Part 2

And when they reached the low, half-buried stone That marked where some old shepherd had been found, Lost in the snow in seeking his lost sheep, One wild March night, full forty years ago, He wished, and wished, that they were safe and sound In their own house: and as the snow got deeper, And every little bank seemed strangely steeper, He thought, and thought of that lost sleeper; And saw him lying in the snow, Till every fleecy clump of heath Seemed to shroud a man beneath; And now his blood went hot and cold Through very fear of that dread sight; And then he felt that, in sheer fright, He must take to his heels in flight, He cared not whither, so that it might be Where there were no more bundles, cold and white, Like sheeted bodies, plain to see. And, all on edge, he turned to chide His sister, dragging at his side: But, when he found that she was crying, Because her feet and hands were cold, He quite forgot to scold: And spoke kind words of cheer to her: And saw no more dead shepherds lying In any snowy clump of heather. So, hand in hand, they trudged together, Through that strange world of drifting gloam, Sharp-set and longing sore for home.

And John remembered how that morning, When they set out the sky was blue-- Clean, cloudless blue; and gave no warning; And how through air as clear as glass, The far-off hills he knew Looked strangely near; and glittered brightly; Each sprig of heath and blade of grass In the cold wind blowing lightly, Each clump of green and crimson moss Sparkling in the wintry sun.

But now, as they toiled home, across These unfamiliar fells, nigh done, The wind again began to blow; And thicker, thicker fell the snow: Till Janey sank, too numb to stir: When John stooped down, and lifted her, To carry her upon his back. And then his head began to tire: And soon he seemed to lose the track... And now the world was all afire... Now dazzling white, now dazzling black... And then, through some strange land of light, Where clouds of butterflies all white, Fluttered and flickered all about, Dancing ever in and out, He wandered, blinded by white wings, That rustled, rustled in his ears With cold, uncanny whisperings... And then it seemed his bones must crack With that dead weight upon his back... When, on his cheek, he felt warm tears, And a cold tangle of wet hair; And knew 'twas Janey weeping there: And, taking heart, he stumbled on, While in his breast the hearthlight shone: And it was all of his desire To sit once more before the fire; And feel the friendly glowing heat. But, as he strove with fumbling feet, It seemed that he would never find Again that cheery hearth and kind; But wander ever, bent and blind, Beneath his burden through the night Of dreadful, spangly, whispering white.

The wind rose; and the dry snow drifted In little eddies round the track: And when, at last, the dark cloud rifted, He saw a strange lough, lying cold and black, 'Mid unknown, ghostly hills; and knew That they were lost: and once again, The snow closed in: and swept from view The dead black water and strange fells.

But still he struggled on: and then, When he seemed climbing up an endless steep And ever slipping, sliding back, With ankles aching like to crack, And only longed for sleep; He heard a tinkling sound of bells, That kept on ringing, ringing, ringing, Until his dizzy head was singing; And he could think of nothing else: And then it seemed the weight was lifted From off his back; and on the ground His sister stood, while, all around Were giants clad in coats of wool, With big, curled horns, and queer black faces, Who bobbed and curtsied in their places, With blazing eyes and strange grimaces; But never made a sound; Then nearly shook themselves to pieces, Shedding round a smell of warm, wet fleeces: Then one it seemed as if he knew, Looking like the old lame ewe, Began to bite his coat, and pull Till he could hardly stand: its eyes Glowing to a monstrous size, Till they were like a lantern light Burning brightly through the night... When someone stooped from out the sky, To rescue him; and set him high: And he was riding, snug and warm, In some king's chariot through the storm, Without a sound of wheel or hoof-- In some king's chariot, filled with straw, And he would nevermore be cold...

And then with wondering eyes he saw Deep caverns of pure burning gold; And knew himself in fairyland: But when he stretched an eager hand To touch the glowing walls, he felt A queer warm puff, as though of fire... And suddenly he smelt The reek of peat; and looking higher, He saw the old, black porridge-kettle, Hanging from the cavern roof, Hanging on its own black crook: And he was lying on the settle, While by his side, With tender look, His mother knelt; And he had only one desire In all the world; and 'twas to fling His arms about her neck, and hide His happy tears upon her breast. And as to her he closely pressed, He heard his merry father sing: "There was a silly sleepyhead, Who thought he'd like to go to bed: So in a stell he went to sleep, And snored among the other sheep."

And then his mother gently said: "Nay, father: do not tease him now: He's quite worn out: and needs a deal Of quiet sleep: and, after all, He brought his sister safe from school." And now he felt her warm tears fall Upon his cheek: and thrilled to feel His father's hand on his hot brow, And hear him say: "The lad's no fool."

RED FOX

I hated him ... his beard was red... Red fox, red thief! ... Ah, God, that she-- She with the proud and lifted head That never stooped to glance at me-- So fair and fancy-free, should wed A slinking dog-fox such as he!

Was it last night I hated him? Last night? It seems an age ago... At whiles, my mind comes over dim As if God's breath ... yet, ever slow And dull, too dull she ... limb from limb Last night I could have torn him, so!

My lonely bed was fire and ice. I could not sleep. I could not lie. I shut my hot eyes once or twice... And saw a red fox slinking by... A red dog-fox that turned back thrice To mock me with a merry eye.

And so I rose to pace the floor... And, ere I knew, my clothes were on... And as I stood outside the door, Cold in the Summer moonlight shone The gleaming barrel ... and no more I feared the fox, for fear was one.

"The best of friends," I said, "must part..." "The best of friends must part," I said: And like the creaking of a cart The words went wheeling through my head. "The best of friends..." and, in my heart, Red fox, already lying dead!

I took the trackway through the wood. Red fox had sought a woodland den, When she ... when she ... but, 'twas not good To think too much on her just then... The woman must beware, who stood Between two stark and fearless men.

The pathway took a sudden turn... And in a trice my steps were stayed. Before me, in the moonlit fern, A young dog-fox and vixen played With their red cubs beside the burn... And I stood trembling and afraid.

They frolicked in the warm moonlight-- A scuffling heap of heads and heels... A rascal rush ... a playful bite... A scuttling brush, and frightened squeals... A flash of teeth ... a show of fight... Then lively as a bunch of eels

Once more they gambolled in the brake, And tumbled headlong in the stream, Then scrambled gasping out to shake Their sleek, wet, furry coats agleam. I watched them, fearful and awake... I watched them, hateless and adream.

The dog-fox gave a bark, and then All ran to him: and, full of pride, He took the trackway up the glen, His family trotting by his side: The young cubs nosing for the den, With trailing brushes, sleepy-eyed.

And then it seems I must have slept-- Dropt dead asleep ... dropt dead outworn. I wakened, as the first gleam crept Among the fern, and it was morn... God's eye about their home had kept Good watch, the night her son was born.

THE OVENS

He trailed along the cinder-track Beside the sleek canal, whose black Cold, slinking waters shivered back Each frosty spark of starry light; And each star pricked, an icy pin, Through his old jacket worn and thin: The raw wind rasped his shrinking skin As if stark naked to its bite; Yet, cutting through him like a knife, It would not cut the thread of life; But only turned his feet to stones With red-hot soles, that weighed like lead In his old broken boots. His head, Sunk low upon his sunken chest, Was but a burning, icy ache That strained a skull which would not break To let him tumble down to rest. He felt the cold stars in his bones: And only wished that he were dead, With no curst searching wind to shred The very flesh from off his bones-- No wind to whistle through his bones, His naked, icy, burning bones: When, looking up, he saw, ahead, The far coke-ovens' glowing light That burnt a red hole in the night. And but to snooze beside that fire Was all the heaven of his desire... To tread no more this cursed track Of crunching cinders, through a black And blasted world of cinder-heaps, Beside a sleek canal that creeps Like crawling ice through every bone, Beneath the cruel stars, alone With this hell-raking wind that sets The cold teeth rattling castanets... Yea, heaven, indeed, that core of red In night's black heart that seemed quite dead. Though still far off, the crimson glow Through his chilled veins began to flow, And fill his shrivelled heart with heat; And, as he dragged his senseless feet, That lagged as though to hold him back In cold, eternal hell of black, With heaven before him, blazing red, The set eyes staring in his head Were held by spell of fire quite blind To that black world that fell behind, A cindery wilderness of death; As he drew slowly near and nearer, And saw the ovens glowing clearer-- Low-domed and humming hives of heat-- And felt the blast of burning breath That quivered from each white-hot brick: Till, blinded by the blaze, and sick He dropped into a welcome seat Of warm white ashes, sinking low To soak his body in the glow That shot him through with prickling pain, An eager agony of fire, Delicious after the cold ache, And scorched his tingling, frosted skin. Then gradually the anguish passed; And blissfully he lay, at last, Without an unfulfilled desire, His grateful body drinking in Warm, blessed, snug forgetfulness. And yet, with staring eyes awake, As though no drench of heat could slake His thirst for fire, he watched a red Hot eye that burned within a chink Between the bricks: while overhead The quivering stream of hot, gold air Surged up to quench the cold starlight. His brain, too numbed and dull to think Throughout the day, in that fierce glare Awoke, at last, with startled stare Of pitiless, insistent sight That stript the stark, mean, bitter strife Of his poor, broken, wasted life, Crippled from birth, and struggling on, The last, least shred of hope long gone, To some unknown, black, bitter end. But, even as he looked, his brain Sank back to sightless sloth again; Then, all at once, he seemed to choke; And knew it was the stealthy stife And deadly fume of burning coke That filled his lungs, and seemed to soak Through every pore, until the blood Grew thick and heavy in his veins, And he could scarcely draw a breath. He lay, and murmured drowsily, With closing eyes: "If this be death, It's snug and easy ... let it come... For life is cold and hard ... the flood Is rising with the heavy rains That pour and pour ... that damned old drum, Why ever can't they let it be... Beat-beating, beating, beating, beat..." Then, suddenly, he sat upright, For, close behind him in the night, He heard a breathing loud and deep, And caught a whiff of burning leather. He shook himself alive, and turned; And on a heap of ashes white, O'ercome by the full blast of heat, Where fieriest the dread blaze burned, He saw a young girl stretched in sleep. He sat awhile with heavy gaze Fixed on her in a dull amaze, Until he saw her scorched boots smoking: Then, whispering huskily: "She's dying, While I look on and watch her choking!" He roused: and pulled himself together: And rose, and went where she was lying: And, bending o'er the senseless lass, In his weak arms he lifted her; And bore her out beyond the glare, Beyond the stealthy, stifling gas, Into the fresh and eager air: And laid her gently on the ground Beneath the cold and starry sky: And did his best to bring her round; Though still, for all that he could try, She seemed, with each deep-labouring breath Just brought up on the brink of death. He sought, and found an icy pool, Though he had but a cap to fill, And bathed her hands and face, until The troubled breath was quieter, And her flushed forehead felt quite cool: And then he saw an eyelid stir; And shivering she sat up at last, And looked about her sullenly. "I'm cold ... I'm mortal cold," she said: "What call had you to waken me? I was so warm and happy, dead... And still those staring stars!" Her head Dropt in her hands: and thick and fast The tears came with a heavy sobbing. He stood quite helpless while she cried; And watched her shaken bosom throbbing With passionate, wild, weak distress, Till it was spent. And then she dried Her eyes upon her singed black dress; Looked up, and saw him standing there, Wondering, and more than half-afraid. But now, the nipping, hungry air Took hold of her, and struck fear dead. She only felt the starving sting That must, at any price, be stayed; And cried out: "I am famishing!" Then from his pocket he took bread That he had been too weak and sick To eat o'ernight: and eager-eyed, She took it timidly; and said: "I have not tasted food two days." And, as he waited by her side, He watched her with a quiet gaze; And saw her munch the broken crust So gladly, seated in the dust Of that black desert's bitter night, Beneath the freezing stars, so white And hunger-pinched: and at the sight Keen pity touched him to the quick; Although he never said a word, Till she had finished every crumb. And then he led her to a seat A little closer to the heat, But well beyond the deadly stife. And in the ashes, side by side, They sat together, dazed and dumb, With eyes upon the ovens' glare, Each looking nakedly on life. And then, at length, she sighed, and stirred, Still staring deep and dreamy-eyed Into the whitening, steady glow. With jerky, broken words and slow, And biting at her finger-ends, She talked at last: and spoke out all Quite open-heartedly, as though There were not any stranger there-- The fire and he, both bosom-friends. She'd left her home three months ago-- She, country-born and country-bred, Had got the notion in her head That she'd like city-service best... And so no country place could please... And she had worried without rest Until, at last, she got her ends; And, wiser than her folk and friends, She left her home among the trees... The trees grew thick for miles about Her father's house ... the forest spread As far as ever you could see... And it was green, in Summer, green... Since she had left her home, she'd seen No greenness could compare with it... And everything was fresh and clean, And not all smutched and smirched with smoke They burned no sooty coal and coke, But only wood-logs, ash and oak... And by the fire at night they'd sit... Ah! wouldn't it be rare and good To smell the sappy, sizzling wood, Once more; and listen to the stream That runs just by the garden-gate... And often, in a Winter spate, She'd wakened from a troubled dream, And lain in bed, and heard it roar; And quaked to hear it, as a child... It seemed so angry, and so wild-- Just mad to sweep the house away! And now, it was three months or more Since she had heard it, on the day... The day she left ... and Michael stood... He was a woodman, too, and he Worked with her father in the wood... And wanted her, she knew ... but she Was proud, and thought herself too good To marry any country lad... 'Twas queer to think she'd once been proud-- And such a little while ago-- A beggar, wolfing crusts! ... The pride That made her quit her countryside Soon left her stranded in the crowd... And precious little pride she had To keep her warm these freezing days Since she had fled the city-ways To walk back home ... aye! home again: For, in the town, she'd tried in vain, For honest work to earn her bread... At one place, they'd nigh slaved her dead, And starved her, too; and, when she left, Had cheated her of half her wage: But she'd no means to stop the theft... And she'd had no more work to do... Two months since, now ... it seemed an age! How she had lived, she scarcely knew... And still, poor fool, too proud to write To home for help, until, at length, She'd not a penny for a bite, Or pride enough to clothe her back... So, she was tramping home, too poor To pay the train-fare ... she'd the strength, If she'd the food ... but that hard track, And that cold, cruel, bitter night Had taken all the heart from her... If Michael knew, she felt quite sure... For she would rather drop stone-dead Than live as some ... if she had cared To feed upon the devil's bread, She could have earned it easily... She'd pride enough to starve instead, Aye, starve, than fare as some girls fared... But, that was all behind ... and she Was going home ... and yet, maybe, If they'd a home like hers, they, too, Would be too proud ... she only knew The thought of home had kept her straight, And saved her ere it was too late. She'd soon be home again... And now She sat with hand upon her brow; And did not speak again nor stir.

And, as he heard her words, his gaze Still set upon the steady glare, His thoughts turned back to city-ways: And he remembered common sights That he had seen in city nights: And, once again, in early June, He wandered through the midnight street; And heard those ever-pacing feet Of young girls, children yet in years, With gaudy ribbons in their hair, And shameless fevered eyes astare, And slack lips set in brazen leers, Who walked the pavements of despair, Beneath the fair full Summer moon... Shadowed by worn-out, wizened hags, With claw-hands clutching filthy rags About old bosoms, shrunk and thin, And mouths aleer without a tooth, Who dogged them, cursing their sleek youth That filched their custom and their bread... Then, in a reek of hot gas light, He stood where, through the Summer night, Half-dozing in the stifling air, The greasy landlord, fat with sin, Sat, lolling in his easy chair, Just half-way up the brothel stair, To tax the earnings they brought in, And hearken for the policeman's tread...

Then, shuddering back from that foul place And turning from the ovens' glare, He looked into her dreaming face; And saw green, sunlit woodlands there, And waters flashing in between Low-drooping boughs of Summer green.

And as he looked, still in a dream She murmured: "Michael would, she knew... Though she'd been foolish ... he was true, As true as steel, and fond of her... And then she sat with eyes agleam In dreaming silence, till the stir Of cold dawn shivered through the air: When, twisting up her tumbled hair, She rose; and said, she must be gone. Though she'd still far to go, the day Would see her well upon her way... And she had best be jogging on, While she'd the strength ... and so, "Good-bye."

And as, beneath the paling sky, He trudged again the cinder-track That stretched before him, dead and black, He muttered: "It's a chance the light Has found me living still ... and she-- She, too ... and Michael ... and through me God knows whom I may wake to-night."

1910-1911.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.