked before! I was leaner than a lath, but I
lived—I lived then!’ Hal looked at Mr. Springett with
his wise, crinkled-up eyes, and the old man smiled back.

‘Ouch!’ Dan cried. He had been hollowing out the
schooner’s after-deck, the little gouge had slipped and
sashed the ball of his left thumb,—an ugly, triangular
tear.

‘That came of not steadying your wrist,’ said Hal
calmly. ‘Don’t bleed over the wood. Do your work
with your heart’s blood, but no need to letit show.’ He
rose and peered into a corner of the loft.

Mr. Springett had risen too, and swept down a ball of

cobwebs from a rafter.

‘Clap that on,’ was all he said, ‘and put your hand-
68THE WRONG THING

kerchief atop. ’*Iwill cake overina minute. It don’t
hurt now, do it?’

‘No,’ said Dan indignantly. ‘You know it has hap-
pened lots of times. I'll tie it up myself. Go on, sir.’

‘And it’ll happen hundreds of times more,’ said Hal
with a friendly nod as he sat down again. But he did
not go on till Dan’s hand was tied up properly. Then
he said:

‘One dark December day—too dark to judge colour —
we was all sitting and talking round the fires in the
chapel (you heard good talk there), when Bob Brygan-
dyne bustles in and —‘‘ Hal, you’re sent for,” he squeals.
I was at Torrigiano’s feet on a pile of put-locks, as I
might be here, toasting a herring on my knife’s point.
’Twas the one English thing our Master liked—salt
herring.

‘***1’m busy, about my art,” I calls.

*<* Art?” says Bob. ‘‘What’s Art compared to your
scroll-work for the ‘Sovereign.’ Come.”

‘“*Be sure your sins will find you out,” says Torrigiano.
‘*Go with him and see.”’ As I followed Bob out I was
aware of Benedetto, like a black spot when the eyes are
tired, sliddering up behind me.

‘Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, slips
into a doorway, up stairs, along passages, and at last
thrusts me into a little cold room vilely hung with Flem-
ish tapestries, and no furnishing except a table and my
draft of the ‘‘Sovereign’s”’ scroll-work. Here he leaves
me. Presently comes in a dark, long-nosed man in a
fur cap.

‘**Master Harry Dawe?”’ said he.

‘The same,” I says. “‘ Where a plague has Bob Brys-
andyne gone?”

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘His thin eyebrows surged up a piece and come down
again in a stiff bar. “‘He went to the King,” he says.

***All one. What’s your pleasure with me?” I says
shivering, for it was mortal cold.

‘He lays his hand flat on my draft. “‘Master Dawe,”
he says, ‘“do you know the present price of gold leaf for
all this wicked gilding of yours?”’

‘By that I guessed he was some cheese-paring clerk or
other of the King’s Ships, so I gave him the price. I
forget it now, but it worked out to thirty pounds—
carved, gilt, and fitted in place.

‘**“Thirty pounds!” he said, as though I had pulled a
tooth of him. “You talk as though thirty pounds was
to be had for the asking. None the less,” he says, “‘your
draft’s a fine piece of work.”’

‘I’d been looking at it ever since I came in, and ’twas
viler even than I judged it at first. My eye and hand
had been purified the past months, d’you see, by my
iron work.

“**T could do it better now,’ I said. The more I
studied my squabby Neptunes the less I hiked *em; and
Arion was a pure flaming shame atop of the unbalanced
dolphins.

‘**T doubt it will be fresh expense to draft it again,”
he says.

‘**Bob never paid me for the first draft. I lay he'll
never pay me for the second. *Twill cost the King
nothing if I re-draw it,” I says.

‘«“There’s a woman wishes it to be done quickly,” he
says. ‘‘We’ll stick to your first drawing, Mus’ Dawe.
But thirty pounds is thirty pounds. You must make it
less.”

‘And all the while the faults in my draft fair leaped
79THE WRONG THING

out and hit me between the eyes. At any cost, I thinks
to myself, I must get it back and re-draft it. He grunts
at me impatiently, and a spiendid thought comes to me,
which shall save me. By the same token, ’twas quite
honest.’

‘They ain’t always,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘How did
you get out of it?’

‘By the truth. Isays to Master Fur Cap, as I might
to you here, I says, “‘I’ll tell you something, since you
seem a knowledgeable man. Is the ‘Sovereign’ to lie
in Thames river all her days, or will she take the high
seas?”’

*““Oh,” he says quickly, “‘the King keeps no cats that
don’t catch mice. She must sail the seas, Master Dawe.
She’ll be hired to merchants for the trade. She'll be
out in all shapes o’ weathers. Does that make any
odds?”’

*““Why, then,” says I, “the first heavy sea she sticks
her nose into’ll claw off half that scroll-work, and the
next will finish it. If she’s meant for a pleasure-ship
give me my draft again, and I’ll porture you a pretty,
light piece of scroll-work, good, cheap. If she’s meant
for the open sea, pitch the draft into the fire. She can
never carry that weight on her bows.”

‘He looks at me squintlings and plucks his under-
lip.

‘**Ts this your honest, unswayed opinion?”’ he says.

‘Body o’ me! Ask about!’’ I says. ““Any seaman
could tell you ’tis true. I’m advising you against my
own profit, but why I do so is my own concern.”

‘<Not altogether,” he says. “It’s some of mine.
You’ve saved me thirty pounds, Master Dawe, and
you’ve given me good arguments to use against a wilful
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

woman that wants my fine new ship for her own toy.
We'll not have any scroll-work.”’ His face shined with
pure joy.

*<°Then see that the thirty pounds you’ve saved on it
are honestly paid the King,’’ I says, “‘and keep clear o”
womenfolk.’? I gathered up my draft and crumpled it
under my arm. “If that’s all you need of me I'll be
gone; Isays, “for I’m: pressed.”

‘He turns him round and fumblesinacorner. ‘“‘Too
pressed to be made a knight, Sir Harry?” he says, and
comes at me smiling, with three-quarters of a rusty
sword.

‘I pledge you my Mark I never guessed it was the
King till that moment. I kneeled, and he tapped me
on the shoulder.

‘**Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,” he says, and, in the same
breath, ‘‘I’m pressed, too,”’ and slips through the tapes-
tries, leaving me like a stuck calf.

‘It come over me, in a bitter wave like, that here was
I, a master craftsman, who had worked no bounds, soul
or body, to make the King’s tomb and chapel a triumph
and a glory for all time; and here, d’you see, I was made
knight, not for anything I’d slaved over, or given my
heart and guts to, but expressedly because I’d saved
him thirty pounds and a tongue-lashing from Catherine
of Castile—she that had asked for the ship. That
thought shrivelled me withinsides while I was folding
away my draft. On the heels of it—maybe you'll see
why—I began to grin to myself. I thought of the ear-
nest simplicity of the man—the King, I should say—
because I’d saved him the money; his smile as though he’d
won half France! I thought of my own silly pride and
foolish expectations that some day he’d honour me as a
72THE WRONG THING

master craftsman. I thought of the broken-tipped
sword he’d found behind the hangings; the dirt of the
cold room, and his cold eye, wrapped up in his own
concerns, scarcely resting on me. Then I remembered
the solemn chapel roof and the bronzes about the stately
tomb he’d lie in, and—d’ye see?—the unreason of it all
—the mad high humour of it all—took hold on me till
I sat me down on a dark stair-head in a passage, and
laughed till I could laugh no more. What else could I
have done?

‘I never heard his feet behind me—he always walked
like a cat—but his arm slid round my neck, pulling me
back where I sat, till my head lay on his chest, and his
left hand held the knife plumb over my heart—Bene-
detto! Even so I laughed—the fit was beyond my
holding—laughed while he ground his teeth in my ear.
He was stark crazed for the time.

*“Laugh,” he said. ‘“‘Finish the laughter. I’ll not
cut ye short. Tell me now’’—he wrenched at my head
—‘“‘why the King chose to honour you—you—you—you
lickspittle Englishman? I am full of patience now. I
have waited so long.’’ ‘Then he was off at score about
his Jonah in Bury Refectory, and what I’d said of it,
and his pictures in the chapel which all men praised and
none looked at twice (as if that was my fault!) and a
whole parcel of words and looks treasured up against
me through years.

**‘Ease off your arm a little,’ I said. “I cannot
die by choking, for I am just dubbed knight, Bene-
detto.”’

‘**Tell me, and I’Il confess ye, Sir Harry Dawe, knight.
There’s a long night before ye. Tell,’ says he.

‘So I told him—his chin on my crown—told him all;
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

: told it as well and with as many words as I have ever
| told a tale at a supper with Torrigiano. I knew Bene-
detto would understand, for, mad or sad, he was a
| craftsman. I believed it to be the last tale I’d ever tell
} top of mortal earth, and I would not put out bad work
before I left the lodge. All art’s one art, as I’ve said.
I bore Benedetto no malice. My spirits, d’you see,
were catched up in a high, solemn exaltation, and I
. saw all earth’s vanities foreshortened and little, laid out
| below me like a town from a cathedral scaffolding. I
told him what befell, and what I thought of it. I gave
him the King’s very voice at ““Master Dawe, you’ve
saved me thirty pounds!” his peevish grunt while he
looked for the sword; and how the badger-eyed figures
of Glory and Victory leered at me from the Flemish
hangings. Body o’ me, ’twas a fine, noble tale, and, as
I thought, my last work on earth.

**’That is how I was honoured by the King,” I said.
*“'They’ll hang ye for killing me, Benedetto. And, since
you’ve killed in the King’s Palace, they’ll draw and
quarter you; but you’re too mad to care. Grant me,

though, ye never heard a better tale.”’

‘He said nothing, but I felt him shake. My head on
his chest shook; his right arm fell away, his left dropped
\ | the knife, and he leaned with both hands on my shoulder
| —shaking—shaking! I turned meround. No need to
; put my foot on his knife. The man was speechless with
laughter—honest craftsman’s mirth. The first time
I’d ever seen him laugh. You know the mirth that cuts
: | off the very breath, while ye stamp and snatch at the
| short ribs? That was Benedetto’s case.

‘When he began to roar and bay and whoop in the
passage, I haled him out into the street, and there we
| 74.THE WRONG THING

leaned against the wall and had it all over again—wav-
ing our hands and wagging our heads—till the watch
came to know if we were drunk.

“Benedetto says to ’em, solemn as an owl: ‘‘ You have
saved me thirty pound, Mus’ Dawe,” and off he pealed.
In some sort we were mad drunk—I because dear life
had been given back to me, and he because, as he said
afterwards, because the old crust of hatred round his
heart was broke up and carried away by laughter. His
very face had changed too.

***Hal,”’ he cries, “‘I forgive thee. Forgive me too,
Hal. Oh, you English, you English! Did it gall
thee, Hal, to see the rust on the dirty sword? Tell me
again, Hal, how the King grunted with Joy. Oh, let us
tell the Master.”’

‘So we reeled back to the chapel, arms round each
other’s necks, and when we could speak—he thought
we'd been fighting—we told the Master. Yes, we told
Torrigiano, and he laughed till he rolled on the new cold
pavement. Then he knocked our heads together.

*** Ah, you English,” he cried. ‘“‘ You are more than
pigs. Youare English. Now you are well punished for
your dirty fishes. Put the draft in the fire, and never do
so any more. You are a fool, Hal, and you are a fool,
Benedetto, but I need your works to please this beautiful
English King—”’

*«* And I meant to kill Hal,’’ says Benedetto. “‘Mas-
ter, I meant to kill him because the English King had
made him a knight.”

“** Ah!”’ says the Master, shaking his finger. “‘Bene-
detto, if you had killed my Hal, I should have killed you
—in the cloister. But you are a craftsman too, so I
should have killed youlikea craftsman, very, very slowly
75

 

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RAPE SO eee Re EOE HOC er AIT NN Ia Nay Clair eae ame

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

f
—in an hour, if I could spare the time!” That was
Torrigiano—the Master!’

Mr. Springett sat quite still for some time after Hal
had finished. Then he turned dark red; then he rocked

to and fro; then he coughed and wheezed till the tears
! ran down his face. Dan knew by this that he was
laughing, but it surprised Hal at first.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mr. Springett, ‘but I was think-
in’ of some stables I built for a gentleman in Eighteen
nundred Seventy-four. They was stables in blue brick
—very particular work. Dunno as they weren't the
best job which ever I’d done. But the gentleman’s lady
—she’d come from Lunnon, new married—she was all
for buildin’ what she called a haw-haw—what you an’
me ’ud call a dik—right acrost his park. A middlin’
big job which I’d have had the contract of, for she spoke
to me in the library about it. But I told her there was
9 line o’ springs just where she wanted to dig her ditch,
an’ she’d flood the park if she went on.’

‘Were there any springs at all?’ said Hal.

‘Bound to be springs everywhere if you dig deep
enough, ain’t there? But what I said about the springs
put her out 0’ conceit o’ diggin’ haw-haws, an’ she took

an’ built a white tile dairy instead. But when I sent in
my last bill for the stables, the gentleman he paid it
-thout even lookin’ at it, and I hadn’t forgotten nothin’,
I do assure you. More than that, he slips two five-
pound notes into my hand in the library, an’ “Ralph,”
he says—he allers called me by name—‘‘ Ralph,” hesays,
s | ‘““you’ve saved me a heap of expense an’ trouble this
| | autumn.” Ididn’t say nothin,’ o’course. I knowed he
\

 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
   

 

didn’t want any haw-haws digged acrost his park no
more’n I did, but I never said nothing. No more he
76THE WRONG THING

didn’t say nothing about my blue-brick stables, which
was really the best an’ honestest piece o’ work I’d done
in quite a while. He give me ten pounds for savin’ him
a hem of a deal 0’ trouble at home. I reckon things are
pretty much alike, all times, in all places.’

Hal and he laughed together. Dan couldn’t quite
understand what they thought so funny, and went on
with his work for some time without speaking.

When he looked up, Mr. Springett, alone, was wiping
his eyes with his green and yellow pocket-handkerchief.

‘Bless me, Mus’ Dan, I’ve been asleep,’ he said. ‘An’
I’ve dreamed a dream which has made me laugh—laugh
as Lain’t laughed inalong day. I can’t remember what
‘twas all about, but they do say that when old men take
to laughin’ in their sleep, they’re middlin’ ripe for the
next world. Have you been workin’ honest, Mus’ Dan?’

‘Ra-ather,’ said Dan, unclamping the schooner from
the vice. ‘And look how I’ve cut myself with the small
gouge.’

‘Ye-es. You want a lump o’ cobwebs to that,’ said
Mr. Springett. ‘Oh, I see you’ve put it on already.
That’s right, Mus’ Dan.’

RRR ShsRe es sees

 

 

 

shassasaseare

RhettKING HENRY, VII. AND THE, SHIPWRIGHTS

Harry our King in England, from London town is gone,
And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the countie of

Suthampton.

For there lay ‘The Mary of the Tower,’ his ship of war
so strong,

And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did
him wrong.

He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where he
would go,

(But only my Lord of Arundel,) and meanly did he
show,

In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might
him mark;

With his frieze hood and cloak above, he looked like
any clerk.

He was at Hamull on the Hoke about the hour of the
tide,

And saw the ‘Mary’ haled into dock, the winter to
abide,

With all her tackle and habiliments which are the King
his own;

But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her

to the bone.
79RRSP aaa SSE ated rar Poe Sea Darah PSPNS LD A PSPS NEO DRPPaP SISO SST ae PAIC ee STRUM EPS soca Isao ae PNET E

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of a
|} trusty tree,
And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of
weather at sea.
But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it
might go,
To maken beds for their own wives and little children also.

. There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath

the deck,

Crying: ‘Good felawes, come and see! The ship is nigh
a wreck!

For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so
fierce and fell,

Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass
pott as well!’

With that he set the pott on his head and hied him up
the hatch,
While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they
might snatch;
All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good,
He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on
| to the mud.

‘T have taken plank and rope and nail, without the King
his leave,

After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer
a thief.

Nay, never lift up thy hand at me! There’s no clean
hands in the trade—

Steal in measure,’ quo’ Brygandyne. ‘There’s measure

\ | in all things made!’

sees

sats

SS
Hyticesesese

Steeict

ean eres
ll

80Leiter ra at

    
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

KING HENRY VII. AND THE SHIPWRIGHTS

‘Gramercy, yeoman!’ said our King. ‘Thy council
liketh me.’

And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled
whistles three.

Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down,

And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry
Suthampton town.

They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the kettles
in their hands,

And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King’s
commands.

But ‘Since ye have made your beds,’ said the King, ‘ye
needs must lie thereon.

For the sake of your wives and little ones—felawes, get
you gone!’

When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips,

Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his
ships.

‘Nay, never lift up thy hands to me—there’s no clean
hands in the trade.

But steal in measure,’ said Harry our King. ‘There’s
measure in all things made!’

God speed the ‘ Mary of the Tower,’ the Sovereign’ and | |
‘Grace Dieu,’

The ‘Sweepstakes’ and the ‘Mary Fortune,’ and the if
‘Henry of Bristol’ too!

All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours
stand,

That they may keep measure with Harry our King and

peace in Engeland!
81Das siieae ie seaine

 

 

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MARKLAKE WITCHESWe
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eh

S psa Ses Sen eSe eteTHE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods

Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods . . .
But there is no road through the woods!
85OCs 5 ESOP AceMARKLAKE WITCHES
(1909)

HEN Dan took up boat-building, Una coaxed
Mrs. Vincey, the farmer’s wife at Little Lin-
dens, to teach her to milk. Mrs. Vincey milks
in the pasture in summer, which is different from milking
in the shed, because the cows are not tied up, and until
they know you they will not stand still. After three
weeks Una could milk Red Cow or Kitty Shorthorn quite
dry, without her wrists aching, and then she allowed Dan
to look. But milking did not amuse him, and it was
pleasanter for Una to be alone in the quiet pastures with
quiet-spoken Mrs. Vincey. So, evening after evening,
she slipped across to Little Lindens, took her stool from
the fern-clump beside the fallen oak, and went to work,
her pail between her knees, and her head pressed hard
into the cow’s flank. As often as not, Mrs. Vincey
would be milking cross Pansy at the other end of the
pasture, and would not come near till it was time to
strain and pour off.
Once, in the middle of a milking, Kitty Shorthorn
boxed Una’s ear with her tail.
‘You old pig!’ said Una, nearly crying, for a cow’s
tail can hurt.
“Why didn’t you tie it down, child?’ said a voice be-
hind her.
87Subagamebupanpnpasarartbedars reriscter cererct arts :
BREA Rae tare ae eh ee STS

Nn ee ee a ar
ee ee a

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off—
and this is what she’s done!’ Una looked round, expect-
ing Puck, and saw a curly-haired girl, not much taller
than herself, but older, dressed in a curious high-waisted,
lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a high hunched
collar and a deep cape and a belt fastened with a steel
clasp. She wore a yellow velvet cap and tan gauntlets,
and carried a real hunting-crop. Her cheeks were pale
except for two pretty pink patches in the middle, and
she talked with little gasps at the end of her sentences,
as though she had been running.

‘You don’t milk so badly, child,’ she said, and when
she smiled her teeth showed small and even and pearly.

‘Can you milk?’ Una asked, and then flushed, for she
heard Puck’s chuckle.

He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding
Kitty Shorthorn’s tail. ‘There isn’t much,’ he said,
‘that Miss Philadelphia doesn’t know about milk—or,
for that matter, butter and eggs. She’s a great house-
wife.’

‘Oh,’ said Una. ‘I’m sorry I can’t shake hands.
Mine are all milky; but Mrs. Vincey is going to teach
me butter-making this summer.’

‘Ah! I’m going to London this summer,’ the girl
said, ‘to my aunt in Bloomsbury.’ She coughed as she
began to hum, ‘“‘Oh, what a town! What a wonderful
metropolis!’’’

‘You’ve got a cold,’ said Una.

‘No. Only my stupid cough. But it’s vastly better
than it was last winter. It will disappear in London air.
Every one says so. D’you like doctors, child?’

‘I don’t know any,’ Una replied. ‘But I’m sure I
shouldn’t.’

 

88MARKLAKE WITCHES

‘Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,’
the girl laughed, for Una frowned.

‘I’m not a child, and my name’s Una,’ she said.

‘“Mine’s Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene
calls me Phil. I’m Squire Bucksteed’s daughter—over
at Marklake yonder.’ She jerked her little round chin
towards the south behind Dallington. ‘Sure-ly you
know Marklake?’

“We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,’ said Und.
“It’s awfully pretty. I like all those funny little roads
that don’t lead anywhere.’

‘They lead over our land,’ said Philadelphia stiffly,
‘and the coach road is only four miles away. One can
go anywhere from the Green. I went to the Assize Ball
at Lewes last year.’ She spun round and took a few
dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side.

‘It gives me a Stitch,’ she explained. ‘No odds.
*Twill go away in Londonair. That’s the latest French
step, child. Rene taught it me. D’you hate the French,
chi—Una?’

‘Well, I hate French, of course, but I don’t mind
Mam’selle. She’srather decent. Is Rene your French
governess?’

Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.

‘Ohno! Rene’saFrench prisoner—on parole. That
means he’s promised not to escape till he has been prop-
erly exchanged for an Englishman. He’s only a doctor,
so I hope they won’t think him worth exchanging. My
Uncle captured him last year in the “‘ Ferdinand” priva-
teer, off Belle Isle, and he cured my Uncle of a r-r-raging
toothache. Of course, after that we couldn’t let him
lie among the common French prisoners at Rye, and so
he stays with us. He’s of very old family—a Breton,
89hes LOT a

   

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SOLUS ATTA Te ele ta ptt ele Wis ity eltatat tyre lele bitreeit ta teletgintesnelt, te leleiy
60 GUU8 550 DI OT es eh mn eet. ty ca) | i a a hrs

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

which is nearly next door to being a true Briton, my
father says—and he wears his hair clubbed—not pow-
dered. Much more becoming, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know what you’re— Una began, but Puck,
the other side of the pail, winked, and she went on with
her milking.

‘He’s going to be a great French physician when the
war is over. He makes me bobbins for my lace-pillow
now—he’s very clever with his hands; but he’d doctor
our people on the Green if they would let him. Only
our Doctor—Dr. Break—says he’s an emp—or imp some-
thing—worse than impostor. But my Nurse says—’

‘Nurse! You’re ever so old. What have you gota
nurse for?’ Una finished milking, and turned round on
her stool as Kitty Shorthorn grazed off.

‘Because I can’t get rid of her. Old Cissie nursed my
mother, and she says she’ll nurse me till she dies, The
idea! Sheneverletsmealone. She thinks I’m delicate.
She has grown infirm in her understanding, you know.
Mad—quite mad, poor Cissie!’

‘Really mad?’ said Una. ‘Or just silly?’

‘Crazy I should say—from the things she does. Her
devotion to me is terribly embarrassing. You know I
have all the keys of the Hall except the brewery and the
tenants’ kitchen. I give out all stores and the linen
and plate.’

‘How jolly! I love store-rooms and giving out things.’

‘Ah, it’s a great responsibility you'll find when you
come to my age. Last year Dad said I was fatiguing
myself with my duties, and he actually wanted me to
give up the keys to old Amoore, our housekeeper. I
wouldn’t. I hate her. I said, ‘‘No, sir. | I am Mis-
tress of Marklake Hall just as long as I live, because
90MARKLAKE WITCHES

I’m never going to be married, and I shall give out stores
and linen till I die!’’’

‘And what did your father say?’

“Oh, I threatened to pin a dishclout to his coat-tail.
He ran away. Every one’s afraid of Dad, except me.’
Philadelphia stamped her foot. ‘The idea! If I can’t
make my own father happy in his own house, I’d like to
meet the woman thatcan, and—and—I’d have the living
hide off her!’

She cut with her long-thonged whip. It cracked like
a pistol-shot across the still pasture. Kitty Shorthorn
threw up her head and trotted away.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Philadelphia said; ‘but it makes
me furious. Don’t you hate those ridiculous old quizzes
with their feathers and fronts, who come to dinner and
call you “‘child”’ in your own chair at your own table?’

‘I don’t always come to dinner,’ said Una, ‘but I hate
being called “‘child.’’ Please tell me about store-rooms
and giving out things.’

‘Ah, it’s a great responsibility—particularly with that
old cat Amoore looking at the lists over your shoulder.
And such a shocking thing happened last summer!
Poor crazy Cissie, my Nurse that I was telling you of,
she took three solid silver tablespoons.’

“Took! But isn’t that stealing?’ Una cried.

‘Hsh!’ said Philadelphia, looking round at Puck.
“All I say is she took them without my leave. I made
it right afterwards. So, as Dad says—and he’s a magis-
trate—it wasn’t a legal offence; it was only compounding
a felony.’

“It sounds awful,’ said Una.

‘It was. My dear, I was furious! JI had had the
keys for ten months, and I’d never lost anything before.
91NC ene

See
i ey MOMMA Ea a eo on Eee eee ee

  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

| REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| I said nothing at first, because a big house offers so many

. chances of things being mislaid, and coming to hand

| later. ‘‘Fetching up in the lee-scuppers,’’ my Uncle

calls it. But next week I spoke to old Cissie about it

} when she was doing my hair at night, and she said I
wasn’t to worry my heart for trifles!’

‘Isn’t it like em?’ Una burst out. ‘They see you’re
worried over something that really matters, and they
say, “Don’t worry.” Asif that did any good!’

‘I quite agree with you, my dear; quite agree with
you! I told Ciss the spoons were solid silver, and worth
forty shillings, so if the thief were found, he’d be tried
for his life.’ .

‘Hanged, do you mean?’ Una said,

‘They ought to be; but Dad says no jury will hang
a man nowadays for a forty-shilling theft. They trans-
port ’em into penal servitude at the uttermost ends of
the earth beyond the seas, for the term of their natural
life. I told Cissie that, and I saw her tremble in my
mirror. ‘Then she cried, and caught hold of my knees,
and I couldn’t for my life understand what it was all
about,—she cried so. Can you guess, my dear, what
that poor crazy thing had done? It was midnight be-

. fore I pieced it together. She had given the spoons to
| Jerry Gamm, the Witchmaster on the Green, so that
he might put acharm on me! Me!’

‘Put a charm on you? Why?’

‘That’s what I asked; and then I saw how mad poor
Cissie was! You know this stupid little cough of mine?
It will disappear as soon as I go to London. She was
troubled about that, and about my being so thin, and she
told me Jerry had promised her, if she would bring him
three silver spoons, that he’d charm my cough away
92MARKLAKE WITCHES

and make me plump—“‘flesh-up,”’ she said. I couldn’t
help laughing; but it was a terrible night! I had to put
Cissie into my own bed, and stroke her hand till she cried
herself to sleep. What else could I have done? When
she woke, and I coughed—I suppose I can cough in my
own room if I please—she said that she’d killed me, and
asked me to have her hanged at Lewes sooner than send
her to the uttermost ends of the earth away from me.’

‘How awful! What did you do, Phil?’

“Do? I rode off at five in the morning to talk to
Master Jerry, with a new lash on my whip. Oh, I was
furious! Witchmaster or no witchmaster, Imeant to—

“Ah! what’s a Witchmaster?’

‘A master of witches, of course. I don’t believe there
are witches; but people say every village has a few, and
Jerry was the master of all ours at Marklake. He has
been a smuggler, and a man-of-war’s man, and now he
pretends to be a carpenter and joiner—he can make
almost anything—but he really is a white wizard. He
cures people by herbs and charms. He can cure them
after Dr. Break has given them up, and that’s why Dr.
Break hates him so. He used to make me toy carts,
and charm off my warts when I was a child.’ Philadel-
phia spread out her hands with the delicate shiny little
nails. ‘Itisn’t counted lucky to cross him. He has his
ways of getting even with you, they say. But I wasn’t
afraid of Jerry! I saw him working in his garden, and
I leaned out of my saddle and double-thonged him
between the shoulders, over the hedge. Well, my dear,
for the first time since Dad gave him to me, my Trouba-
dour (I wish you could see the sweet creature!) shied
across the road, and I spilled out into the hedge-top.
Most undignified! Jerry pulled me through to his side
93

PeesOA E ot

Se Ra tse

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

and brushed the leaves off me. I was horribly pricked,
but I didn’t care. ‘“‘Now, Jerry,’ I said, “‘I’m going to
take the hide off you first, and send you to Lewes after-
wards. You well know why.” ‘Oh!” he said, and he
sat down among his bee-hives. ‘“‘Then I reckon you’ve
come about old Cissie’s business, my dear.” ‘I reckon
I just about have,’ I said. “‘Stand away from these
hives. I can’t get at you there.’ ‘‘That’s why I be
where I be,” he said. “‘If you’ll excuse me, Miss Phil,
I don’t hold with bein’ flogged before breakfast, at my
time o’ life.’ He’s a huge big man, but he looked so
comical squatting among the hives that—I know I
oughtn’t to—I laughed, and he laughed. I always laugh
at the wrong time. But I soon recovered my dignity,
and I said, ““Then give me back what you made poor
Cissie steal!”

*““Your pore Cissie,” he said. ‘“‘She’s a hatful o’
trouble. But you shall have ’em, Miss Phil. They’re
all ready put by for you.’’ And, would you believe it,
the old sinner pulled my three silver spoons out of his
dirty pocket, and polished them on his cuff! ‘Here
they be,’ he says, and he gave them to me, just as cool
as though I’d come to have my warts charmed. That’s
the worst of people having known you when you were
young. ButI preserved mycomposure. “Jerry,” I said,
*‘what in the world are we todo? If you’d been caught
with these things on you, you'd have been hanged.”

‘*T know it,” he said. ‘“‘But they’re yourn now.”

‘But you made my Cissie steal them,”’ I said.

‘That: I didn’t,” he said: ‘*‘ Your Cissie, she was
pickin’ at me and tarrifyin’ me all the long day an’
every day for weeks, to put a charm on you, Miss Phil,
and take away your little spitty cough.”

94MARKLAKE WITCHES

““*Yes, I knew that, Jerry, and to make me flesh-up!”’
I said. “I’m much obliged to you, but I’m not one of
your pigs!”

“Abt! [ reckon she’ve been talking to you, then,’
he said. ““Yes, she give me no peace, and bein’ tarrified
—for I don’t hold with old women—I laid a task on her
which I thought ’ud silence her. I never reckoned the
old scrattle ‘ud risk her neckbone at Lewes Assizes for
your sake, Miss Phil. But she did. She up an’ stole,
I tell ye, ascheerfulasatinker. You might ha’ knocked
me down with any one of them liddle spoons when she
brung ’em in her apron.”’

**“Do you mean to say, then, that you did it to try
my poor Cissie?”’ I screamed at him.

***What else for, dearie?’? he said. “‘I don’t stand in
need of hedge-stealings. I’m.a free-holder, with money
in the bank; and now I won’t trust women no more!
Silly old besom! I do beleft she’d ha’ stole the Squire’s
big fob-watch, if I’d required her.”

‘**Then you’re a wicked, wicked old man,’”’ I'said, and
I was so angry that I couldn’t help crying, and of course
that made me cough.

‘Jerry was in a fearful taking. He picked me up and
carried me into his cottage—it’s full of foreign curiosities
—and he got me something to eat and drink, and he said
he’d be hanged by the neck any day if it pleased me.
He said he’d even tell old Cissie he was sorry. That’sa
great come-down for a Witchmaster; you know.

‘I was ashamed of myself for being so silly, and I
dabbed my eyes and said, “‘The least you can do now is
to give poor Ciss some sort of a charm for me.”’

‘** Ves, that’s only fair dealings,’ he said. “‘You
know the names of the Twelve Apostles, dearie? . You
95en ae PeeiPee baa ee ee
SE SSIPANALs Tote to ele tit ytdlete fe] LAT Ts Tala flo bela erate olen tT Tale ese rtletonyt
eM L ES Oa Lato OE pe eT eae ee

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

f
say them names, one by one, before your open window,
rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day fasting.
But mind you, *twixt every name you draw in your
breath through your nose, right down to your pretty
liddle toes, as long and as deep as you can, and let it
out slow through your pretty liddle mouth. There’s
virtue for your cough in those names spoke that way.
And I’ll give you something you can see, moreover.
Here’s a stick of maple which is the warmest tree in
the wood.’’’

‘That’s true, Una interrupted. ‘You can feel it
almost as warm as yourself when you touch it.’

*«<*Tt’s cut one inch long for your every year,” Jerry
said. ‘‘That’s sixteen inches. You set it in your win-
dow so that it holds up the sash, and thus you keep
it, rain or shine, or wet or fine, day and night. I’ve
said words over it which will have virtue on your com-
plaints.”

‘«T haven’t any complaints, Jerry,’ I said. “It’s
only to please Cissie.”’

‘“<T know that as well as you do, dearie,’’ he said.
And—and that was all that came of my going to give
him a flogging. I wonder whether he made poor Trou-

badour shy when I lashed at him? Jerry has his ways
| of getting even of people.’

‘I wonder,’ said Una. ‘Well, did you try the charm?
Did it work?’

‘What nonsense! I told Rene about it, of course,
because he’s a doctor. He’s going to be a most famous

| doctor. That’s why our doctor hates him. Rene said,
| “Oho! Your Master Gamm, he is worth knowing,”

ae

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and he put up his eyebrows—like this. He made joke
I of it all. He can see my window from the carpenter’s
| 96MARKLAKE WITCHES

shed, where he works, and if ever the maple stick fell
down, he pretended to be in a fearful taking till I propped
the window up again. He used to ask me whether I
had said my Apostles properly, and how I took my deep
breaths. Oh yes, and the next day, though he had
been there ever so many times before, he put on his new
hat and paid Jerry Gamm a visit of state—as a fellow-
physician. Jerry never guessed Rene was making fun
of him, and so he told Rene about the sick people in the
village, and how he cured them with herbs after Dr.
Break had given them up. Jerry could talk smugglers’
French, of course, and I had taught Rene plenty of
English, if only he wasn’t so shy. They called each
other Monsieur Gamm and Mosheur Lanark, just like
gentlemen. I suppose it amused poor Rene. He hasn’t
much to do, except to fiddle about in the carpenter’s
shop. He’s like all the French prisoners—always mak-
ing knick-knacks; and Jerry had a little lathe at his
cottage, and so—and so—Rene took to being with Jerry
much more than I approved of. The Hall is so big and
empty when Dad’s away, and I will not sit with old
Amoore—she talks so horridly about every one—spe-
cially about Rene.

‘I was rude to Rene, I’m afraid; but I was properly
served out for it. One always is. You see Dad went
down to Hastings to pay his respects to the General who
commanded the brigade there, and to bring him to the
Hall afterwards. Dad told me he was a very brave sol-
dier from India—he was Colonel of Dad’s regiment, the
Thirty-third Foot, after Dad left the Army, and then he
changed his name from Wesley to Wellesley, or else the
other way about; and Dad said I was to get out all the
silver for him, and I knew that meant a big dinner. So
97“eaahesna eR RAL SORE RESO eRe ROOT a

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

I sent down to the sea for early mackerel; and had such
L a morning in the kitchen and the store-rooms. Old

Amoore nearly cried.

“However, my dear, I made all my preparations in
ample time, but the fish didn’t arrrive—it never does—
and I wanted Rene to ride to Pevensey and bring it
himself. He had gone over to Jerry, of course, as he
always used, unless I requested his presence beforehand.
| I can’t send for Rene every time I want him. He
should be there. Now, don’t you ever do what I did,
child, because it’s in the highest degree unladylike; but
—hbut one of our woods runs up to Jerry’s garden, and
if you climb—it’s ungenteel, but I can climb like a
kitten—there’s an old hollow oak just above the pigsty
where you can hear and see everything below. ‘Truth-
fully, I only went to tell Rene about the mackerel, but
I saw him and Jerry sitting on the seat playing with
wooden toy trumpets. SoI slipped into the hollow, and
choked down my cough, and listened. Rene had never

shown me any of these trumpets.’
‘Trumpets? Aren’t you too old for trumpets?’ said

Una.

' “They weren’t real trumpets, because Jerry opened
his shirt collar, and Rene put one end of his trumpet
against Jerry's chest, and put hiseartotheother. Then
Jerry put his trumpet against Rene’s chest, and listened
while Rene breathed and coughed. I was afraid I
would cough too.

| ***This hollywood one is the best,’ said Jerry. “*’Tis
won’erful like hearin’ a man’s soul whisperin’ in his
innards; but unless I’ve a buzzin’ in my ears, Mosheur
Lanark, you make much about the same kind o’ noises
as old Gaffer Macklin—but not quite so loud as young
98

   
  
 
 
 
    
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

saoaS

THEI

SHS

PLO Taacs

RRR erasesMARKLAKE WITCHES

Copper. It sounds like breakers on a reef—a long way
off. Comprenny?”’

‘**Perfectly,’’ said Rene. “I drive on the breakers.
But before I strike, I shall save hundreds, thousands,
millions perhaps, by my little trumpets. Now tell me
what sounds the old Gaffer Macklin have made in his
chest, and what the young Copper also.”’

‘Jerry talked for nearly a quarter of an hour about
sick people in the village, while Rene asked questions.
Then he sighed, and said, “‘You explain very well,
Monsieur Gamm, but if only I had your opportunities
to listen for myself! Do you think these poor people
would let me listen to them through my trumpet—tor
a little money? No?’’—Rene’s as poor as a church
mouse, you know!

‘They'd kill you, Mosheur. It’s all I can do to coax
-em to abide it, and I’m Jerry Gamm,” said Jerry.
He’s very proud of his attainments.

‘«-Then these poor people are alarmed—No?”’ said
Rene.

‘««They’ve had it in for me for some time back because
o’ my tryin’ your trumpets on their sick; and I reckon
by the talk at the alehouse they won’t stand much more.
Tom Dunch an’ some of his kidney was drinkin’ them-
selves riot-ripe when I passed along after noon. Charms
an’ mutterin’s and bits 0’ red wool and black hens is in
the way o’ nature to these fools, Mosheur; but anything
likely to do ’em real service is devil’s work by their esti-
mation. If I was you, I’d go home before they come.”
Jerry spoke quite quietly, and Rene shrugged his shoul-
ders.

‘**T am prisoner on parole, Monsieur Gamm,”’ he said.

‘““T have no home.”
99ee

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pater ratiscts
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Re PDO ee ee Ty OT ee ee

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“Now that was unkind of Rene. He’s often told me
that he looked on England as his home. I suppose it’s
French politeness.

**“Then we'll talk o’ something that matters,” said
Jerry. “‘Not to name no names, Mosheur Lanark,
what might be your own opinion o’ some one who ain’t
old Gaffer Macklin nor young Copper? Is that person
better or worse?”’

‘**Better—for time that is,’ said Rene. He meant
for the time being, but I never could teach him some
phrases.

***T thought so too,” said Jerry. “‘But how about
time to come?”’

“Rene shook his head, and then he blew his nose.
You don’t know how odd a man looks blowing his nose
when you are sitting directly above him.

‘““T’ve thought that too,” said Jerry. He rumbled so
deep I could scarcely catch. “‘It don’t make much odds
to me, because I’m old. But you’re young, Mosheur—
you're young,” and he put his hand on Rene’s knee, and
Rene covered it with hishand. I didn’t know they were
such friends.

‘Thank you, mon ami,” said Rene. “I am much
oblige. Let us return to our trumpet-making. But I
forget ’’—he stood up—“‘it appears that you receive this
afternoon!”

“You can’t see into Gamm’s Lane from the oak, but
the gate opened, and fat little Dr. Break stumped in,
mopping his head, and half-a-dozen of our people fol-
lowed him, very drunk.

“You ought to have seen Rene bow; he does it beau-
tifully.

‘** A word with you, Laennec,”’ said Dr. Break. “Jerry
100

>MARKLAKE WITCHES

has been practising some devilry or other on these poor
wretches, and they’ve asked me to be arbiter.”

*** Whatever that means, I reckon it’s safer than ask-
ing you to be doctor,” said Jerry, and Tom Dunch, one
of our carters, laughed.

‘““That ain’t right feeling of you, Tom,”’ Jerry said,
“seeing how clever Dr. Break put away your thorn in
the flesh last winter.”’ Tom’s wife had died at Christ-
mas, though Dr. Break bled her twice a week. Dr.
Break danced with rage.

‘<*'This is all beside the mark,” he said. ‘“‘ These good
people are willing to testify that you’ve been impudently
prying into God’s secrets by means of some papistical
contrivance which this person’’—he pointed to poor
Rene—‘‘has furnished you with. Why, here are the
things themselves!’’ Rene was holding a trumpet in his
hand.

‘Then all the men talked at once. They said old
Gaffer Macklin was dying from stitches in his side where
Jerry had put the trumpet—they called it the devil’s
ear-piece; and they said it left round red witchmarks on
people’s skins, and dried up their lights, and made ’em
spit blood, and threw ’em into sweats. Terrible things
they said. You never heard such a noise. I took ad-
vantage of it to cough.

‘Rene and Jerry were standing with their backs to
the pigsty. Jerry fumbled in his flap pockets and fished
up a pair of pistols. You ought to have seen the men
give back when he cocked his. He passed one to Rene.

‘Wait! Wait!’ said Rene. ‘I will explain to the
doctor if he permits.”” He waved a trumpet at him, and
the men at the gate shouted, “Don’t touch it, Doctor!
Don’t lay a hand to the thing.”

101Sine Saas

Sow
———

ahsesestaes

Bee OS SL oo are een ein te APNE a PD
mata BE SEO Ded be Ase oe Noes Parser aeaeNS tated daoahy earae eo tesa aaP?

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“Come, come!” said Rene. “‘You are not so big
fool as you pretend, Dr. Break. No?”

‘Dr. Break backed towards the gate, watching Jerry’s
pistol, and Rene followed him with his trumpet, like a
nurse trying to amuse a child, and put the ridiculous
thing to his ear to show how it was used, and talked of
“la Gloire,” and “‘l’Humanite,”’ and “‘la Science,’’ while
Dr. Break watched Jerry’s pistol and swore. I nearly
laughed aloud.

‘"“ Now listen! Now listen!’ said Rene. ‘‘ This will
be moneys in your pockets, my dear confrere. You will
become rich.”

“Then Dr. Break said something about adventurers
who could not earn an honest living in their own country
creeping into decent houses and taking advantage of
gentlemen’s confidence to enrich themselves by base
intrigues.

“Rene dropped his absurd trumpet and made one of
his best bows. I knew he was angry from the way he
rolled his ‘‘r’s.”’

‘**Ver-r-ry good,” said he. “For that I shall have
much pleasure to kill you now and here. Monsieur
Gamm’”’—another bow to Jerry—‘‘you will please lend
him your pistol, or he shall have mine. I give you my
word I know not which is best; and if he will choose a
second from his friends over there’’—another bow to our
drunken yokels at the gate—‘‘we will commence.”

‘*“That’s fair enough,” said Jerry. ““Tom Dunch,
you owe it to the doctor to be his second. Place your
man.”

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘‘No mixin’ in gentry’s quarrels
forme.” And he shook his head and went out, and the
others followed him.

102MARKLAKE WITCHES

***Hold on,’ said Jerry. “‘You’ve forgot what you
set out to do up at the alehouse just now: You was
goin’ to search me for witchmarks; you was goin’ to
duck me in the pond; you was goin’ to drag all my bits
o sticks out o’ my little cottage here. What’s the
matter with you? Wouldn’t you like to be with your
old woman to-night, Tom?”’

“But they didn’t even look back, much less come.
They ran to the village alehouse like hares.

***No matter for these canaille,’’ said Rene, buttoning
up his coat so as not to show any linen. All gentlemen
do that before a duel, Dad says—and he’s been out five
times. ‘“‘You shall be his second, Monsieur Gamm.
Give him the pistol.”

‘Dr. Break took it as if it was red-hot, but he said
that if Rene resigned his pretensions in certain quarters
he would pass over the matter. Rene bowed deeper
than ever.

‘** As for that,” he said, “‘if you were not the ignorant
which you are, you would have known long ago that the
subject of your remarks is not for any living man.”

‘I don’t know what the subject of his remarks might
have been, but he spoke in a simply dreadful voice, my
dear, and Dr. Break turned quite white, and said Rene
was a liar; and then Rene caught him by the throat, and
choked him black.

‘Well, my dear, as if this wasn’t deliciously exciting
enough, just exactly at that minute I heard a strange
voice on the other side of the hedge say, ““What’s this?
What’s this, Bucksteed?” and there was my father and
Sir Arthur Wesley on horseback in the lane; and’ there
was Rene kneeling on Dr. Break, and there was I up in
the oak, listening with all my ears.

103a

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Bad SPP SOT a Po EE aaa Spence da Hogg pes aed 5

 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I must have leaned forward too much, and the voice
gave me such a start that I slipped. I had only time to
make one jump on to the pigsty roof—another, before
the tiles broke, on to the pigsty wall—and then I bounced
down into the garden, just behind Jerry, with my hair
full of bark. Imagine the situation!’

‘Oh, Ican!’ Una laughed till she nearly fell off the stool.

‘Dad said, “‘Phil—a—del—phia!’’ and Sir Arthur
Wesley said, ““Good Ged!’’ and Jerry put his foot on
the pistol Rene had dropped. But Rene was splendid.
He never even looked at me. He began to untwist Dr.
Break’s neckcloth as fast as he’d twisted it, and asked
him if he felt better.

*““What’s happened? What’s happened?” said Dad.

“SA fit!’ said Rene. ‘‘I fear my confrere has had a
fit. Donotbealarmed. Herecovers himself. Shall I
bleed you a little, my dear Doctor?” Dr. Break was very
good too. He said, ““I am vastly obliged, Monsieur
Laennec, but I am restored now.’’ And as he went out
of the gate he told Dad it was asyncope—I think. Then
Sir Arthur said, “Quite right, Bucksteed. Not another
word! They are both gentlemen.” And he took off
his cocked hat to Dr. Break and Rene.

‘But poor Dad wouldn’t let well alone. He kept
saying, “‘Philadelphia, what does all this mean?”’

“Well, sir,’ I said, “I’ve only just come down. As
far as I could see, it looked as though Dr. Break had had
a sudden seizure.” That was quite true—if you’d seen
Rene seize him. Sir Arthur laughed. ‘‘Not much
change there, Bucksteed,” he said. ‘‘She’s a lady—a
thorough lady.”

***Heaven knows she doesn’t look like one,’’ said poor
Dad. ‘Go home, Philadelphia.”’

104MARKLAKE WITCHES

‘So I went home, my dear—don’t laugh so!—right
under Sir Arthur’s nose—a most enormous nose—feeling
as though I were twelve years old, going to be whipped.
Oh, I beg your pardon, child!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Una. ‘I’m getting on for thirteen.
I’ve never been whipped, but I know how you felt.
All the same, it must have been funny!’

‘Funny! If you’d heard Sir Arthur jerking out,
““Good Ged, Bucksteed!”’ every minute as they rode
behind me; and poor Dad saying, “‘’Pon my honour,
Arthur, I can’t account for it!” Oh, how my cheeks
tingled when I reached my room! But Cissie had laid
out my very best evening dress, the white satin one,
vandyked at the bottom with spots of morone foil, and
the pearl knots, you know, catching up the drapery from
the left shoulder. I had poor mother’s lace tucker and
her coronet comb.’

‘Oh, you lucky!’ Una murmured. ‘And gloves?’

‘French kid, my dear’—Philadelphia patted her
shoulder—‘and morone satin shoes and a morone and
gold crape fan. That restored my calm. Nice things
alwaysdo. Iwore my hair banded on my forehead with
a little curl over the left ear. And when I descended
the stairs, en grande tenue, old Amoore curtsied to me
without my having to stop and look at her, which alas!
is too often the case. Sir Arthur highly approved of the
dinner, my dear: the mackerel did come in time. We
had all the Marklake silver out, and he toasted my
health, and he asked me where my little bird’s-nesting
sister was. I know he did it to quiz me, so I looked him
straight in the face, my dear, and I said, “I always send
her to the nursery, Sir Arthur, when I receive guests at
Marklake Hall.’’’

105REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Oh, how chee—clever of you. What did he say?’
Una cried.
‘He said, ““Not much change there, Bucksteed. Ged,
I deserved it,” and he toasted me again. They talked
about the French and what a shame it was that Sir
S|) Arthur only commanded a brigade at Hastings, and he
| told Dad of a battle in India at a place called Assaye.
Dan said it was a terrible fight, but Sir Arthur described
it as though it had been a whist-party—I suppose be-
cause a lady was present.’

‘Of course you were the lady; I wish I’d seen you,’
said Una.

‘I wish you had, child. I had such a triumph after
dinner. Rene and Dr. Break camein. They had quite
made up their quarrel, and they told me they had the
highest esteem for each other, and I laughed and said,
‘“‘T heard every word of it up in the tree.’’ You never
saw two men so frightened in your life, and when I said,
“What was ‘the subject of your remarks,’ Rene?’
neither of them knew where to look. Oh, I quizzed
them unmercifully. They’d seen me jump off the pigsty
roof, remember.’

‘But what was the subject of their remarks?’ said

Una.

| | ‘Oh, Dr. Break said it was a professional matter, so

a | the laugh was turned on me. I was horribly afraid it
| might have been something unladylike and indelicate.

But that wasn’t my triumph. Dad asked me to play

| on the harp. Between just you and me, child, I had
| been practising a new song from London—I don’t always
live in trees—for weeks; and I gave it them for a sur-
prise.’

‘What was it?’ said Una. ‘Sing it.’

106

HEA

SoHthe
neMARKLAKE WITCHES

***T have given my heart to a flower.”” Not very diffi-
cult fingering, but r-r-ravishing sentiment.’

Philadelphia coughed and cleared her throat.

‘I’ve a deep voice for my age and size,’ she explained.
“Contralto, you know, but it ought to be stronger,’ and
she began, her face all dark against the last of the soft
pink sunset:

‘IT have given my heart to a flower,
Though I know it is fading away,
Though I know it will live but an hour
And leave me to mourn its decay!

‘Isn’t that touchingly sweet? Then the last verse—I
wish I had my harp, dear—goes as low as my register will
reach.’ She drew in her chin, and took a deep breath:

“Ye desolate whirlwinds that rave,

I charge you be good to my dear!
She is all—she is all that I have,
And the time of our parting is near!’

‘Beautiful!’ said Una. ‘And did they like it?’

“Like it? They were overwhelmed—“accables,”’ as
Rene says. My dear, if I hadn’t seen it, I shouldn’t
have believed that I could have drawn tears, genuine
tears, to the eyes of four grownmen. ButIdid! Rene
simply couldn’t endure it! He’s all French sensibility.
He hid his face and said, ‘‘ Assez, Mademoiselle! C’est
plus fort que moi! Assez!’ And Sir Arthur blew his
nose and said, ‘‘Good Ged! This is worse than Assaye!”’
While Dad sat with the tears simply running down his
cheeks.’
107peseariekoatis

WEDD TE Snub yue eel E rea detg op ein eee Ee ee ae ee ae ee ee ee ee

   
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
 
 

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘And what did Dr. Break do?’

‘He got up and pretended to look out of the window,

but I saw his little fat shoulders jerk as if he had the
hiccoughs. That wasatriumph. I neversuspected him
: of sensibility.’
D) ‘Oh, I wish I’d seen! I wish I’d been you,’ said Una,
clasping her hands. Puck rustled and rose from the
fern, just as a big blundering cockchafer flew smack
against Una’s cheek.

When she had finished rubbing the place, Mrs. Vincey
called to her that Pansy had been fractious, or she would
have come long before to help her strain and pour off.

“It didn’t matter,’ said Una; ‘I just waited. Is that
old Pansy barging about the lower pasture now?’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Vincey, listening. ‘It sounds more
like a horse being galloped middlin’ quick through the
woods; but there’s no road there. I reckon it’s one of
Gleason’s colts loose. Shall I see you up to the house,
Miss Una?’

‘Gracious no! thank you. What’s going to hurt me?’
said Una, and she put her stool away behind the oak,
and strolled home through the gaps that old Hobden
kept open for her.

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BROOKLAND ROAD

  
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
 
   

I was very well pleased with what I knowed
I reckoned myself no fool—

Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road,
That turned me back to school.

>

Low down—low down!

Where the liddle green lanterns shine—
Oh! maids, I’ve done with ’ee all but one,
And she can never be mine!

"Twas right in the middest of a hot June night,
With thunder duntin’ round,

And I see’d her face by the fairy light
That beats from off the ground.

She only smiled and she never spoke,
She smiled and went away;

But when she’d gone my heart was broke,
And my wits was clean astray.

Oh! Stop your ringing and let me be—
Let be, Oh Brookland bells!

You'll ring Old Goodman! out of the sea,
Before I wed one else!

1Earl Godwin of the Goodwin Sands?
109LeOM ea NUS DOM ee IS Te Re ee a eer a ee

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

   
  
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
   

Old Goodman’s farm is rank sea sand,
And was this thousand year;

| But it shall turn to rich plough land

Before I change my dear!

Oh! Fairfield Church is water-bound
From Autumn to the Spring;
But it shall turn to high hill ground
Before my bells do ring!

Oh! leave me walk on the Brookland Road,
In the thunder and warm rain—

Oh! leave me look where my love goed
And p’raps I’ll see her again!

Low down—low down!
Where the liddle green lanterns shine—
Oh! maids, I’ve done with ’ee all but one,
And she can never be mine.ene

THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

eine7
i

; :

aererere

TestTHE RUN OF THE DOWNS

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

The Weald is good, the Downs are best—

I’ll give you the run of ’em, East to West.

Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill,

They were once and they are still.

Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry

Go back as far as sums’Il carry. .

Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring,

They have looked on many a thing;

And what those two have missed between ’em

I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen ’em. |
Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down

Knew Old England before the Crown.

Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood

Knew Old England before the Flood.

And when you end on the Hampshire side— be |
Butser’s old as Time and Tide.

The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn,
You be glad you are Sussex born!AA eee

 

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THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK
(1909)

  
   
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 

HE children went to the seaside for a month, and
lived in a flint village on the bare windy chalk |
Downs, quite thirty miles away from home.
They made friends with an old shepherd, called Mr.
Dudeney, who had known their father when their father
was little. He did not talk like their own people in the
Weald of Sussex, and he used different names for farm
things, but he understood how they felt, and let them
go with him. He had a tiny cottage about half a mile |
from the village, where his wife made mead from thyme
honey, and nursed sick lambs in front of a coal fire, while
Old Jim, who was Mr. Dudeney’s sheep-dog’s father, lay
at the door. They brought up beef bones for Old Jim
(you must never give a sheep-dog mutton bones), and by
if Mr. Dudeney happened to be far in the Downs, Mrs. |
Dudeney would tell the dog to take them to him, and he — | i]
did. )
One August afternoon when the village water-cart Ltt
had made the street smell specially townified, they went
to look for their shepherd as usual, and, as usual, Old
Jim crawled over the door-step and took them in charge.
The sun was hot, the dry grass was very slippery, and
the distances were very distant.
‘It’s just like the sea,’ said Una, when Old Jim halted
115teresa

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SIR reenter aes ee seer eres

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UUATAPaeSet eae tay eben aa EoD raraay eae NE De aR ES Pas

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

in the shade of a lonely flint barn ona barerise. ‘You
see where you're going, and—you go there, and there’s
nothing between.’

Dan slipped off hisshoes. ‘When we get home I shall
sit in the woods all day,’ he said.

‘Whuff!’ said Old Jim, to show he was ready, and
struck across a long rolling stretch of turf. Presently
he asked for his beef bone.

‘Not yet,’ said Dan. ‘Where’s Mr. Dudeney?
Where’s master?’

Old Jim looked as if he thought they were mad, and
asked again.

‘Don’t you give it him,’ Una cried. ‘I’m not going
to be left howling in a desert.’

‘Show, boy! Show!’ said Dan, for the Downs seemed
as bare as the palm of your hand.

Old Jim sighed, and trotted forward. Soon they spied
the blob of Mr. Dudeney’s hat against the sky a long
way off.

‘Right! All right!’ said Dan. Old Jim wheeled
round, took his bone carefully between his blunted teeth,
and returned to the shadow of the old barn, looking just
like a wolf. Thechildren went on. Two kestrels hung
bivvering and squealing above them. A gull flapped
lazily along the white edge of the cliffs. The curves of
the Downs shook a little in the heat, and so did Mr.
Dudeney’s distant head.

They walked towards it very slowly and found them-
selves staring into a horseshoe-shaped hollow a hundred
feet deep, whose steep sides were laced with tangled
sheep-tracks. The flock grazed on the flat at the bottom,
under charge of Young Jim. Mr. Dudeney sat com-
fortably knitting on the edge of the slope, his crook
116THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

between his knees. They told him what Old Jim had
done.

“Ah, he thought you could see my head as soon as
he did. The closeter you be to the turf the more you
see things. You look warm-like,’ said Mr. Dudeney.

“We be,’ said Una, flopping down. ‘And tired.’

‘Set beside o’mehere. The shadow’Il begin tostretch
out in a little while, and a heat-shake o’ wind will come up
with it that’ll overlay your eyes like so much wool.’

“We don’t want to sleep,’ said Una indignantly; but
she settled herself as she spoke, in the first strip of early
afternoon shade.

‘O’ course not. You come to talk with me same as
your father used. He didn’t need no dog to guide him
to Norton Pit.’

“Well, he belonged here,’ said Dan, and laid himself
down at length on the turf.

“He did. And what beats me is why he went off to
live among them messy trees in the Weald, when he
might ha’ stayed here and looked all about him. There’s
no profit to trees. They draw the lightning, and sheep
shelter under ’em, and so, like as not, you'll lose a half
score ewes struck dead in one storm. Teck! Your
father knew that.’

‘Trees aren’t messy.” Unaroseonherelbow. ‘And
what about firewood? I don’t like coal.’

“Eh? You lie apiece more up-hill and you'll lie more
natural,’ said Mr. Dudeney, with his provoking deaf
smile. ‘Now press your face down and smell to the
turf. That’s Southdown thyme which makes our South-
down mutton beyond compare, and, my mother told me,
‘twill cure anything except broken necks, or hearts. J
forget which.’

117—
Lady 9s eat SL LT DOD tere PT ee eT
ANNAN Me ata Nate D Haat Uae Setanta LAM BAASUeIED bake Pad LAP LPS IM) lad APM IE a TMG PPR NCR tapas eS.

   

REWARDS AND) FAIRIES

They sniffed, and somehow forgot to lift their cheeks
| from the soft thymy cushions.
‘You don’t get nothing like that in the Weald. Waz-
tercress, maybe?’ said Mr. Dudeney.

‘But we’ve water—brooks full of it—-where you paddle
in hot weather,’ Una replied, watching a yellow-and-
violet-banded snail-shell close to her eye.

‘Brooks flood. Then you must shift your sheep—let
alone foot-rot afterwards. I put more dependence ona
=) | dew-pond any day.’

e ‘How’s a dew-pond made?’ said Dan, and tilted his
hat over his eyes. Mr. Dudeney explained.

The air trembled a little as though it could not make
up its mind whether to slide into the Pit or move across
the open. But it seemed easiest to go downhill, and
the children felt one soft puff after another slip and sidle
down the slope in fragrant breaths that baffed on their
eyelids. The little whisper of the sea by the cliffs joined
with the whisper of the wind over the grass, the hum of
insects in the thyme, the ruffle and rustle of the flock

: below, and a thickish mutter deep in the very chalk be-
neath them. Mr. Dudeney stopped explaining, and
went on with his knitting.

| They were roused by voices. The shadow had crept

ae half-way down the steep side of Norton Pit, and on the

| edge of it, his back to them, Puck sat beside a half-naked
| man who seemed busy at some work. The wind had
dropped, and in that funnel of ground every least noise
and movement reached them like whispers up a water-

 

aera

Re besrere creat teres re reeedets Leer ee eres eteteee
Pits imi hits

8 |

L | t | pipe. ,

7 | | ‘That is clever,’ said Puck, leaning over. ‘How truly
a | you shape it!” |

a a ‘Yes, but what does The Beast care for a brittle flint

118THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

tip? Bah!’ The man flicked something contemptu-
ously over hisshoulder. It fell between Dan and Una—
a beautiful dark-blue flint arrow-head still hot from the
maker’s hand.

The man reached for another stone, and worked away
like a thrush with a snail-shell.

‘Flint work is fool’s work,’ he said at last. ‘One
does it because one always did it, but when it comes
to dealing with The Beast—no good!’ He shook his
shaggy head.

“The Beast was dealt with long ago. He has gone,’
said Puck.

“He'll be back at lambing-time. I know him.’ He
chipped very carefully, and the flints squeaked.

“Not he. Children can lie out on the Chalk now all
day through and go home safe.’

“Can they? Well, call The Beast by his True Name,
and I’ll believe it,’ the man replied.

‘Surely!’ Puck leaped to his feet, curved his hands
round his mouth and shouted: “‘ Wolf! Wolf!”

Norton Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides—-
“Wulff! Wuff!’ like Young Jim’s bark.

“You see? You hear?’ said Puck. ‘Nobody answers.
Gray Shepherd is gone. Feet-in-the-Night has run off.
There are no more wolves.’

“Wonderful!’ The man wiped his forehead as though
he were hot. ‘Who drove him away? You?’

‘Many men through many years, each working in his
own country. Were you one of them?’ Puck answered.

The man slid his sheepskin cloak to his waist, and
without a word pointed to his side, which was all seamed
and blotched with scars. His arms too were dimpled
from shoulder to elbow with horrible white dimples.
119sara sade

Mlyrissiecesnyhisitrie

ee ae

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I see,’ said Puck. ‘itis The Beast’s mark. What
did you use against him?~

‘Hand, hammer, and spear, as our fathers did before
us.”
| ‘So? Then how’—Puck twitched aside the man’s
: dark-brown cloak—‘how did a Flint-worker come by
that? Show, man, show!’ He held out his little hand.

The man slipped a long dark iron knife, almost a short
sword, from his belt, and after breathing on it, handed
iat it hilt-first to Puck, who took it with his head ononeside,
as you should when you look at the works of a watch,
squinted down the dark blade, and very delicately rubbed
his forefinger from the point to the hilt.

‘Good!’ said he, in a surprised tone.

‘It should be. The Children of the Night made it,’
the man answered.

‘So I see by theiron. What might it have cost you?’

‘This!’ The man raised his hand to hischeek. Puck
whistled like a Weald starling.

‘By the Great Rings of the Chalk!’ he cried. ‘Was
that your price? Turn sunward that I may see better,
and shut your eye.’

He slipped his hand beneath the man’s chin and swung
him till he faced the children up the slope. They saw
that his right eye was gone, and the eyelid lay shrunk.
Quickly Puck turned him round again, and the two sat
down.

‘It was for the sheep. The sheep are the people,’ said
the man, inan ashamed voice. ‘What else could I have
done? You know, Old One.’

Puck sighed a little fluttering sigh. ‘Take the knife.
I listen.’

The man bowed his head, drove the knife into the
120THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

turf, and while it still quivered said: ‘This is witness
between us that I speak the thing that has been. Be-
fore my Knife and the Naked Chalk I speak. Touch!’

Puck laid a hand on the hilt. It stopped shaking.
The children wriggled a little nearer.

‘I am of the People of the Worked Flint. I am the
one son of the Priestess who sells the Winds to the Men
of the Sea. I am the Buyer of the Knife—the Keeper
of the People,’ the man began, in a sort of singing shout.
‘These are my names in this country of the Naked Chalk,
between the Trees and the Sea.’

‘Yours was a great country. Your names are great
too,’ said Puck.

“One cannot feed some things on names and songs’:
the man hit himself on the chest. ‘It is better—always
better—to count one’s children safe round the fire, their
Mother among them.’

*Ahai!’ said Puck. ‘I think this will be a very old
tale.’

‘I warm myself and eat at any fire that I choose, but
there is no one to light me a fire or cook my meat. [
sold all that when I bought the Magic Knife for my
people. It was not right that The Beast should master
man. What else could I have done?’

‘IT hear. I know. I listen,’ said Puck.

“When I was old enough to take my place in the
Sheep-guard, The Beast gnawed all our country like a
bone between his teeth. He came in behind the flocks
at watering-time, and watched them round the Dew-
ponds; he leaped into the folds between our knees at
the shearing; he walked out alongside the grazing flocks,
and chose his meat on the hoof while our boys threw
flints at him; he crept by night into the huts, and licked
121Vee APs

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SOP AOS REA RDO SNES RST

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

the babe from between the mother’s hands; he called
his companions and pulled down men in broad daylight
on the Naked. Chalk. No—not always did he do so!
This was his cunning! He would go away for a while
to let us forget him. A year—two years perhaps—we
neither smelt, nor heard, norsaw him. When our flocks
had increased; when our men did not always look behind
them; when children strayed from the fenced places;
when our women walked alone to draw water—back,
back, back came the Curse of the Chalk, Gray Shepherd,
Feet-in-the-Night—The Beast, The Beast, The Beast!
‘He laughed at our little brittle arrows and our poor
blunt spears. He learned to run in under the stroke of
the hammer. I think he knew when there was a flaw
in the flint. Often it does not show till you bring it
down on his snout. Then—Pouf!—the false flint falls
all to flinders, and you are left with the hammer-handle
in your fist, and his teeth in your flank! I have felt them.
At evening, too, in the dew, or when it has misted and
rained, your spear-head lashings slack off, though you
have kept them beneath your cloak all day. You are
alone—but so close to the home ponds that you stop to
tighten the sinews with hands, teeth, and a piece of
driftwood. You bend over and pull—so! That is the
minute for which he has followed you since the stars
went out. ‘“‘Aarh!’? he says. ‘“‘Wurr-aarh!” he says.’
(Norton Pit gave back the growl like a pack of real
wolves.) ‘Then he is on your right shoulder feeling for
the vein in your neck, and—perhaps your sheep run on
without you. To fight The Beast is nothing, but to be
despised by The Beast when he fights you—that is like
his teeth in the heart! Old One, why is it that men de-
sire so greatly, and can do so little?’
122THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

‘I donot know. Did you desire so much?’ said Puck,

‘I desired to master The Beast. It is not right that
The Beast should master man. But my people were
afraid. Even my Mother, the Priestess, was afraid
when I told her what I desired. We were accustomed |
to be afraid of The Beast. When I was made a man,
and a maiden—she was a Priestess—waited for me at |
the Dew-ponds, The Beast flitted from off the Chalk.
Perhaps it was a sickness; perhaps he had gone to his
Gods to learn how to do us new harm. But he went,
and we breathed more freely. The women sang again;
the children were not so much guarded; our flocks grazed
farout. I took mine yonder’—he pointed inland to the
hazy line of the Weald—‘where the new grass was best.
They grazed north. I followed till we were close to the
Trees’—he lowered his voice—‘close there where the
Children of the Night live.’ He pointed north again.

‘Ah, now I remember a thing,’ said Puck. ‘Tell me,
why did your people fear the Trees so extremely?’

“Because the Gods hate the Trees and strike them
with lightning. We can see them burning for days all
along the Chalk’s edge. Besides, all the Chalk knows
that the Children of the Night, though they worship our a
Gods, aremagicians. Whenaman goes into their coun- |
try, they change his spirit; they put words into his \
mouth; they make him like talking water. Buta voice
in my heart told me to go towards the north. While I |
watched my sheep there I saw three Beasts chasing a fi
man, who ran towards the Trees. By this I knew he |
was a Child of the Night. We Flint-workers fear the |
Trees more than we fear The Beast. He had no hammer;
he carried a knife like thisone. A Beast leaped at him.
He stretched out his knife. The Beast fell dead. The
123SABE ae eer

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

other Beasts ran away howling, which they would never
have done from a Flint-worker. The man went in
among the Trees. I looked forthe dead Beast. He had
been killed in a new way—by a single deep, clean cut,
without bruise or tear, which had split his bad heart.
Wonderful! So I sawthat the man’s knifewas magic, and
I thought how to get it, thought strongly how to get it.

‘When I brought the flocks to the shearing, my Mother
the Priestess asked me, ‘‘ What is the new thing which
you have seen and I see in your face?” I said, “It is a
sorrow to me’’; and she answered, ““ All new things are
sorrow. Sit in my place, and eat sorrow.” Isat down
in her place by the fire, where she talks to the ghosts in
winter, and two voices spoke in my heart. One voice
said, ““Ask the Children of the Night for the Magic
Knife. Itisnot fit that The Beast should master man.”
I listened to that voice.

‘One voice said, ‘“‘If you go among the Trees, the
Children of the Night will change your spirit. Eat and
sleep here.” The other voice said, ‘‘ Ask for the Knife.”
I listened to that voice.

‘I said to my Mother in the morning, “I go away to
find a thing for the people, but I do not know whether
I shall return in my own shape.’ She answered,
‘“‘Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am
your Mother.’’’

‘True,’ said Puck. ‘The Old Ones themselves cannot
change men’s mothers even if they would.’

‘Let us thank the Old Ones! I spoke tomy Maiden,
the Priestess who waited for me at the Dew-ponds.
She promised fine things too.’ The man laughed. ‘I
went away to that place where I had seen the magician
with the knife. I lay out two days on the short grass
124PE CRE COC Le ie Sere CEM IT Ie Tee histo ee tir Ate
ci ead ace ee CAE ee Oe ES TT oo OC eae ge PT Be ON ND ohn cuhsotoroano, ie iveen wtstguen fur t/t EeSLor= |)

THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

before I ventured among the Trees. I felt my way
before me with a stick. I was afraid of the terrible
talking Trees. I was afraid of the ghostsin the branches;
of the soft ground underfoot; of the red and black waters.
I was afraid, above all, of the Change. It came!’

They saw him wipe his forehead once again, and his
strong back-muscles quivered till he laid his hand on the
knife-hilt.

‘A fire without a flame burned in my head; an evil
taste grew in my mouth; my eyelids shut hot over my
eyes; my breath was hot between my teeth, and my
hands were like the hands of a stranger. I was made to
sing songs and to mock the Trees, though I was afraid of
them. At the same time I saw myself laughing, and I
was very sad for this fine young man, who was myself.
Ah! The Children of the Night know magic.’

‘I think that is done by the Spirits of the Mist. They
change aman if he sleeps among them,’ said Puck. ‘Had
you slept in any mists?’

‘Yes—but I know it was the Children of the Night.
After three days I saw a red light behind the Trees, and
I heard a heavy noise. I saw the Children of the Night
dig red stones from a hole, and lay them in fires. The
stones melted like tallow, and the men beat the soft
stuff with hammers. I wished to speak to these men,
but the words were changed in my mouth, and all I
could say was, ‘Do not make that noise. It hurts my
head.”’ By this I knew that I was bewitched, and I
clung to the Trees, and prayed the Children of the Night
to take off their spells. They were cruel. They asked
me many questions which they would never allow me to
answer. They changed my words between my teeth
tillI wept. Then they led me into a hut and covered the
125RASA eer

OS Sh ae eh Re ee
PSPS AE Ce Sea IEM OC eee Paspear oth pete Ders Par hee nL Le indede moe RPL teat as ose sca Mena Tt foe me OM ee a
d deaaest) es AP esas i ee ee ee ae Cee a

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| | floor with hot stones and dashed water on the stones,
| : and sang charms till the sweat poured off me like water.
: Islept. When I waked, my own spirit—not the strange,
shouting thing—was back in my body, and I was like a
cool bright stone on the shingle between the sea and the
sunshine. The magicians came to hear me—women
and men—each wearing a Magic Knife. Their Priestess

was their Ears and their Mouth.

‘I spoke. I spoke many words that went smoothly
along like sheep in order when their shepherd, standing
on a mound, can count those coming, and those far off
setting ready to come. I asked for Magic Knives for
my people. I said that my people would bring meat,
and milk, and wool, and lay them in the short grass out-
side the Trees, if the Children of the Night would leave
Magic Knives for our people to take away. They were
pleased. Their Priestess said, ‘‘For whose sake have
you come?’ I answered, ‘‘The sheep are the people. If
The Beast kills our sheep, our people die. So I come for
a Magic Knife to kill The Beast.”

: ‘She said, ‘““We do not know if our God will let us
trade with the people of the Naked Chalk. Wait till
we have asked.”’
| ‘When they came back from the Question place (their
Gods are our Gods), their Priestess said, ““The God needs
a proof that your words are true.”’ I said, ‘‘ What is the
proof?’ She said, ““The God says that if you have
come for the sake of your people you will give him your
L right eye to be put out; but if you have come for any
| other reason you will not giveit. This proof is between
|
|

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

BGS Se ET

you and the God. We ourselves are sorry.”’
‘I said, ‘‘This is a hard proof. Is there no other
road?”’

126THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

‘She said, “Yes. You can go back to your people
with your two eyes in your head if you choose. But
then you will not get any Magic Knives for your people.”’

“I said, “‘It would be easier if I knew that I were to be
killed.”

“She said, “Perhaps the God knew this too. See! [
have made my knife hot.’’

‘I said, ““Be quick, then!’? With her knife heated in
the flame she put out my right eye. She herself did it.
I am the son of a Priestess. She was a Priestess. It
was not work for any common man.’

‘True! Most true,’ said Puck. ‘No common man’s
work, that. And, afterwards?’

‘Afterwards I did not see out of that eye any more.
I found also that a one eye does not tell you truly where
things are. Try it!’

At this Dan put his hand over one eye, and reached
for the flint arrow-head on the grass. He missed it by
inches. “It’s true,’ he whispered to Una. ‘You can’t
judge distances a bit with only one eye.’

Puck was evidently making the same experiment, for
the man laughed at him.

‘I know it is so,’ said he. ‘Even now I am not always
sure of my blow. I stayed with the Children of the
Night till my eye healed. They said I was the son
of Tyr, the God who put his right hand in a Beast’s
mouth. They showed me how they melted their red
stone and made the Magic Knives of it. They told
me the charms they sang over the fires and at the beat-
ings. JI can sing many charms.’ Then he began to
laugh like a boy.

‘I was thinking of my journey home,’ he said, ‘and of
the surprised Beast. He had come back to the Chalk.
127

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
    
  
 
  
 
   
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
   
  
   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

I saw him—I smelt his lairs as soon as ever I left the
Trees. He did not know I had the Magic Knife—I hid
it under my cloak—the Knife that the Priestess gave me.
Ho! Ho! That happy day was too short! See! A
5 Beast would wind me. ‘‘Wow!”’ he would say, “here
: is my Flint-worker!’? He would come leaping, tail in
air; he would roll; he would lay his head between his
paws out of merriness of heart at his warm, waiting meal.
He would leap—and, oh, his eye in mid-leap when he
saw—when he saw the knife held ready for him! It
pierced his hide as a rush pierces curdled milk. Often
he had no time to howl. I did not trouble to flay any
beasts I killed. Sometimes I missed my blow. Then
I took my little flint hammer and beat out his brains as
he cowered. He made no fight. He knew the knife!
But The Beast is very cunning. Before evening all The
Beasts had smelt the blood on my knife, and were run-
ning from me like hares. They knew! Then I walked

as aman should—the Master of The Beast!

“So came I back to my Mother’s house. There wasa
lamb to be killed. I cut it in two halves with my knife,
and I told her all my tale. She said, “‘This is the work

of a God.’ I kissed her and laughed. I went to my

Maiden who waited for me at the Dew-ponds. ‘There
ha was alamb to be killed. I cut it in two halves with my
S| knife, and told her all my tale. She said, “It is the work
| of a God.” I laughed, but she pushed me away, and
B being on my blind side, ran off before I could kiss her.
: | I went to the Men of the Sheepguard at watering-time.
| ti There was a sheep to be killed for their meat. I cut it
in two halves with my knife, and told them all my tale.
| | They said, ‘“‘It is the work of aGod.” I said, ‘‘ We talk

| | too much about Gods. Let us eat and be happy, and
hil 128

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WeTHE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

to-morrow I will take you to the Children of the Night,
and each man will find a Magic Knife.”

‘I was glad to smell our sheep again; to see the broad
sky from edge to edge, and to hear thesea. I slept be-
neath the stars in my cloak. The men talked among
themselves.

‘I led them, the next day, to the Trees, taking with
me meat, wool, and curdled milk, as I had promised.
We found the Magic Knives laid out on the grass, as
the Children of the Night had promised. They watched
us from among the Trees. ‘Their Priestess called to me
and said, ‘““How isit with your people?’’ I said, “Their
hearts are changed. I cannot see their hearts as I used
to.” She said, “‘That is because you have only one eye.
Come to me and I will be both your eyes.’ But I said,
“IT must show my people how to use their knives against
The Beast, as you showed me how to use my knife.” I[
said this because the Magic Knife does not balance like
the flint. She said, ““What you have done, you have
done for the sake of a woman, and not for the sake of
your people.”’ I asked of her, ‘‘Then why did the God
accept my right eye, and why are you soangry?”’ She
answered, “‘Because any man can lie to a God, but no
mancanlietoa woman. AndIamnot angry with you.
I am only very sorrowful for you. Wait a little, and
you will see out of your one eye why I am sorry.”” So
she hid herself.

‘I went back with my people, each one carrying his
knife, and making it sing in the air—*‘tssee-sssse.”” The
Flint never sings. It mutters—‘‘ump-ump.”’ The Beast
heard. The Beast saw. He knew! Everywhere he
ran away from us. We all laughed. As we walked
over the grass my Mother’s brother—the Chief on the
129Rae
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Man’s Side—he took off his Chief’s necklace of yellow
sea-stones.’

‘How? Eh? Oh, I] remember! Amber,’ said Puck.

‘And would have put them on my neck. I said, “No,
I am content. What does my one eye matter if my
other eye sees fat sheep and fat children running about
safely?’? My Mother’s brother said to them, “‘I told
you he would never take such things.” Then they
began to sing a song in the Old Tongue—‘‘ The Song of
Tyr.’ Isang with them, but my Mother’s brother said,
‘**This is your song, O Buyer of the Knife. Let us sing
Teed yr.’

‘Even then I did not understand, till I saw that—that
no man stepped on my shadow; and I knew that they
thought me to be a God, like the God Tyr, who gave his
right hand to conquer a Great Beast.’

‘By the Fire in the Belly of the Flint, was that so?’
Puck rapped out.

‘By my Knife and the Naked Chalk, soit was! They
made way for my shadow as though it had been a
Priestess walking to the Barrows of the Dead. I was
afraid. I said to myself, “‘My Mother and my Maiden
will know I am not Tyr.” But still I was afraid, with
the fear of a man who falls into a steep flint-pit while he
runs, and feels that it will be hard to climb out.

‘When we came to the Dew-ponds all our people were
there. The men showed their knives and told their tale.
The sheepguards also had seen The Beast flying from us.
The Beast went west across the river in packs—howling!
He knew the Knife had come to the Naked Chalk at last
—atlast! Heknew! Somyworkwasdone. I looked
for my Maiden among the Priestesses. She looked at
me, but she did not smile. She made the sign to me
130THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

that our Priestesses must make when they sacrifice to
the Old Dead in the Barrows. I would have spoken,
but my Mother’s brother made himself my Mouth, as
though I had been one of the Old Dead in the Barrows
for whom our Priests speak to the people on Midsummer
mornings.’

‘IT remember. Well I remember those Midsummer
mornings!’ said Puck.

“Then I went away angrily to my Mother’s house.
She would have knelt before me. Then I was more
angry, but she said, ““Only a God would have spoken
to me thus, a Priestess. A man would have feared the
punishment of the Gods.” I looked at her and I laughed.
I could not stop my unhappy laughing. They called
me from the door by the name of Tyr himself. A young
man with whom I had watched my first flocks, and
chipped my first arrow, and fought my first Beast, called
me by that name in the Old Tongue. He asked my
leave to take my Maiden. His eyes were lowered, his
hands were on his forehead. He was full of the fear of a
God, but of me, a man, he had no fear when he asked.
I did not kill him. I said, ‘“‘Call the maiden.’ She
came also without fear—this very one that had waited
for me, that had talked with me by our Dew-ponds.
Being a Priestess, she lifted her eyes tome. As I look
on a hill or a cloud, so she looked at me. She spoke in
the Old Tongue which Priestesses use when they make
prayers to the Old Dead in the Barrows. She asked
leave that she might light the fire in my companion’s
house—and that I should bless their children. I did not
kill her. I heard my own voice, little and cold, say,
‘Let it be as you desire,’’ and they went away hand in
hand. My heart grew little and cold; a wind shouted
131ae PLO Me TR RM eet

Oe es alin yin oan) ah ard

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

in my ears; my eye darkened. I said to my Mother,
‘“‘Can a God die?’’ I heard her say, ““Whatisit? What
is it, my son?” and I fell into darkness full of hammer-
noises. I was not.’

‘Oh, poor—poor God!’ said Puck. ‘And your wise
Mother?’

‘She knew. As soon as I dropped she knew. When
my spirit came back I heard her whisper in my ear,
‘‘Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am
your Mother.’ ‘That was good—bhetter even than the
water she gave me and the going away of the sickness.
Though I was ashamed to have fallen down, yet I was
very glad. She was glad too. Neither of us wished to
lose the other. ‘There is only the one Mother for the
oneson. I heaped the fire for her, and barred the doors,
and sat at her feet as before I went a way, and she combed
my hair, and sang.

‘IT said at last, ‘‘ What is to be done to the people who
say that I am Tyr?”

‘She said, “‘He who has done a God-like thing must
bear himself like a God. I see no way out of it. The
people are now your sheep till you die. You cannot
drive them off.”

‘I said, ‘This is a heavier sheep than I can lift.” She
said, ‘‘In time it will grow easy. In time perhaps you
will not lay it down for any maiden anywhere. Be wise
—be very wise, my son, for nothing is left you except the
words, and the songs, and the worship of a God.””’

‘Oh, poor God!’ said Puck. ‘But those are not alto-
gether bad things.’

‘T know they are not; but I would sell them all—all—
all for one small child of my own, smearing himself with
the ashes of our own house-fire.’

132THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK

He wrenched his knife from the turf, thrust it into his
belt and stood up.

‘And yet, what else could I have done?’ hesaid. ‘The
sheep are the people.’

‘It is a very old tale,’ Puck answered. ‘I have heard
the like of it not only on the Naked Chalk, but also
among the Trees—under Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.’

The afternoon shadows filled all the quiet emptiness of
Norton Pit. The children heard the sheep bells and
Young Jim’s busy bark above them, and they scrambled
up the slope to the level.

‘We let you have your sleep out,’ said Mr. Dudeney,
as the flock scattered before them. ‘It’s making for
tea-time now.’

‘Look what I’ve found,’ said Dan, and held up a
little blue flint arrow-head as fresh as though it had been
chipped that very day.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Dudeney, ‘the closeter you be to the
turf the more you're apt to see things. I’ve found ’em
often. Some says the fairies made ’em, but I says they
was made by folks like ourselves—only a goodish time
back. They’re lucky to keep. Now, you couldn’t ever
have slept—not to any profit—among your father’s
trees same as you've laid out on Naked Chalk—could
you?’

“One doesn’t want to sleep in the woods,’ said Una.

‘Then what’s the good of ’em?’ said Mr. Dudeney.
‘Might as well set in the barn all day. Fetch ’em ’long,
Jim boy!’

The Downs, that looked so bare and hot when they
came, were full of delicious little shadow-dimples; the
smell of the thyme and the salt mixed together on the
133REWARDS AND FAIRIES

south-west drift from the still sea; their eyes dazzled
with the low sun, and the long grass under it looked
golden. The sheep knew where their fold was, so Young
Jim came back to his master, and they all four strolled
home, the scabious-heads swishing about their ankles,
and their shadows streaking behind them like the shad-
ows of giants.SONG OF THE MENS, SIDE

Once we feared The Beast—when he followed us we
ran,

Ran very fast though we knew

It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?

The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears—
Grinned at the hammers that we made;

But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife—
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!

Room for his shadow on the grass—let it pass!
To left and right—stand clear!

This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!

Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan,
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master
Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
‘The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!’
And that was the price he paid.
135ae PRE Rol army

eS : : I Ae iG: opi oers

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

i Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead—run ahead!
) Shout it so the Women’s Side can hear!

. This is the Buyer of the Blade—he afraid!

| This is the great god Tyr!

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 

Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond.

We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.

We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we

please,

We can sleep after meals in the sun;

For Shepherd of the Twilight is dismayed at the Blade.
Feet-in-the-Night have run!

Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!

Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass—let it pass!
| To left and right—stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade—he afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!ee
ne

Kenn 0)

BROTHER SQUARE-TOESUt

+
ay

iSPHILADELPHIA

If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,

You mustn’t take my stories for a guide.
There’s little left indeed of the city you will read of

And all the folk I write about have died.
Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand,

Or remember what his cunning and his skill did.
And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zin-

nendorf,
Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded.

It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis

(Never say I didn’t give you warning).

In Seventeen Ninety-three ’twas there for all to
see,

But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,
You mustn’t go by everything I’ve said.
Bob Bicknell’s Southern Stages have been laid aside for
ages,
But the Limited will take you there instead. !
Toby Hirte can’t be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen,
North Second Street—no matter when you call;
And I fear you’ll search in vain for the wash-house down
the lane
Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball.
139RET

 

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden

(Never say I didn’t give you warning).

In Seventeen Ninety-four ’twas a famous dan-
cing-floor—

But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,
You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel.
You needn’t try your luck at Epply’s or the ‘Buck,’
Though the Father of his Country liked them well.
It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos,
Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed—so
You must treat as out of date the story I relate
Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so.

He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Luther

(Never say I didn’t give you warning).

In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!)
alive.

But he’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

If you’re off to Philadelphia this morning,
And wish to prove the truth of what I say,
I pledge my word you'll find the pleasant land behind
Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way.
Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the cat-bird
sings his tune;
Still autumn sets the maple-forest blazing.
Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-
compelling musk;
Still the fireflies in the corn make night amazing.
140PHILADELPHIA

They are there, there, there with Earth immortal

(Citizens, I give you friendly warning).

The things that truly last when men and times
have passed

They are all in Pennsylvania this morning!Sepeaaee

STR TER I
tstecpuresesBROTHER SQUARE-TOES
(1910)

T was almost the end of their visit to the seaside.
They had turned themselves out of doors while their
trunks were being packed, and strolled over the

Downs towards the dull evening sea. The tide was
dead low under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled
waves grieved along the sands up the coast to Newhaven
and down the coast to long, gray Brighton, whose smoke
trailed out across the Channel.

They walked to The Gap where the cliff is only a few
feet high. A windlass for hoisting shingle from the
beach below stands at the edge of it. The Coastguard
cottages are a little farther on, and an old ship’s figure-
head of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall.

“This time to-morrow we shall be at home, thank
goodness,’ said Una. ‘I hate the sea!’

‘I believe it’s all right in the middle,’ said Dan. ‘The
edges are the sorrowful parts.’

Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage,
levelled his telescope at some fishing-boats, shut it with
a click and walked away. He grew smaller and smaller
along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of white
chalk every few yards show the path even on the darkest
night.

‘Where’s Cordery going?’ said Una.

143Ra Rae

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Half-way to Newhaven,’ said Dan. ‘Then he'll
meet the Newhaven coastguard and turn back. Hesays
if coastguards were done away with, smuggling would
start up at once.’

A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing:

‘The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye—
On Telscombe Tye at night it was—
She saw the smugglers riding by,
A very pretty sight it was!’

Feet scrabbled on the flinty path. A dark, thin-faced
man in very neat brown clothes and broad-toed shoes
came up, followed by Puck.

‘Three Dunkirk boats was standin’ in—’

the man went on.
‘Hssh!’ said Puck. ‘You'll shock these nice young
people.’
| ‘Oh! Shall 12 Mille pardons!’ He shrugged his
shoulders almost up to his ears—spread his hands abroad,
and jabbered in French. ‘No comprenny?’ he said.
‘T’ll give it youin Low German.’ And he went off in an-
other language, changing his voice and manner so com-
pletely that they hardly knew him for the same person.
But his dark beady-brown eyes still twinkled merrily
in his lean face, and the children felt that they did not
suit the straight, plain, snuffy-brown coat, brown knee-

4 | breeches, and broad-brimmed hat. His hair was tied
| | in a short pig-tail which danced wickedly when he turned
| his head.

| ‘Ha’ done!’ said Puck, laughing. ‘Be one thing or
144BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

tother, Pharaoh—French or English or German—no
sreat odds which.’

‘Oh, but it is, though,’ said Una quickly. ‘We haven’t
begun German yet, and—and we’re going back to our
French next week.’

‘Aren't you English?’ said Dan. ‘We heard you sing-
ing just now.’

‘Aha! That was the Sussex side 0’ me. Dad he
married a French girl out o’ Boulogne, and French she
stayed till her dyin’ day. She was an Aurette, of course.
We Lees mostly marry Aurettes. Haven’t you ever
come across the saying:

‘Aurettes and Lees,

Like as two peas.

What they don’t smuggle,
They run overseas?’

“Then, are you a smuggler?’ Una cried; and, ‘Have
you smuggled much?’ said Dan.

Mr. Lee nodded solemnly.

‘Mind you,’ said he, ‘I don’t uphold smuggling for the
generality o° mankind—mostly they can’t make a do
of it—but I was brought up to the trade, d’ye see, in a
lawful line o’ descent on’—he waved across the Channel
— on both sides the water. ’*Twas all in the families,
same as fiddling. The Aurettes used mostly to run the
stuff across from Boulogne, and we Lees landed it here
and ran it up to London Town, by the safest road.’

‘Then where did you live?’ said Una.

“You mustn’t ever live too close to your business in
our trade. We kept our little fishing smack at Shore-
ham, but otherwise we Lees was all honest cottager folk
145ee

 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

—at Warminghurst under Washington—Bramber way
—on the old Penn estate.’

‘Ah!’ said Puck, squatted by the windlass. ‘I re-
member a piece about the Lees at Warminghurst, I do:

‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst
That wasn’t a gipsy last and first.

I reckon that’s truth, Pharaoh.’

Pharaoh laughed. ‘Admettin’ that’s true,’ he said,
‘my gipsy blood must be wore pretty thin, for I’ve made
and kept a worldly fortune.’

‘By smuggling?’ Dan asked.

‘No, in the tobacco trade.’

‘You don’t mean to say you gave up smuggling just
to go and be a tobacconist!’ Dan looked so disappointed
they all had to laugh.

‘I’m sorry; but there’s all sorts of tobacconists,’
Pharaoh replied. ‘How far out, now, would you call
that smack with the patch on her foresail?’ He pointed
to the fishing-boats.

‘A scant mile,’ said Puck after a quick look.

‘Just about. It’s seven fathom under her—clean
sand. That was where Uncle Aurette used to sink his
brandy kegs from Boulogne, and we fished ’em up and
rowed ’em into The Gap here for the ponies to run in-
land. One thickish night in January of ’93, Dad and
Uncle Lot and me came over from Shoreham in the
smack, and we found Uncle Aurette and the L’ Estranges,
my cousins, waiting for us in their lugger with New
Year’s presents from mother’s folk in Boulogne. I re-
member Aunt Cecile she’d sent me a fine new red knitted
cap, which I put on then and there, for the French was
146BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

having their Revolution in those days, and red caps was
all the fashion. Uncle Aurette tells us that they had
cut off their King Louis’ head, and, moreover, the Brest
forts had fired on an English man-o’-war. The news
wasn’t a week old.

‘““That means war again, when we was only just get-
ting used to the peace,” says Dad. ‘‘Why can’t King
George’s men and King Louis’ men do on their uniforms
and fight it out over our heads?”

‘“*Me too, I wish that,’”’ says Uncle Aurette. ‘‘But
they'll be pressing better men than themselves to fight
for °em. ‘The press-gangs are out already on our side:
you look out for yours.”

‘““Tll have to bide ashore and grow cabbages for a
while, after I’ve run this cargo; but I do wish’’—Dad
says, going over the lugger’s side with our New Year
presents under his arm and young L’Estrange holding
up the lantern—“I just do wish that those folk which
made war so easy had to run one cargo a month all this
winter. It ’ud show ’em what honest work means.”

‘Well, I’ve warned ye,” says Uncle Aurette. ‘“‘I’ll
be slipping off now before your Revenue cutter comes.
Give my love to sister and take care o’ the kegs. It’s
thicking to southward.”

‘I remember him waving to us and young Stephen
L’Estrange blowing out the lantern. By the time we’d
fished up the kegs the fog came down so thick Dad
judged it risky for me to row ’em ashore, even though
we could hear the ponies stamping on the beach. Sohe
and Uncle Lot took the dinghy and left me in the smack
playing on my fiddle to guide ’em back.

‘Presently I heard guns. Two of ’em sounded mighty
like Uncle Aurette’s three-pounders. He didn’t go
147as Sapte eataeer rete rectents reece
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Sa sseara rh Pea Taam thes ones

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

naked about the seas after dark. ‘hen come more,
which I reckoned was Captain Giddens in the Revenue
cutter. He was open-handed with his compliments, but
he would lay his guns himself. I stopped fiddling to
listen, and I heard a whole skyful o’ French up in the
fog—and a high bow come down on top o’ the smack.
I hadn’t time to call or think. I remember the smack
heeling over, and me standing on the gunwale pushing
against the ship’s side as if I hoped to bear her off. Then
the square of an open port, with a lantern in it, slid by
in front of my nose. I kicked back on our gunwale as
it went under and slipped through that port into the
French ship—me and my fiddle.’

‘Gracious!’ said Una. ‘What an adventure!’

‘Didn’t anybody see you come in?’ said Dan.

‘There wasn’t any onethere. I’d made use of an orlop-
deck port—that’s the next deck below the gun-deck,
which by rights should not have been open at all. The
crew was standing by their guns up above. I rolled on
to a pile of dunnage in the dark and I went to sleep.
When I woke, men was talking all round me, telling
each other their names and sorrows just like Dad told me
pressed men used to talk in the last war. Pretty soon
I made out they’d all been hove aboard together by the
press-gangs, and left to sort ’emselves. The ship she
was the ‘“‘Embuscade,” a thirty-six-gun Republican
frigate, Captain Jean Baptiste Bompard, two days out
of Le Havre, going to the United States with a Republi-
can French Ambassador of the name of Genet. They
had been up all night clearing for action on account of
hearing guns in the fog. Uncle Aurette and Captain
Giddens must have been passing the time o’ day with
each other off Newhaven, and the frigate had drifted
148BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

past ‘em. She never knew she’d run down our smack.
Seeing so many aboard was total strangers to each
other, I thought one more mightn’t be noticed; so I put
Aunt Cecile’s red cap on the back of my head, and my
hands in my pockets like the rest, and, as we French say,
I circulated till I found the galley.

‘What! Here’s one of ’em that isn’t sick!” says a
cook. “Take his breakfast to Citizen Bompard.”’

‘I carried the tray to the cabin, but I didn’t call this
Bompard “‘Citizen.”” Oh no! ‘Mon Capitaine”’ was
my little word, same as Uncle Aurette used to answer
in King Louis’ Navy. Bompard, he liked it; he took
me on for cabin servant, and after that no one asked
questions; and thus I got good victuals and light work
all the way across to America. He talked a heap of
politics, and so did his officers, and when this Ambassa-
dor Genet got rid of his land-stomach and laid down the
Jaw after dinner, a rooks’ parliament was nothing com-
pared to their cabin. I learned to know most of the
men which had worked the French Revolution, through
waiting at table and hearing talk about ’em. One of
our forecas’le six-pounders was called Danton and t’other
Marat. I used to play the fiddle between ’em, sitting
on the capstan. Day in and day out Bompard and
Monsieur Genet talked 0’ what France had done, and
how the United States was going to join her to finish
off the English in this war. Monsieur Genet said he’d
justabout make the United States fight for France. He
was a rude common man. But I liked listening. I
always helped drink any healths that was proposed—
specially Citizen Danton’s who’d cut off King Louis’
head. An all-Englishman might have been shocked—
that’s where my French blood saved me.

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘It didn’t save me from getting a dose of ship’s fever
though, the week before we put Monsieur Genet ashore
at Charleston; and what was left of me after bleeding and
pills took the dumb horrors from living ’tween decks.
The surgeon, Karaguen his name was, kept me down
there to help him with his plasters—I was too weak to
wait on Bompard. I don’t remember much of any ac-
count for the next few weeks, till I smelled lilacs, and I
looked out of the port, and we was moored to a wharti-
edge and there was a town o’ fine gardens and red-brick
houses and all the green leaves in God’s world waiting
for me outside.

‘““What’s this?” I said to the sick-bay man—old
Pierre Tiphaigne he was. ‘‘Philadelphia,” says Pierre.
““VYou’ve missed it all. We’re sailing next week.”

‘T just turned round andcriedforlonging to beamongst
the laylocks.

‘Tf that’s your trouble,” says old Pierre, “you go
straight ashore. None’llhinder you. They’re all gone
mad on these coasts—French and American together.
*Tisn’t my notion o’ war.” Pierre was an old King
Louis man.

‘My legs was pretty tottly, but I made shift to go on
deck, which it was like a fair. The frigate was crowded
with fine gentlemen and ladies pouring in andout. They
sung and they waved French flags, while Captain Bom-
pard and his officers—yes, and some of the men—speech-
ified to all and sundry about war with England. They
shouted, ‘‘Down with England!’ —* Down with Wash-
ington!’—‘‘Hurrah for France and the Republic!” I
couldn’t make sense of it. JI wanted to get out from
that crunch of swords and petticoats and sit in a field.
One of the gentlemen said to me, “Is that a genuine cap
150BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

o’ Liberty you’re wearing?”’ °*Twas Aunt Cecile’s red
one, and pretty near wore out. ‘Oh yes!’ I says,
“straight from France.” “‘I’ll give you a shilling for it,”’
he says, and with that money in my hand and my fiddle
under my arm I squeezed past the entry-port and went
ashore. It was like a dream—-meadows, trees, flowers,
birds, houses, and people all different! I sat me down
in a meadow and fiddled a bit, and then I went in and
out the streets, looking and smelling and touching, like
alittle dog atafair. Fine folk was setting on the white
stone doorsteps of their houses, and a girl threw me a
handful of laylock sprays, and when I said “ Merci”
without thinking, she said she loved the French. They
was all the fashionin the city. Isaw more tricolour flags
in Philadelphia than ever I’d seen in Boulogne, and every
one was shouting for war with England. A crowd 0’
folk was cheering after our French ambassador—that
same Monsieur Genet which we'd leftat Charleston. He
was a-horseback behaving as if the place belonged to
him—and commanding all and sundry to fight the
British. But I’d heard that before. I got into a long
straight street as wide as the Broyle, where gentlemen
was racing horses. I’m fond o’ horses. Nobody hin-
dered ’em, and a man told me it was called Race Street
o’ purpose for that. Then I followed some black niggers,
which I’d never seen close before; but I left them to run
after a great, proud, copper-faced man with feathers
in his hair and a red blanket trailing behind him. A
man told me he was a real Red Indian called Red Jacket,
and I followed him into an alley-way off Race Street by
Second Street, where there was a fiddle playing. I’m
fond o’ fiddling. The Indian stopped at a baker’s shop
—Conrad Gerhard’s it was—and bought some sugary
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

cakes. Hearing what the price was I was going to have
some too, but the Indian asked me in English if I was
hungry. ‘‘Ohyes!’ Isays. I must have looked a sore
scrattel. He opens a door on to a staircase and leads
the way up. We walked into a dirty little room full of
flutes and fiddles and a fat man fiddling by the window,
in a smell of cheese and medicines fit to knock you down.
I was knocked down too, for the fat man jumped up and
hit me a smack in the face. I fell against an old spinet
covered with pill-boxes and the pills rolled about the
floor. The Indian never moved an eyelid.

‘**Pick up the pills! Pick up the pills!” the fat man
screeches.

‘I started picking *°em up—hundreds of *em—mean-
ing to run out under the Indian’s arm, but I came on
giddy all over andI sat down. The fat man went back
to his fiddling.

“““Toby!’? says the Indian after quite a while. “I
brought the boy to be fed, not hit.”

“What?” says Toby, “I thoughtit was Gert Schwank-
felder.”” He put down his fiddle and took a good look
at me. ‘‘Himmel!” he says. “I have hit the wrong
boy. Itisnot the new boy. Why are you not the new
boy? Why are you not Gert Schwankfelder?”’

‘*T don’t know,” Isaid. “‘ The gentleman in the pink
blanket brought me.”

‘Says the Indian, ‘‘He is hungry, Toby. Christians
always feed the hungry. So I bring him.”

‘““You should have said that first,’ said Toby. He
pushed plates at me and the Indian put bread and pork
on them, anda glass of Madeira wine. I told him I was
off the French ship, which I had joined on account of my
mother being French. That was true enough when you
152BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

think of it, and besides I saw that the French was all the
fashion in Philadelphia. Toby and the Indian whis-
pered and I went on picking up the pills.

“You like pills—eh?”’ says Toby.

*““No,” I says. ‘I’ve seen our ship’s doctor roll too
many of ’em.”’ |

‘““Ho!”’ he says, and he shoves two bottles at me.

*“What’s those?”

*““Calomel,’’ I says. ‘‘And t’other’s senna.”

“Right,” he says. ‘‘One week have I tried to teach
Gert Schwankfelder the difference between them, yet he
cannot tell. You like to fiddle?’ he says. He’d just
seen my kit on the floor.

moh yes says IT:

‘“Oho!” he says. ‘“‘ What note is this?” drawing his
bow acrost.

‘He meant it for A, so I told him it was.

‘“*My brother,” he says to the Indian. “I think this
is the hand of Providence! I warned that Gert if he |
went to play upon the wharves any more he would hear
from me. Now look at this boy and say what you
think.”’

‘The Indian looked me over whole minutes—there
was a musical clock on the wall and dolls came out and
hopped while the hour struck. He looked me over all
the while they did it.

*“ Good,” he says at last. ‘“‘The boy is good.” (| &

“Good, then,”’ says Toby. ‘“‘Now I shall play my
fiddle and you shall sing your hymn, brother. Boy,
go down to the bakery and tell them you are young Gert
Schwankfelderthat was. The horses arein Davy Jones’s |
locker. If you ask any questions you shall hear from
me.”

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I left ’°em singing hymns and I went down to old
Conrad Gerhard. He wasn’t at all surprised when I
told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder that was.
He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the back
yard without a word, and she washed me and she cut
my hair to the edge of a basin, and she put me to bed,
and oh! how I slept—how I slept in that little room be-
hind the oven looking on the flower garden! I didn’t
know Toby went to the “Embuscade” that night and
bought me off Dr. Karaguen for twelve dollars and a
dozen bottles of Seneca Oil. Karaguen wanted a new
lace to his coat, and he reckoned I hadn’t long to live;
so he put me down as “discharged sick.”’’

‘I like Toby,’ said Una.

“Who was he?’ said Puck.

‘Apothecary Tobias Hirte,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘One
Hundred and Eighteen, Second Street—the famous
Seneca Oil man, that lived half of every year among
the Indians. But let me tell my tale my own way, same
as his brown mare used to go to Lebanon.’

‘Then why did he keep her in Davy Jones’s locker?’
Dan asked.

‘That was hisjoke. He kept her under David Jones’s
hat shop in the ‘“‘Buck’ tavern yard, and his Indian
friends kept their ponies there when they visited him.
I looked after the horses when I wasn’t rolling pills on
top of the old spinet, while he played his fiddle and Red
Jacket sang hymns. I liked it. I had good victuals,
light work, a suit 0’ clean clothes, a plenty music, and
quiet, smiling German folk all around that let me sit
in their gardens. My first Sunday, Toby took me to
his church in Moravian Alley; and that was in a garden
too. The women wore long-eared caps and handker-
154Tew Sam ole sehelele cfels onto sishs| m Hjshaleletet preys

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

chiefs. They came in at one door and the men at
another, and there was a brass chandeller you could see
your face in, and a nigger-boy to blow the organ bellows.
I carried Toby’s fiddle, and he played pretty much as
he chose all against the organ and the singing. He was
the only one they let do it, for they was a simple-minded
folk. They used to wash each other’s feet up in the
attic to keep ’emselves humble: which Lord knows they
didn’t need.’

“How very queer,’ said Una.

Pharaoh’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve met many and seen
much,’ he said; ‘but I haven’t yet found any better or
quieter or forbearinger people than the Brethren and
Sistern of the Moravian Church in Philadelphia. Nor
will I ever forget my first Sunday—the service was in
English that week—with the smell of the flowers coming
in from Pastor Meder’s garden where the big peach tree
is, and me looking at all the clean strangeness and think-
ing of ’tween decks on the “‘Embuscade”’ only six days
ago. Being a boy, it seemed to me it had lasted for ever,
and was going on for ever. But I didn’t know Toby
then. As soon as the dancing clock struck midnight
that Sunday—I was lying under the spinet—I heard
Toby’s fiddle. He’d just done his supper, which he
always took late and heavy. “Gert,” says he, “get
the horses. Liberty and Independence for ever! The
flowers appear upon the earth and the time of the sing-
ing of birds is come. We are going to my country seat
in Lebanon.”

‘I rubbed my eyes, and fetched ’em out of the “Buck”
stable. Red Jacket was there saddling his, and when
I’d packed the saddle-bags we three rode up Race Street
to the Ferry by starlight. So we went travelling. It’s
155———

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

a kindly, softly country there, back of Philadelphia
among the German towns:Lancaster way. Little houses
and bursting big barns, fat cattle, fat women, and all
as peaceful as Heaven might be if they farmed there.
Toby sold medicines out of his saddle-bags, and gave the
French war-news to folk along the roads. Him and his
long-hilted umberell was as well known as the stage
coaches. He took orders for that famous Seneca Oil
which he had the secret of from Red Jacket’s Indians,
and he slept in friends’ farmhouses, but he would shut
all the windows; so Red Jacket and me slept outside.
There’s nothing to hurt except snakes—and they slip
away quick enough if you thrash in the bushes.’

‘I'd have liked that!’ said Dan.

‘I'd no fault to find with those days. In the cool 0’
the morning the cat-bird sings. He’s something to
listen to. And there’sa smell of wild grape-vine growing
in damp hollows which you drop into, after long rides
in the heat, which is beyond compare for sweetness.
So’s the puffs out of the pine woods of afternoons. Come
sundown, the frogs strike up, and later on the fireflies
danceinthecorn. Ohme, the firefliesinthe corn! We
were a week or ten days on the road, tacking from one
place to another—such as Lancaster, Bethlehem-Ephrata
— “thou Bethlehem-Ephrata’’—no odds—TI loved the
going about; and so we jogged into dozy little Lebanon
by the Blue Mountains, where Toby had a cottage and a
garden of all fruits. He come north every year for this
wonderful Seneca Oil the Seneca Indians made for him.
They’d never sell to any one else, and he doctored ’em
with von Swieten pills, which they valued more than
their own oil. He could do what he chose with them,
and, of course, he tried to make them Moravians. The
156BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

Senecas are a seemly, quiet people, and they’d had trou-
ble enough from white men—Americans and English—
during the wars, to keep ’em in that walk. They lived
on a Reservation by themselves away off by their lake.
Toby took me up there, and they treated me as if I was
their own blood brother. Red Jacket said the mark of
my bare feet in the dust was just like an Indian’s and
my style of walking was similar. I know I took to their
ways all over.’

‘Maybe the gipsy drop in your blood helped you?’
said Puck.

‘Sometimes I think it did,’ Pharaoh went on. ‘Any-
how Red Jacket and Cornplanter, the other Seneca chief,
they let me be adopted into the tribe. It’s only a com-
pliment, of course, but Toby was angry when I showed
up with my face painted. They gave me a side-name
which means ‘“‘T wo Tongues,” because, d’yesee, I talked
French and English.

‘They had their own opinions (I’ve heard ’em) about
the French and the English, andthe Americans. They'd
suffered from all of ’em during the wars, and they only
wished to be left alone. But they thought a heap of the
President of the United States. Cornplanter had had
dealings with him in some French wars out West when
General Washington was only a lad. His being Presi-
dent afterwards made no odds to ’em. They always
called him Big Hand, for he was a large-fisted man, and
he was all of their notion of a white chief. Cornplanter
‘ud sweep his blanket round him, and after I’d filled his
pipe he’d begin —‘“‘ In the old days, long ago, when braves
were many and blankets were few, Big Hand said—”’
If Red Jacket agreed to the say-so he’d trickle a little
smoke out of the corners of hismouth. If hedidn’t, he’d
157ry
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

blow through his nostrils. Then Cornplanter ’ud stop
and Red Jacket ’udtakeon. Red Jacket was the better
talker of the two. I’ve laid and listened to ’em for
hours. Oh! they knew General Washington well. Corn-
planter used to meet him at Epply’s—the great dancing
place in the city before District Marshal William Nichols
boughtit. They told me he was always glad to see ’em,
and he’d hear ’em out to the end if they had anything
ontheirminds. They had a good dealin those days. I
came at it by degrees, after I was adopted into the tribe.
The talk up in Lebanon and everywhere else that sum-
mer was about the French war with England and whether
the United States ’ud join in with France or make a
peace treaty with England. Toby wanted peace so as
he could go about the Reservation buying his oils. But
most of the white men wished for war, and they was
angry because the President wouldn’t give the sign for
it. The newspaper said men was burning Guy Fawke
images of General Washington and yelling after him in
the streets of Philadelphia. You’d have been astonished
what those two fine old chiefs knew of the ins and outs
of such matters. The little I’ve learned of politics I
picked up from Cornplanter and Red Jacket on the
Reservation. ‘Toby used to read the “Aurora” news-
paper. He was what they call a ‘““Democrat,” though
our Church is against the Brethren concerning them-
selves with politics.’

‘I hate politics, too,’ said Una, and Pharaoh laughed.

‘I might ha’ guessed it,’ he said. ‘But here’s some-
thing that isn’t politics. One hot evening late in August,
Toby was reading the newspaper on the stoop and Red
Jacket was smoking under a peach tree and I was fiddling.
Of a sudden Toby drops his “Aurora.”
158BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

***T am an oldish man, too fond of my own comforts,”
he says. “I will go to the church which is in Philadel-
phia. My brother, lend me a spare pony. I must be
there to-morrow night.”

‘“*Good!” says Red Jacket, looking at the sun. ‘‘My
brother shall be there. I will ride with him and bring
back the ponies.”

‘I went to pack the saddle-bags. Toby had cured
me of asking questions. He stopped my fiddling if I did.
Besides, Indians don’t ask questions much and I wanted
to be like ’em.

“When the horses were ready I jumped up.

“““Get off,’ says Toby. ‘“‘Stay and mind the cottage
till I come back. The Lord has laid this on me, not on
you—I wish he hadn’t.”’

‘He powders off down the Lancaster road, and I sat
on the door-step wondering after him. When I picked
up the paper to wrap his fiddle-strings in, I spelled out
a piece about the yellow fever being in Philadelphia so
dreadful every one was running away. I was scared,
for I was fond of Toby. We never said much to each
other, but we fiddled together, and music’s as good as
talking to them that understand.’

‘Did Toby die of yellow fever?’ Una asked.

‘Not him! There’s justice left in the world still. He
went down to the City and bled ’em well again in heaps.
He sent back word by Red Jacket that, if there was war
or he died I was to bring the oils along to the city, but
till then I was to go on working in the garden and Red
Jacket was to see me do it. Down at heart all Indians
reckon digging a squaw’s business, and neither him nor.
Cornplanter, when he relieved watch, was a hard task-
master. We hired a nigger-boy to do our work, and a
159SeseaTEReNseansteaesneeiEATaRs Re telolevensertstatelelenetesnraT tal stele benneer ttt laleletti rte tate sta le leig nies
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

lazy grinning runagate he was. When I found Toby
didn’t die the minute he reached town, why, boylike,
I took him off my mind and went with my Indians again.
Oh! those days up north at Canasedago, running races
and gambling with the Senecas, or bee-hunting in the
woods, or fishing in the lake.’ Pharaoh sighed and
looked across the water. ‘But it’s best,’ he went on
suddenly, ‘after the first frostes. You roll out o’ your
i blanket and find every leaf left green over night turned
ae i red and yellow, not by trees at a time, but hundreds and
i hundreds of miles of ’em, like sunsets splattered upside
| down. On one of such days—the maples was flaming
scarlet and gold, and the sumach bushes were redder—
Cornplanter and Red Jacket came out in full war-dress,
making the very leaves look silly: feathered war-bonnets,
yellow doe-skin leggings, fringed and tasselled, red horse-
blankets, and their bridles feathered and shelled and
beaded no bounds. I thought it was war against the
British till I saw their faces weren’t painted, and they
only carried wrist-whips. Then I hummed “Yankee
| Doodle” at ’°em. They told me they was going to visit
Big Hand and find out for sure whether he meant to Jom
the French in fighting the English ormake a peace treaty
. with England. I reckon those two would ha’ gone out
on the war-path at a nod from Big Hand, but they knew
well, if there was war *twixt England and the United
States, their tribe ’ud catch it from both parties same as
in all the other wars. They asked me to come along
and hold the ponies. That puzzled me, because they
always put their ponies up at the ““Buck” or Epply’s
when they went to see General Washington in the city,
and horse-holding is a nigger’s job. Besides, I wasn’t
exactly dressed for it.’

 

 

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160BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

*D’you mean you were dressed like an Indian?’ Dan
demanded.

Pharaoh looked a little abashed. ‘This didn’t happen
at Lebanon,’ he said, ‘but a bit farther north, on the
Reservation; and at that particular moment of time,
so far as blanket, hair-band, moccasins, and sunburn
went, there wasn’t much odds ’twix me and a young
Seneca buck. You may laugh,’ he smoothed down his
long-skirted brown coat. ‘But I told you I took to their
ways allover. Isaid nothing, though I was bursting to
let out the war-whoop like the young men had taught
me.’

“No, and you don’t let out one here, either,’ said Puck
before Dan could ask. ‘Go on, Brother Square-toes.’

‘We went on.’ Pharaoh’s narrow dark eyes gleamed
and danced. ‘We went on—forty, fifty miles a day,
for days on end—we three braves. And how a great tall
Indian a-horseback can carry his war-bonnet at a canter
through thick timber without brushing a feather beats
me! My silly head was banged often enough by low
branches, but they slipped through like running elks.
We had evening hymn-singing every night after they’d
blown their pipe-smoke to the quarters of Heaven.
Where did we go? I'll tell you, but don’t blame me if
you're no wiser. We took the old war-trail from the
end of the Lake along the East Susquehanna through
the Nantego country, right down to Fort Shamokin on
the Senachse river. Wecrossed the Juniataby Fort Gran-
ville, got into Shippensberg over the hills by the Och-
wick trail, and then to Williams Ferry (it’s a bad one).
From Williams Ferry, across the Shanedore, over the
Blue Mountains, through Ashby’s Gap, and so south-
east by south from there, till we found the President at
161a
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

the back of his own plantations. I’d hate to be trailed
by Indiansinearnest. They caught him like a partridge
onastump. After we'd left our ponies, we scouted for-
ward through a woody piece, and, creeping slower and
slower, at last if my moccasins even slipped Red Jacket
-ud turn and frown. I heard voices—Monsieur Genet’s
for choice—long before I saw anything, and we pulled
up at the edge of a clearing where some niggers in gray
and red liveries were holding horses, and half-a-dozen
gentlemen—but one was Genet—were talking among
felled timber. I fancy they’d come to see Genet a piece
on his road, for his portmantle was with him. I hid in
between two logs as near to the company as I be to that
old windlass there. I didn’t need anybody to show me
Big Hand. Hestood up, very still, his legs a little apart,
listening to Genet, that French Ambassador, which
never had more manners than a Bosham tinker. Genet
was as good as ordering him to declare war on England
at once. I had heard that clack before on the “ Em-
buseade.”’ Hesaid he’d stir up the whole United States
to have war with England, whether Big Hand liked it or
not.

‘Big Hand heard him out to the last end. I looked
behind me and my two chiefs had vanished like smoke.
Says Big Hand, ‘‘That is very forcibly put, Monsieur
Genet—” ‘‘Citizen—citizen!”’ the fellow spits in. “I,
at least, am a Republican!’’ ‘‘Citizen Genet,”’ he says,
‘vou may he sure it will receive my fullest consider-
ation.’’ This seemed to take Citizen Genet back a piece.
He rode off grumbling, and never gave his nigger a
penny. No gentleman!

‘The others all assembled round Big Hand then, and,
in their way, they said pretty much what Genet had said.
162BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

They put it to him, here was France and England at
war, in a manner of speaking, right across the United
States’ stomach, and paying no regards to any one.
The French was searching American ships on pretence
they was helping England, but really for to steal the
goods. The English was doing the same, only t’other
way round, and besides searching, they was pressing
American citizens into their navy to help them fight
France, on pretence that those Americans was lawful
British subjects. His gentlemen put this very clear to
Big Hand. It didn’t look to them, they said, as though
the United States trying to keep out of the fight was any
advantage to her, because she only catched it from both
French and English. They said that nine out of ten
good Americans was crazy to fight the English then and
there. They wouldn’t say whether that was right or
wrong; they only wanted Big Hand to turn it over in
his mind. Hedid—fora while. I saw Red Jacket and
Cornplanter watching him from the far side of the clear-
ing, and how they had slipped round there was another
mystery. Then Big Hand drew himself up, and he let
his gentlemen have it.’

‘Hit ’em?’ Dan asked.

‘No, nor yet was it what you might call swearing.
He—he blasted ’em with his natural speech. He asked
them half-a-dozen times over whether the United States
had enough armed ships for any shape or sort of war with
any one. He asked ’em, if they thought she had those
ships, to give him those ships, and they looked on the
ground, as if they expected to find ’em there. He put
it to ’em whether, setting ships aside, their country—I
reckon he gave ’em good reasons—whether the United
States was ready or able to face a new big war; she hav-
163DUE en?

title tale telelaeinsratetsteleleleieitieoritetelslpeled givatety ty lela lygieoretitefetels
totale Fair tet etete tebe ieltielest state le erp tote triste eter aperel

    
  
 
   
 
  
 
 
  
   
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

ing but so few years back wound up one against England,
and being all holds full of her own troubles. As I said,
the strong way he laid it all before ’em blasted ’em, and
when he’d done it was like a still in the woods after a
storm. <A little man—but they all looked little—pipes
up like a young rook in a blowed-down nest, “‘ Neverthe-
less, General, it seems you will be compelled to fight
England.” Quick Big Hand wheels on him, ‘And is
: there anything in my past which makes you think I am
averse to fighting Great Britain?”
“Everybody laughed except him. “‘Oh, General, you
mistake us entirely!” they says. “‘I trust so,” he says.
“But I know my duty. We must have peace with
England.”
‘** At any price?” says the man with the rook’s voice.
“*“At any price,” says he word by word. ‘‘Our ships
will be searched—our citizens will be pressed, but—’
‘““Then what about the Declaration of Indepen-
dence?’’ says one.
*“ Deal with facts, not fancies,’ says Big Hand. ‘‘The
United States are in no position to fight England.”
*“ But think of public opinion,” another one starts up.
“The feeling in Philadelphia alone is at fever-heat.”’
| “He held up one of his big hands. ‘“‘Gentlemen,”’ he
says—slow he spoke, but his voice carried far—‘‘I have
to think of our country. Let me assure you that the
treaty with Great Britain will be made though every
city in the Union burn me in effigy.”
“At any price?” the actor-like chap keeps on croak-
ing.
‘<The treaty must be made on Great Britain’s own
terms. What else can J do?”
“He turns his back on ’em and they looked at each
164

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aneBROTHER SQUARE-TOES

other and slinked off to the horses, leaving him alone:
and then I saw he was an old man. Then Red Jacket
and Cornplanter rode down the clearing from the far
end as though they had just chanced along. Back went
Big Hand’s shoulders, up went his head and he stepped
forward one single pace with a great deep Hough! so
pleased he was. That was a statelified meeting to behold
—three big men, and two of ’em looking like jewelled
images among the spattle of gay-coloured leaves. I
saw my chiefs’ war-bonnets sinking together, down and
down. Then they made the sign which no Indian makes
outside of the Medicine Lodges—a sweep of the right
hand just clear of the dust and an inbend of the left knee
at the same time, and those proud eagle feathers almost
touched his boot-top.’

“What did it mean?’ said Dan.

‘Mean!’ Pharaoh cried. ‘Why it’s what you—what
we—it’s the Sachems’ way of sprinkling the sacred corn-
meal in front of—oh! it’s a piece of Indian compliment
really, and it signifies that you are a very big chief.

‘Big Hand looked down on ’em. First he says quite
softly, “My brothers know it is not easy to be a chief.”’
Then his voice grew. ‘‘My children,” says he, “what
is in your minds?”

‘Says Cornplanter, ‘““We came to ask whether there
will be war with King George’s men, but we have heard
what our Father has said to his chiefs. We will carry
away that talk in our hearts to tell to our people.”

‘“No,” says Big Hand. “Leave all that talk behind
—it was between white men only—but take this message
from me to your people—‘ There will be no war.’”’

‘His gentlemen were waiting, so they didn’t delay
him; only Cornplanter says, using his old side-name,
165OAR Daa ren the

AOE eS ents et eT TAR Te ee ee ee ee eee
SEY SLANT STAT ita te sTo ye ARLE My Sele ele alte TNT IE tage le into atthe alt

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“Big Hand, did you see us among the timber just
now?”

P “Surely; saysihe:
trees when we were both young.”
cantered off.

‘Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back on our
ponies again and a half-hour along the home-trail. Then
Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, ‘‘ We will have the corn
dance this year. There will be no war.’ And that was
all there was to it.’

Pharaoh stood up as though he had finished.

‘Yes,’ said Puck, rising too. ‘And what came out of
it in the long run?’

‘Let me get at my story my own way,’ was the answer.
‘Look! it’s later than I thought. That Shoreham smack’s
thinking of her supper.’

The children looked across the darkening Channel.
A smack had hoisted a lantern and slowly moved west
where Brighton pier lights ran out in a twinkling line.
When they turned round The Gap was empty behind
them.

‘I expect they’ve packed our trunks by now,’ said
Dan. ‘This time to-morrow we'll be home.’

 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

3

“You taught me to look behind
And with that heNom

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, |
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim, (
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster |
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

167Tisai

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!Hespceun aac TTR
decease it seas
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Ke eee Mt epouly Ve ate
HoUieernecst ey TS, tarsi ts tite
Redhereie ; ,
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Raia

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ep

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seein st

ist:A ST. HELENA LULLABY

How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?
What makes you want to wander there with all the
world between?
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)

How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?
I haven’t time to answer now—the men are falling
fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step you will take the last!) |

How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?
You couldn’t hear me if I told—so loud the cannons
roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits. |
(‘Gay go up’ means ‘gay go down’ the wide world
o'er!)

How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?
I cannot see—I cannot tell—the crowns they dazzle
SO.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up
to dance.
(After open weather you may look for snow!)
171See te ye ee ee ns
Do ey aes onlin) yh iseate | a ae i a aa a ae iar

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

| . How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?

. | A longish way—a longish way—with ten year more
to run.
| It’s South across the water underneath a setting star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)

How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?
An ill way—a chill way—the ice begins to crack.
ant But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
ci | (When youcan’t goforward you must e’en come back!)

How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?
A near way—a clear way—the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)

How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace?
That no one knows—that no one knows—and no one
ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your
face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’
(1910)

HE day after they came home from the seaside
they set out on a tour of inspection to make sure
everything was as they had left it. Soon they

discovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-
gaps with stakes and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up
the hedges where the blackberries were setting.

‘It can’t be time for the gipsies to come along,’ said
Una. ‘Why, it was summer only the other day!’

‘There’s smoke in Low Shaw!’ said Dan, sniffing.
*Let’s make sure!’

They crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue
smoke that leaned above the hollow of Low Shaw which
lies beside the King’s Hill road. It used to be an old
quarry till somebody planted it, and youcanlookstraight
down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow.

‘I thought so,’ Dan whispered, as they came up to the
fence at the edge of the larches. A gipsy-van—not the
showman’s sort, but the old black kind, with little win-
dows high up and a baby-gate across the door—was get-
ting ready to leave. Aman was harnessing the horses;
an old woman crouched over the ashes of a fire made out
of broken fence-rails; and a girl sat on the van-steps
singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking, thin dog
snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

woman put it carefully in the middle of the fire. The
girl reached back inside the van and tossed her a paper
parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and they smelt
singed feathers.

‘Chicken feathers!’ said Dan. ‘I wonder if they are
old Hobden’s.’

Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the
girl’s feet, the old woman fanned the fire with her hat,
while the man led the horses up to the shafts. They all
moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss.

‘Ah!’ said the girl. ‘Dll teach you!’ She beat the
dog, who seemed to expect it.

‘Don’t do that,’ Una called down. ‘It wasn’t his
fault.’

‘How do you know what I’m beating him for?’ she
answered.

‘For not seeing us,’ said Dan. ‘He was standing.
right in the smoke, and the wind was wrong for his nose,
anyhow.’

The girl stopped beating the dog and the old woman
fanned faster than ever.

‘You’ve fanned some of your feathers out of the fire,’
said Una. ‘There’s a tail-feather by that chestnut-
tot.’

‘What of it?’ said the old woman, as she grabbed it

‘Oh, nothing!’ said Dan. ‘Only I’ve heard say that
tail-feathers are as bad as the whole bird, sometimes.’

That was a saying of Hobden’s about pheasants.
Old Hobden always burned all feather and fur before he
sat down to eat.

‘Come on, mother,’ the man whispered. The old
woman climbed into the van and the horses drew it out
of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road.

174‘A PRIESTAN SPITE OF HIMSELF”

The girl waved her hands and shouted something they
could not catch.

“That was gipsy for “‘ Thank you kindly, Brother and
Sister,’ said Pharaoh Lee.

He was standing behind them, his fiddle under his
arm.

‘Gracious, you startled me!’ said Una.

“You startled old Priscilla Savile,’ Puck called from
below them. ‘Come and sit by their fire. She ought
to have put it out before they left.’

They dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una
raked the ashes together, Dan found a dead wormy oak
branch that burns without flame, and they watched the
smoke while Pharaoh played a curious wavery air.

‘That’s what the girl was humming to the baby,’ said
Una.

‘IT know it,’ he nodded, and went on:

‘Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai! Luludia!
Ai Luludia!’

He passed from one odd tune to another, and quite
forgot the children. At last Puck asked him to go on
with his adventures in Philadelphia and among the
Seneca Indians.

‘I’m telling it,’ he said, staring straight in front of him
as he played. ‘Can’t you hear?’

‘Maybe, but they can’t. Tell it aloud,’ said Puck.

Pharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, and
began:

‘I’d left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home
with me after Big Hand had said that there wouldn’t be
any war. That’s all there wastoit. We believed Big
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Hand and we went home again—we three braves. When
we reached Lebanon we found Toby at the cottage with
his waistcoat a foot too big for him—so hard he had
worked amongst the yellow-fever people. He beat me
for running off with the Indians, but ’twas worth it—I
was glad to see him,—and when we went back to Phila-
delphia for the winter, and I was told how he’d sacrificed
himself over sick people in the yellow fever, I thought
the world and all of him. No I didn’t neither. Id
thought that all along. That yellow fever must have
been something dreadful. Even in December people
had nomore than begun to trinkle back to town. Whole
houses stood empty and the niggers was robbing them
out. But I can’t call to mind that any of the Moravian
Brethren had died. It seemed like they had just kept
on with their own concerns, and the good Lord he’d just
looked after ’em. That was the winter—yes, winter of
Ninety-three—the Brethren bought a stove for the
Church. Toby spoke in favour of it because the cold
spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought stove-heat
not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which
always brought hickory coal foot-warmers to service and
wouldn’t speak either way. They ended by casting
the Lot for it, which is like pitch-and-toss. After my
summer with the Senecas, church-stoves didn’t highly
interest me, so I took to haunting round among the
French emigres which Philadelphia was full of. My
French and my fiddling helped me there, d’ye see.
They come over in shiploads from France, where, by
what I made out, every one was killing every one else
by any means, and they spread ’emselves about the city
—mostly in Drinker’s Alley and Elfrith’s Alley—and
they did odd jobs till times should mend. But what-
176Alain o epehelotetepelesepatatsihial hisgabareyenes eebts SS eee

  

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

ever they stooped to, they were gentry and kept a cheer-
ful countenance, and after an evening’s fiddling at one
of their poor little proud parties, the Brethren seemed
old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goos
didn’t like my fiddling for hire, but Toby said it was
lawful in me to earn my living by exercising my talents.
He never let me be put upon.

‘In February of Ninety-four—no, March it must have
been, because a new ambassador called Fauchet had
come from France, with no more manners than Genet
the old one—in March, Red Jacket came in from the
Reservation bringing news of all kind friends there. I
showed him round the city, and we saw General Wash-
ington riding through a crowd of folk that shouted for
war with England. They gave him quite rough music,
but he looked ’twixt his horse’s ears and made out not
to notice. His stirrup brished Red Jacket’s elbow, and
Red Jacket whispered up, “‘My brother knows it is not
easy to beachief?’’ Big Hand shot just one look at him
and nodded. ‘Then there was a scuffle behind us over
some one whowasn’t hooting at Washington loud enough
to please the people. We went away to be out of the
fisht. Indians won’t risk being hit.’

“What do they do if they are?’ Dan asked.

“Kill, of course. That’s why they have such proper
manners. Well, then, coming home by Drinker’s Alley
to get a new shirt which a French Vicomte’s lady was
washing to take the stiff out of (I’m always choice in my
body-linen) a lame Frenchman pushes a paper of but-
tons atus. Hehadn’t long landed in the United States,
and please would we buy. He sure-ly was a pitiful
scrattel—his coat half torn off, his face cut, but his hands
steady; so I knew it wasn’t drink. He said his name
177se esia te Sa reneg rissa ita
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

was Peringuey, and he’d been knocked about in the
crowd round the Stadt—Independence Hall. One thing
leading to another we took him up to Toby’s rooms,
same as Red Jacket had taken me the year before. The
compliments he paid to Toby’s Madeira wine fairly
conquered the old man, for he opened a second bottle
and he told this Monsieur Peringuey all about our great
stove dispute in the Church. I remember Pastor Meder
and Brother Adam Goos dropped in, and although they
and Toby were direct opposite sides regarding stoves,
yet this Monsieur Peringuey he made ’em feel as if he
thought each one was in the right of it. He said he had
been a clergyman before he had to leave France. Head-
mired at Toby’s fiddling, and he asked if Red Jacket, sit-
ting by the spinet, was asimple Huron. Senecas aren't
Hurons, they’re Iroquois, of course, and Toby told him
so. Well, then, in due time he arose and left in a style
which made us feel he’d been favouring us, instead of us
feeding him. I’ve never seen that so strong before—in
aman. Weall talked him over but couldn’t make head
or tail of him, and Red Jacket come out to walk with me
to the French quarter when I was due to fiddle at a
party. Passing Drinker’s Alley again we saw a naked
window with a light in it, and there sat our button-selling
Monsieur Peringuey throwing dice all alone, right hand
against left.

‘Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, “Look at
his face!”’

‘I was looking. I protest to you I wasn’t frightened
like I was when Big Hand talked to his gentlemen. I—
I only looked, and I only wondered that even those dead
dumb dice ’ud dare to fall different from what that face
wished. It—it was a face!
178Re

    
   
   
 
  
   
   
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

‘He is bad,” says Red Jacket. “But he is a great
chief. The French have sent away a great chief. I
thought so when he told us his lies. Now I know.”

‘I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call
round for me afterwards and we’d have hymn-singing
at Toby’s as usual.

“No,” he says. ‘‘Tell Toby I am not Christian to-
night. All Indian.’ He had those fits sometimes. I
wanted to know more about Monsieur Peringuey, and
the emigre party was the very place to find out. It’s
neither here nor there of course, but those French emigre
parties they almost make you cry. The men that you
bought fruit of in Market Street, the hairdressers and
fencing-masters and French teachers, they turn back
again by candlelight to what they used to be at home,
and you catch their real names. There wasn’t much
room in the wash-house, so I sat on top of the copper and
played ’em the tunes they called for—‘‘Si le Roi m’avait
donne,” and such nursery stuff. They cried sometimes.
It hurt me to take their money afterwards, indeed it did.
And there I found out about Monsieur Peringuey. He
was a proper rogue too! None of ’em had a good word
for him except the Marquise that kept the French board-
ing-house on Fourth Street. I made out that his real
name was the Count Talleyrand de Perigord—a priest
right enough, but sorely come down in the world. He’d
been King Louis’ ambassador to England a year or two
back, before the French had cut off King Louis’ head;
and, by what I heard, that head wasn’t hardly more
than hanging loose before he’d run back to Paris and
prevailed on Danton, the very man which did the mur-
der, to send him back to England again as Ambassador
of the French Republic! That was too much for the
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English, so they kicked him out by Act of Parliament,

and he’d fled to the Americas without money or friends

or prospects. I’m telling you the talk in the wash-house.

| Some of ’em was laughing over it. Says the French

Marquise, ‘‘ My friends, you laugh too soon. That man
will be on the winning side before any of us.”

‘“*T did not know you were so fond of priests, Mar-
quise,” says the Vicomte. His lady did my washing,
as I’ve told you.

‘<“T have my reasons,” says the Marquise. “He sent
my uncle and my two brothers to Heaven by the little
door,’’—that was one of their emigre names for the
guillotine. ‘‘He will be on the winning side if it costs
him the blood of every friend he has in the world.”

«Then what does he want here?” says one of ‘em.
“We have all lost our game.”

‘““My faith!” says the Marquise. “He will find out,
if any one can, whether this canaille of a Washington

| means to help us to fight England. Genet (that was my
ambassador in the ‘Embuscade’) has failed and gone
off disgraced; Fauchet (he was the new man) hasn't
done any better, but our abbe will find out, and he will
Vii make his profit out of the news. Such a man does not
fails”
| ‘Ee begins unluckily,” says the Vicomte. “He was
set upon to-day in the street for not hooting your Wash-
A ington.” They all laughed again, and one remarks,
e ‘How does the poor devil keep himself.”
‘He must have slipped in through the wash-house

| | REWARDS AND FAIRIES
!

 

| | door, for he flits past me and joins ’em, cold as ice.
: | | ‘One does what one can,” he says. “‘I sell buttons.
: And you, Marquise?”’

) ‘“<19”?__she waves her poor white hands all burned—
180‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

“T am a cook—a very bad one—at your service, abbe.
We were just talking about you.”

‘They didn’t treat him like they talked of him. They
backed off and stood still.

‘““T have missed something then,’ he says. ‘“‘But I
spent this last hour playing—only for buttons, Marquise
—against a noble savage, the veritable Huron himself.”

"You had your usual luck, I hope?”’ she says.

“Certainly,” he says. ‘“‘I cannot afford to lose even
buttons in these days.”

‘Then I suppose the child of nature does not know
that your dice are usually loaded, Father Tout-a-tous,”
she continues. I don’t know whether she meant to ac-
cuse him of cheating. He only bows.

“Not yet, Mademoiselle Cunegonde,”’ he says, and
goes on to make himself agreeable to the rest of the
company. And that was how I found out our Monsieur
Peringuey was Count Charles Maurice Talleyrand de
Perigord.’

Pharaoh stopped, but the children said nothing.

‘You've heard of him?’ said Pharaoh.

Una shook her head.

“Was Red Jacket the Indian he played dice with?’
Dan asked.

‘He was. Red Jacket told me the-next time we met.
I asked if the lame man had cheated. Red Jacket said
no—he had played quite fair and was a master player.
I allow Red Jacket knew. I’ve seen him, on the Reser-
vation, play himself out of everything he had and in
again. Then I told Red Jacket all I’d heard at the
party concerning Talleyrand.

‘““T was right,” he says. “‘I saw the man’s war-face
when he thought he was alone. That is why I played
181PTAA oleate LTA To ee NTC helt te lola] Hebe PIT taes ed Ht Tal et ptata Totes et telelale re RY I PRUb ene tier

 

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

him. I played him face to face. He is a great chief.
Do they say why he comes here?”’
‘«“They say he comes to find out if Big Hand makes
war against the English,” I said.
‘Red Jacket grunted. ‘‘Yes,’’ he says. ‘‘He asked
methat too. If he had been a small chief I should have
lied. But he is a great chief. He knew I was a chief,
so I told him the truth. I told him what Big Hand said
to Cornplanter and me in the clearing—‘There will be
H no war. Icould not see what he thought. I could not
see behind his face. But he is a great chief. He will
believe.”’

‘«“ Will he believe that Big Hand can keep his people
back from war?” I said, thinking of the crowds that
hooted Big Hand whenever he rode out.

‘<Te is as bad as Big Hand is good, but he is not as
strong as Big Hand,” says Red Jacket. “When he
talks with Big Hand he will feel this in his heart. The

| French have sent away a great chief. Presently he will
| go back and make them afraid.”
‘Now wasn’t that comical? The French woman that
knew him and owed all her losses to him; the Indian that
Ph picked him up, cut and muddy on the street and played
dice with him; they neither of ’°em doubted that Talley-
rand was something by himself—appearances notwith-
standing.’
‘And was he something by himself?’ asked Una.
Pharaoh began to laugh, but stopped. ‘The way I
look at it,’ he said, ‘Talleyrand was one of just three men
| . in this world who are quite by themselves. Big Hand
| 1} I put first, because I’ve seen him.’
‘Ay,’ said Puck. ‘I’m sorry we lost him out of Old
England. Who d’you put second?’
| 182he che ee eee ee er et ee

  

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

‘Talleyrand: maybe because I’ve seen him too,’ said
Pharaoh.

‘Who’s third?’ said Puck.

‘Boney—even though I’ve seen him.’

‘Whew!’ said Puck. ‘Every man has his own weights
and measures, but that’s queer reckoning.’

‘Boney?’ said Una. ‘You don’t mean you’ve ever
met Napoleon Bonaparte?’

‘There, I knew you wouldn’t have patience with the
rest of my tale after hearing that! But wait a minute.
Talleyrand he come round to Hundred and Eighteen in
a day or two to thank Toby for his kindness. I didn’t
mention the dice-playing, but I could see that Red
Jacket’s doings had made Talleyrand highly curious
about Indians—though he would call him the Huron,
Toby, as you may believe, was all holds full of knowledge
concerning their manners and habits. He only needed
a listener. The Brethren don’t study Indians much till
they join the church, but Toby knew ’em wild. So
evening after evening Talleyrand crossed his sound leg
over his game one and Toby poured forth. Having
been adopted into the Senecas, I, naturally, kept still,
but Toby ’ud call on me to back up some of his remarks,
and by that means, and a habit he had of drawing you
on in talk, Talleyrand saw I knew something of his
noble savagestoo. Thenhetriedatrick. Coming back
from an emigre party he turns into his little shop and
puts it to me, laughing like, that I’d gone with the two
chiefs on their visit to Big Hand. I hadn’t told. Red
Jacket hadn’t told, and Toby, of course, didn’t know.
“Twas just Talleyrand’s guess. ‘‘Now,”’ he says, ““my
English and Red Jacket’s French was so bad that I am
not sure I got the rights of what the President really said
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

to the unsophisticated Huron. Do me the favour of
telling it again.” I told him every word Red Jacket
nad told him and not one word more. I had my sus-
picions, having just come from an emigre party where
the Marquise was hating and praising him as usual.

‘Much obliged,” he said. “But I couldn’t gather
from Red Jacket exactly what the President said to Mon-
sieur Genet, or to his American gentlemen aiter Monsieur
Genet had ridden away.”

‘I saw Talleyrand was guessing again, for Red Jacket
hadn’t told him a word about the whiteman’s pow-wow.

‘Why hadn’t he?’ Puck asked.

‘Because Red Jacket wasachief. He told Talleyrand
what the President had said to him and Cornplanter;
but he didn’t repeat the talk, between the white men,
that Big Hand ordered him to leave behind.’

‘Oh!’ said Puck, ‘I see. What did you do?’

‘First I was going to make some sort of tale round it,
but Talleyrand was a chief too. So I said, “As soon as
I get Red Jacket’s permission to tell that part of the
tale, I’ll be delighted to refresh your memory, abbe.”’
What else could I have done?

“Ts that all?” he says, laughing. “Let me refresh
your memory. Ina month from now I can give you a
hundred dollars for your account of the conversation.”

<< Make it five hundred, abbe,” I says.

‘<‘Five, then,” says he.

“That will suit me admirably,” Isays. “ Red Jacket
will be in town again by then, and the moment he gives
me leave I’ll claim the money.”

‘He had a hard fight to be civil but he come out
smiling.

““‘Monsieur,’ he says.

 

“‘T beg your pardon as sin-
184‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

cerely as I envy the noble Huron your loyalty. Do me
the honour to sit down while I explain.”

‘There wasn’t another chair, so I sat on the button-
box.

‘He wasacleverman. He had got hold of the gossip
that the President meant to make a peace treaty with
England at any cost. He had found out—from Genet,
I reckon—who was with the President on the day the
two chiefs met him. He’d heard that Genet had had
a huff with the President and had ridden off leaving
his business at loose ends. What he wanted—what he
begged and blustered to know—was just the very words
which the President had said to his gentlemen after
Genet had left, concerning the peace treaty with Eng-
land. He put it to me that in helping him to those very
words I’d be helping three great countries as well as
mankind. The room was as bare as the palm of your
hand, but I couldn’t laugh.

*““’m sorry,” I says, when he wiped his forehead.
‘As soon as Red Jacket gives permission—”

***You don’t believe me, then?” he cuts in.

***Not one little, little word, abbe,”’ I says; “‘except
that you mean to be on the winning side. Remember,
I’ve been fiddling to all your old friends for months.”

‘Well, then, his temper fled him and he called me
names.

**“Wait a minute, ci-devant,” I says at last. “I am
half English and half French, but I am not the half of a
man. [I will tell thee something the Indian told me.
Has thee seen the President?”

“Oh yes!” he sneers, “‘I had letters from the Lord
Landsdowne to that estimable old man.”

‘**Then,”’ I says, “‘thee will understand. The Red
185Sues
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES
Skin said that when thee has met the President thee will

 

feel in thy heart he is a stronger man than thee.”

‘“*Go!” he whispers. ‘‘Before I kill thee, go.”

‘He looked like it. So I left him.’

‘Why did he want to know so badly?’ said Dan.

‘The way I look at it is that if he had known for cer-
tain that Washington meant to make the peace treaty
with England at any price, he’d ha’ left old Fauchet
fumbling about in Philadelphia while he went straight
back to France and told old Danton—“‘It’s no good your
wasting time and hopes on the United States, because
she won’t fight on our side—that I’ve proof of!” Then
Danton might have been grateful and given Talleyrand
a job, because a whole mass of things hang on knowing
for sure who’s your friend and who’s your enemy. Just
think of us poor shopkeepers, for instance.’

‘Did Red Jacket let you tell, when he came back?’
Una asked.

‘Of course not. He said, ‘‘ When Cornplanter and I
ask you what Big Hand said to the whites you can tell
the Lame Chief. All that talk was left behind in the
timber, as Big Hand ordered. Tell the Lame Chief
there will be no war. He can go back to France with
that word.”’

‘Talleyrand and me hadn’t met for a long time except
at emigre parties. When I give him the message he
just shook his head. He was sorting buttons in the
shop.

‘«T cannot return to France with nothing better than
the word of an unsophisticated savage,” he says.

‘“Tasn’t the President said anything to you?” I
asked him.

“He has said everything that one in his position
186met ttt cts tt citis tat 09 o> RRR eee rae generate eg rPeaRceca eEeneeeCo a
i hte ete ett ae ahd eT eI Or A OR Oh oe en Toten wea om met EU OEE oR eae et

  

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

ought to say, but —but if only I had what he said to his
Cabinet after Genet rode off I believe I could change
Furope—the world, maybe.”

‘“Pm sorry,” Isays. ‘‘Maybe you'll do that without
my help.’’

‘He looked at me hard. ‘Either you have unusual
observation for one so young, or you choose to be inso-
lent,” he says.

‘ “It was intended for a compliment,” I says. ‘But
no odds. We’re off in a few days for our summer trip,
and I’ve come to make my good-byes.”’

*“T go on my travels too,” hesays. ‘If ever we meet
again you may be sure I will do my best to repay what
I owe you.”

‘** Without malice, abbe, I hope,” I says.

*“*None whatever,” says he. ‘‘Give my respects to
your adorable Dr. Pangloss (that was one of his side-
names for Toby) and the Huron.”’ I never could teach
him the difference betwixt Hurons and Senecas.

‘Then Sister Haga came in for a paper of what we call
“pilly buttons,” and that was the last I saw of Talley-
rand in those parts.’

‘But after that you met Napoleon, didn’t you?’ said
Una.

‘Wait just a little, dearie. After that, Toby and I
went to Lebanon and the Reservation, and, being older
and knowing better how to manage him, I enjoyed my-
self well that summer with fiddling and fun. When we
came back, the Brethren got after Toby because I wasn’t
learning any lawful trade, and he had hard work to save
me from being apprenticed to Helmbold and Geyer the
printers. ’*Twould have ruined our music together,
indeed it would; and when we escaped that, old Mattes
187RNA ALE A Gee

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Roush, the leather-breechesmaker round the corner,
took a notion I was cut out for skin-dressing. But we
were rescued. Along towards Christmas there comes a
big sealed letter from the Bank saying that a Monsieur
Talleyrand had put five hundred dollars—a hundred
pounds—to my credit there to use as I pleased. There
was a little note from him inside—he didn’t give any ad-
dress—to thank me for past kindnesses and my believing
in his future which he said was pretty cloudy at the time
of writing. I wished Toby to share the money. [hadn't
done more than bring Talleyrand up to Hundred and
Eighteen. The kindnesses were Toby’s. But Toby
said, “No! Liberty and Independence for ever. I
have all my wants, my son.” Sol gave hima set of new
fiddle-strings and the Brethren didn’t advise us any more.
Only Pastor Meder he preached about the deceitfulness
of riches, and Brother Adam Goos said if there was war
the English ’ud surely shoot down the Bank. I knew
there wasn’t going to be any war, but I drew the money
out and on Red Jacket’s advice I put it into horse-flesh,
which I sold to Bob Bicknell for the Baltimore stage-
coaches. That way, I doubled my money inside the
twelvemonth.’

‘You gipsy! You proper gipsy!’ Puck shouted.

‘Why not? ’*Iwas fair buying and selling. Well,
one thing leading to another, in a few years I had made
the beginning of a worldly fortune and was in the to-
bacco trade.’

‘Ah! said Puck, suddenly. ‘Might I inquire if you’d
ever sent any news to your people in England—or in
France?’

‘O’ courseI had. I wrote regular every three months
after I’d made money in the horse trade. We Lees don’t
188Lee MIG SET Ct i eee re et

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‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

like coming home empty-handed. If it’s only a turnip
or an egg, it’s something. Oh yes, I wrote good and
plenty to Uncle Aurette, and—Dad don’t read very
quickly—Uncle used to slip over Newhaven way and tell
Dad what was going on in the tobacco trade.’
“I isee—
‘Aurettes and Lees—
Like as two peas.

Go on, Brother Square-toes,’ said Puck. Pharaoh
laughed and went on.

‘Talleyrand he’d gone up in the world same as me.
He’d sailed to France again, and was a great man in the
Government there awhile, but they had to turn him out
on account of some story about bribes from American
shippers. All our poor emigres said he was surely fin-
ished this time, but Red Jacket and me we didn’t think
it likely, not unless he was quite dead. Big Hand had
made his peace treaty with Great Britain, just as he said
he would, and there was a roaring trade ’twixt England
and the United States for such as ’ud take the risk of
being searched by British and French men-of-wars.
Those two was fighting, and just as his gentlemen told
Big Hand ’ud happen—the United States was catching
it from both. If an English man-o’-war met an Ameri-
can ship he’d press half the best men out of her, and
swear they was British subjects. Most of ’em was!
If a Frenchman met her he’d, likely, have the cargo out
of her, swearing it was meant to aid and comfort the
English; and if a Spaniard or a Dutchman met her—
they was hanging on to England’s coat-tails too—Lord
only knows what they wouldn’t do! It came over me
that what I wanted in my tobacco trade was a fast-
189a ah aioe ere
Feitaehsh Aaa ase PSN ada sae Leelee

SrigLebeanepatesteleletatatabafelecebniecrapetdtedal ptebedsted tate taeda aeage cate elad

 

   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

sailing ship and a man who could be French, English, or
American at a pinch. Luckily I could lay my hands
on both articles. So along towards the end of Septem-
ber in the year ’99 I sailed from Philadelphia with a
hundred and eleven hogshead o’ good Virginia tobacco,
in the brig ‘‘Berthe Aurette,’’ named after mother’s
maiden name, hoping ’twould bring me luck, which she
didn’t—and yet she did.’

‘Where was you bound for?’ Puck asked.

‘Er—any port I found handiest. I didn’t tell Toby
or the Brethren. They don’t understand the inns and
outs of the tobacco trade.’

Puck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece of
wood with his bare foot.

‘It’s easy for you to sit and judge,’ Pharaoh cried.
‘But think o’ what we had to put up with! We spread
our wings and run across the broad Atlantic like a hen
through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by an
English frigate, three days out. He sent a boat along-
side and pressed seven able seamen. I remarked it was
hard on honest traders, but the officer said they was
fighting all creation and hadn’t time to argue. The
next English frigate we escaped with no more than a shot
in our quarter. Then we was chased two days and
a night by a French privateer, firing between squalls,
and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which made
him sheer off had the impudence to press another five
of our men. That’s how we reached to the chops of
the Channel. Twelve good men pressed out of thirty-
five; an eighteen-pound shot-hole close besides our
rudder; our mainsail looking like spectacles where the
Frenchman had hit us—and the Channel crawling with
short-handed British cruisers. Put that in your pipe
190‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

and smoke it next time you grumble at the price of
tobacco!

‘Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to get
at our leaks, a French lugger come swooping at us out
o the dusk. We warned him to keep away, but he fell
aboard us, and up climbed his jabbering red-caps. We
couldn’t endure any more—indeed we couldn’t. We
went at *em with all we could lay hands on. It didn’t
last long. They was fifty odd to our twenty-three.
Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses thrown down and
some one bellowed for the sacre captain.

“Here I am!” I says. ‘“‘I don’t suppose it makes
any odds to you thieves, but this is the United States
brig ‘Berthe Aurette.’”’

‘My aunt!” the man says, laughing. ‘‘Why is she
named that?”

‘“ Who’s speaking?” I said. ’Twas too dark to see,
but I thought I knew the voice.

‘“Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L’ Estrange,”’ he sings
out, and then I was sure.

*“Oh!” Tsays. “It’s all in the family, I suppose, but
you have done a fine day’s work, Stephen.”

‘He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it to my
face. He was young L’Estrange, my full cousin, that
I hadn’t seen since the night the smack sank off Tels-
-combe Tye—six years ago.

‘““ Whew!” he says. ‘‘That’s why she was named
for Aunt Berthe, is it? What’s your share in her,
Pharaoh?”

***Only half owner, but the cargo’s mine.”’

*“That’s bad,” hesays. “I'll do what I can, but you
shouldn’t have fought us.”’

*“*Steve,’’ I says, ““you aren’t ever going to report our
191ne
sede iegrareteracelcdeinincearhweteteletinledtatepeleteleledeitaterahatnde ebeielrdpetd ted abet neatet elaine eleielaiiegt 37 6 3”

 

  
   
 
   
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| . little fall-out as a fight! Why, a Revenue cutter ‘ud
| laugh at it!”
<“*So’d Lif I wasn’t in the Republican Navy, he says.
. “But two of our men are dead, d’ye see, and I’m afraid
V’ll have to take you to the Prize Court at Le Havre.”

“<< Will they condemn my *baccy?’’ I asks.

<<°T> thelast ounce. But I was thinking more of the
ship. She’d make a sweet little craft for our Navy if
the Prize Court ’ud let me have her,” he says.

: ‘Then I knew there was no hope. I don’t blame him
aman must consider his own interests—but nigh every
dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and Steve kept on
saying, ““ You shouldn’t have fought us.”

‘Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that
being the one time we did want a British ship to rescue
us, why 0’ course we never saw one. My cousin spoke
his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he’d no
right to rush alongside in the face o’ the United States

| flag, but we couldn’t get over those two men killed, d’ye
| see, and the Court condemned both ship and cargo.
They was kind enough not to make us prisoners—only
beggars—and young L’Estrange was given the “Berthe

Aurette” to re-arm into the French Navy.

‘*<T’l] take you round to Boulogne,” he says. ‘* Mother

| and the rest’ll be glad to see you, and you can slip over
to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette. Or you can ship

| with me, like most o’ your men, and have a turn at

! King George’s loose trade. There’s plenty pickings,”

| he says.

ti ‘Crazy as I was, I couldn't help laughing.
<“<Tve had my allowance of pickings and stealings,”’

—

| Isays. ‘‘ Where are they taking my tobacco?” “Iwas
|) being loaded on to a barge.
192

Sad ibaa risesrsietesaststh curser heer terrace erates
- eet ana aerate SE‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

‘““Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,” he says. ‘‘Neither
you nor I will ever touch a penny of that money.”

“Get me leave to go with it,” I says. ‘‘I’ll see if
there’s justice to be gotten out of our American Ambas-
sador.”’

‘“There’s not much justice in this world,” he says,
“without a Navy.” - But he got me leave to go with the
barge and he gave me some money. That tobacco was
all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched
bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my
spirits up, as well as to make friends with the guard.
They was only doing their duty. Outside o’ that they
were the reasonablest 0’ God’s creatures. They never
even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river,
along in November, which the French had christened
Brumaire. They’d given new names to all the months,
and after such an outrageous silly piece o’ business as
that, they wasn’t likely to trouble ’emselves with my
rigshtsand wrongs. They didn’t. The barge was laid up
below Notre Dame church in charge of a caretaker, and
he let me sleep aboard after I’d run about all day from
office to office, seeking justice and fair dealing, and
setting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me.
Looking back on it I can’t rightly blame ’em. I'd no
money, my clothes was filthy mucked; I hadn’t changed
my linen in weeks, and I’d no proof of my claims except
the ship’s papers, which, they said, I might have stolen.
The thieves! The doorkeeper to the American Am-
bassador—for I never saw even the Secretary—he
swore I spoke French a sight too well for an American
citizen. Worse than that—I had spent my money,
d’ye see, and I—I took to fiddling in the streets for
my keep; and—and, a ship’s captain with a fiddle under
193iP hay
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

his arm—well, I don’t blame ’em that they didn’t be-
lieve me.

‘I come back to the barge one day—late in this month
Brumaire it was—fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the
caretaker, he’d lit a fire in a bucket and was grilling a
herring.

‘Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.”

<T.can*t eat,’ I says. “I can’t'do-any more. -2lvs
stronger than I am.”

‘Bah!’ he says. ‘‘Nothing’s stronger than a man.
Me, for example! Less than two years ago I was blown
up in the ‘Orient’ in Aboukir Bay, but I descended again
and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now,” he
says. He wasn’t much to look at, for he’d only one leg
and one eye, but the cheerfullest soul that ever trod
shoe-leather. ‘‘That’s worse than a hundred and eleven
hogshead of ’baccy,”’ he goes on. ‘‘You’re young, too!
What wouldn’t I give to be young in France at this hour!
There’s nothing you couldn’t do,” hesays. “The ball’s
at your feet—kick it!” he says. He kicks the old fire
bucket with his peg-leg. ‘“‘General Buonaparte, for
example!’’ he goes on. ‘That man’s a babe compared
to me, and see what he’s done already. He’s conquered
Egypt and Austria and Italy—oh! half Europe!” he says,
“ond now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to St.
Cloud down the river here—don’t stare at the river,
you young fool!—and all in front of these pig-jobbing
lawyers and citizens he makes himself Consul, which
is as good as a King. He’ll be King, too, in the next
three turns of the capstan—King of France, England,
and the world! Think o’ that!’’ he shouts, “‘and eat
your herring.”’

‘I says something about Boney. If he hadn’t been
194‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

fighting England I shouldn’t have lost my ’baccy—
should I?

***Young fellow,’
stand.”

‘We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the
bridge with two in it.

‘“That’s the man himself,” says Maingon. ‘He'll
give ’em something to cheer for soon.” He stands at
the salute.

‘““Who’s t’other in black beside him?” I asks, fairly
shaking all over.

**“Ah! he’s the clever one. You'll hear of him before
long. He’s that scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.”’

*““Ttis!’’ I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle,
and run after the carriage calling, ‘‘Abbe, abbe!’’

“A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back
of his sword, but I had sense to keep on following till the
carriage stopped—and there just was a crowd round the
house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I wouldn’t
have struck up “‘Sile Roi m’avait donne Paris la grande
ville!”’ I thought it might remind him.

‘*“That is a good omen!”’ he says to Boney sitting all
hunched up; and he looks straight at me.

***Abbe—oh, abbe!’’ I says. ‘‘Don’t you remember
Toby and Hundred and Eighteen Second Street?”

“He said not a word. He just crooked his long white
finger to the guard at the door while the carriage steps
were let down, and I skipped into the house, and they
slammed the door in the crowd’s face.

*““You go there,” says a soldier, and shoves me into
an empty room, where I catched my first breath since
I’d left the barge. Presently I heard plates rattling
next door—there were only folding doors between—
195

>

said Maingon, “‘you don’t under-— a a an ee a ree
PANS AE TTD Pa tan eal See IEE ale

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

and a cork drawn. ‘“‘I tell you,’ some one shouts with
his mouth full, “it was all that sulky ass Sieyes’ fault.
Only my speech to the Five Hundred saved the situa-
tion.”’

‘Did it save your coat?” says Talleyrand. “I hear
they tore it when they threw you out. Don’t gasconade
to me. You may be in the road of victory, but you
aren’t there yet.”’

‘Then I guessed t’other man was Boney. Hestamped
about and swore at Talleyrand.

‘«“ Vou forget yourself, Consul,” says Talleyrand, “or
rather you remember yourself—Corsican.”

‘<Pig!’’ says Boney, and worse.

‘«‘Rmperor!’’ says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke,
it sounded worst of all. Some one must have backed
against the folding doors, for they flew open and showed
me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his
pistol before I could standup. “‘General,” says Talley-
rand to him, ‘“‘this gentleman has a habit of catching
us canaille en deshabille. Put that thing down.”

‘Boney laid it on the table, so I suessed which was
master. Talleyrand takes my hand—*‘ Charmed to see
you again, Candide,”’ he says. ‘“‘How is the adorable
Dr. Pangloss and the noble Huron?”

‘They were doing very well when I left,” I said.
“Bir im; not. ?

‘Tyo you sell buttons now?”’ he says, and fills me a
glass of wine off the table.

“Madeira,” says he. ‘‘Not so good as some I have
drunk.”’

‘““You mountebank!’’ Boney roars. ‘“‘Turn that out.
(He didn’t even say ‘‘man,” but Talleyrand, being gen-

tle born, just went on.)
196Re Goby roen rere

    
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE ‘OF HIMSELF’

*<*Pheasant is not so good as pork,” he says. “You
will find some at that table if you will do me the honour
to sit down. Pass him a clean plate, General.’ And,
as true as I’m here, Boney slid a plate along just like
a sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned
little man, as nervous as a cat—and as dangerous. I
could feel that.

‘** And now,” said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg
over his sound one, “‘will you tell me your story?”

‘I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything
from the time he left me the five hundred dollars in
Philadelphia, up to my losing ship and cargoat Le Havre.
Boney began by listening, but after a bit he dropped
into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd sideways
through the front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to
him when I’d done.

‘<“Eh? What we need now,” says Boney, “is peace
for the next three or four years.”’

‘Quite so,” says Talleyrand. ““Meantime I want
the Consul’s order to the Prize Court at Le Havre to
restore my friend here his ship.”

‘«‘NIonsense!”’ says Boney. ‘‘Give away an oak-built
brig of two hundred and seven tons for sentiment?
Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy with
ten—no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours.
Is she strong enough to bear a long twelve forward?”

‘Now I could ha’ sworn he’d paid no heed to my talk,
but that wonderful head-piece of his seemingly skimmed
off every word of it that was useful to him.

‘¢ Ah General!” says Talleyrand. “‘ You are a magi-
cian—a magician without morals. But the brig is un-
doubtedly American, and we don’t want to offend them

more than we have.”
197SC ne RADA Rea iis

me

 

EERE nT Tee RRR AAT ARON Rey eay
iB A OS Stud ee Sout Sih eee ee ieee ee eae

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘““Need anybody talk about the affair?” he says. He
didn’t look at me, but I knew what was in his mind—
just cold murder because I worried him; and he’d order
it as easy as ordering his carriage.

‘““Voucan’t stop ’em,” Isaid. ‘“‘There’s twenty-two
other men besides me.” I felt a little more ’ud set me
screaming like a wired hare.

‘“<(Jndoubtedly American,” Talleyrand goes on. ““ You
would gain something if you returned the ship—with a
message of fraternal good-will—published in the ‘ Moni-
teur’’’ (that’s a French paper like the Philadelphia
**Aurora’’).

‘A good idea!” Boney answers. “One could say
much in a message.”

‘Tt might be useful,” says Talleyrand. “Shall I
have the message prepared?”’ He wrote something in
a little pocket ledger.

‘«‘Ves——for me to embellish this evening. The ‘Moni-
teur’ will publish it to-night.”

‘Certainly. Sign, please,’ says Talleyrand, tearing
the leaf out.

““<But that’s the order to return the brig,”’ says Boney.
“Ts that necessary? Why should I lose a good ship?
Haven’t I lost enough ships already?’”’

‘Talleyrand didn’t answer any of those questions.
Then Boney sidled up to the table and jabs his pen into
the ink. Then he shies at the paper again: “‘ My signa-
ture alone is useless,” he says. ‘‘ You must have the
other two Consuls as well. Sieyes and Roger Ducos
must sign. We must preserve the Laws.”

‘«By the time my friend presentsit,”’ says Talleyrand,
still looking out of the window, “‘only one signature will
be necessary.”

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

198“A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

>

‘Boney smiles. “It’s a swindle,’
signed and pushed the paper across.

*“*Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le
Havre,” says Talleyrand, “‘and he will give you back
yourship. I willsettle forthe cargo myself. Youhave
told me how much it cost. What profit did you expect
to make on it?”’

‘Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him
that I’d set out to run it into England without troubling
the Revenue, and so I couldn’t rightly set bounds to my
profits.’

‘I guessed that all along,’ said Puck.

says he, but he

‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst—
That wasn’t a smuggler last and first.’

The children laughed.

‘It’s comical enough now,’ said Pharaoh. “But I
didn’t laugh then. Says Talleyrand after a minute, “I
am a bad accountant and J have several calculations on
hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the
cargo?”

‘Say? Icouldn’t say a word. I sat choking and
nodding like a China image while he wrote an order to
his secretary to pay me, I won’t say how much, because
you wouldn’t believe it.

‘Oh! Bless you, abbe! God bless you!” I got it out
at last.

‘*“Ves” he says, ‘I am a priest in spite of myself, but
they call me bishop now. Take this for my episcopal
blessing,”’ and he hands me the paper.

‘“<He stole all that money from me,” says Boney over
my shoulder. ‘‘A Bank of France is another of the
199sxpeanatans eseteseananavovaratetediatstetatelsbald Be searateneats a lazs el tieets Tate tig be laisesrd tate leueceununensellvisiuiebranersiitalaletann batt ~ 0 2 2 5 71s + 4 ge 2 2 og dle sot sities tae

   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

things we must make. Are you mad?” he shouts at
Talleyrand.

‘Quite,’ says Talleyrand, getting up. “But be
calm; the disease will never attack you. It is called
sratitude. This gentleman found me in the street and
oj fed me when I was hungry.”
| ‘**T see: and he has made a fine scene of it and

you have paid him, I suppose. Meantime, France
| waits.”
‘Oh! poor France!” says Talleyrand. “Good-bye,
Candide,” he says to me. “By the way,’ he says,
| “have you yet got old Red Jacket’s permission to tell me
what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur
Genet rode away?”’
‘I couldn’t speak, I could only shake my head, and
Boney—so impatient he was to go on with his doings—
he ran at me and fair pushed me out of the room. And
that was all there was to it.’
| Pharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big
| skirt pockets as though it were a dead hare.
‘Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,’ said
Dan. ‘How you got home—and what old Maingon
Pi said on the barge—and wasn’t your cousin surprised
: when he had to give back the “‘Berthe Aurette,”’ and—’

‘Tell us more about Toby!’ cried Una.

‘Yes, and Red Jacket,’ said Dan.

‘Won’t you tell us any more?’ they both pleaded.

Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up
a column of smoke that made them sneeze. When they
had finished the Shaw was empty except for old Hobden
stamping through the larches.

‘They gipsies have took two,’ he said: ‘my black
pullet and my liddle gingy-speckled cockrel.’

200‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

‘I thought so,’ said Dan, picking up one tail-feather
the old woman had overlooked.

“Which way did they go? Which way did the runa-
gates go?’ said Hobden.

‘Hobby!’ said Una. ‘Would you like it if we told
Keeper Ridley all your goings and comings?’ea Oss

PTsRe Rae eee ee Pe erat

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

“POOR HONEST MEN’

Your jar of Virginny

Will cost you a guinea,

Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten.
But light your churchwarden

And judge it according

When I’ve told you the troubles of poor honest men.

From the Capes of the Delaware,

As you are well aware,

We sail with tobacco for England—but then

Our own British cruisers,

They watch us come through, sirs,

And they press half a score of us poor honest men.

Or if by quick sailing

(Thick weather prevailing

We leave them behind (as we do now and then)
We are sure of a gun from

Each frigate we run from,

Which is often destruction to poor honest men!

Broadsides the Atlantic

We tumble short-handed,

With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend,

And off the Azores, |
Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs

Are waiting to terrify poor honest men!
203SEAN M dare Pas TN SaaS Se

eeleeeataters] tedele eee Uhlir lobe ican a teh tetle eels

PP Seae Siti eeaesa ti Fela eitalctotele belt totaiotelele thtatttale se liitetoesioteitin tatters tteteieee te isteieD. 5”. < 4". 3 - + 2 3's o's miv's ss 2 = o's eS 5

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Napoleon’s embargo

Is laid on all cargo

Which comfort or aid to King George may intend:
And since roll, twist and leaf,

Of all comforts is chief,

They try for to steal it from poor honest men!

   
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
    

With no heart for fight,

We take refuge in flight,

But fire as we run, our retreat to defend,

Until our stern-chasers

Cut up her fore-braces,

And she flies up the wind from us poor honest men!

‘Twix’ the Forties and Fifties

South-eastward the drift is,

And so, when we think we are making Land’s End,
Alas, it is Ushant

With half the King’s Navy,

Blockading French ports against poor honest men!

But they may not quit station

(Which is our salvation),

So swiftly we stand to the Nor’ard again;
And finding the tail of

A homeward-bound convoy,

We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.

Twix’ the Lizard and Dover
We hand our stuff over,
Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when;
But a light on each quarter

Low down on the water

Is well understanded by poor honest men!

204.‘POOR HONEST MEN’

Even then we have dangers

From meddlesome strangers

Who spy on our business and are not content

To take a smooth answer,

Except with a handspike

And they say they are murdered ibs poor honest men!

To be drowned or be shot

Is our natural lot,

Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end—
After all our great pains

For to dangle in chains,

As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?oes

RIT
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aEDDI’S SERVICE

Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid

In the chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service

For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service
Though Eddi rang the bell.

“Wicked weather for walking,’
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
‘But I must go on with the service

For such as care to attend.’

The altar candles were lighted,—
An old marsh donkey came,

Bold as a guest invited, ||
And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet yoke-weary bullock

Pushed in through the open door.
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least?

That is My Father’s business,’
Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest.

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   

‘But, three are gathered together—
Listen to me and attend.

I bring good news, my brethren!’
Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a manger
And a stall in Bethlehem,

And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider
That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
They listened and never stirred,

While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The Word.

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day,

And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End,

‘I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend.’

210ee ee re es

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID
(1910)

HEY had bought peppermints up at the village,
and were coming home past little St. Barnabas’s
church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the

carpenter’s baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with
a shaving in his mouth and the tears running down his
cheeks.

Una pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint.
Jimmy said he was looking for his grand-daddy—he
never seemed to take much notice of his father—so they
went up between the old graves, under the leaf-dropping
limes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about
the empty church, and screamed like a gate-hinge.

Young Sam Kidbrooke’s voice came from the bell-
tower, and made them jump.

‘Why, Jimmy,’ he called, ‘what are you doin’ here?
Fetch him, Father!’

Old Mr. Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked
Jimmy on to his shoulder, stared at the children beneath
his brass spectacles, and stumped back again. They
laughed: it was so exactly like Mr. Kidbrooke.

‘It’s all right,’ Una called up the stairs. ‘We found
him, Sam. Does his mother know?’

‘He’s come off by himself. She'll be iust about crazy,

Sam answered.
231K

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Then I’ll run down street and tell her.’ Una darted
off.

‘Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how
we’re mendin’ the bell-beams, Mus’ Dan?’

Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his
stomach in a most delightful place among beams and
ropes, close to the five great bells. Old Mr. Kidbrooke
on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and
Jimmy was eating the shavings as fast as they came
away. Henever looked at Jimmy; Jimmy never stopped
eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum of the church
clock never stopped swinging across the whitewashed
wall of the tower.

Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his up-
turned face. ‘Ring a bell,’ he called.

‘I mustn’t do that, but I’ll buzz one of ’em a bit for
you,’ said Sam. He pounded on the sound-bow of the
biggest bell, and waked a hollow groaning boom that
ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down
your back. Just when it almost began to hurt, it died
away in a hurry of beautiful sorrowtul cries, like a wine-
glass rubbed with a wet finger. The pendulum clanked
—one loud clank to each silent swing.

Dan heard Una return from Mrs. Kidbrooke’s, and
ran down to fetch her. She was standing by the font
staring at some one who kneeled at the altar rail.

‘Is that the lady who practises the organ?’ she whis-
pered.

‘No. She’s gone into the organ-place. Besides, she
wears black,’ Dan replied.

The figure rose and came down the nave. It was a
white-haired man in a long white gown with a sort of
scarf looped low on the neck, one end hanging over his
D2,THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with
gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and
sparkled round the hem of his gown.

“Go and meet him,’ said Puck’s voice behind the font.
‘It’s only Wilfrid.’

‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’

‘Wilfrid—Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York.
I shall wait till he asks me.” He waved them forward.
Their feet squeaked on the old grave slabs in the centre
aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink
ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very
handsome, and his thin face looked almost as silvery as
his thin circle of hair.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know
him?’

‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beck-
oned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin.
Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight as
an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.

“Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’

“Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church,’ Puck
replied. The Archbishop bowed his head and passed
on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the shadow
by the font.

“He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he
coming back?’ ||

‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. MHe’s
very fond of churches,’ said Puck. °What’s that?’

The Lady who practises the organ was speaking to
the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘Wecan’t very
well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to Panama
Corner.’

  
   
 
  
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
    
  
 
 

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there
is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters:
‘Orate p. annema Jhone Coline.’ The children always
called it Panama Corner.

The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church,
peering at the old memorial tablets and the new glass
windows. The Lady who practises the organ began
to pull out stops and rustle hymn-books behind the
screen.

‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes—like treacle
on porridge,’ said Una.

‘T like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look
at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the altar gates!’

‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously.

‘He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out
of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted and
patted at the carved gates that always sprang open
again beneath his hand.

‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr. Kid-
brooke says altar-gates are just the one pair of gates
which no man can shut. He made ’em so himself.’

The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that
he knew all about it.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered—very angry
with Puck.

‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The
Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, where
Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him to
sit on.

The organ played softly.
say?’ he asked.

Una dropped into the chant without thinking: ‘*Oh,
all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him
214

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

‘What does that musicTHE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

and magnify him for ever.’ We call it the Noah’s Ark,
because it’s all lists of things—beasts and birds and
whales, you know.’

‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly.

“Yes—‘‘Oye whales, and all that move in the waters,’’’
Una hummed—‘“‘Bless ye the Lord’’—it sounds like
a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’

“Holy Father,’ said Puck with a demure face, ‘is a
little seal also “‘one who moves in the water’’?’

‘Eh? Oh yes—yess!’ he laughed. ‘A seal moves
wonderfully in the waters. Do the seal come to my is-
land still?’

Puck shook his head. ‘All those little islands have
been swept away.’

“Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there,
Do you know the land of the Sea-calf, maiden?’

“‘No—but we’ve seen seals—at Brighton.’

‘The Archbishop is thinking of a little farther down
the coast. He means Seal’s Eye—Selsea—down Chi-
chester way—where he converted the South Saxons,’
Puck explained.

“Yes—yess; if the South Saxons did not convert me,’
said the Archbishop, smiling. ‘The first time I was
wrecked was on that coast. As our ship took ground
and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow of a seal,
I remember, reared breast high out of the water, and
scratched his head with his flipper as if he were saying:
‘“What does that excited person with the pole think he
is doing?’”’ I was very wet and miserable, but I could
not help laughing, till the natives came down and at-
tacked us.’

“What did you do?’ Dan asked.

‘One couldn’t very well go back to France, so one
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| | tried to make them go back to the shore. All the South
. Saxons are born wreckers, like my own Northumbrian
| folk. I was bringing over a few things for my old
church at York, and some of the natives laid hands on
them, and—and I’m afraid I lost my temper.’
‘It is said,’ Puck’s voice was wickedly meek, ‘that
there was a great fight.’
‘Eh, but I must ha’ been a silly lad.’ Wilfrid spoke
with a sudden thick burr in his voice. He coughed, and
| took up his silvery tones again. ‘There was no fight
! realy. My men thumped a few of them, but the tide
rose half an hour before its time, with a strong wind,
and we backed off. What I wanted to say, though, was,
that the seas about us were full of sleek seals watching
the scuffle. My good Eddi—my chaplain—insisted
that they were demons. Yes—yess! That was my
first acquaintance with the South Saxons and their
seals.’
| ‘But not the only time you were wrecked, was 17
said Dan.
| ‘Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have
been one long shipwreck.’ He looked at the Jhone
Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes looks into the fire.
“Ah, well!’
| ‘But did you ever have any more adventures among
the seals?’ said Una, after a pause.

‘Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are the
important things. Yes—yess! I went back to the
South Saxons after twelve—fifteen years. No, I did
not come by water, but overland from my own North-
umbria, to see what I could do. It’s little one can do
with that class of native except make them stop killing

each other and themselves—’
216

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|ae ee a ee ee Pe

  

THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

‘Why did they kill themselves?’ Una asked, her chin
in her hand.

‘Because they were heathen. When they grew tired
of life (as if they were the only people!) they would
jump into the sea. They called it going to Wotan. It
wasn't want of food always—by any means. A man
would tell you that he felt gray in the heart, or a woman
would say that she saw nothing but long days in front
of her; and they’d saunter away to the mud-flats and
—that would be the end of them, poor souls, unless one
headed them off! One had to run quick, but one can’t
allow people to lay hands on themselves because they hap-
pen to feel gray. Yes—yess! Extraordinary people,
the South Saxons. Disheartening, sometimes. . . .
What does that say now?’ The organ had changed tune
again.

“Only a hymn for next Sunday,’ said Una. ‘“*The
Church’s One Foundation.’’ Go on, please, about run-
ning over the mud. I should like to have seen you.’

‘I daresay you would, and I really could run in those
days. Ethelwalch the king gave me some five or six
muddy parishes by the sea, and the first time my good
Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouching along the
slob, among the seals at Manhood End. My good Eddi
disliked seals—but he swallowed his objections and ran
like a hare.’

‘Why?’ said Dan.

“For the same reason that I did. We thought it was
one of our people going to drown himself. As a matter
of fact, Eddi and I were nearly drowned in the pools
before we overtook him. To cut a long story short,
we found ourselves very muddy, very breathless, being
quietly made fun of in good Latin by a very well-spoken
217Po Wleleleie err tuttsts%e be eitt LTabe Pe lele tie statste la elt titetete tel HIM sesh tse ait elt tt petlele hte teestt

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. person. No—he’d no idea of going to Wotan. He was
| } fishing on his own beaches, and he showed us the bea-
cons and turf-heaps that divided his lands from the
Church property. He took us to his own house, gave

us a good dinner, some more than good wine, sent a
guide with us into Chichester, and became one of my

best and most refreshing friends. He was a Meon by

descent, from the west edge of the kingdom; a scholar

educated, curiously enough, at Lyons, my old school;

had travelled the world over, even to Rome, and was a

brilliant talker. We found we had scores of acquaint-

ancesincommon. It seemed he was a small chief under

King Ethelwalch, and I fancy the King was somewhat

afraid of him. The South Saxons mistrust a man who

talks too well. Ah! Now, I’ve left out the very point

of my story. Hekepta great gray-muzzled old dog-seal

that he had brought up froma pup. He called it Padda

—after one of my clergy. It was rather like fat, honest

| old Padda. The creature followed him everywhere,

| and nearly knocked down my good Eddi when we first

| met him. Eddi loathed it. It used to sniff at his thin

legs and cough at him. I can’t say I ever took much

notice of it (I was not fond of animals), till one day

Eddi came to me with a circumstantial account of some

witchcraft that Meon worked. He would tell the seal

to go down to the beach the last thing at night, and

bring him word of the weather. When it came back,

Meon might say to his slaves, ‘‘Padda thinks we shall

have wind to-morrow. Haul up the boats!” I spoke to
b Meon casually about the story, and he laughed.

‘He told me he could judge by the look of the crea-
ture’s coat and the way it sniffed what weather was
f brewing. Quite possible. One need not put down every-
| 218

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  

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THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

thing one does not understand to the work of bad spirits
—or good ones, for that matter.’ He nodded towards
Puck, who nodded gaily in return.

‘I say so,’ he went on, ‘because to a certain extent I
have been made a victim of that habit of mind. Some
while after I was settled at Selsea, King Ethelwalch
and Queen Ebba ordered their people to be baptized.
I fear I’m too old to believe that a whole nation can
change its heart at the King’s command, and I had a
shrewd suspicion that their real motive was to get a
good harvest. No rain had fallen for two or three
years, but as soon as we had finished baptizing, it fell
heavily, and they all said it was a miracle.’

‘And was it?’ Dan asked.

‘Everything in life is a miracle, but’—the Archbishop
twisted the:-heavy ring on his finger—‘I should be slow
—ve-ry slow should I be—to assume that a certain sort
of miracle happens whenever lazy and improvident
people say they are going to turn over a new leaf if they
are paid forit. My friend Meon had sent his slaves to
the font, but he had not come himself, so the next time
I rode over—to return a manuscript—I took the liberty
of asking why. He was perfectly open about it. He
looked on the King’s action as a heathen attempt to
curry favour with the Christians’ God through me the
Archbishop, and he would have none of it. “‘My dear
man,” I said, ‘“‘admitting that that is the case, surely
you, as an educated person, don’t believe in Wotan and
all the other hobgoblins any more than Padda here.”
The old seal was hunched up on his ox-hide behind his
master’s chair.

‘**Even if I don’t,” he said, ‘““why should I insult the
memory of my fathers’ Gods? I have sent you a hun-
219Pit. Litete Pole }o init estsTel ele Le ltctet

   

 

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

dred and three of my rascals to christen. Isn’t that
enough?”

‘By no means,” I answered. “I want you.”

‘Fe wants us! What do you think of that, Padda?”
He pulled the seal’s whiskers till it threw back its head
and roared, and he pretended to interpret. * No! Padda
says he won’t be baptized yet awhile. He says you ll
stay to dinner and come fishing with me to-morrow,
because you’re overworked and need a rest.”

‘““T wish you’d keep yon brute in its proper place,” I
said, and Eddi, my chaplain, agreed.

““T do,” said Meon. ‘‘I keep him just next my heart.
He can’t tell a lie, and he doesn’t know how to love any
one except me. It ’ud be the same if I were dying on a
mud-bank, wouldn’t it, Padda?”’

‘“Aush! Augh!” said Padda, and put up his head
to be scratched.

‘Then Meon began to tease Eddi: ‘““Padda says, lf
Eddi saw his Archbishop dying on a mud-bank Eddi
would tuck up his gown and run. Padda knows Eddi
can run too! Padda came into Wittering Church last
Sunday—all wet—to hear the music, and Eddi ran out.”

‘My good Eddi rubbed his hands and his shins to-
gether, and flushed. “‘Padda is a child of the Devil,
who is the father of lies!”” he cried, and begged my par-
don for having spoken. I forgave him.

‘Ves, You are just about stupid enough for a mu-
sician,” said Meon. ‘But here he is. Sing a hymn to
him, and see if he can stand it. You'll find my small
harp beside the fireplace.”

‘Eddi, who is really an excellent musician, played and
sang for quite half an hour. Padda shuffled off his ox-
hide, hunched himself on his flippers before him, and
220a ee ee eee ee re a Oe
a ae . . aha tal Lod i SS Co Erk oy eens

  

THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

listened with his head thrown back. Yes—yess! A
rather funny sight! Meon tried not to laugh, and asked
Eddi if he were satisfied.

‘It takes some time to get an idea out of my good
Eddi’s head. He looked at me.

‘***Do you want to sprinkle him with holy water, and
see if he flies up the chimney? Why not baptize him?”
said Meon.

‘Eddi was really shocked. I thought it was bad taste
myself.

“TPhat’s not fair; saidy Meon::!“‘ You call*himea
demon and a familiar spirit because he loves his master
and likes music, and when I offer you a chance to prove
it you won’t take it. Look here! I’ll make a bargain.
I'll be baptized if you'll baptize Padda too. He’s more
of a man than most of my slaves.”

‘One doesn’t bargain—or joke—about these mat-
ters,’ I said. He was going altogether too far.

***Quite right,’ said Meon; “I shouldn’t like any
one to joke about Padda. Padda, go down to the beach
and bring us to-morrow’s weather!”

‘My good Eddi must have been a little over-tired
with his day’s work. ‘“‘I am a servant of the Church,”
he cried. ‘‘My business is to save souls, not to enter
into fellowships and understandings with accursed
beasts.”’

‘** Have it your own narrow way,’ said Meon. “Padda,
you needn’t go.”’ The old fellow flounced back to his ox-
hide at once.

‘**Man could learn obedience at least from that crea-
ture,” said Eddi, alittle ashamed of himself. Christians
should not curse.

‘““TDon’t begin to apologise just when I am beginning
221Tamanna etaingtchatate tale eitatstateTelayn leatste tel Hoda gTteee eines ate leet petaeeto a tetera tana a abd aceleisleparanatare edeneeptatatspobelebeiaenanetiieielebelaigety! <7 37 2 8”

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

to like you,” said Meon. ‘‘ We'll leave Padda behind
to-morrow—out of respect to your feelings. Now let’s
go to supper. We must be up early to-morrow for the
whiting.”

‘The next was a beautiful crisp autumn morning—a
weather-breeder, if I had taken the trouble to think;
but it’s refreshing to escape from kings and converts for
half a day. We three went by ourselves in Meon’s
smallest boat, and we got on the whiting near an old
wreck, a mile or so off shore. Meon knew the marks
to a yard, and the fish were keen. Yes—yess! A
perfect morning’s fishing! If a bishop can’t be a fisher-
man, who can?’ He twiddled his ring again. ‘We
stayed there a little too long, and while we were getting
Es up our stone, down came the fog. After some discus-

sion, we decided to row for the land. The ebb was just
beginning to make round the point, and sent us all ways
at once like a coracle.’

| ‘Selsea Bill,’ said Puck under his breath. ‘The tides

run something furious there.’
‘I believe you,’ said the Archbishop. ‘“Meon and |

have spent a good many evenings arguing as to where,
exactly, we drifted. All I know is we found ourselves
in a little rocky cove that had sprung up round us out
of the fog, and a swell lifted the boat on to a ledge, and
shebrokeup beneath our feet. We had just time to shuffle
through the weed before the next wave. The sea was
rising.

‘«Tt’s rather a pity we didn’t let Padda go down to
| the beach last night,’ said Meon. ‘“‘He might have
. warned us this was coming.”

‘“‘Better fall into the hands of God than the hands of
demons,” said Eddi, and his teeth chattered as he
222

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THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

prayed. A nor’-west breeze had just got up—distinctly
cool.
*“Save what you can of the boat,’ said Meon; ‘“‘we
may need it,’”’ and we had to drench ourselves again,
fishing out stray planks.’
‘What for?’ said Dan.
‘For firewood. We did not know when we should
get off. Eddi had flint and steel, and we found dry fuel
in the old gulls’ nests and lit a fire. It smoked abomi-
nably, and we guarded it with boat-planks up-ended
between the rocks. One gets used to that sort of thing
if one travels. Unluckily I’m not so strong as I was.
J fear I must have been a trouble to my friends. It was
blowing a full gale before midnight. Eddi wrung out
his cloak, and tried to wrap me in it, but I ordered him
on his obedience to keep it. However, he held me in his
arms all the first night, and Meon begged his pardon
for what he’d said the night before—about Eddi running
away if he found me on a sandbank, you remember.
‘You are right in half your prophecy,” said Eddi.
““T have tucked up my gown, at any rate.”” (The wind
had blown it over his head.) ‘‘Now let us thank God
for His mercies.”’
‘““Hum!” said Meon. “If this gale lasts, we stand
a very fair chance of dying of starvation.”
‘Tf it be God’s will that we live, God will provide,”’
said Eddi. ‘“‘At least help me to sing to Him.’ The (|
wind almost whipped the words out of his mouth, but
he braced himself against a rock and sang psalms.
‘I’m glad I never concealed my opinion—from myself
—that Eddi was a better man than I. Yet I have |
worked hard in my time—very hard! Yes—yess! So |
the morning and the evening were our second day on
223SE eT rete ar RIT ott ER eT oRee mow iam aot ae eee ARN Hea Sea POE
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. that islet. There was rain-water in the rock pools,
| } and, as a Churchman, I knew how to fast, but I admit
| we were hungry. Meon fed our fire chip by chip to
eke it out, and they made me sit over it, the dear fellows,
when I was too weak to object. Meon held me in his
arms the second night, just like a child. My good Eddi
was a little out of his senses, and imagined himself teach-
ing a York choir to sing. Even so, he was beautifully
patient with them.
‘I heard Meon whisper, ‘‘If this keeps up we shall go
to our Gods. I wonder what Wotan will say to me.
He must know I don’t believe in him. On the other
hand, I can’t do what Ethelwalch finds so easy—curry
favour with your God at the last minute, in the hope of
being saved—as you call it. How do you advise,
Bishop?”’
“My dear man,” I said, “if that is your honest be-
lief, I take it upon myself to say you had far better not
| curry favour with any God. Butifit’s only your Jutish
pride that holds you back, lift me up, and I’ll baptize
4 you even now.”
Pi “Tie still,” said Meon. “I could judge better if
I were in my own hall. But to desert one’s fathers’

Gods—even if one doesn’t believe in them—in the mid-
dle of a gale, isn’t quite— What would you do your-
self?”

‘I was lying in his arms, kept alive by the warmth of

his big, steady heart. It did not seem to me the time

| or the place for subtle,arguments, so I answered, “‘No,
I certainly should not desert my God.” I don’t see
. even now what else I could have said.
‘Thank you. I’ll remember that, if I live,”’ said
Meon, and I must have drifted back to my dreams about
224

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3

eure rervenrnseee
eeeCESS MOA eii saree

    
  
    
   
   
  
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
  
    

THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

Northumbria and beautiful France, for it was broad
daylight when I heard him calling on Wotan in that
high, shaking heathen yell that I detest so.

‘“Lie quiet. I’m giving Wotan his chance,”’ he said.
Our dear Eddi ambled up, still beating time to his imag-
inary choir.

**“Yes. Call on your Gods,” he cried, ““and see what
gifts they will send you. They are gone on a journey,
or they are hunting.”

‘I assure you the words were not out of his mouth
when old Padda shot from the top of a cold wrinkled
swell, drove himself over the weedy ledge, and landed
fair in our laps with a rock-cod between his teeth.
I could not help smiling at Eddi’s face. “‘A miracle!
A miracle!’’ he cried, and kneeled down to clean the
cod.

‘““You’ve been a long time winding us, my son,” said
Meon. “Now fish—fish for all our lives. We're starv-
ing, Padda.”’

‘The old fellow flung himself quivering like a salmon
backward into the boil of the currents round the rocks,
and Meon said, ‘‘ We’re safe. Ill send him to fetch
help when this wind drops. Eat and be thankful.”

‘I never tasted anything so good as those rock-cod-
lings we took from Padda’s mouth and half roasted over
the fire. Between his plunges Padda would hunch up
and purr over Meon with the tears running down his
face. I never knew before that seals could weep for
joy—as I have wept.

“««Surely,’’ said Eddi, with his mouth full, ““God has
made the seal the loveliest of His creatures in the water.
Look how Padda breasts the current! He stands up

against it like a rock; now watch the chain of bubbles
225a ocnitotats tele: sscomspesetoneaeananeratuteleliaecnses tat steetetenenyiencar tase taleienali entra abe een ebebtaTetsaiedalasnenataluaieiebeseansuussletalelabtinitabailenimiiAMMTE .". "=" 47. 2 2 + + + 2.0.0 + 4.3 42 ete sieieesg tye te ott oot
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

where he dives; and now—there is his wise head under
that rock ledge! Oh, a blessing be on thee, my little
brother Padda!”’
‘“Vou said he was a child of the Devil,’ Meon
laughed.
| ‘There I sinned,’’ poor Eddi answered. “‘Call him
here, and I will ask his pardon. God sent him out of
the storm to humble me, a fool.”

‘**T won’t ask you to enter into fellowships and under-
standings with any accursed brute,”’ said Meon, rather
unkindly. ‘Shall we say he was sent to our Bishop as
the ravens were sent to your prophet Elijah?”

‘“‘Tyoubtless that is so,’ said Eddi. ‘“‘I will write it
so if I live to get home.”’

‘““Nio—no!”’ I said. ‘‘Let us three poor men kneel
and thank God for His mercies.”’

‘We kneeled, and old Padda shuffled up and thrust
his head under Meon’s elbows. I laid my hand upon it

| and blessed him. So did Eddi.
‘“** And now, my son,’’ I said to Meon, “‘shall I baptize

———- |
Te I |

thee?”
‘““Not yet,’ said he. ‘‘Wait till we are well ashore
| and at home. No God in any Heaven shall say that I

came to him or left him because I was wet and cold. I
will send Padda to my people fora boat. Is that witch-
craft, Eddi?’’

‘Why, no. Surely Padda will go and pull them to
the beach by the skirts of their gowns as he pulled me
in Wittering Church to ask me to sing. Only then I
was afraid, and did not understand,” said Eddi.

‘You are understanding now,” said Meon, and at a
wave of his arm off went Padda to the mainland, making
a wake like a war-boat till we lost him in the rain.
226

epesaee ert ee kaee
dsbrarhisarstosteate

teres

pictsTHE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID

Meon’s people could not bring a boat across for some
hours; even so it was ticklish work among the rocks in
that tideway. But they hoisted me aboard, too stiff
to move, and Padda swam behind us, barking and turn-
ing somersaults all the way to Manhood End!’

‘Good old Padda!’? murmured Dan.

‘When we were quite rested and re-clothed, and his
people had been summoned—not an hour before—Meon
offered himself to be baptized.’

‘Was Padda baptized too?’ Una asked.

‘No, that was only Meon’s joke. But he sat blinking
on his ox-hide in the middle of the hall. When Eddi
(who thought I wasn’t looking) made a little cross in
holy water on his wet muzzle, he kissed Eddi’s hand.
A week before Eddi wouldn’t have touched him. That
was a miracle, if you like! But seriously, I was more
glad than I can tell you to get Meon. A rare and splen-
did soul that never looked back—never looked back!’
The Archbishop half closed his eyes.

‘But, sir,’ said Puck, most respectfully, “haven't you
left out what Meon said afterwards?’ Before the Bishop
could speak he turned to the children and went on:
‘Meon called all his fishers and ploughmen and herds-
men into the hall and he said: ‘“‘Listen, men! ‘Two
days ago I asked our Bishop whether it was fair for a
man to desert his fathers’ Gods in a time of danger.
Our Bishop said it was not fair. You needn’t shout like
that, because you are all Christians now. My red war-
boat’s crew will remember how near we all were to death
when Padda fetched them over to the Bishop’s islet.
You can tell your mates that even in that place, at that
time, hanging on the wet, weedy edge of death, our
Bishop, a Christian, counselled me, a heathen, to stand
227Se ey eee e el tie ee RM gra ie aie eiey a De ates ay bea Mla easel aes Pe) i ad Ee ee eee ane anes aoe eae eee

    
  
   
   
   
  
 
   
   
 
 
   
  
 
   
   
  
  
   
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. by my fathers’ Gods. I tell you now that a faith which
. takes care that every man shall keep faith, even though
| he may save his soul by breaking faith, is the faith for a
man to believe in. So I believe in the Christian God,
and in Wilfrid His Archbishop, and in the Church that
Wilfrid rules. You have been baptized once by the
King’s orders. I shall not have you baptized again;
but if I find any more old women being sent to Wotan,
or any girls dancing on the sly before Balder, or any men
talking about Thun or Lok or the rest, I will teach you
with my own hands how to keep faith with the Christian
God. Go out quietly; you'll find a couple of beefs on
the beach.” ‘Then of course they shouted “‘Hurrah!”’
which meant “‘ Thor help us!’? and—I think you laughed,

sir?’

‘I think you remember it all too well,’ said the Arch-
bishop, smiling. ‘It was a joyful day for me. I had
learned a great deal on that rock where Padda found us.

| Yes—yess! One should deal kindly with all the crea-

tures of God, and gently with their masters. But one
learns late.’

He rose, and his gold-embroidered sleeves rustled

thickly.

The organ clacked and took deep breaths.

“Wait a minute,’ Dan whispered. ‘She’s going to do
the trumpety one. It takes all the wind you can pump.
iB | Its matin, sire

‘There is no other tongue,’ the Archbishop answered.

| “It’s not areal hymn,’ Una explained. ‘She does it as
b | a treat after her exercises. She isn’t a real organist, you
| know. She just comes down here sometimes, from the
Albert Hall.’

‘Oh, what a miracle of a voice!’ said the Archbishop.
228

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sitesTHE CONVERSION OF' ST. WILFRID

It rang out suddenly from a dark arch of lonely noises
—every word spoken to the very end.

‘Dies Irae, dies illa
Solvet sceclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla.’

The Archbishop caught his breath and moved forward.

The music carried on by itself a while.

‘Now it’s calling all the light out of the windows,’
Una whispered to Dan.

‘I think it’s more like a horse neighing in battle,’ he |
whispered back. The voice cried:

‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum.’

Deeper and deeper the organ dived down, but far
below its deepest note they heard Puck’s voice joining
in the last line:

‘Coget omnes ante thronum.’

As they looked in wonder, for it sounded like the dull
jar of one of the very pillars shifting, the little fellow
turned and went out through the south door.

‘Now’s the sorrowful part, but it’s very beautiful.’
Una found herself speaking to the empty chair in front
of her.

‘What are you doing that for?’ Dan said behind her.
‘You spoke so politely too.’

‘I don’tknow. . . . Ithought . . -)sata Umar
‘Funny!’

229esexvonavtevals elaseats at tane iemenesehesTstste Si lolebezviranstulauleloiesecebeiatatalgneuraaiasrarala ubelaiebe eanininaltina lb blaMEUWMMU -"~ "2 0°. 21s - le gee 2 3 4 sjeisis sisieotisityt tt tut tt. ek ena

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘*Tisn’t. It’s the part you like best,’ Dan grunted.

The music had turned soft—full of little sounds that
chased each other on wings across the broad gentle flood
of the main tune. But the voice was ten times lovelier
than the music.

   
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

“Recordare Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa Tuae viae,
Ne me perdas illa die!’

There wasnomore. They moved out into the centre
aisle.

‘°That you?’ the Lady called as she shut the lid. ‘I
thought I heard you, and IJ played it on purpose.’

‘Thank you awfully,’ said Dan. ‘We hoped you
would, so we waited. Come on, Una, it’s pretty nearly
dinner-time.’pete eat
ges yisteO

    
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
    

SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT

Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady!
Watch for a smooth! Give way!
If she feels the lop already
She’ll stand on her head in the bay.
It’s ebb—it’s dusk—it’s blowing,
The shoals are a mile of white,
But (snatch her along!) we’re going
To find our master to-night.

For we hold that in all disaster
Of shipwreck, storm, or sword,

A man must stand by his master
When once he has pledged his word!

Raging seas have we rowed in,
But we seldom saw them thus;
Our master is angry with Odin—
Odin is angry with us!
Heavy odds have we taken,
But never before ‘such odds. |
The Gods know they are forsaken,
We must risk the wrath of the Gods!

Over the crest she flies from,
Into its hollow she drops,
Crouches and clears her eyes from
The wind-torn breaker-tops,
aREWARDS AND FAIRIES

Ere out on the shrieking shoulder
Of a hill-high surge she drives.
Meet her! Meet her and hold her!

Pull for your scoundrel lives!

   
   
  
 
 
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

The thunders bellow and clamour
The harm that they mean to do;

There goes Thor’s own Hammer
Cracking the dark in two!

Close! But the blow has missed her,
Here comes the wind of the blow!

Row or the squall’ll twist her
Broadside on to it!—Row!

Hearken, Thor of the Thunder!
We are not here for a jest—
For wager, warfare, or plunder,
Or to put your power to test.
This work is none of our wishing—
We would stay at home if we might—
But our master is wrecked out fishing,
We go to find him to-night.

For we hold that in all disaster—

As the Gods Themselves have said—
A man must stand by his master

Till one of the two is dead.

That is our way of thinking,
Now you can do as you will,

While we try to save her from sinking,
And hold her head to it still.

232SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT

Bale her and keep her moving,

Or she'll break her back inthe trough .. .
Who said the weather’s improving,

Or the swells are taking off?

  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

Sodden, and chafed and aching,
Gone in the loins and knees—
No matter—the day is breaking,
And there’s far less weight to the seas!
Up mast, and finish baling—
In oars, and out with the mead—
The rest will be two-reef sailing .. .
That was a night indeed!

But we hold that in all disaster
(And faith, we have found it true!)

If only you stand by your master,

The Gods will stand by you!tes
ead seat ere oede

 

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si ticity ope teettiey
wheletsts spt fait hi 7 .

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINEPO acne aan ea NERS

 

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¥ ae h-se
Bhp ene

SsAN ASTROLOGER’S SONG

  
   
 
 
    
   
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
    

‘To the Heavens above us
O look and behold

The Planets that love us
All harnessed in gold!

What chariots, what horses,
Against us shall bide

While the Stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?

All thought, all desires,
That are under the sun,
Are one with their fires,
As we also are one.
All matter, all spirit,
All fashion, all frame,
Receive and inherit
Their strength from the same.

(Oh, man that deniest
All power save thine own,
Their power in the highest
Is mightily shown.
Not less in the lowest
That power is made clear.
Oh, man, if thou knowest,
What treasure is here!)
237peas aneha ae

Sptststhiriaiat diet Wacko:

Saas

ar

ey). a iene ihe oe Sie i eke ie ae i Tene ee ee ee ae eee
[ricerca Heit ttiiute imi "7

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Earth quakes in her throes
And we wonder for why!

But the blind planet knows
When her ruler is nigh;

And, attuned since Creation,
To perfect accord,

She thrills in her station
And yearns to her Lord.

The waters have risen,
The springs are unbound—

The floods break their prison,
And ravin around.

No rampart withstands ’em,
Their fury will last,

Till the Sign that commands ’em
Sinks low or swings past.

Through abysses unproven,
And gulfs beyond thought,
Our portion is woven,
Our burden is brought.
Yet They that prepare it,
Whose Nature we share,
Make us who must bear it
Well able to bear.

Though terrors o’ertake us
We'll not be afraid,

No Power can unmake us
Save that which has made.

238AN ASTROLOGER’S SONG

Nor yet beyond reason
Nor hope shall we fall—
All things have their season,
And Mercy crowns all.

Then, doubt not, ye fearful—
The Eternal is King—

Up, heart, and be cheerful,
And lustily sing:—

What chariots, what horses,
Against us shall bide

While the Stars in their courses.

Do fight on our side?Ra RET:

Uns ees)

 

 

 

seites berets

eea ae

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE
(1909)

HEY were playing hide-and-seek with bicycle

lamps after tea. Dan had hung his lamp on

the apple tree at the end of the hellebore bed
in the walled garden, and was crouched by the goose-
berry bushes ready to dash off when Una should spy him.
He saw her lamp come into the garden and disappear
as she hid it under her cloak. While he listened for
her footsteps, somebody (they both thought it was
Phillips the gardener) coughed in the corner of the herb-
beds.

‘All right,’ Una shouted across the asparagus; “we
aren’t hurting your old beds, Phippsey!’

She flashed her lantern towards the spot, and in its
circle of light they saw a Guy Fawkes-looking man in a
black cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, walking down
the path beside Puck. They ran to meet him, and the
man said something to them about ‘rooms’ in their
head; After a time they understood he was warning
them not to catch colds.

‘You’ve a bit of a cold yourself, haven’t you?’ said
Una, for he ended all his sentences with a consequential
cough. Puck laughed.

‘Child,’ the man answered, ‘if it hath pleased Heaven
to afflict me with an infirmity—’COEDS SO OAR Tat RATT PS DTPA IR I aaa TOTTI Meare SDT Par Daa sor

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. ‘Nay, nay,’ Puck struck in, ‘the maid spoke out of
| } kindness. I know that half your cough is but a catch
| to trick the vulgar; and that’s a pity. There’s honesty
enough in you, Nick, without rasping and hawking.’

‘Good people’—the man shrugged his lean shoulders
—‘the vulgar crowd love not truth unadorned. Where-
fore we philosophers must needs dress her to catch their
eye or—ahem!—their ear.’
‘And what d’you think of that?’ said Puck solemnly
to Dan.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘It sounds like lessons.’
‘“Ah—well! There have been worse men than Nick
Culpeper to take lessons from. Now, where can we sit
that’s not indoors?’
‘In the hay-mow, next to old Middenboro,’ Dan sug-
gested. ‘He doesn’t mind.’
‘Eh?’ Mr. Culpeper was stooping over the pale helle-
bore blooms by the light of Una’s lamp. ‘Does Master
| Middenboro need my poor services, then?’
‘Save him, no!’ said Puck. ‘He is but a horse—next
| door to an ass, as you'll see presently. Come!’
Their shadows jumped and slid on the fruit-tree walls.
a They filed out of the garden by the snoring pig-pound
| and the crooning hen-house, to the shed where Midden-
boro the old lawn-mower pony lives. His friendly eyes
showed green in the light as they set their lamps down
on thechickens’ drinking-trough outside, and pushed past
tothe hay-mow. Mr. Culpeper stooped at the door.
‘Mind where you lie,’ said Dan. ‘This hay’s full of
| hedge-brishings.’
i} ‘In! in!’ said Puck. ‘You’ve lain in fouler places
it than this, Nick. Ah! Let us keep touch with the
stars!’ He kicked open the top of the half-door, and
242

    
   
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
 

 

BURSRDDE raeriaten nian Heisea ee oe ee eas ce ee ce ae eee

    
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
   

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

pointed to the clear sky. ‘There be the planets you
conjure with! What does your wisdom make of that
wandering and variable star behind those apple boughs?’

The children smiled. A bicycle that they knew well
was being walked down the steep lane.

‘Where?’ Mr. Culpeper leaned forward quickly.
“That? Some countryman’s lantern.’

“Wrong, Nick,’ said Puck. ‘’Tis a singular bright
star in Virgo, declining towards the house of Aquarius
the water-carrier, who hath lately been afflicted by
Gemini. Aren’t I right, Una?’

Mr. Culpeper snorted contemptuously.

‘No. It’s the village nurse going down to the Mill
about some fresh twins that came there last week.
Nurse,’ Una called, as the light stopped on the flat,
‘when can I see the Morris twins? And how are they?’

‘Next Sunday, perhaps. Doing beautifully,’ the
Nurse called back, and with a ‘ping-ping-ping’ of the
bell brushed round the corner.

‘Her Uncle’s a vetinary surgeon near Banbury,’ Una
explained, ‘and if you ring her bell at night, it rings right
beside her bed—not downstairs at all. Then she jumps
up—she always keeps a pair of dry boots in the fender,
you know—and goes anywhere she’s wanted. We help
her bicycle through gaps sometimes. Most of her babies
do beautifully. She told us so herself.’

‘I doubt not, then, that she reads in my books,’ said
Mr. Culpeper quietly. ‘Twins at the Mill!’ he mut-
tered half aloud. ‘‘‘And again He sayeth, Return, ye
children of men.’’’

‘Are you a doctor or a rector?’ Una asked, and Puck
with a shout turned head over heels in the hay. But
Mr. Culpeper was quite serious. He told them that he
243PPPS Ide edaPat Pate odes so Pear Sante) ade Pasa ae tene Seda ede aed aoa

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

was a physician-astrologer—a doctor who knew all
about the stars as well as all about herbs for medicine.
He said that the sun, the moon, and five Planets, called
Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn, and Venus, governed
everybody and everything in the world. ‘They all lived
in Houses—he mapped out some of them against the
dark with a busy forefinger—and they moved from
House to House like pieces at draughts; and they went
loving and hating each other all over the skies. If you
knew their likes and dislikes, he said, you could make
them cure your patient and hurt your enemy, and find
out the secret causes of things. He talked of these five
Planets as though they belonged to him, or as though
he were playing long games against them. ‘The children
burrowed in the hay up to their chins, and looked out
over the half-door at the solemn, star-powdered sky till
they seemed to be falling upside down into it, while Mr.
Culpeper talked about ‘trines’ and ‘oppositions’ and
‘conjunctions’ and ‘sympathies’ and ‘antipathies’ in a
tone that just matched things.

A rat ran between Middenboro’s feet, and the old
pony stamped.

‘Mid hates rats,’ said Dan, and passed him over a
lock of hay. ‘I wonder why.’

‘Divine Astrology tells us,’ said Mr. Culpeper. ‘The
horse, being a martial beast that beareth man to battle,
belongs naturally to the red planet Mars—the Lord of
War. I would show you him, but he’s too near his set-
ting. Rats and mice, doing their businesses by night,
come under the dominion of our Lady the Moon. Now
between Mars and Luna, the one red, t’other white,
the one hot, other cold and so forth, stands, as I have
told you, a natural antipathy, or, as you say, hatred.
244LT ML Cate ie ee ere etree rit ear

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
    

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

Which antipathy their creatures do inherit. Whence,
good people, you may both see and hear your cattle
stamp in their stalls for the self-same causes as decree
the passages of the stars across the unalterable face of
Heaven! Ahem!’

Puck lay along chewing a leaf. They felt him shake
with laughter, and Mr. Culpeper sat up stiffly.

‘I myself,’ said he, ‘have saved men’s lives, and not a
few neither, by observing at the proper time—there is a
time, mark you, for all things under the sun—by ob-
serving, I say, so small a beast as a rat in conjunction
with so great a matter as this dread arch above us. He
swept his hand across the sky. ‘Yet there are those,’
he went on sourly, ‘who have years without knowledge.’

‘Right,’ said Puck. ‘No fool like an old fool.’

Mr. Culpeper wrapped his cloak round him and sat
still while the children stared at the Great Bear on the
hill-top.

‘Give him time,’ Puck whispered behind his hand.
‘He turns like a timber-tug—all of a piece.’

‘Ahem!’ Mr. Culpeper said suddenly. ‘I'll prove it
to you. When I was physician to Saye’s Horse, and
fought the King—or rather the man Charles Stuart—in
Oxfordshire (I had my learning at Cambridge), the
plague was very hot all around us. I saw it at close
hands. He who says I am ignorant of the plague, for
example, is altogether beside the bridge.’

‘We grant it,’ said Puck solemnly. ‘But why talk
of the plague this rare night?’

‘To prove my argument. This Oxfordshire plague,
good people, being generated among rivers and ditches,
was of a werish, watery nature. Therefore it was curable
by drenching the patient in cold water, and laying him
245cher inter skate CoaccetoCherta Leto
RHI CSR IO TUE

ee

AGRA ast ees at

eat PHM RIS ey hae eaaea teal iis PP ah esters Peli lats Veet oe hielo) | ie ae eae eae i are ae ae ne ea eee
PLS ede MPRA DU Rei eit hed seater en IO) CTasA aoe IST Ea sake Ps jek bese) 9) 7, 7 = i eid eae

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

in wet cloths; or at least, so I cured some of them.
Mark this. It bears on what shall come after.’

‘Mark also, Nick,’ said Puck, ‘that we are not your
College of Physicians, but only a lad and a lass and a poor
lubberkin. Therefore be plain, old Hyssop on the Wall!’

‘To be plain and in order with you, I was shot in the
chest while gathering of betony from a brookside near
Thame, and was took by the King’s men before their
Colonel, one Blagg or Bragge, whom I warned honestly
that I had spent the week past among our plague-
stricken. He flung me off into a cow-shed, much like
this here, to die, as I supposed; but one of their priests
crept in by night and dressed my wound. He was a
Sussex man like myself.’

‘Who was that?’ said Puck suddenly. ‘Zack Tut-
shom?’

‘No, Jack Marget,’ said Mr. Culpeper.

‘Jack Marget of New College? The little merry man
that stammered so? Why a plague was stuttering Jack
at Oxford then?’ said Puck.

‘He had come out of Sussex in hope of being made 2
Bishop when the King should have conquered the rebels,
as he styled us Parliament men. His College had lent
the King some monies too, which they never got again,
no more than simple Jack got his bishopric. When we
met he had had a bitter bellyful of King’s promises, and
wished to return to his wife and babes. This came
about beyond expectation, for, so soon as I could stand
of my wound the man Blagge made excuse that I had
been among the plague, and Jack had been tending me,
to thrust us both out from their camp. The King had
done with Jack now that Jack’s College had lent the
money, and Blagge’s physician could not abide me be-
246ae ee 2d ee ee ee oe oe

  

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

cause I would not sit silent and see him butcher the sick.
(He was a College of Physiciansman!) So Blagge, I say,
thrust us both out, with many vile words, for a pair of
pestilent, prating, pragmatical rascals.’

‘Ha! Called you pragmatical, Nick?’ Puck started
up. “High time Oliver came to purge the land! How
did you and honest Jack fare next?’

“We were in some sort constrained to each other’s
company. I was for going to my house in Spitalfields,
he would go to his parish in Sussex; but the plague was
brokeout and spreading through Wiltshire, Berkshire, and
Hampshire, and he was so mad distracted to think that
it might even then be among his folks at home that I
bore him company. He had comforted me in my dis-
tress. I could not have done less; and I remembered
that I had a cousin at Great Wigsell, near by Jack’s
parish. Thus we footed it from Oxford, cassock and
buff coat together, resolute to leave wars on the left side
henceforth; and either through our mean appearances,
or the plague making men less cruel, we were not hin-
dered. To be sure they put us in the stocks one half-
day for rogues and vagabonds at a village under St.
Leonard’s forest, where, as I have heard, nightingales
never sing; but the constable very honestly gave me
back my Astrological Almanac, which I carry with me.’
Mr. Culpeper tapped his thin chest. ‘I dressed a whit-
low on his thumb. So we went forward.

‘Not to trouble you with impertinences, we fetched
over against Jack Marget’s parish in a storm of rain
about the day’s end. Here our roads divided, for I
would have gone on to my cousin at Great Wigsell, but
while Jack was pointing me out his steeple, we saw a
man lying drunk, as he conceived, athwart the road.

247

 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  

LF Eh Oh ee TS Oe rr rrrrsrsna atata eve aitarinatetasi ale ltueS re tanat alvly ieleuravens orata ett lela betnirenutael ie lebadelenetnatlaliheie iin nats elalaiabede mmarsiunatelatiebt ri telalelebelei thos 2°67. 2 se eee oe st ee ae eee es tise

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. | He said it would be one Hebden, a parishioner, and tilf
| j then a man of good life; and he accused himself bitterly
for an unfaithful shepherd, that had left his flock to
follow princes. But I saw it was the plague, and not the
beginnings of it neither. They had set out the plague-

stone, and the man’s head lay on it.’

“What’s a plague-stone?’ Dan whispered.

‘When the plague is so hot in a village that the neigh-
bours shut the roads against ’em, people set a hollowed
stone, pot, or pan, where such as would purchase victual
from outside may lay money and the paper of their
wants, and depart. Those that would sell come later—
what will a man not do for gain?—snatch the money
forth, and leave in exchange such goods as their con-
science reckons fair value. J saw a silver groat in the
water, and the man’s list of what he would buy was
rain-pulped in his wet hand.

‘*“My wife! Oh, my wife and babes!”’ says Jack of a

| sudden, and makes up-hill—I with him.

| ‘A woman peers out from behind a barn, crying out

that the village is stricken with the plague, and that for
our lives’ sake we must avoid it.

| “Sweetheart!” says Jack. ‘‘Must I avoid thee?”
and she leaps at him and says the babes are safe. She
| was his wife.

“When he had thanked God, even to tears, he tells me
this was not the welcome he had intended, and presses
me to flee the place while I was clean.

‘““Nay! The Lord do so to me and more also if |

seeearaceieeeeeess
Soe Ses

Soest

ee
serene

B . desert thee now,’ I said. ‘These affairs are, under
| | God’s leave, in some fashion my strength.”

, Yi ee Oh, sir,” she says, “‘are youa physician? We have
E | none.

248Lt TR Cat di ee ee ote td a

    
     
 
    
    
 
 
 
 
  
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
   

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

‘Then, good people,” said I, ‘‘I must e’en justify
myself to you by my works.”’

‘“Look—look ye,” stammers Jack, “I took you all
this time for a crazy Roundhead preacher.’”’ He laughs,
and she, and then I—all three together in the rain are
overtook by an unreasonable gust or clap of laughter,
which none the less eased us. We call it in medicine the
Hysterical Passion. So I went home with ’em.’

‘Why did you not go on to your cousin at Great Wig-
sell, Nick?’ Puck suggested. ‘’Tis barely seven mile
up the road.’

‘But the plague was here,’ Mr. Culpeper answered,
and pointed up the hill. ‘What else could I have done?’

‘What were the parson’s children called?’ said Una.

‘Elizabeth, Alison, Stephen, and Charles—a babe. I
searce saw them at first, for I separated to live with
their father ina cart-lodge. The mother we put—forced
—into the house with her babes. She had done enough.

‘And now, good people, give me leave to be particular
in this case. The plague was worst on the north side
of the street, for lack, as I showed ’em, of sunshine:
which, proceeding from the primum mobile, or source of
life (I speak astrologically), is cleansing and purifying
in the highest degree. The plague was hot too by the
corn-chandler’s, where they sell forage to the carters;
extreme hot in both Mills along the river, and scatter-
ingly in other places, except, mark you, at the smithy.
Mark here, that all forges and smith-shops belong to
Mars, even as corn andmeat and wine shops acknowledge
Venus for their mistress. There was no plague in the
smithy at Munday’s Lane—’

‘“Munday’s Lane! You meanourvillage? I thought
so when you talked about the two Mills,’ cried Dan.
249

  

tS RY Oa oe) Sa eS CE CS hPLCRESS

Daun

hiteaser

paar teneetisaret

 

POSES EEDA SOLS IRI asa EHS TA DE SMD NE Paae TaD e ONES eT vases

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Where did we put the plague-stone? I’d like to have
seen it.’

‘Then look at it now,’ said Puck, and pointed to the
chickens’ drinking-trough where they had set their bicy-
clelamps. It was a rough, oblong stone pan, rather like
4 small kitchen sink, which Phillips, who never wastes
anything, had found in a ditch and had used for his pre-
cious hens.

‘That?’ said Dan and Una, and stared, and stared,
and stared.

Mr. Culpeper made impatient noises in his throat and
went on.

‘I am at these pains to be particular, good people, be-
cause I would have you follow, so far as you may, the
operations of my mind. That plague which I told you
I had handled outside Wallingford in Oxfordshire was of
a watery nature, conformable to the brookish riverine
country it bred in, and curable, as I have said, by drench-
ing in water. This plague of ours here, for all that it
flourished along watercourses—every soul at both Mills
died of it,—could not be so handled. Which brought
me to a stand. Ahem!’

‘And your sick people in the meantime?’ Puck de-
manded.

‘We persuaded them on the north side of the street
to lie out in Hitheram’s field. Where the plague had
taken one, or at most two, in a house, folk would not
shift for fear of thieves in their absence. They cast
away their lives to die among their goods.’

‘Human nature,’ said Puck. ‘I’ve seen it time and
again. How did your sick do in the fields?’

‘They died not near so thick as those that kept within
doors, and even then they died more out of distrac-
250rig wists elses

  

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

tion and melancholy than plague. But I confess, good
people, I could not in any sort master the sickness, or
come at a glimmer of its nature or governance. To be
brief, I was flat bewildered at the brute malignity of
the disease, and so—did what I should have done before
—dismissed all conjectures and apprehensions that had
grown up within me, chose a good hour by my Almanac,
clapped my vinegar-cloth to my face, and entered some
empty houses, resigned to wait upon the stars for guid-
ance.’

‘At night? Were you not horribly frightened?’ said
Puck.

‘I dared to hope that the God who hath made man so
nobly curious to search out His mysteries might not
destroy a devout seeker. In due time—there is a time,
as I have said, for everything under the sun—lI spied a
whitish rat, very puffed and scabby, which sat beneath
the dormer of an attic through which shined our Lady
the Moon. Whilst I looked on him—and her—she was
moving towards old cold Saturn, her ancient ally—the
rat creeped languishingly into her light, and there, be-
fore my eyes, died. Presently his mate or companion
came out, laid him down beside there, and in like fashion
died too. Later—an hour or less to midnight—a third
rat did e’en the same; always choosing the moonlight
to die in. This threw me into an amaze, since, as we
know, the moonlight is favourable, not hurtful, to the
creatures of the Moon; and Saturn, being friends with
her, as you would say, was hourly strengthening her evil
influence. Yet these three rats had been stricken dead
in very moonlight. I leaned out of the window to see
which of Heaven’s host might be on our side, and there
beheld I good trusty Mars, very red and heated, bus-
251ROBB Sa AAA RO OSCR a fA ee A eRe REO MORN ASS ODOM eRe ORR ITO Bene ea

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. | tling about his setting. I straddled the roof to see

iy better.

| ‘Jack Marget came up street going to comfort our

sick in Hitheram’s field. A tile slipped under my foot.

‘Says he heavily enough, ““Watchman, what of the
night?’”’

*““Heart up, Jack,’ says I. ‘“‘Methinks there’s one
fighting for us that, like a fool, I’ve forgot all this sum-
mer.” My meaning was naturally the planet Mars.

"Pray to Him then;” says he. “I forgot Him toe
this summer.”’

‘He meant God, whom he always bitterly accused
himself of having forgotten up in Oxfordshire, among
the King’s men. I called down that he had made
amends enough for his sin by his work among the sick,
but he said he would not believe so till the plague was
lifted from ’em. He was at his strength’s end—more
from melancholy than any just cause. I have seen this

| before among priests and over-cheerful men. I drenched

him then and there with a half cup of waters, which I
| do not say cure the plague, but are excellent against
heaviness of the spirits.’
Vi) “What were they?’ said Dan.
“White brandy rectified, camphor, cardamoms, ginger,
two sorts of pepper, and aniseed.’

“Whew!” said Puck. ‘Waters you call ’em!’

‘Jack coughed on it valiantly, and went downhill
with me. I was for the Lower Mill in the valley, to
note the aspect of the Heavens. My mind had already
| shadowed forth the reason, if not the remedy, for our
a || | . troubles, but I would not impart it to the vulgar till I
- was satisfied. That practice may be perfect, judgment
ought to be sound, and to make judgment sound is
\) 952

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ayyPLR MMI ire er tor rior ore

ete vst

   
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
 
   
   
 
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
   

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

required an exquisite knowledge. Ahem! I left Jack
and his lantern among the sick in Hitheram’s field. He
still maintained the prayers of the so-called Church,
which were rightly forbidden by Cromwell.’

‘You should have told your cousin at Wigsell,’ said
Puck, ‘and Jack would have been fined for it, and you’d
have had half the money. How did you come so to fail
in your duty, Nick?’

Mr. Culpeper laughed—his only laugh that evening
—and the children jumped at the loud neigh of it.

We were not fearful of men’s judgment in those days,’
he answered. ‘Now mark me closely, good people, for
what follows will be to you, though not to me, remark-
able. When I reached the empty Mill, old Saturn, low
down in the House of the Fishes, threatened the Sun’s
rising-place. Our Lady the Moon was moving towards
the help of him (understand, I speak astrologically).
I looked abroad upon the high Heavens, and I prayed
the Maker of ’em for guidance. Now Mars sparklingly
withdrew himself below the sky. On the instant of his
departure, which I noted, a bright star or vapour leaped
forth above his head (as though he had heaved up his
sword), and broke all about in fire. The cocks crowed
midnight through the valley, and I sat me down by the
mill-wheel, chewing spearmint (though that’s a herb of
Venus), and calling myself all the asses’ heads in the
world! *Iwas plain enough now!’

‘What was plain?’ said Una.

“The true cause and cure of the plague. Mars, good
fellow, had fought for us to the uttermost. Faint
though he had been in the Heavens, and this had made
me overlook him in my computations, he more than any
of the other planets had kept the Heavens—which is to
253Oe OO

   

 

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AM SETAM peste ane Needed Shag a asonesetelidulestetetad tel idebninitanste tal yirieiranehceteteananatatet ei febrintattitel "3" 3” 8

   
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

say, had been visible some part of each night wellnigh
throughout the year. Therefore his fierce and cleansing
influence, warring against the Moon, had stretched out
to kill those three rats under my nose, and under the
nose of their natural mistress, the Moon. I had known
Mars lean half across Heaven to deal our Lady the Moon
some shrewd blow from under his shield, but I had never
before seen his strength displayed so effectual.’

‘I don’t understand a bit. Do you mean Mars killed
the rats because he hated the Moon?’ said Una.

‘That is as plain as the pikestaff with which Blagge’s
men pushed me forth,’ Mr. Culpeper answered. ‘I'll
prove it. Why had the plague not broken out at the
blacksmith’s shop in Munday’s Lane? Because, as I’ve
shown you, forges and smithies belong naturally to Mars,
and, for his honour’s sake, Mars ’ud keep ‘em clean
from the creatures of the Moon. But was it like, think
you, that he’d come down and rat-catch in general for
lazy, ungrateful mankind? That were working a willing
horse to death. So then you can see that the meaning
of the blazing star above him when he set was simply
this: “‘Destroy and burn the creatures of the Moon,
for they are at the root of your trouble. And thus,
having shown you a taste of my power, good people,
adieu.”*’

‘Did Mars really say all that?’ Una whispered.

‘Yes, and twice so much as that to any one who had
earsto hear. Briefly, he enlightened me that the plague
was spread by the creatures of the Moon. The Moon,
our Lady of Ill-aspect, was the offender. My own poor
wits showed me that I, Nick Culpeper, had the people
in my charge, God’s good providence aiding me, and no

time to lose neither.
254mecca om or giehslelerebe.s 04! e bi ntd] & sisbuleletel paAleee

    
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

‘I posted up the hill, and broke into Hitheram’s field
amongst ’em all at prayers.

‘**Eureka, good people!”’ I cried, and cast down a dead
mill-rat which I’d found. ‘‘Here’s your true enemy,
revealed at last by the stars.”’

***Nay, but I’m praying,” says Jack. His face wasas
white as washed silver.

*«*There’s a time for everything under the sun,’’says I.
“If you would stay the plague, take and kill your rats.”’

***Oh, mad, stark mad!”’ says he, and wrings his hands.

‘A fellow lay in the ditch beside him, who bellows that
he’d as soon die mad hunting rats as be preached to
death on a cold fallow. They laughed round him at
this, but Jack Marget falls on his knees, and very pre-
sumptuously petitions that he may be appointed to die
to save the rest of his people. This was enough to thrust
°em back into their melancholy.

‘You are an unfaithful shepherd, Jack,’ I says.
“Take a bat” (which we call a stick in Sussex) “‘and killa
rat if you die before sunrise. *Iwill save your people.”

“**Aye, aye. Take a bat and kill a rat,” he says ten
times over, like a child, which moved ’em to ungovern-
able motions of that hysterical passion before mentioned,
so that they laughed all, and at least warmed their chill
bloods at that very hour—one o’clock or a little after—
when the fires of life burn lowest. “Truly there is a time
for everything; and the physician must work with it—
ahem!—or miss his cure. To be brief with you, I per-
suaded ’em, sick or sound, to have at the whole genera-
tion of rats throughout the village. And there’s a reason
for all things too, though the wise physician need not
blab ’em all. Imprimis, or firstly, the mere sport of it,
which lasted ten days, drew em most markedly out of
200

     

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bt
i
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selene cent thitett

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

their melancholy. I’d defy sorrowful Job himself to
lament or scratch while he’s routing rats from a rick.
Secundo, or secondly, the vehement act and operation of
this chase or war opened their skins to generous trans-
piration—more vulgarly, sweated ’em handsomely; and
this further drew off their black bile—the mother of
sickness. Thirdly, when we came to burn the bodies
of the rats, I sprinkled sulphur on the faggots, whereby
the onlookers were as handsomely suffumigated. This
I could not have compassed if I had made it a mere
physician’s business; they’d have thought it some con-
juration. Yet more, we cleansed, limed, and burned out
a hundred foul poke-holes, sinks, slews, and corners of
unvisited filth in and about the houses in the village,
and by good fortune (mark here that Mars was in oppo-
sition to Venus) burned the corn-chandler’s shop to the
sround. Mars loves not Venus. Will Noakes the sad-
dler dropped his lantern on a truss of straw while he was
rat-hunting there.’

‘Had ye given Will any of that gentle cordial of yours,
Nick, by any chance?’ said Puck.

‘A glass—or two glasses—not more. But as | would
say, in fine, when we had killed the rats, I took ash, slag,
and charcoal from the smithy, and burnt earth from the
brickyard (I reason that a brickyard belongs to Mars),
and rammed it with iron crowbars into the rat-runs and
buries, and beneath all the house floors. The Creatures
of the Moon hate all that Mars hath used for his own
clean ends. For example—rats bite not iron.’

‘And how did poor stuttering Jack endure it?’ said
Puck.

‘He sweated out his melancholy through his skin, and
eatched a loose cough, which I cured with electuaries,
256A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

according to art. It is noteworthy, were I speaking
among my equals, that the venom of the plague trans-
lated, or turned itself into, and evaporated, or went
away as, a very heavy hoarseness and thickness of the
head, throat, and chest. (Observe from my books
which planets govern these portions of man’s body, and
your darkness, good people, shall be illuminated—ahem!)
None the less, the plague, qua plague, ceased and took
off (for we only lost three more, and two of ’em had it
already on ’em) from the morning of the day that Mars
enlightened me by the Lower Mill.’ He coughed—
almost trumpeted—triumphantly.

‘It is proved,’ he jerked out. ‘I say I have proved
my contention, which is, that by Divine Astrology and
humble search into the veritable causes of things—at
the proper time—the sons of wisdom may combat even
the plague.’

‘H’m!’ Puck replied. ‘For my own part I hold that
a simple soul—’

‘Mine?—simple, forsooth?’ said Mr. Culpeper.

‘A very simple soul, a high courage tempered with
sound and stubborn conceit, is stronger than all the
stars in their courses. So I confess truly that you saved
the village, Nick.’

‘I stubborn? I stiff-necked? I ascribed all my poor
success, under God’s good providence, to Divine As-
trology. Not to me the glory! You talk as that dear
weeping ass Jack Marget preached before I went back
to my work in Red Lion House, Spitalfields.’

‘Oh! Stammering Jack preached, did he? They say
he loses his stammer in the pulpit.’

‘And his wits with it. He delivered a most idolatrous

discourse when the plague was stayed. He took for
257

i erence

ES TES AO ot Fe SeCANAD ees

   

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See LAE IK MEE RAR a HOSP ep EAI He eT ITTY RETR TA Oar eT ie ae

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

his text: ‘The wise man that delivered the city.” I
could have given him a better, such as: “‘There is a time
for—’’’

‘But what made you go to church to hear him?’ Puck
interrupted. ‘Wail Attersole was your lawfully ap-
pointed preacher, and a dull dog he was!’

Mr. Culpeper wriggled uneasily.

‘The vulgar,’ said he, ‘the old crones and—ahem—
the children, Alison and the others, they dragged me to
the House of Rimmon by the hand. I was in two minds
to inform on Jack for maintaining the mummeries of
the falsely called Church, which, I’ll prove to you, are
founded merely on ancient fables—’

‘Stick to your herbs and planets,’ said Puck, laughing.
‘You should have told the magistrates, Nick, and had
Jack fined. Again, why did you neglect your plain
duty?’

‘Because—because I was kneeling, and praying, and
weeping with the rest of ’em at the altar rails. In medi-
cine this is called the Hysterical Passion. It may be—
it may be.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Puck. They heard him turn
the hay. ‘Why, your hay is half hedge-brishings,’ he
said. ‘You don’t expect a horse to thrive on oak and
ash and thorn leaves, do you?’

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

‘Ping-ping-ping’ went the bicycle bellround thecorner.
Nurse was coming back from the Mill.

‘Ts it all right?’ Una called.

‘All quite right,’ Nurse called back. ‘They’re to be
christened next Sunday.’

‘What? What?’ They both leaned forward across
the half-door. It could not have been properly fastened,
258A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE

for it opened, and tilted them out with hay and leaves
sticking all over them.

‘Come on! We must get those two twins’ names,’
said Una, and they charged up-hill shouting over the
hedge, till Nurse slowed up and told them.

When they returned, old Middenboro had got out
of his stall, and they spent a lively ten minutes chasing
him in again by starlight.DEUCE RAAB re ee Seat ee

 

 

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ti‘OUR FATHERS OF OLD”

Excellent herbs had our fathers of old—
Excellent herbs to ease their pain—
Alexanders and Marigold,
Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane,
Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,
(Almost singing themselves they run)
Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you—
Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.
Anything green that grew out of the mould
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.

Wonderful tales had our fathers of old
Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars—
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,
Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.
Pat as a sum in division it goes—
(Every plant had a star bespoke)—
Who but Venus should govern the Rose?
Who but Jupiter own the Oak?
Simply and gravely the facts are told
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said,

Wonderful little our fathers knew.
Half their remedies cured you dead—

Most of their teaching was quite untrue—
261

pe hee yer) Oe SeTHOU Enele aay ep tao yma no ioee >| ti it i ie i i ie aie i a a ae ee eee ee ae ee ea

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Look at the stars when a patient is ill,
(Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)

Bleed and blister as much as you will,
Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.’

Whence enormous and manifold

Errors were made by our fathers of old.

   
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,
And neither planet nor herb assuaged,
| They took their lives in their lancet-hand
And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!
Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door—
Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,
Excellent courage our fathers bore—
Excellent heart had our fathers of old.
None too learned, but nobly bold
Into the fight went our fathers of old.

| If it be certain, as Galen says,
| And sage Hippocrates holds as much—
i “That those afflicted by doubts and dismays
; | Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch,
Then, be good to us, stars above!
Then, be good to us, herbs below!
We are afflicted by what we can prove;
We are distracted by what we know—
=| So—ah so!
) Down from your heaven or up from your mould,
Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!SIMPLE SIMONAU en's 'o ely ela tert tay ese

 

 

 

 

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Fae
Spe+ pti es oes ehelele. ches oe el bisha) & ere

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

THE THOUSANDTH MAN

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.

And it’s worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,

But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for ’ee.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em go
By your looks or your acts or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don’t matter;

For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more shame
Than he uses yours for his spendings;
And laugh and mention it just the same
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of “em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he’s worth ’em all,
Because you can show him your feelings!
265REWARDS AND FAIRIES

His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right,
In season or out of season.

Stand up and back it in all men’s sight—
With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot—and after!Hie ieichs neg hri gy
hobs aia ty see a hs ees

    
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
    

SIMPLE SIMON
(1910)

ATTIWOW came down the steep lane with his
five-horse timber-tug. He stopped by the wood-
lump at the back gate to take off the brakes.

His real name was Brabon, but the first time the chil-
dren met him, years and years ago, he told them he was
‘carting wood,’ and it sounded so exactly like ‘cattiwow’
that they never called him anything else.

‘Hil’? Una shouted from the top of the wood-lump,
where they had been watching the lane. ‘What are you
doing? Why weren’t we'@old?’

‘They've just sent for me,’ Cattiwow answered.
‘There’s a middlin’ big log sticked in the dirt at Rabbit
Shaw, and’—he flicked his whip back along the line—
‘so they’ve sent for us all.’

Dan and Una threw themselves off the wood-lump
almost under black Sailor’s nose. Cattiwow never let
them ride the big beam that makes the body of the
timber-tug, but they hung on behind while their teeth
thuttered.

The wood road beyond the brook climbs at once into
the woods, and you see all the horses’ backs rising, one
above another, like moving stairs. Cattiwow strode
ahead in his sackcloth woodman’s petticoat, belted at
the waist with a leather strap; and when he turned and
267

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

grinned, his red lips showed under his sackcloth-col-
oured beard. His cap was sackcloth too, with a flap
behind, to keep twigs and bark out of his neck. He
navigated the tug among pools of heather-water that
splashed in their faces, and through clumps of young
birches that slashed at their legs, and when they hit
an old toad-stooled stump, they never knew whether
it would give way in showers of rotten wood, or jar them
back again.

At the top of Rabbit Shaw half-a-dozen men and a
team of horses stood round a forty-foot oak log in a
muddy hollow. The ground about was poached and
stoached with sliding hoof-marks, and a wave of dirt
was driven up in front of the butt.

‘What did you want to bury her for this way?’ said
Cattiwow. He took his broad-axe and went up the log
tapping it.

‘She’s sticked fast,’ said ‘Ruunny’ Lewknor, who man-
aged the other team.

Cattiwow unfastened the five wise horses from the
tug. They cocked their ears forward, looked, and shook
themselves.

‘I believe Sailor knows,’ Dan whispered to Una.

‘He do,’ said aman behind them. He was dressed in
flour sacks like the others, and he leaned on his broad-
axe, but the children, who knew all the wood-gangs,
knew he wasastranger. In his size and oily hairiness he
might have been Bunny Lewknor’s brother, except that
his brown eyes were as soft as a spaniel’s, and his rounded
black beard, beginning close up under them, reminded
Una of the walrus in ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter.’

‘Don’t he just about know?’ he said shyly, and shifted
from one foot to the other.

 

268hee ce ee rr oe ee

       
    
  
 
 
    
  
   
    
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
    

SIMPLE SIMON

“Yes. “What Cattiwow can’t get out of the woods
must have roots growing to her’’’—Dan had heard old
Hobden say this a few days before.

At that minute Puck pranced up, picking his way
through the pools of black water in the ling.

‘Look out!’ cried Una, jumping forward. ‘He’ll see
you, Puck!’

“Me and Mus’ Robin are pretty middlin’ well ac-
quainted,’ the man answered with a smile that made
them forget all about walruses.

‘This is Simon Cheyneys,’ Puck began, and cleared
his throat. ‘Shipbuilder of Rye Port; burgess of the
said town, and the only—’

‘Oh, look! Look ye! That’s a knowing one,’ said
the man. Cattiwow had fastened his team to the thin
end of the log, and was moving them about with his
whip till they stood at right angles to it, heading down-
hill. Then he grunted. The horses took the strain, be-
sinning with Sailor next the log, like a tug-of-war team,
and dropped almost to their knees. ‘The log shifted
a nail’s breadth in the clinging dirt, with the noise of a
giant’s kiss.

“You’re getting her!’ Simon Cheyneys slapped his knee.
‘Hing on! Hing on, lads, or she’ll master ye! Ah!’

Sailor’s left hind hoof had slipped on a heather-tuft.
One of the men whipped off his sack apron and spread
it down. They saw Sailor feel forit, andrecover. Still
the log hung, and the team grunted in despair.

‘Hai!’ shouted Cattiwow, and brought his dreadful
whip twice across Sailor’s loins with the crack of a shot-
gun. The horse almost screamed as he pulled that
extra last ounce which he did not know was im him.
The thin end of the log left the dirt and rasped on dry
269

re eC

— PE TIRES Pt 13 Se Ps PP od ee BCE EPee a ena i Shree ie seers Peart ae aear

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

|

| gravel. The butt ground round like a buffalo in his

wallow. Quick as an axe-cut, Lewknor snapped on his

| five horses, and sliding, trampling, jingling, and snorting,

they had the whole thing out on the heather.

‘Dat’s the very first time I’ve knowed you lay into
Sailor—to hurt him,’ said Lewknor.

‘It is,’ said Cattiwow, and passed his hand over the
two wheals. ‘But I’d ha’ laid my own brother open at
that pinch. Now we’ll twitch her down the hill a piece
—she lies just about right—and get her home by the low
road. My team’ll do it, Bunny; you bring the tug
along. Miuind out!’

He spoke to the horses, who tightened the chains.
The great log half rolled over, and slowly drew itself
out of sight downhill, followed by the wood-gang and
the timber-tug. In half a minute there was nothing to
see but the deserted hollow of the torn-up dirt, the birch
undergrowth still shaking, and the water draining back

| into the hoof-prints.
‘Ye heard him?’ Simon Cheyneys asked. ‘He cher-
ished his horse, but he’d ha’ laid him open in that pinch.’
; | ‘Not for his own advantage,’ said Puck quickly.
‘*Twas only to shift the log.’
‘I reckon every man born of woman has his log to
. shift in the world—if so be you're hintin’ at any 0’
Frankie’s doings. He never hit beyond reason or with-
out reason,’ said Simon.

‘I never said a word against Frankie,’ Puck retorted,
| with a wink at the children. ‘An’ if I did, do it he in
L | your mouth to contest my say-so, seeing how you—’
| | ‘Why don’t it lie in my mouth, seeing I was the first

Sescsteee

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| which knowed Frankie for all he was?’ The burly sack-
, elad man puffed down at cool little Puck.
! 270

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SuuMerten eithelele ries ot eb pial h we elelels ep dele
et =

  

SIMPLE SIMON

“Yes, and the first which set out to poison him—
Frankie—on the high seas—’

Simon’s angry face changed to a sheepish grin. He
waggled his immense hands, but Puck stood off and
laughed mercilessly.

‘But let me tell you, Mus’ Robin,’ he pleaded.

‘I’ve heard the tale. Tell the children here. Look,
Dan! Look, Una!’—Puck’s straight brown finger lev-
elled like an arrow. ‘There’s the only man that ever
tried to poison Sir Francis Drake!’

‘Oh, Mus’ Robin! Tidn’tfair. You’ve the ’vantageof
us all in your upbringin’s by hundreds o’ years. ’*Stands
to nature you know all the tales against every one.’

He turned his soft eyes so helplessly on Una that she
cried, ‘Stop ragging him, Puck! You know he didn’t
really.’

‘I do. But why are you so sure, little maid?’

“Because—because he doesn’t look like it,’ said Una
stoutly.

‘I thank you,’ said Simon to Una. ‘I—I was always
trustable like with children if you let me alone, you
double handful o’ mischief!’ He pretended to heave up
his axe on Puck; and then hisshyness overtook him afresh.

“Where did you know Sir Francis Drake?’ said Dan,
not relishing being called a child.

‘At Rye Port, to be sure,’ said Simon, and seeing
Dan’s bewilderment, repeated it.

“Yes, but look here,’ said Dan. ‘Drake he was a
Devon man. The song says So.’

‘“* And ruled the Devon seas,’ Una wenton. ‘That’s
what I was thinking—if you don’t mind.’

Simon Cheyneys seemed to mind very much indeed,
for he swelled in silence while Puck laughed.

Tt

  
  
  
 
    
  
   
  
 
 
 
    
  
    
  
 
 
    
  
    

Dm agate rete terete ie pererele ¢ Stone aE, if OnREWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Hutt!’ he burst out at last, ‘I’ve heard that talk too.
If you listen to them West Country folk, you'll listen to
a pack o’ lies. I believe Frankie was born somewhere
out west among the Shires, but his father had to run
for it when Frankie was a baby, because the neighbours
was wishful to kill him, d’ye see? He run to Chatham,
old Parson Drake did, an’ Frankie was brought up in a
old hulks of a ship moored in the Medway river, same
as it might ha’ been the Rother. Brought up at sea,
you might say, before he could walk on land—nigh
Chatham in Kent. And ain’t Kent back-door to Sussex?
And don’t that make Frankie Sussex? O’ course it do.
Devonman! Bah! Those West Country boats they’re
always fishin’ in other folks’ water.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Dan. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No call to be sorry. You’ve been misled. I met
Frankie at Rye Port when my Uncle, that was the
shipbuilder there, pushed me off his wharf-edge on to
| Frankie’s ship. Frankie had put in from Chatham with
| his rudder splutted, and a man’s arm—Moon’s that ’ud
| be—broken at the tiller. ‘‘Take this boy aboard an’
drown him,” says my Uncle, “‘and I’ll mend your rudder-
piece for love.’’’
‘What did your Uncle want you drowned for?’ said Una.
‘That was only his fashion of say-so, same as Mus’
Robin. I’d a foolishness in my head that ships could
be builded out of iron. Yes—iron ships! I’d made me
a liddle toy one of iron plates beat out thin—and she
floated a wonder! But my Uncle, bein’ a burgess of
Rye, and a shipbuilder, he ’prenticed me to Frankie in
the fetchin’ trade, to cure this foolishness.’
‘What was the fetchin’ trade?’ Dan interrupted.
‘Fetchin’ poor Flemishers and Dutchmen out o’ the
272

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
    
  
  

 

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SIMPLE SIMON

Low Countries into England. The King o’ Spain, d’ye
see, he was burnin’ ’em in those parts, for to make ’em
Papishers, so Frankie he fetched ’em away to our parts,
and a risky trade it was. His master wouldn’t never
touch it while he lived, but he left his ship to Frankie
when he died, and Frankie turned her into this fetchin’
trade. Outrageous cruel hard work—on besom-black
nights bulting back and forth off they Dutch roads with
shoals on all sides, and having to hark out for the “‘frish-
frish-frish’’-like of a Spanish galliwops’s oars creepin’
up on ye. Frankie ’ud have the tiller and Moon he'd
peer forth at the bows, our lantern under his skirts, till
the boat we was lookin’ for ’ud blurt up out o’ the dark,
and we’d lay hold and haul aboard whoever ’twas—man,
woman, or babe,—an’ round we’d go again, the wind
bewling like a kite in our riggin’s, and they’d drop into
the hold and praise God for happy deliverance till they
was all sick.

‘T had nigh a year at it, an’ we must have fetched off
—oh, a hundred pore folk, I reckon. Outrageous bold,
too, Frankie growed tobe. Outrageous cunning he was.
Once we was as near as nothing nipped by a tall ship off
Tergo Sands in a snowstorm. She had the wind of us,
and spooned straight before it, shooting all bow guns.
Frankie fled inshore smack for the beach, till he was
atop of the first breakers. Then he hove his anchor out,
which nigh tore our bows off, but it twitched us round
end-for-end into the wind, d’ye see, an’ we clawed off
them sands like a drunk man rubbin’ along a tavern
bench. When we could see, the Spanisher was laid flat
along in the breakers with the snows whitening on his
wet belly. He thought he could go where Frankie

   

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“What happened to the crew?’ said Una.

“We didn’t stop,’ Simon answered. ‘There was a
very liddle new baby in our hold, and the mother, she
wanted to get to some dry bed middlin’ quick. We
runned into Dover, and said nothing.’

‘Was Sir Francis Drake very much pleased?’

‘Heart alive, maid, he’d no head to his name in
those days! He was just a outrageous, valiant, crop-
haired, tutt-mouthed boy roarin’ up an’ down the narrer
seas, with his beard not yet quilled out. He made
a laughing-stock of everything all day, and he’d hold
our lives in the bight of his arm all the besom-black
night among they Dutch sands; and we'd ha’ jumped
overside to behove him any one time, all of us.’

‘Then why did you try to poison him?’ Una asked
wickedly, and Simon hung his head like a shy child.

‘Oh, that was when he set me to make a pudden, for
because our cook was hurted. I done my uttermost,
but she all fetched adrift like in the bag, an’ the more
I biled the bits of her, the less she favoured any fashion
o’ pudden. Moon he chawed and chammed his piece,
and Frankie chawed and chammed his’n, and—no words
to it—he took me by the ear an’ walked me out over the
bow-end, an’ him an’ Moon hove the pudden at me on
the bowsprit gub by gub, something cruel hard!’ Simon
rubbed his hairy cheek.

*“*Nex’ time you bring me anything,” says Frankie,
“vou bring me cannon-shot an’ I'll know what [I’m
getting.” But as for poisoning—’ He stopped, the
children laughed so.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Una. ‘Oh, Simon, we do
like you)’

‘I was always likeable with children.’ His smile
274

>omeratasesepeptyticceicdelecestio sipiels sicbeteivielei ats je

    
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

SIMPLE SIMON

crinkled up through the hair round his eyes. ‘Simple
Simon they used to call me through our yard gates.’

‘Did Sir Francis mock you?’ Dan asked.

‘Ah, no. He was gentle-born. Laugh he did—he
was always laughing—but not so as to hurt a feather.
An’ I loved ’en. I loved ’en before England knew ’en,
or Queen Bess she broke his heart.’

‘But he hadn’t really done anything when you knew
him, had he?’ Unainsisted. ‘Armadas andthose things,
I mean.’

Simon pointed to the scars and scrapes left by Catti-
wow’s great log. ‘You tell me that that good ship’s
timber never done nothing against winds and weathers
since her up-springing, and I’ll confess ye that young
Frankie never done nothing neither. Nothing? He
adventured and suffered and made shift on they Dutch
sands as much in any one month as ever he had occasion
for to do in a half-year on the high seas afterwards. An’
what was his tools? A coaster boat—a liddle box o’
walty plankin’ an’ some few fathom feeble rope held
together an’ made able by him sole. He drawed our
spirits up in our bodies same as a chimney-towel draws
a fire. ’Iwas in him, and it comed out all times and
shapes.’

‘Il wonder did he ever ’magine what he was going to
be? Tell himself stories about it?’ said Dan with a
flush.

‘IT expect so. We mostly do—even when we're grown.
But bein’ Frankie, he took good care to find out before-
hand what his fortune might be. Had I rightly ought
to tell ’em this piece?’ Simon turned to Puck, who
nodded.

‘My mother, she was just a fair woman, but my
279dSeendgreree tea trece thence rast
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TET Teles atsaleta einla he tatata he ereele lees ttt ebelri titite te lelein eepeitiTelelelelgte! oe 3
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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

Aunt, her sister, she had gifts by inheritance laid up in
her,’ Simon began.

‘Oh, that’ll never do,’ cried Puck, for the children
stared blankly. ‘Do you remember what Robin prom-
ised to the Widow Whitgift so long as her blood and get
lasted? ”?

‘Yes. There was always to be one of them that could
see farther through a millstone than most,’ Dan an-
swered promptly.

‘Well, Simon’s Aunt’s mother,’ said Puck slowly,
‘married the Widow’s blind son on the Marsh, and
Simon’s Aunt was the one chosen to see farthest through
millstones. Do you understand?’

‘That was what I was gettin’ at,’ said Simon, “but
you’re so desperate quick. My Aunt she knew what
was coming to people. My Uncle being a burgess of
Rye, he counted all such things odious, and my Aunt
she couldn’t be got to practise her gifts hardly at all,
because it hurted her head for a week afterwards; but
when Frankie heard she had ’em, he was all for nothing
till she foretold on him—till she looked in his hand to
tell his fortune, d’ye see? One time we was at Rye she
come aboard with my other shirt and some apples, and
he fair beazled the life out of her about it.

“Oh, you'll be twice wed, and die childless,” she says,
and pushes his hand away.

‘««That’s the woman’s part,” hesays. “‘What’ll come
to me—to me?”’ an’ he thrusts it back under her nose.

“**Gold—gold, past belief or counting,” she says.
“Let go o’ me, lad.”

‘Sink the gold!” he sgys. ‘‘ What’ll I do, mother?”

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

1See ‘Dymchurch Flit’ in ‘Puck of Pook’s Hill.”
276OT MET ie ST tte nar et aed

    
  
 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
   
   
    

SIMPLE SIMON

He coaxed her like no woman could well withstand.
I’ve seen him with ’em—even when they were sea-
sick.

““If you will have it,” she says at last, “‘you shall
haveit. You'll doa many things, and eating and drink-
ing with a dead man beyond the world’s end will be the
least of them. For you'll open a road from the East
unto the West, and back again, and you’ll bury your
heart with your best friend by that road-side, and the
road you open none shall shut so long as you're let lie
quiet in your grave.”

*** And if I’m not?” he says.

**“Why then,” she says, ‘“‘Sim’s iron ships will be sail-
ing on dry land. Now ha’ done with this foolishness.
Where’s Sim’s shirt?”

“He couldn’t fetch no more out of her, and when we
come up from the cabin, he stood mazed like by the
tiller, playing with a apple.

**“My Sorrow!” says my Aunt; “‘d’ye see that? The
great world lying in his hand, liddle and round like a
apple.”

‘Why, ’tis one you gived him,” I says.

<“To be sure,” she says. “’Tis just a apple; *and
she went ashore with her hand to her head. It always
hurted her to show her gifts.

‘Him and me puzzled over that talk plenty. It

1The old lady’s prophecy is in a fair way to come true,
for when the Panama Canal is finished, one end of it
will open into the very bay where Sir Francis Drake
was buried. Then ships will be taken through the
Canal, and the road round Cape Horn which Sir Francis

opened will be abandoned.
277

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

sticked in his mind quite extravagant. ‘The very next
time we slipped out for some fetchin’ trade, we met Mus’
Stenning’s boat over by Calais sands; and he warned
us that the Spanishers had shut down ‘all their Dutch
ports against us English, and their galliwopses was out
picking up our boats like flies off hogs’ backs. Mus’
Stenning he runs for Shoreham, but Frankie held on a
piece, knowin’ that Mus’ Stenning was jealous of our
good trade. Over by Dunkirk a great gorbellied Span-
isher, with the Cross on his sails, came rampin’ at us.
We left him. We left him all they bare seas to conquest
in.
*“*Looks like this road was going to be shut pretty
soon,” says Frankie, humouring her atthetiller. “Vl
have to open that other one your Aunt foretold of.”

‘The Spanisher’s crowdin’ down on us middlin’
quick,” I says.

‘*“No odds,” says Frankie, “he'll have the inshore
tide against him. Did your Aunt say I was to lie quiet
in my grave for ever?”

‘<*Till my iron ships sailed dry land,” I says.

‘““That’s foolishness,’ he says. ‘‘ Who cares where
Frankie Drake makes a hole in the water now or twenty
years from now?”

‘The Spanisher kept muckin’ on more and more can-
vas. I told him so.

‘<*Fle’s feelin’ the tide,” was all he says. “If he was
among Tergoes Sands with this wind, we’d be picking his
bones proper. I’d give my heart to have all their tall
ships there some night before a north gale, and me to
windward. There’d be gold in my hands then. Did
your Aunt say she saw the world settin’ in my hand,
Sim?”

278Sh tt ae Ae ee) i ae ie 2a ae ae |

    
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
   
  

SIMPLE SIMON

“Yes, but *twas a apple,’ says I, and he laughed
like he always did at me. “Do you ever feel minded to
jump overside and be done with everything?” he asks
after a while.

‘**Nio. What water comes aboard is too wet as ’tis,”’
I says. ‘‘The Spanisher’s going about.”

‘**T told you,” says he, never looking back. “He'll
give us the Pope’s Blessing as he swings. Come down
off that rail. There’s no knowin’ where stray shots may
hit.’ So I came down off the rail, and leaned against it,
and the Spanisher he ruffled round in the wind, and his
port-lids opened all red inside.

‘Now what'll happen to my road if they don’t let
me lie quiet in my grave?” he says. “‘Does your Aunt
mean there’s two roads to be found and kept open—
or what does she mean? I don’t like that talk about
t’other road. D’you believe in your iron ships, Sim?”

‘He knowed I did, so I only nodded, and he nodded
back again.

“* Anybody but me ’ud call you a fool, Sim,” he says.
“Lie down. Here comes the Pope’s Blessing!”

‘The Spanisher gave us his broadside as he went about.
They all fell short except one that smack-smooth hit
the rail behind my back, an’ I felt most won’erful cold.

‘““Be you hit anywhere to signify?” he says. ““Come
over to me.”

**«Q Lord, Mus’ Drake,” I says, “my legs won't
move,” and that was the last I spoke for months.’

‘Why? What had happened?’ cried Dan and Una
together.

‘The rail had jarred me in here like.’ Simon reached
behind him clumsily. ‘From my shoulders down I

didn’t act no shape. Frankie carried me piggy-back
279

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

to my Aunt’s house, and I lay bed-rid and tongue-tied
while she rubbed me day and night, month in and month
out. She had faith in rubbing with the hands. P’raps
she put some of her gifts into it, too. Last of all, some-
thing loosed itself in my pore back, and lo! I was whole
restored again, but kitten-feeble.

‘**Where’s Frankie?” I says, thinking I’d been a
longish while abed.

***Down-wind amongst the Dons—months ago,” says
my Aunt.

**“When can I go after ’en?”’ I says.

**“Your duty’s to your town and trade now,”’ says she.
*“Your Uncle he died last Michaelmas and he’ve left you
and me the yard. Sono more iron ships, mind ye.”

“What?” Isays. ‘‘And you the only one that beleft
in**em!’?

**“Maybe I do still,’ she says, ““but ’m a woman
before I’m a Whitgift, and wooden ships is what Eng-
land needs us to build. I lay it on ye to do so.”

‘That’s why I’ve never teched iron since that day—
not to build a toy ship of. I’ve never even drawed a
draft of one for my pleasure of evenings.’ Simon smiled
down on them all.

‘Whitgift blood is terrible resolute—on the she-side,’
said Puck.

‘Didn’t you ever see Sir Francis Drake again?’ Dan
asked.

‘With one thing and another, and my being made a
burgess of Rye, I never clapped eyes on him for the next
twenty years. Oh, I had the news of his mighty doings
the world over. They was the very same bold, cunning
shifts and passes he’d worked with beforetimes off they
Dutch sands, but, naturally, folk took more note of them.
280Pree iehs bes eS

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  

SIMPLE SIMON

When Queen Bess made him knight, he sent my Aunt a
dried orange stuffed with spiceries to smell to. She
cried outrageous on it. She blamed herself for her fore-
tellings, having set him on his won’erful road; but I
reckon he’d ha’ gone that way all withstanding. Curi-
ous how close she foretelled it! The world in his hand
like an apple, an’ he burying his best friend, Mus’
Doughty—’

‘Never mind for Mus’ Doughty,’ Puck interrupted.
‘Tell us where you met Sir Francis next.’

‘Oh, ha! That was the year I was made a burgess of
Rye—the same year which King Philip sent his ships
to take England without Frankie’s leave.’

‘The Armada!’ said Dan contentedly. ‘I was hoping
that would come.’

‘I knowed Frankie would never let °em smell London
smoke, but plenty good men in Rye was two-three
minded about the upshot. ’*TIwas the noise of the gun-
fire terrified us. The wind favoured it our way from off
behind the Isle of Wight. It made a mutter like, which
growed and growed, and by the end of a week women
was shruckin’ in the streets. Then they come sliddering
past Fairlight in a great smoky pat vambrished with
red gun-fire, and our ships flying forth and ducking in
again. The smoke-pat sliddered over to the French
shore, so I knowed Frankie was edging the Spanishers
towards they Dutch sands where he wasmaster. Isays
tomy Aunt, “‘The smoke’s thinning out. I lay Frankie’s
just about scrapin’ his hold for a few last rounds shot.
Tis time for me to go.”

‘Never in them clothes,” she says. “Do on the
doublet I bought you to be made burgess in, and don’t

you shame this day.”
281

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. | ‘So I mucked it on, and my chain, and my stiffed
| } Dutch breeches and all.

*“*T be comin’, too,’ she says from her chamber, and
forth she come pavisanding like a peacock—stuff, ruff,

eee

stomacher and all. She was a notable woman.’
‘But how did you go? You haven’t told us,’ said
Una.

‘In my own ship—but half-share was my Aunt’s.
| In the “Antony of Rye” to be sure; and not empty-
| handed. I’d been loadin’ her for three days with the

pick of our yard. We was ballasted on cannon-shot of
all three sizes; and iron rods and straps for his carpen-
ters; and a nice passel of clean three-inch oak planking
and hide breech-ropes for his cannon, and gubs of good
oakum, and bolts o’ canvas, and all the sound rope in
the yard. What else could I ha’ done? I knowed what
he’d need most after a week’s such work. I’m a ship-
builder, little maid.

| “We'd a fair slant 0’ wind off Dungeness, and we crept

| on till it fell light airs and puffed out. The Spanishers
was all in a huddle over by Calais, and our ships was

strawed about mending ’emselves like dogs lickin’ bites.
Now and then a Spanisher would fire from a low port,
! and the ball ’ud troll across the flat swells, but both
sides was finished fightin’ for that tide.

‘The first ship we foreslowed on, her breast-works
was crushed in, an’ men was shorin’ ’°em up. She said
nothing. The next was a black pinnace, his pumps
clackin’ middling quick, and he said nothing. But the
q | third, mending shot holes, he spoke out plenty. I asked
; | || him where Mus’ Drake might be, and a shiny-suited

| man on the poop looked down into us, and saw what
we carried.

 

282dt ee a Sree a ae re

    
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

SIMPLE SIMON

‘**Lay alongside, you!” he says. ‘“‘ We'll take that
alle?

“**°’Tis for Mus’ Drake,” I says, keeping away lest his
size should lee the wind out of my sails.

“Hi! Ho! Hither! Were Lord High Admiral of
England! Come alongside, or we'll hang ye,” he says.

**Twas none of my affairs who he was if he wasn’t
Frankie, and while he talked so hot I slipped behind a
green-painted ship with her top-sides splintered. We
was all in the middest of ’em then.

‘Fi! Hoi!’ the green ship says. ‘““Come alongside,
honest man, and I’ll buy your load. I’m Fenner that
fought the seven Portugals—clean out of shot or bullets.
Frankie knows me.”

*** Ay, but I don’t,” I says, and I slacked nothing.

‘He was a masterpiece. Seein’ I was for goin’ on, he
hails a Bridport hoy beyond us and shouts, “George!
Oh, George! Wing that duck. He’s fat!” An’ true
as we’re all here, that squatty Bridport boat rounds-to
acrost our bows, intending to stop us by means o’ shoot-
ing.

‘My Aunt looks over our rail. “‘George,” she says,
‘“‘vou finish with your enemies afore you begin on your
friends.”

‘Him that was laying the liddle swivel-gun at us
sweeps off his hat an’ calls her Queen Bess, and asks if
she was selling liquor to pore dry sailors. My Aunt
answered him quite a piece. She was a notable woman.

‘Then he come up—his long pennant trailing overside
—his waistcloths and netting tore all to pieces where the
Spanishers had grappled, and his sides black-smeared
with their gun-blasts like candle-smoke in a bottle. We
hooked on to a lower port and hung.

283

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REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“Oh, Mus’ Drake! Mus’ Drake,” I calls up.

‘He stood on the great anchor cathead, his shirt open
to the middle, and his face shining like the sun.

“Why, Sim!” he says. Just like that—after twenty
year! “Sim,” he says, ““what brings you?’’

‘*Pudden,”’ I says, not knowing whether to laugh or
ery. ‘You told me to bring cannon-shot next time, an’
I’ve brought ’em.”’

‘He saw we had. He ripped out a fathom and a half
o’ brimstone Spanish, and he swung down on our rail,
and he kissed me before all his fine young captains. His
men was swarming out of the lower ports ready to un-
load us. When he saw how I’d considered all his likely
wants, he kissed me again.

‘**Here’s a friend that sticketh closer than a brother!”
he says. ‘‘ Mistress,’ he says tomy Aunt, “‘all you fore-
told on me was true. I’ve opened that road from the
East to the West, and I’ve buried my heart beside it.”

‘I know,” she says. ‘‘That’s why I be come.”

‘“*But ye never foretold this”; he points to both they
oreat fleets.

‘This don’t seem to me to make much odds com-
pared to what happens to a man,” she says. “Do it?”

‘**Certain sure a man forgets to remember when he’s
proper mucked up with work. Sim,” he says to me,
‘“‘we must shift every living Spanisher round Dunkirk
corner on to our Dutch sands before morning. ‘The
wind’ll come out of the North after this calm—same as
it used—and then they’re our meat.”

“Amen,” says I. ‘‘I’ve brought you what I could
scutchel up of odds and ends. Be you hit anywhere to
signify?”

‘Oh, our folk’ll attend to all that when we’ve time,”

284ee ee ete he wins

    
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

SIMPLE SIMON

he says. He turns to talk to my Aunt, while his men
flew the stuff out of our hold. I think I saw old Moon
amongst ’em, but we was too busy to more than nod like.
Yet the Spanishers was going to prayers with their bells
and candles before we'd cleaned out the “Antony.”
Twenty-two ton o’ useful stuff I’d fetched him.

**“Now, Sim,” says my Aunt, “no more devouring
of Mus’ Drake’s time. He’s sending us home in the
Bridport hoy. I want to speak to them young spring-
alds again.”

***But here’s our ship all ready and swept,” I says.

*““Swep’ an’ garnished,’ says Frankie. “I’m going
to fill her with devils in the likeness o’ pitch and sulphur.
We must shift the Dons round Dunkirk corner, and if
shot can’t do it, we'll send down fireships.”’

‘**T’ve given him my share of the ‘Antony,’” says my
Aunt. ‘‘What do you reckon to do about yours?”

‘“*She offered it,’’ said Frankie, laughing.

‘*“*She wouldn’t have if I’d overheerd her,” I says;
‘because I’d have offered my share first.”” Then I told
him how the “‘Antony’s” sails was best trimmed to
drive before the wind, and seeing he was full of occupa-
tions we went acrost to that Bridport hoy, and left him.

‘But Frankie was gentle-born, d’ye see, and that sort
they never overlook any folks’ dues.

‘When the hoy passed under his stern, he stood bare-
headed on the poop same as if my Aunt had been his
Queen, and his musicianers played “* Mary Ambree”’ on
their silvertrumpets quite alongwhile. Heartalive, little
maid! I never meaned to make you look sorrowful—’

Bunny Lewknor in his sackcloth petticoats burst
through the birch scrub wiping his forehead.

285

g 9 t or 3 asi$) y ? " TEE ar an we is
PP peer rer BSE ART HO RT SSID TESS * aREWARDS AND FAIRIES

“We've got the stick to rights now! She’ve been a
whole hatful 0’ trouble. You come an’ ride her home,
Mus’ Dan and Miss Una!’

They found the proud wood-gang at the foot of the
slope, with the log double-chained on the tug.

‘Cattiwow, what are you going to do with it?’ said
Dan, as they straddled the thin part.
‘She’s going down to Rye to make a keel for a Lowes-
toft fishin’ boat, I’ve heard. Hold tight!’
. Cattiwow cracked his whip, and the great log dipped
| and tilted, and leaned and dipped again, exactly like a
stately ship upon the high seas.ween ieee es +

Cabo ox

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
    

TRADE

   

FRANKIE’S

Old Horn to All Atlantic said:
(A-hay O! To me O!)

‘Now where did Frankie learn his trade?

For he ran me down with a three-reef mains le.’
(All round the Horn!)

Atlantic answered :—‘Not from me!

You’d better ask the cold North Sea,

For he ran me down under all plain canvas.’
(All round the Horn!)

The North Sea answered :— He’s my man,
For he came to me when he began—
Frankie Drake in an open coaster.

(All round the Sands!)

‘I caught him young and I used him sore,

So you never shall startle Frankie more,

Without capsizing Earth and her waters.
(All round the Sands!)

‘I did not favour him at all,

I made him pull and I made him haul—

And stand his trick with the common sailors.
(All round the Sands!)

287

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SS

aa

se

erat

RESRGSSS

 

ps obelaststani ie lvteleltigittalefete le ede tetera elaeeeH ee Septet tbat pelle

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘I froze him stiff and I fogged him blind,

And kicked him home with his road to find

By what he could see in a three-day snow-storm.
(All round the Sands!)

 

‘I learned him his trade o’ winter nights,

*Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights

On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing.
(All round the Sands!)

‘Before his beard began to shoot,

I showed him the length of the Spaniard’s foot—

And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later.
(All round the Sands!)

‘If there’s a risk which you can make

That’s worse than he was used to take

Nigh every week in the way of his business; -
(All round the Sands!) |

‘Tf there’s a trick that you can try

Which he hasn’t met in time gone by,

Not once or twice, but ten times over;
(All round the Sands!)

‘If you can teach him aught that’s new,
(A-hay O! To me O!)

I’ll give you Bruges and Niewport too,

And the ten tall churches that stand between ’em.’
Storm along, my gallant Captains!

(All round the Horn!)tHE TREE OF JUSPICE

PPO ORT ERO DROOUTS TN Oun Coa rn in Ube UL stab a Dia neat tana ici tas MME
LCP ere Pee teat ete. a aoe ini "Res nd Seana eaeht ee re ee ees

it Se Od A tora Se a eke i eae eg ag rr oe |

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
   

THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW

About the time that taverns shut
And men can buy no beer,

Two lads went up by the keepers’ hut
To steal Lord Pelham’s deer.

Night and the liquor was in their heads—
They laughed and talked no bounds,
Till they waked the keepers on their beds,

And the keepers loosed the hounds.

They had killed a hart, they had killed a hind,
Ready to carry away,

When they heard a whimper down the wind
And they heard a bloodhound bay.

They took and ran across the fern,
Their crossbows in their hand,

Till they met a man with a green lantern
That called and bade ’em stand.

‘What are ye doing, O Flesh and Blood,
And what’s your foolish will,

That you must break into Minepit Wood
And wake the Folk of the Hill?’

291

CERO TO DOU SaPiatt narsteth Ta belelelta pleat dete bette etetarehs be eeleceita aber tattts led aputepatetetetele ir

    
  
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
    

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

| ‘Oh, we’ve broke into Lord Pelham’s park,
i) And killed Lord Pelham’s deer,
And if ever you heard a little dog bark
You'll know why we come here!

“We ask you let us go our way,
As fast as we can flee,

For if ever you heard a bloodhound bay,
You'll know how pressed we be.’

‘Oh, lay your crossbows on the bank
And drop the knife from your hand,
And though the hounds are at your flank
I’ll save you where you stand!’

They laid their crossbows on the bank,
They threw their knives in the wood,

And the ground before them opened and sank
And saved ’em where they stood.

‘Oh, what’s the roaring in our ears
| That strikes us well-nigh dumb?’
“Oh, that is just how things appears
a According as they come.’

 

ad “What are the stars before our eyes
That strike us well-nigh blind?’
| ‘Oh, that is Just how things arise
| According as you find.’

Ses seatacieatb es acataatkes est)

‘And why’s our bed so hard to the bones
Excepting where it’s cold?’

‘Oh, that’s because it is precious stones
Excepting where ’tis gold.

292

rts

PALA etetctrissritivess
SaaS

weso) ih gt ee gts et ee

  

THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW

‘Think it over as you stand,
For I[ tell you without fail,

If you haven’t got into Fairyland
You're not in Lewes Gaol.’

 
  
   
 
  
  
   
   
 
   

All night long they thought of it,
And, come the dawn, they saw
They’d tumbled into a great old pit,
At the bottom of Minepit Shaw.

 

And the keepers’ hound had followed ’em close
And broke her neck in the fall;

So they picked up their knives and their crossbows
And buried the dog. ‘That’s all.

But whether the man was a poacher too

Or a Pharisee so bold—
I reckon there’s more things told than are true,
And more things true than are told.

 

PTE eed Lo 7 OR PET EPETE TTT TG I ESTs DTI oY eI SITS

My at ay Tie etaot eal Bat eat P COIS atol ireat

 

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
    

THE TREE OF JUSTICE
(1910)

T was a warm, dark winter day with the Sou’-West
wind singing through Dallington Forest and the woods
below the Beacon. The children set out after dinner
to find old Hobden, who had a three months’ job in the
Rough at the back of Pound’s Wood. He had promised
to get them a dormouse in its nest. The bright leaf still
clung to the beech coppice; the long chestnut leaves lay
orange on the ground, and the rides were speckled with
scarlet-lipped sprouting acorns. They worked their way
by their own short cuts to the edge of Pound’s Wood,
and heard a horse’s feet just as they came to the beech
where Ridley the keeper hangs up the vermin. The poor
little fluffy bodies dangled from the branches—some per-
fectly good, but most of them dried to twisted strips.
‘Three more owls,’ said Dan, counting. “Two stoats,
four jays, and a kestrel. That’s ten since last week.
Ridley’s a beast.’

‘In my time this sort of tree bore heavier fruit.’ Sir
Richard Dalyngridge’ reined up his gray horse, Swallow,

1 This is the Norman knight they met the year before
in “Puck of Pook’s Hill.’ See ‘Young Men at the
Manor,’ ‘The Knights of the Joyous Venture,’ and
‘Old Men at Pevensey,’ in that book.

295

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SALAS ASC ear ys

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

in the ride behind them.
he asked.

‘Nothing, sir. We're looking for old Hobden,’ Dan
replied. ‘He promised to get us a sleeper.’

“Sleeper? A dormeuse do you say?’

“Yes, a dormouse, sir.’

‘I understand. I passed a woodman on the low
grounds. Come!’

He wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through
an opening to the patch of beech-stubs, chestnut, hazel,
and birch that old Hobden would turn into firewood,
hop-poles, pea-boughs, and house-faggots before spring.
The old man was as busy as a beaver.

Something laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole
out, his finger on his lip.

‘Look!’ he whispered. ‘Along between the spindle
trees. Ridley has been there this half-hour.’

The children followed his point, and saw Ridley the
keeper in an old dry ditch, watching Hobden as a cat
watches a mouse.

*“Hubh!’ cried Una.
wires before breakfast.
faggots he’s allowed to take home.
"em to-morrow.’

“We had the same breed in my day,’ Sir Richard replied,
and moved off quietly, Puck at his bridle, the children on
either side between the close-trimmed beech stuff.

“What did you do to them?’ said Dan, as they re-
passed Ridley’s terrible tree.

‘That!’ Sir Richard jerked his head towards the dan-
sling owls.

‘Not he,’ said Puck. ‘There was never enough brute
Norman in you to hang a man for taking a buck.’

296

“What play do you make?’

‘Hobden always ’tends to his
He puts his rabbits into the
He’ll tell us aboutee Sra ee eee

 

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

‘I—I cannot abide to hear their widows screech.
But why am I on horseback while you are afoot?’ He
dismounted lightly, tapped Swallow on the chest, so
that the wise thing backed instead of turning in the
narrow ride, and put himself at the head of the little
procession. He walked as though all the woods be-
longed to him. ‘I have often told my friends,’ he went
on, ‘that Red William the King was not the only Nor-
man found dead in a forest while he hunted.’

‘D’you mean William Rufus?’ said Dan.

‘Yes,’ said Puck, kicking a clump of red toad-stools
off a dead log.

‘For example, there was a knight new from Nor-
mandy,’ Sir Richard went on, ‘to whom Henry our
King granted a manor in Kent near by. He chose to
hang his forester’s son the day before a deer-hunt that
he gave to pleasure the King.’

‘Now when would that be?’ said Puck, and scratched
an ear thoughtfully.

‘The summer of the year King Henry broke his
brother Robert of Normandy at Tenchebrai fight. Our
ships were even then at Pevensey loading for the war.’

‘What happened to the knight?’ Dan asked.

‘They found him pinned to an ash, three arrows
through his leather coat. I should have worn mail that
day.’

‘And did you see him all bloody?’ Dan continued.

‘Nay, I was with De Aquila at Pevensey, counting
horseshoes, and arrow sheaves, and ale-barrels into the
holds of the ships. The army only waited for our King
to lead them against Robert in Normandy, but he sent
word to De Aquila that he would hunt with him here

before he set out for France.’
297

 

 

PITS a a ee ee eae rrr PLL IT eR TIN SOT nn OOS Do Te EDT Co ai DUC Ee aa aaa TUB err aesCRA

   

 

 

= EAH:

Seta ee besarte yank sects anareseoesd oes
ERR poeserees buresyhehsgcies

Dea eich Reo Neve Pde ceed nea yee ery ale soy aula nos loi.) i i ie i Seve ie i ake ae eee Se eee hea a ee

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

‘Why did the King want to hunt so particularly?’
Una demanded.

‘If he had gone straight to France after the Kentish
knight was killed, men would have said he feared being
slain like the knight. It was his duty to show himself
debonair to his English people as it was De Aquila’s
duty to see that he took no harm while he did it. But
it was a great burden! De Aquila, Hugh, and I ceased
work on the ships, and scoured all the Honour of the
Eagle—all De Aquila’s lands—to make a fit, and, above
all, a safe sport for our King. Look!’

The ride twisted, and came out on the top of Pound’s
Hill Wood. Sir Richard pointed to the swells of beau-
tiful, dappled Dallington, that showed like a wood-
cock’s breast up the valley. ‘Ye know the forest?’
said he.

‘You ought to see the bluebells there in Spring!’ said
Una.

‘I have seen,’ said Sir Richard, gazing, and stretched
out hishand. ‘Hugh’s work and mine was first to move
the deer gently from all parts into Dallington yonder,
and there to hold them till the King came. Next, we
must choose some three hundred beaters to drive the
deer to the stands within bowshot of the King. Here
was our trouble! In the mellay of a deer-drive a Saxon
peasant and a Norman King may come over close to
each other. The conquered do not love their conquerors
all at once. So we needed sure men, for whom their
village or kindred would answer in life, cattle, and land
if any harm come to the King. Ye see?’

‘If one of the beaters shot the King,’ said Puck, ‘Sir
Richard wanted to be able to punish that man’s village.
Then the village would take care to send a good man.’
298en ie Son ee ae

 

  

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

‘So! So it was. But, lest our work should be too
easy, the King had done such a dread justice over at
Salehurst, for the killing of the Kentish knight (twenty-
six men he hanged, as I heard), that our folk were half-
mad with fear before we began. It is easier to dig out
a badger gone to earth than a Saxon gone dumb-sullen.
And atop of their misery the old rumour waked that
Harold the Saxon was alive and would bring them de-
liverance from us Normans. ‘This has happened every
autumn since Senlac fight.’

‘But King Harold was killed at Hastings,’ said Una.

‘So it was said, and so it was believed by us Normans,
but our Saxons always believed he would come again.
That rumour did not make our work any more easy.’

Sir Richard strode on down the far slope of the wood,
where the trees thin out. It was fascinating to watch
how he managed his long spurs among the lumps of
blackened ling.

‘But we did it!’ he said. ‘After all, a woman Is as
good as a man to beat the woods, and the mere word
that deer are afoot makes cripples and crones young
again. De Aquila laughed when Hugh told him over
the list of beaters. Half were women; and many of the
rest were clerks—Saxon and Norman priests.

‘Hugh and I had not time to laugh for eight days, till
De Aquila, as Lord of Pevensey, met our King and led
him to the first shooting stand—by the Mill on the edge
of the forest. Hugh and I—it was no work for hot heads
or heavy hands—lay with our beaters on the skirts of
Dallington to watch both them and the deer. When
De Aquila’s great horn blew we went forward, a line
half aleague long. Oh, to see the fat clerks, their gowns
tucked up, puffing and roaring, and the sober millers
299

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

Bente Mr ty tioa te Ae ee le a ek)Se SeaVATA4 ye tiVgT Ls TeDa Fria }e itt sETTo Tse er LtTa te See} ELI ea tee Tt Pe be capa tate le teats ote tele fein eS ee eben

  

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. dusting the undergrowth with their staves; and, like as
| not, between them a Saxon wench, hand in hand with
her man, shrilling like a kite as she ran, and leaping high
through the fern, all for joy of the sport.’

‘Ah! How! Ah! How! MHow-ah! Sa-how-ah!’
Puck bellowed without warning, and Swallow bounded
forward, ears cocked, and nostrils cracking.
*Hal-lal-lal-lal-la-hai-ie!’ Sir Richard answered in a
BI high clear shout.
et | The two voices joined in swooping circles of sound,
: | and a heron rose out of a red osier bed below them, cir-
FS cling as though he kept time to the outcry. Swallow
: | quivered and swished his glorious tail. They stopped
: together on the same note.
A hoarse shout answered them across the bare woods.
“That’s old Hobden,’ said Una.
‘Small blame to him. It is in his blood,’ said Puck.
‘Did your beaters cry so, Sir Richard?’
| ‘My faith, they forgot all else. (Steady, Swallow,
| steady!) They forgot where the King and his people
| waited to shoot. They followed the deer to the very
edge of the open till the first flight of wild arrows from
the stands flew fair over them.
‘I cried, ‘““’ Ware shot! ’Ware shot!” and a knot of
| young knights new from Normandy, that had strayed
away from the Grand Stand, turned about, and in mere
sport loosed off at our line shouting: “‘’ Ware Senlac
arrows! ’Ware Senlac arrows!” <A jest, I grant you,
but too sharp. One of our beaters answered in Saxon:
‘““*Ware New Forest arrows! ’Ware Red William’s
| arrow!’’ so I judged it time to end the jests, and when
the boys saw my old mail gown (for, to shoot with
strangers I count the same as war), they ceased shooting.
300

   
  
 
     
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
 
 
    
    
   

 

SUSE a

——

SNA aati

nariBaer, TH PLES ser F See ee eee

    
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  

THE TREE OF JUSTIGE

So that was smoothed over, and we gave our beaters ale
to wash down their anger. They were excusable! We
—they had sweated to show our guests good sport, and
our reward was a flight of hunting-arrows which no man
loves, and worse, a churl’s jibe over hard-fought, fair-
lost Hastings fight. So, before the next beat, Hugh and
I assembled and called the beaters over by name, to
steady them. The greater part we knew, but among the
Netherfield men I saw an old, old man, in the dress of a
pilgrim.

‘The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by
repute for twenty years as a witless man that journeyed =
without rest to all the shrines of England. The old man
sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans
rest our chin on our left palm.

‘<“Who answers for him?” said I. “If he fail in his
duty, who will pay his fine?”’ :

‘<< Who will pay my fine?” the pilgrim said. “I have Ee
asked that of all the Saints in England these forty years, i
less three months and nine days! They have not an-
swered!”? When he lifted his thin face I saw he was one-
eyed, and frail as a rush.

‘“‘Nay but, Father,” I said, “to whom hast thou com-
mended thyself?’? He shook his head, so I spoke in
Saxon: ‘‘Whose man art thou?”

‘“‘¥ think I have a writing from Rahere, the King’s
Jester,” said he aftera while. “I am, as I suppose, Ra-
here’s man.”’

‘He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, coming
up, read it.

‘It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere’s man, and
that Rahere was the King’s Jester. There was Latin
writ at the back.

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SPL ee reer
Tih aed at oe ae A a a a

ne RTT ICT TPR AIT ATT LS Oe OT REelt Ltltatatete Felten eed tb tated A Fatt ta polars fed AL tetera ferieseattato pM eral eee ie ela ele tontet

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“**What a plague conjuration’s here?” said Hugh,
turning it over. ““Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?”

‘Black Magic,” said the Clerk of Netherfield (he
had been a monk at Battle). “‘“They say Rahere is

#) more of a priest than a fool and more of a wizard than

| either. Here’s Rahere’s name writ, and there’s Rahere’s
red cockscomb sign drawn below for such as cannot
read.”’ He looked slyly at me.

“Then read it,” said I, “and show thy learning.”

He was a vain little man, and he gave it us after much
mouthing.

**The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the

Sorcerer, says: ‘When thou art once dead, and Minos
(which is a heathen judge) has doomed thee, neither
cunning, nor speech-craft, nor good works will restore
thee!’ Aterrible thing! It denies any mercy toaman’s
soul!”

***Does it serve?” said the pilgrim, plucking at Hugh’s
| cloak. ‘‘Oh,man of the King’s blood, does it cover me?”
| ‘Hugh was of Earl Godwin’s blood, and all Sussex

| | knew it, though no Saxon dared call him kingly in a Nor-
man’s hearing. ‘There can be but one King.

*““It serves,’ said Hugh. ‘“‘But the day will be long

: and hot. Better rest here. We go forward now.”

) *““No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,” he an-
swered like a child. He was indeed childish through
great age.

‘The line had not moved a bowshot when De Aquila’s

great horn blew for a halt, and soon young Fulke—our

t | false Fulke’s son—yes, the imp that lit the straw in

| Pevensey Castle'—came thundering up a woodway.

   
 
  
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
  

 

 

 

eH

~——

I} 1See ‘Old Men at Pevensey’ in “‘ Puck of Pook’s Hill.”
| 302
|

  

pas eae ee aeRO R AES
Bs a :THE TREE OF JUSTICE

‘Uncle,’ said he (though he was a man grown, he
called me Uncle), “‘those young Norman fools who shot ;
at you this morn are saying that your beaters cried trea- a
son against the King. It has come to Harry’s long ears, :
and he bids you give account of it. There are heavy
fines in his eye, but I am with you to the hilt, Uncle.”

‘When the boy had fled back, Hugh said tome: “It
was Rahere’s witless man cried, ‘’ Ware Red William’s
arrow!’ I heard him, and so did the Clerk of Nether-
field.”’

‘<< Then Rahere must answer to the King for his man,”
said I. ‘‘Keep him by you till I send,” and I hastened
down.

‘The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand
above Welansford down in the valley yonder. His Court
—knights and dames—lay glittering on the edge of the
glade. I made my homage, and Henry took it coldly.

‘“TTow came your beaters to shout threats against
me?” said he.

‘The tale has grown,” Ianswered. “One old witless
man cried out, ‘’ Ware Red William’s arrow, When the
young knights shot at our line. We had two beaters hit.”

‘*T will do justice on that man,” he answered. “Who
is his master?”’

‘Te is Rahere’s man,” said I.

¢¢’Rohere’s?”” said Henry. ‘“‘Has my fool a fool?”

‘T heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, and
a red leg waved over it, then a black one. So, very
slowly, Rahere the King’s Jester straddled the edge of
the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing his chin.
Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad priest’s face,
under his cockscomb cap, that he could twist like a strip
of wet leather. His eyes were hollow-set.

303

 

 

FE fs 7 pags 2 ; sree ea TTR TDD TSS

SRO aeMASEL sence aL elnts Pah Meee LAA DAPAY WOES. ada WPL Ge MP Se MPa IEE NCNM BD ahaa Ease sen ea Pa OPEN ne) a Pepeaon are) ae SeaCTe eae Oran PTE ES OSCE

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

*““Nay, nay, Brother,’’ said he. “If I suffer you
to keep your fool, you must e’en suffer me to keep
mine.”

‘This he delivered slowly into the King’s angry face!
My faith, a King’s Jester must be bolder than lions!

‘““Now we will judge the matter,’ said Rahere.
‘Let these two brave knights go hang my fool because
he warned King Henry against running after Saxon deer
through woods full of Saxons. ’Faith, Brother, if thy
Brother, Red William, now among the Saints as we
hope, had been timely warned against a certain arrow
in New Forest, one fool of us four would not be crowned
fool of England this morning. Therefore, hang the
fool’s fool, knights!”

‘Mark the fool’s cunning! MRahere had himself given
us order to hang theman. No king dare confirm a fool’s
command to such a great baron as De Aquila; and the
helpless King knew it.

| ‘““What? No hanging?” said Rahere, after a silence.
“A God’s Gracious Name, kill something, then! Go

 
  
  
  
 
  
   
  
   
  
   
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

forward with the hunt!”
‘He splits his face ear to ear in a yawn like a fish-
pond. “Henry,” says he, “the next time I sleep, do

not pester me with thy fooleries.”” Then he throws
himself out of sight behind the back of the stand.
‘I have seen courage with mirth in De Aquila and
Hugh, but stark mad courage of Rahere’s sort I had
never even guessed at.’
‘What did the King say?’ cried Dan.
| ‘He had opened his mouth tospeak, when young Fulke,
. who had come into the stand with us, laughed, and,
I boy like, once begun, could not check himself. He

oo

Rhee eae

HH kneeled on the instant for pardon, but fell sideways,
| 304

SPR AR RAR AR Atca eeevc pel hee Met eA eT ee hs | ee Oe et)

 

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

crying: “His legs! Oh, his long, waving red legs as he
went backward!”

‘Like a storm breaking, our grave King laughed,—
stamped and reeled with laughter till the stand shook.
So, like a storm, this strange thing passed!

‘He wiped his eyes, and signed to De Aquila to let
the drive come on.

“When the deer broke, we were pleased that the King
shot from the shelter of the stand, and did not ride out
after the hurt beasts as Red William would have done.
Most vilely his knights and barons shot!

‘De Aquila kept me beside him, and I saw no more
of Hugh till evening. We two had a little hut of
boughs by the camp, where I went to wash me before
the great supper, and in the dusk I heard Hugh on the
couch.

‘***Wearied, Hugh?” said I.

“© A little,’ he says. ‘‘I have driven Saxon deer all
day for a Norman King, and there is enough of Earl
Godwin’s blood left in me to sicken at the work. Wait
awhile with the torch.”’

‘I waited then, and I thought I heard him sob.’

‘Poor Hugh! Was he so tired?’ said Una. ‘“Hobden :
says beating is hard work sometimes.’ e

‘I think this tale is getting like the woods,’ said Dan, -
‘darker and twistier every minute.’

Sir Richard had walked as he talked, and though the
children thought they knew the woods well enough, they
felt a little lost.

‘A dark tale enough,’ says Sir Richard, ‘but the end
was not all black. When we had washed, we went to
wait on the King at meat in the great pavilion. Just
before the trumpets blew for the Entry—all the guests
305

EO RO ey
Pe rd erie cee tee,ep a REE OOOO ere RaT es DCS MTT Dee, aoa

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. | upstanding—long Rahere comes posturing up to Hugh,

| and strikes him with his bauble-bladder.

: | «<‘Fere’s a heavy heart for a joyous meal!” he says.

) “But each man must have his black hour or where

| | would be the merit of laughing? Take a fool’s advice,

=} and sit it out with my man. I'll make a jest to excuse

: you to the King if he remember to ask for you. That’s
more than I would do for Archbishop Anselm.”

‘Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. “‘Rahere?”’ said
he. “The King’s Jester? Oh, Saints, what punish-
ment for my King!” and smites his hands together.

‘“Go—go fight it out in the dark,” says Rahere,
‘‘and thy Saxon Saints reward thee for thy pity to my
fool.”’ He pushed him from the pavilion, and Hugh
lurched away like one drunk.’

‘But why?’ said Una. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Ah, why indeed? Live you long enough, maiden, and
you shall know the meaning of many whys.’ Sir Richard

| smiled. ‘I wondered too, but it was my duty to wait on
the King at the High Table in all that glitter and stir.

. | ‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped
show him, and he had learned from De Aquila enough
of my folk and my castle in Normandy to graciously

feign that he knew and had loved my brother there.

(This, also, is part of a king’s work.) Many great men
sat at the High Table—chosen by the King for their
wits, not for their birth. I have forgotten their names,
and their faces I only saw that one night. But,’—Sir
Richard turned in his stride—‘but Rahere, flaming in

ay black and scarlet among our guests, the hollow of his

| dark cheek flushed with wine—long, laughing Rahere,
and the stricken sadness of his face when he was not
twisting it about—Rahere I shall never forget.

306

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  

SHR
cars
sana

SARRAPA ASE ea

- ae
TGCe Se ee

   
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow 3
him, with his great bishops and two great barons, to the a
little pavilion. We had devised jugglers and dances for
the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk gravely with
grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels
to the world’s end. We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet
as incense,—and the curtains at the door being looped
up, we could hear the music and see the lights shining on
mail and dresses.

‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The questions
he darted forth at me were as shrewd as the flames. I
was telling of our fight with the apes, as ye called them,
at the world’s end.’

‘<<But where is the Saxon knight that went with you?”
said Henry. ‘‘He must confirm these miracles.”

‘““He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new mir-
acle.”’ “

‘«‘nough miracles for to-day,” said the King. “Ra- He
here, you have saved your long neck. Fetch the Saxon :
knight.”

‘“Dest on it,” said Rahere. ‘‘ Who would bea King’s
Jester? I’ll bring him, Brother, if you'll see that none
of your home-brewed bishops taste my wine while I
am away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at- Be
arms at the door. ie

‘Henry had made many bishops in England without
the Pope’s leave. I know not the rights of the matter,
but only Rahere dared jest about it. We waited on the
King’s next word.

‘“T think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling,

1See ‘The Knights of the Joyous V enture,’ in “Puck

of Pook’s Hill.’
307

Rh PUPP TT EIT A SL OS Be PUTER ERR ly Bh PBs PY ET TS EMCI TI RITE TaN CTO BHC CTC oN ES Sear rere CROE Cor CaP ER TSE Se ge aes<TR spleseiait ARAN Re a STO RA iC cstatsts

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

to Nigel of Ely. He was one bishop; and William of
Exeter, the other—Wel-Wast the Saxons called him—
laughed long. ‘‘Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I
make him a bishop, De Aquila?” says the King.

: ‘There might be worse,” said our Lord of Pevensey.
sh ‘“Rahere would never do what Anselm has done.”

‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone
off raging to the Pope at Rome, because Henry would
make bishops without his leave either. I knew not

| the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King
) laughed.

‘Anselm means no harm. He should have been a
monk, not a bishop,” said the King. “‘I’ll never quar-
rel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel with my
England. If we can keep the King’s peace till my son
comes to rule, no man will lightly quarrel with our Eng-
land.”

“Amen,” said De Aquila. ‘‘But the King’s peace

| ends when the King dies.”’

‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King.

| The custom then is that all laws are out-law, and men
do what they will till the new king is chosen.

“““T will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I will
have it so that though King, son, and grandson were all
slain in one day, still the King’s peace should hold over
all England! What is a man that his mere death must
upheave a people? We must have the Law.”

***Truth,”’ said William of Exeter; but that he would
have said to any word of the King.

“The two great barons behind said nothing. This
teaching was clean against their stomachs, for when the
King’s peace ends, the great barons go to war and in-
crease their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s
308

 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
  
     
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 

 

>

 

Rs

his

RASA sss

eset

  

eeiriiseset ees ee ee eee

Ce oe ea a i oe a ee

  

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

voice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against Wil-
liam of Exeter:

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune
When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,”

and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round
Hugh, and one round the old pilgrim of Netherfield.

*““Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, ‘‘and for
the better disport of the company, here is my fool
Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza are clean
carried away!”’

“Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to
my side; the old man blinked upon the company.

“We looked at the King, but he smiled.

‘**Rahere promised he would show me some sport
after supper to cover his morning’s offence,” said he to
De Aquila. ‘‘So this is thy man, Rathere?”’

‘““Fiven so,’’ said Rahere. ‘“‘My man he has been,
and my protection he has taken, ever since I found him
under the gallows at Stamford Bridge telling the kites
atop of it that he was—Harold of England!”

‘There was a great silence upon these last strange
words, and Hugh hid his face on my shoulder, woman-
fashion.

‘*<Tt is most cruel true,’’ he whispered tome. “‘The
old man proved it to me at the beat after you left, and
again in our hut even now. It is Harold, my King!”

‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the
man and swallowed.

‘““RBones of the Saints!”’ said he, staring.

‘““ Many astray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere.

‘The old man flinched as atan arrow. ‘‘ Why do you
309

  

CAO ee ee At
(ite td ek gk ot hl wet ee hd Saks be

Sibir s; stavarereyeusteletetecgieies
fore e’o ea © eferelety ¢fSota

SechaecScysteteteictr icici presi bnbeerececi trite

aleleleltleineratetyleresebngearsnstsTotad inedelestatete tebe ben topete bets feleith

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

hurt me still?”’ he said in Saxon. “‘It was on some bones
of some Saints that I promised I would give my England
to the Great Duke.’’ He turns on us all crying, shrilly:
‘““Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen—a lifetime ago.
If I had not promised, I should have lain there all my
life. What else could I have done? I have lain in a
strait prison all my life none the less. There is no need
to throw stones at me.”’ He guarded his face with his
arms, and shivered.

‘*“Now his madness will strike him down,” said Rahere.
‘Cast out the evil spirit, one of you new bishops.”

‘Said William of Exeter: “‘Harold was slain at Sant-
lache fight. All the world knows it.”

‘““T think this man must have forgotten,” said Ra-
here. ‘‘Be comforted, Father. Thou wast well slain
at Hastings forty years gone, less three months and nine
days. Tell the King.”

‘The man uncovered his face. ‘“‘I thought they would
stone me,” he said. ‘‘I did not know I spoke before a
King.’ He came to his full towering height—no mean
man, but frail beyond belief.

‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out his
own cup of wine. The old man drank, and beckoned
behind him, and, before all the Normans, my Hugh bore
away the empty cup, Saxon fashion, upon the knee.

‘Tt ig Harold!’’ said De Aquila. “His own stiff-
necked blood kneels to serve him.”

‘Be it so,” said Henry. ‘“‘Sit, then, thou that hast
been Harold of England.”’

‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at
him between half-shut eyes. We others stared like oxen,
all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere as I have seen

him watch a far sail on the sea.
310eth ee ht ot ee ee ee ee
Sa i a i a Se Re
aoe

    
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

THE TREE OF JUSTIGE

‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a
dream. His white head bowed; his hands hung. His
eye indeed was opened, but the mind was shut. When
he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like
a slave's.

*“*Ah, Rahere,’”’ cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown
him thus? Better have let him die than shame him—
and me!”’

*«*Shame thee?” said the King. ‘‘ Would any baron
of mine kneel to me if I were witless, discrowned, and
alone, and Harold had my throne?”’

*““No,’’ said Rahere. ‘‘I am the sole fool that might’
do it, Brother, unless’’—he pointed at De Aquila, whom
he had only met that day—*‘ yonder tough Norman crab
kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to
shame him. Hehath been somewhat punished through,
maybe, little fault of his own.”

«Vet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the
King, and the old man flinched in his sleep.

‘““\aybe,” said Rahere, “‘but thy Brother Robert,
whose throat we purpose soon to slit with our own
hands—”’

‘<“tTytt!” said the King, laughing. ‘Ill keep Rob-
ert at my table for a life’s guest when I catch him.
Robert means no harm. It is all his cursed barons.”

““‘None the less,’’ said Rahere, ‘‘ Robert may say that
thou hast not always spoken the stark truth to him
about England. I should not hang too many men on
that bough, Brother.”

<< And it is certain,” said Hugh, “‘that’’—he pointed
to the old man—‘‘Harold was forced to make his prom-
ise to the Great Duke.”

‘“Very strongly forced,’ said De Aquila. He had
311

 

ee ar a addBaF scala ee AE EAI PAP CSAS S Dea hs ad todd oP Deseo SPU ERPS) ea NERS stat tan aD Da Da Papa ary NCR Tate aD LPaeay ast sasa a LTE sete y ana) oc nS

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

never any pride in the Duke William’s dealings with

Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said, one cannot

build a house all of straight sticks.

‘““No matter how he was forced,” said Henry, ‘‘ Eng-

+h) J land was promised to my Father William by Edward

ay the Confessor. Isit not so?’’ William of Exeter nodded.
‘““Harold confirmed that promise to my Father on the
bones of the Saints. Afterwards he broke his oath and
would have taken England by the strong hand.”

“Oh! La! La!’ Rahere rolled up his eyes like a
girl. “‘That ever England should be taken by the strong
hand!”

‘Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had
each in just that fashion snatched England from Robert
of Normandy, we others knew not where to look; but
De Aquila saved us quickly.

***Promise kept or promise broken,” he said, ‘‘ Harold
came near enough to breaking us Normans at Senlac.”’

| ‘“ Was it so close a fight, then?’ said Henry.

*““A hair would have turned it either way,’ De
| Aquila answered. ‘His house-carles stood like rocks

against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, in it?”

***Among Godwin’s folk beneath the Golden Dragon
t till your front gave back, and we broke our ranks to
| follow,’ said Hugh.

‘But I bade you stand! I bade youstand! I knew
it was all a deceit!’’ Harold had waked, and leaned for-
ward as one crying from the grave.

“**Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was be-
| | : trayed!’ said William of Exeter, and looked for a smile
a | | | from the King.
| ‘**T made thee Bishop to preach at my bidding,”’ said
Henry; and turning to Harold, “‘Tell us here how thy
312Ce oe OS
feseiticle

   
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
    

THE TREE’ OF JUSTICE

people fought us?” said he. “Their sons serve me now
against my Brother Robert!”’

‘The old man shook his head cunningly. ‘‘Na—Na
—Na,” he cried. “I know better. Every time I tell
my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I will tell you a
greater thing. Listen!’ He told us how many paces
it was from some Saxon Saint’s shrine to another shrine,
and how many more back to the Abbey of the Battle.

“Ay,” said he. “I have trodden it too often to be
out even ten paces. I move very swiftly. Harold of
Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my brother.
They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stamford
Bridge to the Battle Abbey it is—’’ he muttered over
many numbers and forgot us.

*** Ay,” said De Aquila, all in a muse. ‘“‘That man
broke Harold of Norway at Stamford Bridge, and came
near to breaking us at Santlache—all within one month.”

*““But how did he come alive from Santlache fight?”
asked the King. ‘‘Ask him! Hast thou heard it, Ra-
here?”’

*““Never. He says he has been stoned too often for
telling the tale. But he can count you off Saxon and
Norman shrines till daylight,”’ said Rahere, and the old
man nodded proudly.

‘** My faith,’’ said Henry after a while, “‘I think even
my Father the Great Duke would pity if he could see
him.”

‘<“Fow if he does see?” said Rahere.

‘Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. “Ah,
why hast thou shamed him?” he cried again to Rahere.

‘““No—no,” says the old man, reaching to pluck at
Rahere’s cape. ‘‘I am Rahere’s man. None stone me
now,” and he played with the bells on the scollops of it.
le

39

AaB Sv Peas FETIP eae We ara Dd 4 ee Te 8 -
tL GhA AL Bd i ha Oh ot ee SEL Sa a
Lee ae DD od Cid pak 6 Cad aol ol he PaleTseNIRSTs elena LAs Pe lele eit Seale vinititetetote] itn iesreta ss bel niet Tele Spt pottate tale olen Metatelelere altititaptetetelpieltney te tele nie ttatete ale nitite 28”

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

. ‘**How if he had been brought to me when you found

\} him?”’ said the King to Rahere.

; | **“You would have held him prisoner again—as the

Great Duke did,’’ Rahere answered.

‘True,’ said our ‘King. “He is nothing ‘except
his name. Yet that name might have been used by
stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must
have made him my life’s guest—as I shall make Robert.”

| ‘<°T knew it,” said Rahere. ‘“‘But while this man
wandered mad by the wayside, none cared what he
called himself.”

8 | ‘“T learned to cease talking before the stones flew,”’

F | says the old man, and Hugh groaned.

“““Ve have heard!”’ said Rahere. ‘‘ Witless, landless,
nameless, and, but for my protection, masterless, he
can still make shift to bide his doom under the open
sky.”

‘*“Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a

: mock and a shame?”’ cried Hugh, beside himself with

 

 

woe.
| ‘** A right mock and a just shame!” said William of
Exeter.
“<Not to me,” said Nigel of Ely. ‘‘I see and I trem-

ble, but I neither mock nor judge.”

‘Well spoken, Ely.” Rahere falls into the pure fool
again. ‘‘I’ll pray for thee when I turn monk. Thou
hast given thy blessing on a war between two most
ii Christian brothers.”’ He meant the war forward ’twixt
3B q Henry and Robert of Normandy. “I charge you,

iinet

| | | Brother,” he says, wheeling on the King, “dost thou
|| | \ mock my fool?”
| | ‘The King shook his head, and so then did smooth

William of Exeter.
314er oe eee ee esa ete is Ar icoee sto BOG
was beri hrs CUbC OE Ci rapes ted eats Ar! Peete DOUG

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

‘De Aquila, dost thou mock him?” Rahere jingled
from one to another, and the old man smiled.

‘*“By the Bones of the Saints, not I,’”’ said our Lord
of Pevensey. ‘‘I know how dooms near he broke us at
Santlache.”’

‘<*Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you,
valiant, loyal, honourable, and devout barons, Lords of
Man’s Justice in your own bounds, do you mock my
fool?”

‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two
barons whose names I have forgotten. “‘Na—Na!”’ they
said, and waved him back foolishly enough.

‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and
speaks from behind his chair.

‘““Nio man mocks thee. Who here judges this man?
Henry of England—Nigel—De Aquila! On your souls,
swift with the answer!”’ he cried.

‘None answered. We were all—the King not least—
overborne by that terrible scarlet and black wizard-jester.

‘Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow.
Next, shrill like a woman: “‘Oh, come to me!” and Hugh
ran forward to hold Harold, that had slidden down in
the chair.

‘“Fearken,” said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s
neck. ‘‘The King—his bishops—the knights—all the
world’s crazy chessboard neither mock nor Judge thee.
Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!”

‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled.

«Good comfort,” said Harold. ‘‘Tell me again! I
have been somewhat punished—”’

‘Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the head
rolled. We heard him sigh, and Nigel of Ely stood forth,

praying aloud.
alp

STs) een errs errr rrr srs aera STP es hee TTY
fa EL RoR R SS ee ererrs

DU hse yo owe te ron yl he a a ia ne i ahh ae Se ee kPa aie a ae ae oi te
SSieat Tee's elt estteth Te Peters tapees tLe eee ean tata telelede ie itamat pote oleate nitty te bela pelesgsry Dts fefelt bitte!

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

“Out! I will have no Norman!” Harold said as
clearly as I speak now, and he refuged himself on Hugh’s
sound shoulder, and stretched out, and lay all still.’

‘Dead?’ said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk.

‘That was his good fortune. To die in the King’s
presence, and on the breast of the most gentlest, truest
knight of his own house. Some of us envied him,’ said
Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow’s bridle.

‘Turn left here,’ Puck called ahead of them from un-
deranoak. They ducked down a narrow path through
close ash plantation.

The children hurried forward, but cutting a corner
charged full breast into the thorn-faggot that old Hob-
den was carrying home on his back.

‘My! My!’ said he. ‘Have you scratted your face,
Miss Una?’

‘Sorry! It’s all right,’ said Una, rubbing her nose.
‘How many rabbits did you get to-day?’

‘That’s tellin’s,’ the old man grinned as he re-hoisted
his faggot. ‘I reckon Mus’ Ridley he’ve got rheuma-
tism along o’ lyin’ in the dik to see I didn’t snap up any.
Think o’ that now!’

They laughed a good deal while he told them the tale.

‘Ar just as he crawled away I heard some onehollerin’
to the hounds in our woods,’ said he. ‘Didn’t you hear?
You must ha’ been asleep sure-ly.’

‘Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show us?’
Dan cried.

*’Ere he be—house an’ all!’ Hobden dived into the
prickly heart of the faggot and took out a dormouse’s
wonderfully woven nest of grass and leaves. His blunt
fingers parted it as if it had been precious lace, and tilt-
ing it towards the last of the light he showed the little,
316ee ee ee ee ee ee eee

OPO RAO Does
Lyte

     
   
   
 
   
    

THE TREE OF JUSTICE

red, furry chap curled up inside, his tail between his eyes
that were shut for their winter sleep.

‘Let’s take him home. Don’t breathe on him,’ said
Una. ‘It’ll make him warm and he’ll wake up and die
straight off. Won’t he, Hobby?’

“That’s a heap better by my reckonin’ than wakin’
up and findin’ himself in a cage for life. No! We'lllay
him into the bottom o’ this hedge. Dat’s jus’ right!
No more trouble for him till come Spring. An’ now
we ll go home.’

“7 ed rr i ? bLt St eréperelo” eee Tie y
iG BAR Ra nea REE . a oo

ae ree ee ed

ety ete ete te™e ferere re ete" gre a

Cot peak bt sta eh ete bd etSLs as Aaa AMER Me Sah PPS AOL SRS Rea APE BOAO:SOL ane en eros es

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

A CAROL

Our Lord Who did the Ox command
To kneel to Judah’s King,

He binds His frost upon the land
To ripen it for Spring—

To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
According to His word;

Which well must be as ye can see—
And who shall judge the Lord?

When we poor fenmen skate the ice
Or shiver on the wold,
We hear the cry of a single tree
That breaks her heart in the cold—
That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,
And rendeth by the board;
Which well must be as ye can see—
And who shall judge the Lord?

Her wood is crazed and little worth
Excepting as to burn,

That we may warm and make our mirth
Until the Spring return—

Until the Spring return, good sirs,
When people walk abroad;

Which well must be as ye can see—

And who shall judge the Lord?

  

ee ee EE Re Te ee

RT a) thee ld Oe del oh ee de a eTlejeveeyusratetelelelenieoratatetleleteaninsesnsts tuts leleletrivsestutatale ela iecnieratyts ieleieiainunsnalulsiaielebernrisinalel sieleleberutaileleteininitiabilt °° "To Te os
SSSA irda eee eit eyes nrtabate edt fertito fete relate totale tele tete et # Cut sta te tale rier tr tatste Patan tetas terete saat

   

REWARDS AND FAIRIES

God bless the master of this house,
And all that sleep therein!

And guard the fens from pirate folk,
And keep us all from sin,
To walk in honesty, good sirs,

3 Of thought and deed and word!

Which shall befriend our latter end—
And who shall judge the Lord?

   
 
 
 
 
  
 
    

THE END

 

 

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