Chapter 3

Fluffy, full well you understood The frequent joys of motherhood-- To lick, from pointed tail to nape, The mewing litter into shape; To show, with pride that condescends, Your offspring to your human friends, And all our sympathy to win For every kit tucked snugly in.

In your familiar garden ground We've raised a tributary mound, And passing by it we recite Your merits and your praise aright.

"Here lies," we say, "from care released A faithful, furry, friendly beast. Responsive to the lightest word, About these walks her purr was heard. Love she received, for much she earned, And much in kindness she returned. Wherefore her comrades go not by Her little grave without a sigh."

THE LEAN-TO-SHED

(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)

I've a palace set in a garden fair, And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, Always growing And always blowing Winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- For there's never a wind that dares to scatter The wonderful petals that scent the air About the walls of my palace there. And the palace itself is very old, And it's built of ivory splashed with gold. It has silver ceilings and jasper floors And stairs of marble and crystal doors; And whenever I go there, early or late, The two tame dragons who guard the gate And refuse to open the frowning portals To sisters, brothers and other mortals, Get up with a grin And let me in. And I tickle their ears and pull their tails And pat their heads and polish their scales; And they never attempt to flame or fly, Being quelled by me and my human eye. Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons, Drink for my two tame trusty dragons... But John, Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, John declares They are Teddy-bears; And the palace itself, he has often said, Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and shields and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smashing And slashing The Paynim armies at Ascalon... But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon With a great magnificent tea-time moon. Through the nursery-window I peep and see My palace lit for a revelry; And I think I shall try to go there instead Of going to sleep in my dull small bed. But who are these In the shade of the trees That creep so slow In a stealthy row? They are Indian braves, a terrible band, Each with a tomahawk in his hand, And each has a knife _without a sheath_ Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth. Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers? Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers? What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me, Trots up and flattens his nose beside me; Against the window he flattens it And says he can see As well as me, But never an Indian--not a bit; Not even the top of a feathered head, But only a wall and the lean-to shed.

THE CONTRACT

"Come, Peggy, put your toys away; you needn't shake your head, Your bear's been working overtime; he's panting for his bed. He's turned a thousand somersaults, and now his head must ache; It's cruelty to animals to keep the bear awake."

At this she stamped in mutiny, and then she urged her plea, Her wonted plea, "A little time, a minute more, for me." "Be off, you little rogue of rogues," I sternly made reply; "It's wicked to be sitting up with sand in either eye.

"To bed, to bed, you sleepy head; and then, and then--who knows?-- Some day you'll be a grown-up girl, and lovely as a rose. And some day some one else will come, a gallant youth and gay, To harry me and marry you and carry you away."

At this the storm broke out afresh:--"You know I hate the boys; They're only good at taking things, and breaking things, and noise. So, Daddy, please remember this, because--I--want--you--to:-- I'll never marry any boy; I'll only marry _you_."

"Agreed," I cried--the imp, of course, had won the bout of wits; Had gained her point and got her time and beaten me to fits-- "Agreed, agreed,"--she danced for joy--"we'll leave no room for doubt, But bind ourselves with pen and ink, and write the contract out:-"

_This is a contract, firm and clear Made, as doth from these presents appear, Between Peggy, being now in her sixth year, A child of laughter, A sort of funny actress, Referred to hereinafter As the said contractress-- Between the said contractress, that is to say, And a person with whom she is often good enough to play; Who happens to have been something of a factor In bringing her into the world, who, in short, is her father, And is hereinafter spoken of as the said contractor. Now the said contractress declares she would rather Marry the said contractor than any other. At the same time she affirms with the utmost steadiness Her perfect readiness To take any other fellow on as a brother. Still, she means to marry her father, and to be his wife, And to live happily with him all the rest of her life. This contract is made without consideration, And is subject to later ratification. The said contractress had it read through to see that nothing was missed, And she took her pen, and she held it tight in a chubby and cramped-up fist, And she made her mark with a blotted cross, instead of signing her name; And the said contractor he signed in full, and they mean to observe the same._

"Now give me, Peg, that old brown shoe, that battered shoe of yours, I'll stow the contract in its toe, and, if the shoe endures, When sixteen years or so are gone, I'll hunt for it myself And take it gently from its drawer, or get it from its shelf.

"And when, mid clouds of scattered rice, through all the wedding whirl A laughing fellow hurries out a certain graceless girl, Unless my hand have lost its strength, unless my eye be dim, I'll lift the shoe, the contract too, and fling the lot at him."

JOHN

He's a boy, And that's the long and (chiefly) the short of it, And the point of it and the wonderful sport of it; A two-year-old with a taste for a toy, And two chubby fists to clutch it and grasp it, And two fat arms to embrace it and clasp it; And a short stout couple of sturdy legs As hard and as smooth as ostrich eggs; And a jolly round head, so fairly round You could easily roll it, Or take it and bowl it With never a bump along the ground.

And, as to his cheeks, they're also fat-- I've seen them in ancient prints like that, Where a wind-boy high In a cloudy sky Is puffing away for all he's worth, Uprooting the trees With a reckless breeze, And strewing them over the patient earth, Or raising a storm to wreck the ships With the work of his lungs and cheeks and lips.

Take a look at his eyes; I put it to you, Were ever two eyes more truly blue? If you went and worried the whole world through You'd never discover a bluer blue; I doubt if you'd find a blue so true In the coats and scarves of a Cambridge crew.

And his hair Is as fair As a pretty girl's,

But it's right for a boy with its crisp, short curls All a-gleam, as he struts about With a laugh and a shout, To summon his sister-slaves to him For his joyous Majesty's careless whim.

But now, as, after a stand, he budges, And sets to work and solemnly trudges, Out from a bush there springs full tilt His four-legged playmate--and John is spilt.

She's a young dog and a strong dog And a tall dog and a long dog, A Danish lady of high degree, Black coat, kind eye and a stride that's free.

And out she came Like a burst of flame, And John, As he trudged and strutted Sturdily on, Was blindly butted, And, all his dignity spent and gone, On a patch of clover Was tumbled over, His two short legs having failed to score In a sudden match against Lufra's four.

But we picked him up And we brushed him down, And he rated the pup With a dreadful frown; And then he laughed and he went and hugged her, Seized her tail in his fist and tugged her, And so, with a sister's hand to guide him, Continued his march with the dog beside him.

And soon he waggles his way upstairs-- He does it alone, though he finds it steep. He is stripped and gowned, and he says his prayers, And he condescends To admit his friends To a levée before he goes to sleep. He thrones it there With a battered bear And a tattered monkey to form his Court, And, having come to the end of day, Conceives that this is the time for play And every possible kind of sport.

But at last, tucked in for the hundredth time, He babbles a bit of nursery rhyme, And on the bed Droops his curly round head, Gives one long sigh of unalloyed content Over a day so well, so proudly spent, Resigned at last to listen and obey, And so begins to breathe his quiet night away.

THE SPARROW

Let others from the feathered brood Which through the garden seeks its food Pick out for a commending word Each one his own peculiar bird; Hail the plump tit, or fitly sing The finch's crest and flashing wing; Exalt the rook's black satin dress-coat, The thrush's speckled fancy waistcoat; Or praise the robin, meek, but sly, For breast and tail and friendly eye-- These have their place within my heart; The sparrow owns the larger part, And, for no virtues, rules in it, My reckless cheerful favourite! Friend sparrow, let the world contemn Your ways and make a mock of them, And dub you, if it has a mind, Low, quarrelsome, and unrefined; And let it, if it will, pursue With harsh abuse the troops of you Who through the orchard and the field Their busy bills in mischief wield; Who strip the tilth and bare the tree, And make the gardener's face to be Expressive of the words he could, But must not, utter, though he would (For gardeners still, where'er they go, Whate'er they do, in weal or woe, Through every chance of life retain Their ancient Puritanic strain; Tried by the weather they control Each day their angry human soul, And, by the sparrow teased, may tear Their careworn locks, but never swear). Let us admit--alas,'tis true-- You are not adequately few; That half your little life is spent In furious strife or argument; Still, though your wickedness must harrow All feeling souls, I love my sparrow; Still, though I oft and gravely doubt you, I really could not do without you. Your pluck, your wit, your nonchalance, Your cheerful confidence in chance, Your darting flight, your bouts of play, Your chirp, so sociable and gay-- These, and no beauty soft or striking, Make up your passport to my liking; And for your faults I'll still defend you, My little sparrow, and befriend you.

GELERT

Tested and staunch through many a changing year, Gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here. Humble in friendship, but in service proud, He gave to man whate'er his lot allowed; And, rich in love, on each well-trusted friend Spent all his wealth and still had more to spend. Now, reft beyond the unfriendly Stygian tide, For these he yearns and has no wish beside.

AVE, CAESAR!

(MAY 20, 1910)

Full in the splendour of this morning hour, With tramp of men and roll of muffled drums, In what a pomp and pageantry of power, Borne to his grave, our lord, King EDWARD, comes!

In flashing gold and high magnificence, Lo, the proud cavalcade of comrade Kings, Met here to do the dead KING reverence, Its solemn tribute of affection brings.

Heralds and Pursuivants and Men-at-arms, Sultan and Paladin and Potentate, Scarred Captains who have baffled war's alarms And Courtiers glittering in their robes of state,

All in their blazoned ranks, with eyes cast down, Slow pacing in their sorrow pass along Where that which bore the sceptre and the crown Cleaves at their head the silence of the throng.

And in a space behind the passing bier, Looking and longing for his lord in vain, A little playmate whom the KING held dear, Caesar, the terrier, tugs his silver chain!

* * * * *

Hail, Caesar, lonely little Caesar, hail! Little for you the gathered Kings avail. Little you reck, as meekly past you go, Of that solemnity of formal woe. In the strange silence, lo, you prick your ear For one loved voice, and that you shall not hear. So when the monarchs with their bright array Of gold and steel and stars have passed away, When, to their wonted use restored again, All things go duly in their ordered train, You shall appeal at each excluding door, Search through the rooms and every haunt explore; From lawn to lawn, from path to path pursue The well-loved form that still escapes your view. At every tree some happy memories rise To stir your tail and animate your eyes, And at each turn, with gathering strength endued, Hope, still frustrated, must be still renewed. How should you rest from your appointed task Till chance restore the happiness you ask, Take from your heart the burden, ease your pain, And grant you to your master's side again, Proud and content if but you could beguile His voice to flatter and his face to smile?

Caesar, the kindly days may bring relief; Swiftly they pass and dull the edge of grief. You too, resigned at last, may school your mind To miss the comrade whom you cannot find, Never forgetting, but as one who feels The world has secrets which no skill reveals. Henceforth, whate'er the ruthless fates may give, You shall be loved and cherished while you live. Reft of your master, little dog forlorn, To one dear mistress you shall now be sworn, And in her queenly service you shall dwell, At rest with one who loved your master well. And she, that gentle lady, shall control The faithful kingdom of a true dog's soul, And for the past's dear sake shall still defend Caesar, the dead KING'S humble little friend.

SOO-TI

A PEKINESE

Soo-Ti, I thank the careful fate That made you wise and obstinate, Alert, but with a proper pride, And gay, but wondrous dignified. I praise your black and tilted nose; I praise your heart's deep love that shows In songs made up of whimpering cries And in the radiance of your eyes (And if they bulge--forgive the allusion-- Are eyes the worse for such protrusion? The smaller eyes are, sure, the blinder, And size makes every kind eye kinder). Next with affection's look I note The glossy levels of your coat, Where a rich black doth most prevail, Shading to beaver in your tail, And lightly fading as it reaches The tufted things you wear as breeches.

The dweller on the cushion purrs No less when Soo-Ti barks and stirs. She blinks and blinks and lets you share Her bowl of milk, her fav'rite chair. For you she hides her cruel claw And taps you with a velvet paw; And, mastered by your lordly air, For you is meek and debonair. Even should you growl her hair stays flat: Be sure she thinks you half a cat. But you're a Dog and know your job: Oft have I seen you hob-a-nob, And grandly gracious to unbend With a Great Dane, your humble friend. As on the lawn with him you roll, He makes your very being droll. Yet how you set to work to flout him, To tease and gnaw and dance about him! You risk the pressure of his paws, Plunge all you are within his jaws, And, swelling to a final rage, With pin-point teeth the fight engage, While he submits his silly size To every insult you devise. At last, withdrawing from the fuss, You come and tell your tale to us, Bearing aloft through every room Your high tail's undefeated plume, Till, fed with triumphs, you subside, And sleep and doff your native pride, Composing in a wicker fane Those limbs that terrify the Dane.

So, Soo-Ti, I have tried to praise Yourself and all your winning ways, Content if I may guard and please My little dusky Pekinese.

THE BATH

Hang garlands on the bathroom door; Let all the passages be spruce; For, lo, the victim comes once more, And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!

Bring soaps of many scented sorts; Let girls in pinafores attend, With John, their brother, in his shorts, To wash their dusky little friend.

Their little friend, the dusky dog, Short-legged and very obstinate, Faced like a much-offended frog, And fighting hard against his fate.

No Briton he! From palace-born Chinese patricians he descends; He keeps their high ancestral scorn; His spirit breaks, but never bends.

Our water-ways he fain would'scape; He hates the customary bath That thins his tail and spoils his shape, And turns him to a fur-clad lath;

And, seeing that the Pekinese Have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds, He fain would save such eyes as these, Their owner's pride, from British suds.

Vain are his protests--in he goes. His young barbarians crowd around; They soap his paws, they soap his nose; They soap wherever fur is found.

And soon, still laughing, they extract His limpness from the darkling tide; They make the towel's roughness act On back and head and dripping side.

They shout and rub and rub and shout-- He deprecates their odious glee-- Until at last they turn him out, A damp gigantic bumble-bee.

Released, he barks and rolls, and speeds From lawn to lawn, from path to path, And in one glorious minute needs More soapsuds and another bath.

PETER, A PEKINESE PUPPY

Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things, Is a miniature dragon without any wings. He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog, But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog; And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood, Say that nothing is fleeter Than Peter the eater, Than Peter pursuing his food.

He considers the garden his absolute own: It's the place where a digger can bury a bone. Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose, Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes; And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours, That nothing is sweeter Than Peter the eater, The resolute eater of flowers.

Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook, Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book, Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat, To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that; _Faute de mieux_ takes a dress; and his mistress asserts That there's nothing to beat her Like Peter the eater Attached by his teeth to her skirts.

But at last he has supped, and the moment is come When, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum, He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud, And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud. And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl, That nothing is neater Than Peter the eater, Than Peter curled up in a ball, Asleep and digesting it all.

THE DOGS' WELCOME

Hush! We're not a pack of boys Always bound to make a noise. True, there's one amongst us, but He is young; And, wherever we may take him, We can generally shut Such a youngster up and make him Hold his tongue.

Hush! Most cautiously we go On the tippest tip of toe. Are the dogs expecting us At the gate? Two, who usually prize us, Will they jump and make a fuss? Will they really recognise us Where they wait?

Hush! I hear the funny pair Softly whimpering--yes, they're there. Dane and Pekinese, they scratch At the wood, At the solid wood between us; Duke attempts to lift the latch; It's a month since they have seen us-- Open! Good!

Down, Duke, down! Enough, enough! Soo-Ti's screaming; seize his scruff. Soo-Ti's having fearful fits; Duke is tearing us to bits. One will trip us, one will throw us-- But, the darlings, _don't_ they know us!

Then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran, At the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can. Into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star; And now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far. And the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed, and then he took to it too; With shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongue right after his friend he flew; And the long legs lashed and the short legs flashed and scurried like anything, While Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran in a ring.

And last they hurtled amongst us, and then there were tales to tell, For all of us seemed to be scattered and torn, and all of us shrieked and fell; And John, who is plump, got an awful bump, and Helen, who's tall and thin, Was shot through a shrub and gained in bruise as much as she lost in skin; And Rosamond's frock was rent in rags, and tattered in strips was Peg's, And both of them suffered the ninepin fate to the ruin of arms and legs; And every face was licked by a dog, and battered was every limb, When Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran after him.

ODE TO JOHN BRADBURY

(THE NOTES FOR £1 AND 10S ARE SIGNED BY JOHN BRADBURY)

When the Red KAISER, swoll'n with impious pride And stuffed with texts to serve his instant need, Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide, Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed, And bade his hordes advance Through Belgium's cities towards the fields of France; And when at last our patient island race, By the attempted wrong Made fierce and strong, Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face, Oh then, while martial music filled the air, Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum, Calling to men to muster, march, and dare, Oh, then thy day, JOHN BRADBURY, was come.

JOHN BRADBURY, the Muse shall fill my strain To sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time Not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain, Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme. For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down, And men grew pale with monetary fear, And in the toppling mart The stoutest heart Melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear; And some, forgetting their austere renown, Went mad and sold Whate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!

"Since through no fault of ours the die was cast We shall go forth and fight In death's despite And shall return victorious at the last; But how, ah how," they said, "Shall we and ours be fed And clothed and housed from dreary day to day, If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"

Then thou, where no gold was and little store Of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen, And with thy signature Make things secure, Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more And face our foolish fancied fears like men. "I give you notes," you said, "of different kinds To ease your anxious minds: The one is black and shall be fairly found Equal in value to a golden pound; The other--mark its healthy scarlet print-- Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."

Thus didst thou speak--at least I think thou didst-- And, lo, the murmurs fell And all things went right well, While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst. Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee, Our British note-provider, brave JOHN BRADBURY!

TEETH-SETTING

(1914)

When the thunder-shaking German hosts are marching over France-- Lo, the glinting of the bayonet and the quiver of the lance!-- When a rowdy rampant KAISER, stout and mad and middle-aged, Strips his breast of British Orders just to prove that he's enraged; When with fire and shot and pillage He destroys each town and village; When the world is black with warfare, then there's one thing you must do: Set your teeth like steel, my hearties, and sit tight and see it through.