Chapter 9

Could you pray for such rule to _him_? Do you think that he would hear? Must he favour one in a greedy whim Where all are his children dear?

It is right to get up and do, But why outstrip the rest? Why should one of the many be one of the few? Why should _you_ think to be best?

_Willie speaks._

Then how am I to be great? I know no other way; It would be folly to sit and wait, I must up and do, you say!

_The Father answers._

I do not want you to wait, For few before they die Have got so far as begin to be great, The lesson is so high.

I will tell you the only plan To climb and not to fall: He who would rise and be greater than He is, must be servant of all.

Turn it each way in your mind, Try every other plan, You may think yourself great, but at length you'll find You are not even a man.

Climb to the top of the trees, Climb to the top of the hill, Get up on the crown of the sky if you please, You'll be a small creature still.

Be admiral, poet, or king, Let praises fill both your ears, Your soul will be but a windmill thing Blown round by its hopes and fears.

IV.

_Willie speaks._

Then put me in the way, For you, papa, are a man: What thing shall I do this very day?-- Only be sure I _can_.

I want to know--I am willing, Let me at least have a chance! Shall I give the monkey-boy my shilling?-- I want to serve at once.

_The Father answers._

Give all your shillings you might And hurt your brothers the more; He only can serve his fellows aright Who goes in at the little door.

We must do the thing we _must_ Before the thing we _may;_ We are unfit for any trust Till we can and do obey.

_Willie speaks._

I will try more and more; I have nothing now to ask; _Obedience_ I know is the little door: Now set me some hard task.

_The Father answers._

No, Willie; the father of all, Teacher and master high, Has set your task beyond recall, Nothing can set it by.

_Willie speaks._

What is it, father dear, That he would have me do? I'd ask himself, but he's not near, And so I must ask you!

_The Father answers._

Me 'tis no use to ask, I too am one of his boys! But he tells each boy his own plain task; Listen, and hear his voice.

_Willie speaks._

Father, I'm listening _so_ To hear him if I may! His voice must either be very low, Or very far away!

_The Father answers._

It is neither hard to hear, Nor hard to understand; It is very low, but very near, A still, small, strong command.

_Willie answers._

I do not hear it at all; I am only hearing you!

_The Father speaks._

Think: is there nothing, great or small, You ought to go and do?

_Willie answers._

Let me think:--I ought to feed My rabbits. I went away In such a hurry this morning! Indeed They've not had enough to-day!

_The Father speaks._

That is his whisper low! That is his very word! You had only to stop and listen, and so Very plainly you heard!

That duty's the little door: You must open it and go in; There is nothing else to do before, There is nowhere else to begin.

_Willie speaks._

But that's so easily done! It's such a trifling affair! So nearly over as soon as begun. For that he can hardly care!

_The Father answers._

You are turning from his call If you let that duty wait; You would not think any duty small If you yourself were great.

The nearest is at life's core; With the first, you all begin: What matter how little the little door If it only let you in?

V.

_Willie speaks._

Papa, I am come again: It is now three months and more That I've tried to do the thing that was plain, And I feel as small as before.

_The Father answers._

Your honour comes too slow? How much then have you done? One foot on a mole-heap, would you crow As if you had reached the sun?

_Willie speaks._

But I cannot help a doubt Whether this way be the true: The more I do to work it out The more there comes to do;

And yet, were all done and past, I should feel just as small, For when I had tried to the very last-- 'Twas my duty, after all!

It is only much the same As not being liar or thief!

_The Father answers._

One who tried it found even, with shame, That of sinners he was the chief!

My boy, I am glad indeed You have been finding the truth!

_Willie speaks._

But where's the good? I shall never speed-- Be one whit greater, in sooth!

If duty itself must fail, And that be the only plan, How shall my scarce begun duty prevail To make me a mighty man?

_The Father answers._

Ah, Willie! what if it were Quite another way to fall? What if the greatness itself lie there-- In knowing that you are small?

In seeing the good so good That you feel poor, weak, and low; And hungrily long for it as for food, With an endless need to grow?

The man who was lord of fate, Born in an ox's stall, Was great because he was much too great To care about greatness at all.

Ever and only he sought The will of his Father good; Never of what was high he thought, But of what his Father would.

You long to be great; you try; You feel yourself smaller still: In the name of God let ambition die; Let him make you what he will.

Who does the truth, is one With the living Truth above: Be God's obedient little son, Let ambition die in love.

_KING COLE_.

King Cole he reigned in Aureoland, But the sceptre was seldom in his hand

Far oftener was there his golden cup-- He ate too much, but he drank all up!

To be called a king and to be a king, That is one thing and another thing!

So his majesty's head began to shake, And his hands and his feet to swell and ache,

The doctors were called, but they dared not say Your majesty drinks too much Tokay;

So out of the king's heart died all mirth, And he thought there was nothing good on earth.

Then up rose the fool, whose every word Was three parts wise and one part absurd.

Nuncle, he said, never mind the gout; I will make you laugh till you laugh it out.

King Cole pushed away his full gold plate: The jester he opened the palace gate,

Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim, And on the dais-edge seated him;

Then caught up the king's own golden plate, And set it beside him: oh, how he ate!

And the king took note, with a pleased surprise, That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes,

With his arms and his legs and his body whole, And laughed aloud from his heart and soul.

Then from his lordly chair got up, And carried the man his own gold cup;

The goblet was deep and wide and full, The poor man drank like a cow at a pool.

Said the king to the jester--I call it well done To drink with two mouths instead of one!

Said the king to himself, as he took his seat, It is quite as good to feed as to eat!

It is better, I do begin to think, To give to the thirsty than to drink!

And now I have thought of it, said the king, There might be more of this kind of thing!

The fool heard. The king had not long to wait: The fool cried aloud at the palace-gate;

The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin, Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin,

Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall, And the king and the fool they fed them all;

And as with good things their plates they piled The king grew merry as a little child.

On the morrow, early, he went abroad And sought poor folk in their own abode--

Sought them till evening foggy and dim, Did not wait till they came to him;

And every day after did what he could, Gave them work and gave them food.

Thus he made war on the wintry weather, And his health and the spring came back together.

But, lo, a change had passed on the king, Like the change of the world in that same spring!

His face had grown noble and good to see, And the crown sat well on his majesty.

Now he ate enough, and ate no more, He drank about half what he drank before,

He reigned a real king in Aureoland, Reigned with his head and his heart and his hand.

All this through the fool did come to pass. And every Christmas-eve that was,

The palace-gates stood open wide And the poor came in from every side,

And the king rose up and served them duly, And his people loved him very truly.

_SAID_ AND _DID_.

Said the boy as he read, "I too will be bold, I will fight for the truth and its glory!" He went to the playground, and soon had told A very cowardly story!

Said the girl as she read, "That was grand, I declare! What a true, what a lovely, sweet soul!" In half-an-hour she went up the stair, Looking as black as a coal!

"The mean little wretch, I wish I could fling This book at his head!" said another; Then he went and did the same ugly thing To his own little trusting brother!

Alas for him who sees a thing grand And does not fit himself to it! But the meanest act, on sea or on land, Is to find a fault, and then do it!

_DR. DODDRIDGE'S DOG_.

"What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you?"

My little dog, who blessed you With such white toothy-pegs? And who was it that dressed you In such a lot of legs?

Perhaps he never told you! Perhaps you know quite well, And beg me not to scold you For you can't speak to tell!

I'll tell you, little brother, In case you do not know:-- One only, not another, Could make us two just so.

You love me?--Quiet!--I'm proving!-- It must be God above That filled those eyes with loving: He was the first to love!

One day he'll stop all sadness-- Hark to the nightingale! Oh blessed God of gladness!-- Come, doggie, wag your tail!

That's--Thank you, God!--He gave you Of life this little taste; And with more life he'll save you, Not let you go to waste!

He says now, Live together, And share your bite and sup; And then he'll say, Come hither-- And lift us both high up.

_THE GIRL THAT LOST THINGS_.

There was a girl that lost things-- Nor only from her hand; She lost, indeed--why, most things, As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them, And can't look after all! Indeed I did not lose them, I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble, It fell upon the floor: Her eyes were very nimble But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly, Her very doll of all! That loss was far from jolly, But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls With a ruby in them set; But the dearest girl of girls Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin; Ah, that was sorrow dire! He hopped along, and--bob in-- Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss As she came down the stair; But that she did not miss, For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too, But did so well without it She took that in good part too, And said--not much about it.

But when she lost her health She did feel rather poor, Till in came loads of wealth By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple That was upon her cheek, But that was very simple-- She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother, And thought that she was dead; Sure there was not another On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self-- But that she threw away; And God upon his shelf It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight, And lost all hope to find it; But a fountain-well of light Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world: In a black and stormy wind Away from her it whirled-- But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses, Her aching and her weeping, Her pains and griefs and crosses, And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things Her heart had still been craving; 'Mong them she found--why, most things, And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother, Who not the least had died; And then she found that other Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss She lost upon the stair; 'Twas sweeter far, I guess, For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended, New-drest, and strong, and white; She found her health, new-blended With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin: He made his wings go flap, Came fluttering, and went bob in, Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things, Be patient till to-morrow; And mind you don't beweep things That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers, Of mothers, girls, and boys, In his arms his children gathers, And sees to all their toys.

_A MAKE-BELIEVE_.

I will think as thinks the rabbit:--

Oh, delight In the night When the moon Sets the tune To the woods! And the broods All run out, Frisk about, Go and come, Beat the drum-- Here in groups, There in troops! Now there's one! Now it's gone! There are none! And now they are dancing like chaff! I look, and I laugh, But sit by my door, and keep to my habit-- A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!

Now I'm going, Business calls me out-- Going, going, Very knowing, Slow, long-heeled, and stout, Loping, lumbering, Nipping, numbering, Head on this side and on that, Along the pathway footed flat, Through the meadow, through the heather, Through the rich dusky weather-- Big stars and little moon!

Dews are lighting down in crowds, Odours rising in thin clouds, Night has all her chords in tune-- The very night for us, God's rabbits, Suiting all our little habits! Wind not loud, but playful with our fur, Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir! And all the way not one rough bur, But the dewiest, freshest grasses, That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!

I, the king the rest call Mappy, Canter on, composed and happy, Till I come where there is plenty For a varied meal and dainty. Is it cabbage, I grab it; Is it parsley, I nab it; Is it carrot, I mar it; The turnip I turn up And hollow and swallow; A lettuce? Let us eat it! A beetroot? Let's beat it! If you are juicy, Sweet sir, I will use you! For all kinds of corn-crop I have a born crop! Are you a green top? You shall be gleaned up! Sucking and feazing, Crushing and squeezing All that is feathery, Crisp, not leathery, Juicy and bruisy-- All comes proper To my little hopper Still on the dance, Driven by hunger and drouth!

All is welcome to my crunching, Finding, grinding, Milling, munching, Gobbling, lunching, Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth-- Eating side way, round way, flat way, Eating this way, eating that way, Every way at once!

Hark to the rain!-- Pattering, clattering, The cabbage leaves battering, Down it comes amain!-- Home we hurry Hop and scurry, And in with a flurry! Hustling, jostling Out of the airy land Into the dry warm sand; Our family white tails, The last of our vitals, Following hard with a whisk to them, And with a great sense of risk to them!

Hear to it pouring! Hear the thunder roaring Far off and up high, While we all lie So warm and so dry In the mellow dark, Where never a spark, White or rosy or blue, Of the sheeting, fleeting, Forking, frightening, Lashing lightning Ever can come through!

Let the wind chafe In the trees overhead, We are quite safe In our dark, yellow bed! Let the rain pour! It never can bore A hole in our roof-- It is waterproof! So is the cloak We always carry, We furry folk, In sandhole or quarry! It is perfect bliss To lie in a nest So soft as this, All so warmly drest! No one to flurry you! No one to hurry you! No one to scurry you! Holes plenty to creep in! All day to sleep in! All night to roam in! Gray dawn to run home in! And all the days and nights to come after-- All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter!

Now the rain is over, We are out again, Every merry, leaping rover, On his right leg and his wrong leg, On his doubled, shortened long leg, Floundering amain! Oh, it is merry And jolly--yes, very!

But what--what is that? What can he be at? Is it a cat? Ah, my poor little brother, He's caught in the trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me! there was never, Nor will be for ever-- There was never such another, Such a funny, funny bunny, Such a frisking, such a whisking, Such a frolicking brother! He's screeching, beseeching! They're going to--

Ah, my poor foot, It is caught in a root! No, no! 'tis a trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me, I'm forsaken! Ah me, I am taken! I am screeching, beseeching! They are going to--

No more! no more! I must stop this play, Be a boy again, and kneel down and pray To the God of sparrows and rabbits and men, Who never lets any one out of his ken-- It must be so, though it be bewild'ring-- To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!

_THE CHRISTMAS CHILD_.

"Little one, who straight hast come Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there."

"He is such a one as I, Like as like can be. Do his will, and, by and by, Home and him you'll see."

_A CHRISTMAS PRAYER_.

Loving looks the large-eyed cow, Loving stares the long-eared ass At Heaven's glory in the grass! Child, with added human birth Come to bring the child of earth Glad repentance, tearful mirth, And a seat beside the hearth At the Father's knee-- Make us peaceful as thy cow; Make us patient as thine ass; Make us quiet as thou art now; Make us strong as thou wilt be. Make us always know and see We are his as well as thou.

_NO END OF NO-STORY_.

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such low songs raising that no one can hear them but the sun so near them and the sheep that bite them but do not fright them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs forgetting to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool for the swallow to pull when he makes his nest for her he loves best and they shine like snow in the grasses that grow by the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs and their dams would any one think it are bright and white because of their diet which gladdens them quiet for what they bite is buttercups yellow and daisies white and grass as green as the river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never was known but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows are the merriest fellows and the nests they make with the clay they cake in the sunshine bake till they are like bone and as dry in the wind as a marble stone dried in the wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over the shallows where dip the swallows and comes and goes and the sweet life blows into the river that sings as it flows and the sweet life blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the trailingest tails and never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool and to toss the grass as the lambs and the sheep over it pass and tug and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and the wind that blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and over the shallows and blows the sweet life and the joy so rife into the swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children and the wind that blows is the life of the river that flows for ever and washes the grasses still as it passes and feeds the daisies the little white praises and buttercups sunny with butter and honey that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow whiter than white and merry and quiet on such good diet watered by the river and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the wool and the grasses and the swallow that crosses with all the swallows over the shallows dipping their wings to gather the water and bake the cake for the wind to make as hard as a bone and as dry as a stone and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows from behind and ripples the river that flows for ever and still as it passes waves the grasses and cools the daisies the white sun praises that feed the sheep awake or asleep and give them their wool for the swallows to pull a little away to mix with the clay that cakes to a nest for those they love best and all the yellow children soon to go trying their wings at the flying over the hollows and over the shallows with all the swallows that do not know whence the wind doth blow that comes from behind a blowing wind.

A THREEFOLD CORD:

Poems by Three Friends.

TO

GREVILLE MATHESON MACDONALD.

First, most, to thee, my son, I give this book In which a friend's and brother's verses blend With mine; for not son only--brother, friend, Art thou, through sonship which no veil can brook Between the eyes that in each other look, Or any shadow 'twixt the hearts that tend Still nearer, with divine approach, to end In love eternal that cannot be shook When all the shakable shall cease to be. With growing hope I greet the coming day When from thy journey done I welcome thee Who sharest in the names of all the three, And take thee to the two, and humbly say, _Let this man be the fourth with us, I pray._

CASA CORAGGIO: _May, 1883._

A THREEFOLD CHORD.

_THE HAUNTED HOUSE_:

_Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter._

This must be the very night! The moon knows it!--and the trees! They stand straight upright, Each a sentinel drawn up, As if they dared not know Which way the wind might blow! The very pool, with dead gray eye, Dully expectant, feels it nigh, And begins to curdle and freeze! And the dark night, With its fringe of light, Holds the secret in its cup!

II. What can it be, to make The poplars cease to shiver and shake, And up in the dismal air Stand straight and stiff as the human hair When the human soul is dizzy with dread-- All but those two that strain Aside in a frenzy of speechless pain, Though never a wind sends out a breath To tunnel the foggy rheum of death? What can it be has power to scare The full-grown moon to the idiot stare Of a blasted eye in the midnight air? Something has gone wrong; A scream will come tearing out ere long!