Tim Keyser lived at Wilmington,He had a monstrous nose,Which was a great deal redderThan the very reddest rose,And was completely capableOf most terrific blows.
He wandered down one Christmas-dayTo skate upon the creek,And there upon the smoothest iceHe slid along so slick,The people were amazed to seeHim cut it up so quick;
The exercise excited thirst,And so, to get a drink,He cut an opening in the ice,And lay down on the brink.Says he, "I'll dip my nose right in,And sip it up, I think."
But while his nose was thus immersedSix inches in the stream,A very hungry pickerelWas attracted by the gleam,And darting up, it gave a snap,And Keyser gave a scream.
Tim Keyser then was well assuredHe had a famous bite;To pull that pickerel up he tried,And tugged with all his might;But the disgusting pickerel hadThe better of the fight.
And just as Mr. Keyser thoughtHis nose would split in two,The pickerel gave his tail a twist,And pulled Tim Keyser through,And he was scudding through the wavesThe first thing that he knew.
Then onward swam the savage fishWith swiftness towards its nest,Still chewing Mr. Keyser's nose,While Mr. Keyser guessedWhat kind of policy would suitHis circumstances best.
Just then his nose was tickledWith a spear of grass close by;Tim Keyser gave a sneeze which burstThe pickerel into "pi,"And blew its bones, the ice, and wavesA thousand feet on high.
Tim Keyser swam up to the top,A breath of air to take,And finding broken ice, he hookedHis nose upon a cake,And gloried in a nose that couldSuch a concussion make.
His Christmas dinner on that dayHe tackled with a vim;And thanked his stars, as shudderingHe thought upon his swim,That that wild pickerel had notSpent Christmas eating him.
Oh! I fell in love with Dora, and my heart was all a-glow,For I never met before a girl who took my fancy so;She had eyes—no! cheeks a-blushing with the peach's ripening flush,Was ecstatically gushing—and I like a girl to gush.She'd the loveliest of faces, and the goldenest of hair,And all customary graces lovers fancy in the fair.
Now, she doated on romances, she was yearnful and refined,She had sentimental fancies of a most æsthetic kind,She was sensitive, fantastic, tender, too, as she was fair,But alas! she was not plastic, as I owned in my despair.And, for all she was so gentle, yet she gave me this rebuff—Though I might be sentimental, I'd not sentiment enough.
Then Ididgrow sentimental, for that seemed to be my part,And I talked in transcendental fashion that might move her heart,Sighed to live in fairy grottoes with my Dora all alone,And I studied cracker mottoes, which I quoted as my own.Thus I strove to be romantic, but I failed upon the whole,And she nearly drove me frantic when she said I had not "soul."
So, despair tinged all my passion, sorrow mingled with my love,Though I wooed her in a fashion which the stones of Rome might move,Though I wrote her fervid sonnets with the fervour underlined,Though I bought her gloves and bonnets of the most artistic kind,Yet for me life held no pleasure, and my sorrow grew acuteThat she smiled upon my presents, but she frowned upon my suit.
All in vain seemed love and longing till upon one fateful dayHopes anew came on me thronging, as I heard my Dora say—"Richard mine, I saw you sobbing o'er my photograph last night,With a look that set me throbbing with unspeakable delight.Wide your eyelids you were oping and your look was far from henceWith a passionate wild hoping that was soulful and intense.
"I have seen that look on Irving and sometimes on Beerbohm Tree,And it seems to be observing joy and rapture yet to be.In the nostril elevated and the lip that lightly curledWas a cold scorn indicated of this vulgar nether world.I could marry that expression. Show it once again then, do!And I meekly make profession—I—I—I will marry you!"
Joy was then my heart's possession, joy and rapturous content,For I'd practised that expression, and I knew just what she meant:So my eyebrows up I lifted and I stared with all my mightAnd my right-hand nostril shifted somewhat further to the right,But I quite forgot—sad error was this dire mnemonic slip!—I forgot in doubt and terror how to move my lower lip!
With one eyebrow elevated down I dropped my dexter lid,Never mortal dislocated all his features as I did,For I moved them in my folly right and left and up and down,Till she asked if I was qualifying for the part of clown.And I left in deep depression when she showed me to the door,Saying, "Bring back that expression, sir, or never see me more!"
Then before my looking-glass I sought, and sought for months in vain,That expression which, alas! I had forgotten, to my pain,And I said then, feeling poorly, "I'll go seek the haunts of men,I could reproduce it surely, if I met with it again:For, whose-ever—peer's or peasant's—face that heavenly look mightwear,He should never leave my presence till I copied it, I swear."
Could I meet a schoolboy, madly pleased the day that school begins,Or a father smiling gladly, when the nurse says "Sir, it's twins!"Or a well-placed politician who no better place desires,But achieves his one ambition on the day that he retires,That expression—'tis my sure hope—on their faces I should get,So I searched for them through Europe, but I haven't found them yet.
Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with Mr. Tree,Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at me.But they failed me, though the former once a look upon me hurled,Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain of all the world,And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite immense,Though not either now or then I thought it soulful or intense.
But at last, some long months later—'twas a dinner I was atIn the City—"Bring me, waiter," someone said, "some more green fat."'Twas myvis-à-viswas speaking, and an Alderman was he;On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of joy to be.He had all that lost expression, every detail showing plain,Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain.
Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with old port,Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something short;And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all the while,Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile,And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind began to roam,Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to my home.
There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast,Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him atlast,To that lost expression led him—that was all that I was at—As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat.Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day!Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away.
Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped,And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands andsaid—"You have found it—who'd have thought it?—you have brought it meagain!""Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men."But—oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?—"Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"
Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street.Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet;Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.
Gas-lamps, be quiet—stand up, if you please.What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees:Some on your heads—in the gutter some sunk—Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.
Angels and ministers! look at the moon—Shining up there like a paper balloon,Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid—Now I'm convinced—Oh! you tipsy old jade.
Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars—Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd.Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.
Down come the houses! each drunk as a king—Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing;Inside the bar it was safe and all right,I shall go back there, and stop for the night.
It was the closing of a summer's day,And trellised branches from encircling treesThrew silver shadows o'er the golden space.Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toilWere met to celebrate a village feast;Casting away, in frolic sport, the caresThat ever press and crowd and leave their markUpon the brows of all whose bread is earnedBy daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feastOf fav'rite saint, or anniversaryOf one of bounteous nature's season giftsTo grateful husbandry—no matter whatThe cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forthOn ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rangWith sounds of honest mirth too rarely heardIn the vast workshop man has made his world,Where months of toil must pay one day of song.
Somewhat apart from the assembled throngThere sat a swarthy giant, with a faceSo nobly grand that though (unlike the rest)He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien,Yet was he study for the painter's art:He joined not in their sports, but rather seemedTo please his eye with sight of others' joy.There was a cast of sorrow on his brow,As though it had been early there.He sat In listless attitude, yet not devoidOf gentlest grace, as down his stalwart formHe bent, to catch the playful whisperings,And note the movements of a bright-hair'd childWho danced before him in the evening sun,Holding a tiny brother by the hand.
He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleevesAnd the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft);Karl was his name—a man beloved by all.He was not of the district. He had comeAmongst them ere his forehead bore one traceOf age or suffering. A wife and childHe had brought with him; but the wife was dead.Not so the child—who danced before him nowAnd held a tiny brother by the hand—Their mother's last and priceless legacy!So Karl was happy still that those two lived,And laughed and danced before him in the sun.
Yet sadly so. The children both were fair,Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form;But to that father's ever watchful eye,Who had so loved their mother, it was plainThat each inherited the wasting doomWhich cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason moreTo work and toil for them by night and day!Early and late his anvil's ringing soundWas heard amidst all seasons. OftentimesThe neighbours asked him why he worked so hardWith only two to care for? He would smile,Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in loveFor sake of those in mercy left him still—And hers: he might not stay. He could not liveTo lose them all." The tenderest of plantsRequired the careful'st gardening, and soHe worked on valiantly; and if he markedAn extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks,A growing strength in little Casper's laugh,He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid.Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree,He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife,Who danced before him in the evening sun,Holding her tiny brother by the hand.
The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing headRests wearily against his father's kneeIn trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runsTo snatch a hasty kiss (the little man,It may be, wonders if the tiny handWith which he strives to reach his father's neckWill ever grow as big and brown as thatHe sees imbedded in his sister's curls).When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith,Huddles the frightened children in his arms,Thrusts them far back—extends his giant frameAnd covers them as with Goliath's shield!
Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound,So terrible that all stood chilled with fear;And in the midst of that late joyous throngLeapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes,Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair,Proving that madness tore the brute to death.One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized,Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe.
A sharp, shrill cry of agony from KarlWas mingled with the hound's low fever'd growl.And all with horror saw the creature's teethFixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had powerTo rescue him; for scarcely could you countA moment's space ere both had disappeared—The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fenceAnd gained the forest with a frantic rush,Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms.
A long receding cry came on the ear,Showing how swift their flight; and fainter grewThe sound: ere well a man had time to thinkWhat might be done for help, the sound was hushed,Lost in the very distance. Women crouchedAnd huddled up their children in their arms;Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twas a changeSo swift and fearful, none could realiseIts actual horrors—for a time. But now,The panic past, to rescue and pursuit!
Crash! through the brake into the forest track;But pitchy darkness, caused by closing nightAnd foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way;When lo! they trip o'er something in their path!
It was the bleeding body of the hound,Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of KarlWas near at hand; they called his name; in vainThey sought him in the forest all night through;Living or dead, he was not to be found.At break of day they left the fruitless search.
Next morning, as an anxious village groupStood meditating plans what best to do,Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones,Said, "Father's at the forge—I heard him thereWorking long hours ago; but he is angry.I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone.What have I done to make him chide me so?"And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears."The child's been dreaming through this troubled night,"Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her.But the sad answers of the girl were suchAs led them all to seek her father's forge(It lay beyond the village some short span).They forced the door, and there beheld the smith.
His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height;And round his loins a double chain of iron,Wrought with true workman skill, was rivetedFast to an anvil of enormous weight.He stood as pale and statue-like as death.
Now let his own words close the hapless tale:"I killed the hound, you know; but not untilHis maddening venom through my veins had passed.I knew full well the death in store for me,And would not answer when you called my name;But crouched among the brushwood, while I thoughtOver some plan. I know my giant strength,And dare not trust it after reason's loss.Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love.I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death.I thought to plunge me in the deep, still poolThat skirts the forest—to avoid it; butI thought that for the suicide's poor shiftI would not throw away my chance of heaven,And meeting one who made earth heaven to me.So I came home and forged these chains about me:Full well I know no human hand can rend them,And now am safe from harming those I love.Keep off, good friends! Should God prolong my life,Throw me such food as nature may require.Look to my babes. This you are bound to do;For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound,How many of you have I saved from deathSuch as I now await? But hence away!The poison works! these chains must try their strength.My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night."
Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl,A raving maniac, battled with his chainsFor three fierce days. The fourth saw him free;For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds;Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt?
On panting steeds they hurry on,Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter—On panting steeds they hurry on;To cross the Barrow's water;Within her father's dungeon chained,Kildare her gentle heart had gained;Now love and she have broke his chain,And he is free! is free again.
His cloak, by forest boughs is rent,The long night's toilsome journey showing;His helm's white plume is wet, and bent,And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing;Pale is the lovely lady's cheek,Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak;And, feebly, tries she to sustain,Her falling horse, with silken rein.
"Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck,"Kildare cried to the lovely lady;"Thy weight black Memnon will not check,Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;"The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek;The next, her arms are round his neck;And placed before him on his horse,They haste, together, on their course.
"Oh! Gerald," cried the lady fair,Now backward o'er his shoulder gazing,"I see Red Raymond, in our rear,And Owen, Darcy's banner raising—Mother of Mercy! now I seeMy father, in their company;Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and fly,Enough! enough! for one to die!"
"My own dear love; my own dear love!"Kildare cried to the lovely lady,"Fear not, black Memnon yet shall prove,Than all their steeds, more swift and steady:But to guide well my gallant horse,Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force;Then look for me, my love, and tell,What see'st thou now at Tenachelle?"
"I see, I see," the lady cried,"Now bursting o'er its green banks narrow,And through the valley spreading wide,In one vast flood, the Barrow!The bridge of Tenachelle now seems,A dark stripe o'er the rushing streams;For nought above the flood is shown,Except its parapet alone."
"But can'st thou see," Earl Gerald said,"My faithful Gallowglasses standing?Waves the green plume on Milo's head,For me, at Tenachelle commanding?""No men are there," the lady said,"No living thing, no human aid;The trees appear, like isles of green,Nought else, through all the vale is seen."
Deep agony through Gerald passed;Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted;And must this morning prove their last,By kinsmen and by friends deserted?Sure treason must have made its way,Within the courts of Castle Ley;And kept away the mail-clad ranksHe ordered to the Barrow's banks.
"The chase comes fast," the lady cries;"Both whip and spur I see them plying;Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies,Through Regan's forest flying;Each moment on our course they gain,Alas! why did I break thy chain,And urge thee, from thy prison, here,To make the mossy turf thy bier?"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my own dear maid,"Kildare cried to the weeping lady;"Soon, soon, shall come the promised aid,With shield and lance for battle ready;Look out, while swift we ride, and tellWhat see'st thou now at Tenachelle.Does aught on Clemgaum's Hill now move?Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!"
"Still higher swells the rushing tide,"The lady said, "along the river;The bridge wall's rent, with breaches wide,Beneath its force the arches quiver.But on Clemgaum I see no plumes;From Offaly no succour comes;No banner floats, no trumpet's blown—Alas! alas! we are alone.
"And now, O God! I see behind,My father to Red Raymond lending,His war-horse, fleeter than the wind,And on our chase, the traitor sending:He holds the lighted aquebus,Bearing death to both of us;Speed, my gallant Memnon, speed,Nor let us 'neath the ruffian bleed."
"Thy love savedmeat risk of life,"Kildare cried, "when the axe was wielding;And now I joy, my own dear wife,To think my breastthylife is shielding;Thank Heaven no bolt can now reach thee,That shall not first have passed through me;For death were mercy to the thought,That thou, for me, to death were brought."
And now they reach the trembling bridge,Through flooded bottoms swiftly rushing;Along it heaves a foaming ridge,Through its rent walls the torrent's gushing.Across the bridge their way they make,'Neath Memnon's hoofs the arches shake;While fierce as hate, and fleet as wind,Red Raymond follows fast behind.
They've gained, they've gained the farther side!Through clouds of foam, stout Memnon dashes;And, as they swiftly onward ride,Beneath his feet the vext flood splashes.But as they reach the floodless ground,The valley rings with a sharp sound;The aquebus has hurled its rain,And by it gallant Memnon's slain.
And now behind loud rose the cry—"The bridge! beware! the bridge is breaking!"Backwards the scared pursuers fly,While, like a tyrant, his wrath wreaking,Rushed the flood, the strong bridge rending,And its fragments downwards sending;In its throat Red Raymond swallowed,While above him the flood bellowed.
Hissing, roaring, in its course,The shattered bridge before it spurning,The flood burst down, with giant force,The oaks of centuries upturning.The awed pursuers stood aghast;All hope to reach Kildare's now pastBlest be the Barrow, which thus rose,To save true lovers from their foes!
And now o'er Clemgaum's Hill appear,Their white plumes on the breezes dancing,A gallant troop, with shield and spear,From Offaley with aid advancing.Quick to Kildare his soldiers ride,And raise him up from Memnon's side;Unhurt he stands, and to his breast,The Lady Anna Darcy's pressed.
"Kinsmen and friends," exclaimed Kildare,"Behold my bride, the fair and fearless,Who broke my chain, and brought me here,In truth, in love, and beauty, peerless.Here, at the bridge of Tenachelle,Amid the friends I love so well,I swear that until life depart,She'll rule my home, my soul, my heart!"
Said Michael Flynn, the lab'ring man,"Yis, sorr, although oi'm poor,Sooner than live on charityI'd beg from door to door."
Four individuals—namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all-work, and myself, occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of London. I am a thoroughly domesticated man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my dwelling between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M., my heart is usually at home with my diminutive household. My wife and I love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son and heir, we have not enjoyed that perfect peace which was ours during the first years of our married life, yet his powerful little lungs, I am bound to say, have failed to make ours a noisy house.
Up to the time when the incident occurred which I am going to tell you about our regularity had remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. Well, as I say, we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a considerable time, when the other morning the postman brought a letter to our door, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom—hem! for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms.
"What can Uncle Martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation. "The present for baby at last, I do believe, James," added my wife; "a cheque, perhaps, or——" I opened the letter and read:—
"MARTIN HOUSE, HERTS., "October 17th.
"DEAR NEPHEW,—You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning. With my respects to your good lady,
"I remain,
"Your affectionate Uncle,
We looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then my wife said, "James, what is a stork?"
"A stork, my dear, is a—a—sort of ostrich, I think."
"An ostrich! why that's an enormous——"
"Yes, my dear, the creature that puts its head in the sand, and kicks when it's pursued, you know."
"James, the horrid thing shallnotcome here! If it should kick baby we should never forgive ourselves."
"No, no, my dear, I don't think thestorkis at all ferocious. No, it can't be. Stork! stork! I always associate storks with chimneys. Yes, abroad, I think in Holland, or Germany, or somewhere, the stork sweeps the chimneys with its long legs from the top. But let's see what the Natural History says, my dear. That will tell us all about it. Stork—um—um—'hind toe short, middle toe long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe.' Well,thatwon't matter much for one night, will it, dear? 'His height often exceeds four feet.'"
"Fourfeet!!!" interrupted my wife. "James, how high are you?"
"Well, my dear, really, comparisons are exceedingly disagreeable—um—um—'appetite extremely voracious,' and his food—hulloa! 'frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels!'"
"Frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels," repeated my wife. "James, do you expect me to provide supper and breakfast of this description for the horrid thing?"
"Well, my dear, we must do our best for baby's sake, you know, for baby's sake," and, getting my hat, I left as usual for the office. I passed anything but a pleasant day there, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o'clock I took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd on the quay." On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.
I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. The transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage; but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half shoved, half hauled all the way. Even then he persisted in getting outside of every bar—like this. After a great deal of trouble we got him to the top. I hurried him into the cab, and telling the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. At first I had to keep dodging my head about to keep my face away from his bill, as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding that I kept pulling him back. Consequently when we drove up to my house there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and shut the door.
How can I describe the spending of that evening? How can I get sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you of the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements, walking slowly from room to room, and standing on one leg till his curiosity was satisfied, or how describe the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and found out that, owing to our limited accommodation he was to remain in the hall all night, or picture the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. How can you who havenothad a stork staying with you have any idea of the change that came over his temper after his supper, how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats; how at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a tablecloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gained the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself.
Added to all this we had to endure language from that parrot which was really shocking: indeed, so scurrilous did he become that we had at last to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, owing to the darkness of his bedroom, or from fatigue, he presently swore himself to sleep.
Well, by this time, we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. About 2 A.M. my wife clutched my hair and woke me up. "James, James, listen!" I listened. I heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. "The water running into the cistern, my dear," I said sleepily.
"James, don't be absurd; that horrid thing has broken its string, and is coming upstairs."
I listened again. It really sounded like it.
"James, if you don't go at once,Imust. You know the nursery door is always left open, and if that horrid thing should get in to baby——"
"But, my dear," said I, "what am I to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?"
My wife's expression of contempt at the idea of considering myself before the baby determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I went, and there, sure enough, he was on the landing resting himself after his unusual exertion by tucking up one leg. He looked so subdued that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was back in my room, bleeding from a severe wound in the leg. I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt that he was spending some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our surplus crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this.
In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then sent for a large sack, and with the help of the tablecloth, and the boy who cleans our boots, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and confided him and the parrot to the guard of the early train. As the train moved off, I heard a yell and a very improper expression from the guard. I have reason to believe that the stork had freed himself from the wrapper, and had begun pecking again.
We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it.
I once knew a man who was musical mad—A hundred years old was the fiddle he had;I never complained, but whenever he playedI wished I had lived when that fiddle was made.
Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky,As light along the road I fared;Stern was the way, yet glad was I,Though feet and breast and brow were bared;For fancy, like a happy child,Ran on before and turned and smiled.
The track grew fair with turf and tree,The air was blithe with bird and flower.Boon nature's gentlest wizardryWas potent with the bounteous hour:A raptured languor o'er me crept;I laid me down at noon and slept.
I woke, and there, as in a dream,Which holds some boding fear of wrong,By fog-bound fen and sluggard streamI dragged my leaden steps along.My blood ran ice; I turned and spiedA shrouded figure at my side.
"And who art thou that pacest here?"He answered like a hollow wind,Not heard by any outer ear,But in dim chambers of the mind."I walk," he said, "in ways of shame,The comrade of thy wasted fame."
A passion clamoured in my breast,For mirthless laughter, and I laughed;In mine the phantom's cold hand pressedA cup, and in self's spite I quaffed.It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink:Death is less bitter than that drink.
"This chalice scarce can fail," said he,"Till thou and I shall fail from earth;'And we will walk in company,And waste the night with shameful mirth.I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine."I pledged him in the bitter wine.
"Had'st thou not slept at noon," he said,"Thou should'st have walked in praise and fame.Now loathest thou thine heart and head,And both thine eyes are blind with shame."His voice was like a hollow windIn dim death-chambers in the mind.
He turned; he bared a demon face;He filled the night with ribald song;For many a league, in evil case,We danced our leaden feet along.And every rood, in that foul wine,I pledged his fate: he drank to mine.
"What comfort has thou?" suddenlyTo me my phantom comrade saith."I know," said I, "where'er I lie,The end of each man's road is death.I pray that I may find it soon;I weary of night's changeless moon."
Then, in such lays of hideous mirthAs never tainted human breath,He cursed all things of human worth—Made mock of life and scorn of death."Art weary?" quoth he; and said I:"Fain here to lay me down and die."
"Then join," he saith, "my roundelay;Curse God and die, and make an end.Fled is thine hope, and done thy day;The fleshworm is thine only friend.Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween,Alone can scour thy palate clean."
I said: "I justify the rod;I claim its heaviest stripe mine own.Did justice cease to dwell with God,Then God were toppled from His throne!Fill up thy chalice to the brink—Thy bitterest, and I will drink."
With looks like any devil's grim,He poured the brewage till it ranWith fetid horror at the brim."Now, drink," he gibed, "and play the man!"He stretched the chalice forth. It stankThat my soul failed me, and I drank.
With loathing soul and quivering fleshI drank, and lo! the draught I tookWas limpid-clear, and sweet and freshAs ever came from summer brookOr fountain, where the trees have madeLong from the sun a pleasant shade.
He hurled the chalice to the sky;A bright hand caught it; and was gone.He blessed me with a sovereign eye,And like a god's his visage shone,And there he took me by the hand,And led me towards another land.
Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.
With solemn march and slow a soldier comes,In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead;Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums,Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.
Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls,Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep;Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls,Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.
Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest,Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you;This man was both, though nodding plume or crestNe'er waved above his eye so bright and true.
By no sad orphan is his name abhorred,A hero, yet no battered shield he brings.Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword;Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.
War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well,Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury;And this dead man was one, who fought and fell,Life less his choice, than death and victory.
To do his work with purpose iron strong,To loose the captive, set the prisoner free;To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrongKept festering by greed and cruelty;
Love on his banner, Pity in his heart;His lofty soul moved on with single aim;'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part,And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.
Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp,And over lonely leagues of burning sand,He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp,And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.
His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot,Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head;"My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot;Build me a hut—wherein—to die," he said.
"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore.Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam;Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore,"He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home."
Home, sweetest word that ever man has made,Home, after weariness and toil and pain;Home to his Father's house all unafraid,Home to his rest, no more to weep again.
How found they him, this hero of all time?Dead on his knees, as if at last he said:"Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime;And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.
O British land, that breedeth sturdy men,Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones;Land that he wrought for with his life and pen,Write, write his glory in enduring stones.
Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell,So in the world's glad future, looming dim;The children of the lands he loved so well,Shall learn his name and love to honour him.
"'Twas five-and-forty year ago,Just such another morn,The fishermen were on the beach,The reapers in the corn;My tale is true, young gentlemen,As sure as you were born.
"My tale's all true, young gentlemen,"The fond old boatman criedUnto the sullen, angry lads,Who vain obedience tried:"Mind what your father says to you,And don't go out this tide.
"Just such a shiny sea as this,Smooth as a pond, you'd say,And white gulls flying, and the craftsDown Channel making way;And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright,Seen clear from Swanage Bay.
"The Battery Point, the Race beyond,Just as to-day you see;This was, I think, the very stoneWhere sat Dick, Dolly, and me;She was our little sister, sirs,A small child, just turned three.
"And Dick was mighty fond of her:Though a big lad and bold,He'd carry her like any nurse,Almost from birth, I'm told;For mother sickened soon, and diedWhen Doll was eight months old.
"We sat and watched a little boat,Her name the 'Tricksy Jane,'A queer old tub laid up ashore,But we could see her plain.To see her and not haul her upCost us a deal of pain.
"Said Dick to me, 'Let's have a pull;Father will never know:He's busy in his wheat up there,And cannot see us go;These landsmen are such cowards ifA puff of wind does blow.
"'I've been to France and back three times—Who knows best, dad or me,Whether a ship's seaworthy or not?Dolly, wilt go to sea?'And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight,As pleased as she could be.
"I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick:What he did, sure I'd do;And many a sail in 'Tricksy Jane'We'd had when she was new.Father was always sharp; and whatHe said, he meant it too.
"But now the sky had not a cloud,The bay looked smooth as glass;Our Dick could manage any boat,As neat as ever was.And Dolly crowed, 'Me go to sea!'The jolly little lass!
"Well, sirs, we went: a pair of oars;My jacket for a sail:Just round 'Old Harry and his Wife'—Those rocks there, within hail;And we came back.——D'ye want to hearThe end o' the old man's tale?
"Ay, ay, we came back past that point,But then a. breeze up-sprung;Dick shouted, 'Hoy! down sail!' and pulledWith all his might amongThe white sea-horses that uprearedSo terrible and strong.
"I pulled too: I was blind with fear;But I could hear Dick's breathComing and going, as he toldDolly to creep beneathHis jacket, and not hold him so:We rowed for life or death.
"We almost reached the sheltered bay,We could see father standUpon the little jetty here,His sickle in his hand;The houses white, the yellow fields,The safe and pleasant land.
"And Dick, though pale as any ghost,Had only said to me,'We're all right now, old lad!' when upA wave rolled—drenched us three—One lurch, and then I felt the chillAnd roar of blinding sea.
"I don't remember much but that:You see I'm safe and sound;I have been wrecked four times since then—Seen queer sights, I'll be bound.I think folks sleep beneath the deepAs calm as underground."
"But Dick and Dolly?" "Well, Poor Dick!I saw him rise and clingUnto the gunwale of the boat—Floating keel up—and singOut loud, 'Where's Doll?'—I hear him yetAs clear as anything.
"'Where's Dolly?' I no answer made;For she dropped like a stoneDown through the deep sea; and it closed:The little thing was gone!'Where's Doll?' three times; then Dick loosed hold,And left me there alone.
* * * * *
"It's five-and-forty year since then,"Muttered the boatman grey,And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes,And stared across the bay;"Just five-and-forty year," and notAnother word did say.
"But Dolly?" ask the children all,As they about him stand."Poor Doll! she floated back next tideWith sea-weed in her hand.She's buried o'er that hill you see,In a churchyard on land.
"But where Dick lies, God knows! He'll findOur Dick at Judgment-day."The boatman fell to mending nets,The boys ran off to play;And the sun shone and the waves dancedIn quiet Swanage Bay.
"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay."To know if between the land and the poleI may find a broad sea-way."
"I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN,As you would live and thrive;For between the land and the frozen poleNo man may sail alive."
But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And spoke unto his men:"Half England is wrong, if he is right;Bear off to westward then."
"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"Cried the little Esquimaux."Between your land and the polar starMy goodly vessels go."
"Come down, if you would journey there,"The little Indian said;"And change your cloth for fur clothing,Your vessel for a sled."
But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And the crew laughed with him, too:—"A sailor to change from ship to sled,I ween were something new!"
All through the long, long polar day,The vessels westward sped;And wherever the sails of Sir John were blown,The ice gave way and fled:
Gave way with many a hollow groan,And with many a surly roar;But it murmured and threatened on every side,And closed where he sailed before.
"Ho! see ye not, my merry men,The broad and open sea?Bethink ye what the whaler said,Think of the little Indian's sled!"The crew laughed out in glee.
"Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold,The scud drives on the breeze,The ice comes looming from the north,The very sunbeams freeze."
"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes—We cannot rule the year;But long ere summer's sun goes down,On yonder sea we'll steer."
The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,And floundered down the gale;The ships were stayed, the yards were manned,And furled the useless sail
"The summer's gone, the winter's come,We sail not yonder sea:Why sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"A silent man was he.
"The summer goes, the winter comes—We cannot rule the year.""I ween we cannot rule the ways,Sir John, wherein we'd steer!"
The cruel ice came floating on,And closed beneath the lee,Till the thickening waters dashed no more;'Twas ice around, behind, before—Oh God! there is no sea!
What think you of the whaler now?What of the Esquimaux?A sled were better than a ship,To cruise through ice and snow.
Down sank the baleful crimson sun,The northern light came out,And glared upon the ice-bound ships,And shook its spears about.
The snow came down, storm breeding storm,And on the decks were laid:Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,Sank down beside his spade.
"Sir John, the night is black and long,The hissing wind is bleak,The hard green ice is strong as death—I prithee, Captain, speak!"
"The night is neither bright nor short,The singing breeze is cold;The ice is not so strong as hope—The heart of man is bold!"
"What hope can scale this icy wall,High o'er the main flag-staff?Above the ridges the wolf and bearLook down with a patient settled stare,Look down on us and laugh."
"The summer, went, the winter came—We could not rule the year;But summer will melt the ice again,And open a path to the sunny main,Whereon our ships shall steer."
The winter went, the summer went,The winter came around:But the hard green ice was strong as death,And the voice of hope sank to a breath,Yet caught at every sound.
"Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns?And there, and there again?""'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,As he turns in the frozen main."
"Hurrah! hurrah! the EsquimauxAcross the ice-fields steal:God give them grace for their charity!""Ye pray for the silly seal."
"Sir John, where are the English fields,And where are the English trees,And where are the little English flowersThat open in the breeze?"
"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!You shall see the fields again,And smell the scent of the opening flowers,The grass, and the waving grain."
"Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?My Mary waits for me.""Oh! when shall I see my old mother,And pray at her trembling knee?"
"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!Think not such thoughts again."But a tear froze slowly on his cheek;He thought of Lady Jane.
Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,The ice grows more and more;More settled stare the wolf and bear,More patient than before.
"Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin,We'll ever see the land?'Twas cruel to send us here to starve,Without a helping hand.
"'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here,So far from help and home,To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:I ween, the Lord of the AdmiraltyWould rather send than come."
"Oh! whether we starve to death alone,Or sail to our own country,We have done what man has never done—The truth is found, the secret won—We passed the Northern Sea!"