{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32772/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32772","id":"gutenberg_32772","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32772","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","English poetry","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Puck (Legendary character) -- Fiction","Short stories, English"],"text":"Produced by David Edwards, KD Weeks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note: Printer's errors and typos have been corrected.\nItalics are indicated using _underscore_ characters. Consult the\nTranscriber's Notes at the end of this text for details.\n\n\n\n\n REWARDS\n\n AND\n\n FAIRIES\n\n BY\n\n RUDYARD KIPLING\n\n _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK CRAIG_\n\n TORONTO\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.\n 1910\n\n\n\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1910\n BY RUDYARD KIPLING\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\n _A Charm_ ix\n\n Introduction xi\n\n Cold Iron 1\n\n _Cold Iron_ 25\n\n Gloriana 27\n\n _The Two Cousins_ 29\n\n _The Looking-Glass_ 51\n\n The Wrong Thing 53\n\n _A Truthful Song_ 55\n\n _King Henry VII. and the Shipwrights_ 81\n\n Marklake Witches 85\n\n _The Way Through the Woods_ 87\n\n _Brookland Road_ 113\n\n The Knife and the Naked Chalk 115\n\n _The Run of the Downs_ 117\n\n _Song of the Men's Side_ 141\n\n Brother Square-Toes 143\n\n _Philadelphia_ 145\n\n _If_---- 175\n\n 'A Priest in Spite of Himself' 177\n\n _A St. Helena Lullaby_ 179\n\n '_Poor Honest Men_' 213\n\n The Conversion of St. Wilfrid 217\n\n _Eddi's Service_ 219\n\n _Song of the Red War-Boat_ 243\n\n A Doctor of Medicine 247\n\n _An Astrologer's Song_ 249\n\n '_Our Fathers of Old_' 275\n\n Simple Simon 277\n\n _The Thousandth Man_ 279\n\n _Frankie's Trade_ 303\n\n The Tree of Justice 305\n\n _The Ballad of Minepit Shaw_ 307\n\n _A Carol_ 337\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n 'Admiral Boy--Vice-Admiral Babe,' says\n Gloriana, 'I cry your pardon' _Face page_ 41\n\n I kneeled, and he tapped me on the shoulder.\n 'Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,' he says \" 74\n\n They made the sign which no Indian makes\n outside of the Medicine Lodges \" 171\n\n 'You'll open a road from the East unto the\n West, and back again' \" 292\n\n\n\n\n_A CHARM_\n\n\n _Take of English earth as much\n As either hand may rightly clutch.\n In the taking of it breathe\n Prayer for all who lie beneath--\n Not the great nor well bespoke,\n But the mere uncounted folk\n Of whose life and death is none\n Report or lamentation.\n Lay that earth upon thy heart,\n And thy sickness shall depart!_\n\n _It shall sweeten and make whole\n Fevered breath and festered soul;\n It shall mightily restrain\n Over-busy hand and brain;\n It shall ease thy mortal strife\n 'Gainst the immortal woe of life,\n Till thyself restored shall prove\n By what grace the Heavens do move._\n\n _Take of English flowers these--\n Spring's full-faced primroses,\n Summer's wild wide-hearted rose,\n Autumn's wall-flower of the close,\n And, thy darkness to illume,\n Winter's bee-thronged ivy-bloom.\n Seek and serve them where they bide\n From Candlemas to Christmas-tide.\n For these simples used aright\n Shall restore a failing sight._\n\n _These shall cleanse and purify\n Webbed and inward-turning eye;\n These shall show thee treasure hid,\n Thy familiar fields amid,\n At thy threshold, on thy hearth,\n Or about thy daily path;\n And reveal (which is thy need)\n Every man a King indeed!_\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nOnce upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, living in the English\ncountry, had the good fortune to meet with Puck, _alias_ Robin\nGoodfellow, _alias_ Nick o' Lincoln, _alias_ Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the\nlast survivor in England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their\nproper name, of course, is 'The People of the Hills.' This Puck, by\nmeans of the magic of Oak, Ash, and Thorn, gave the children power--\n\n To see what they should see and hear what they should hear,\n Though it should have happened three thousand year.\n\nThe result was that from time to time, and in different places on the\nfarm and in the fields and the country about, they saw and talked to\nsome rather interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a Knight\nof the Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a Roman Legion\nstationed in England, another a builder and decorator of King Henry\nVII.'s time; and so on and so forth; as I have tried to explain in a\nbook called _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\nA year or so later, the children met Puck once more, and though they\nwere then older and wiser, and wore boots regularly instead of going\nbare-footed when they got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever,\nand introduced them to more people of the old days.\n\nHe was careful, of course, to take away their memory of their walks and\nconversations afterwards, but otherwise he did not interfere; and Dan\nand Una would find the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or\nwoods.\n\nIn the stories that follow I am trying to tell something about those\npeople.\n\n\n\n\nCold Iron\n\n\nWhen Dan and Una had arranged to go out before breakfast, they did not\nremember it was Midsummer Morning. They only wanted to see the otter\nwhich, old Hobden said, had been fishing their brook for weeks; and\nearly morning was the time to surprise him. As they tiptoed out of the\nhouse into the wonderful stillness, the church clock struck five. Dan\ntook a few steps across the dew-blobbed lawn, and looked at his black\nfootprints.\n\n'I think we ought to be kind to our poor boots,' he said. 'They'll get\nhorrid wet.'\n\nIt was their first Summer in boots, and they hated them, so they took\nthem off, and slung them round their necks, and paddled joyfully over\nthe dripping turf where the shadows lay the wrong way, like evening in\nthe East.\n\nThe sun was well up and warm, but by the brook the last of the night\nmist still fumed off the water. They picked up the chain of otter's\nfootprints on the mud, and followed it from the bank, between the weeds\nand the drenched mowing, while the birds shouted with surprise. Then\nthe track left the brook and became a smear, as though a log had been\ndragged along.\n\nThey traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the mill-sluice to the\nForge, round Hobden's garden, and then up the slope till it ran out on\nthe short turf and fern of Pook's Hill, and they heard the\ncock-pheasants crowing in the woods behind them.\n\n'No use!' said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound. 'The dew's drying\noff, and old Hobden says otters'll travel for miles.'\n\n'I'm sure we've travelled miles.' Una fanned herself with her hat. 'How\nstill it is! It's going to be a regular roaster.' She looked down the\nvalley, where no chimney yet smoked.\n\n'Hobden's up!' Dan pointed to the open door of the Forge cottage. 'What\nd'you suppose he has for breakfast?'\n\n'One of _them_. He says they eat good all times of the year.' Una jerked\nher head at some stately pheasants going down to the brook for a drink.\n\nA few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their bare feet, yapped,\nand trotted off.\n\n'Ah, Mus' Reynolds--Mus' Reynolds'--Dan was quoting from old\nHobden,--'if I knowed all you knowed, I'd know something.'[1]\n\n[1] See 'The Winged Hats' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'I say,' Una lowered her voice, 'you know that funny feeling of things\nhaving happened before. I felt it when you said \"Mus' Reynolds.\"'\n\n'So did I,' Dan began. 'What is it?'\n\nThey faced each other stammering with excitement.\n\n'Wait a shake! I'll remember in a minute. Wasn't it something about a\nfox--last year. Oh, I nearly had it then!' Dan cried.\n\n'Be quiet!' said Una, prancing excitedly. 'There was something happened\nbefore we met the fox last year. Hills! Broken Hills--the play at the\ntheatre--see what you see----'\n\n'I remember now,' Dan shouted. 'It's as plain as the nose on your\nface--Pook's Hill--Puck's Hill--Puck!'\n\n'I remember, too,' said Una. 'And it's Midsummer Day again!'\n\nThe young fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked out, chewing a\ngreen-topped rush.\n\n'Good Midsummer Morning to you. Here's a happy meeting,' said he. They\nshook hands all round, and asked questions.\n\n'You've wintered well,' he said after a while, and looked them up and\ndown. 'Nothing much wrong with you, seemingly.'\n\n'They've put us into boots,' said Una. 'Look at my feet--they're all\npale white, and my toes are squdged together awfully.'\n\n'Yes--boots make a difference,' Puck wriggled his brown, square, hairy\nfoot, and cropped a dandelion flower between the big toe and the next.\n\n'I could do that--last year,' Dan said dismally, as he tried and failed.\n'And boots simply ruin one's climbing.'\n\n'There must be some advantage to them, I suppose,' said Puck, 'or folk\nwouldn't wear them. Shall we come this way?'\n\nThey sauntered along side by side till they reached the gate at the far\nend of the hillside. Here they halted just like cattle, and let the sun\nwarm their backs while they listened to the flies in the wood.\n\n'Little Lindens is awake,' said Una, as she hung with her chin on the\ntop rail. 'See the chimney smoke?'\n\n'To-day's Thursday, isn't it?' Puck turned to look at the old pink\nfarmhouse across the little valley. 'Mrs. Vincey's baking day. Bread\nshould rise well this weather.' He yawned, and that set them both\nyawning.\n\nThe bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in every direction. They\nfelt that little crowds were stealing past.\n\n'Doesn't that sound like--er--the People of the Hills?' said Una.\n\n'It's the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods before people\nget about,' said Puck, as though he were Ridley the keeper.\n\n'Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like.'\n\n'As I remember 'em, the People of the Hills used to make more noise.\nThey'd settle down for the day rather like small birds settling down for\nthe night. But that was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh,\nme! The deeds that I've had act and part in, you'd scarcely believe!'\n\n'I like that!' said Dan. 'After all you told us last year, too!'\n\n'Only, the minute you went away, you made us forget everything,' said\nUna.\n\nPuck laughed and shook his head. 'I shall this year, too. I've given\nyou seizin of Old England, and I've taken away your Doubt and Fear, but\nyour memory and remembrance between whiles I'll keep where old Billy\nTrott kept his night-lines--and that's where he could draw 'em up and\nhide 'em at need. Does that suit?' He twinkled mischievously.\n\n'It's got to suit,' said Una, and laughed. 'We can't magic back at you.'\nShe folded her arms and leaned against the gate. 'Suppose, now, you\nwanted to magic me into something--an otter? Could you?'\n\n'Not with those boots round your neck.'\n\n'I'll take them off.' She threw them on the turf. Dan's followed\nimmediately. 'Now!' she said.\n\n'Less than ever now you've trusted me. Where there's true faith, there's\nno call for magic.' Puck's slow smile broadened all over his face.\n\n'But what have boots to do with it?' said Una, perching on the gate.\n\n'There's cold iron in them,' said Puck, and settled beside her. 'Nails\nin the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.'\n\n'How?'\n\n'Can't you feel it does? You wouldn't like to go back to bare feet\nagain, same as last year, would you? Not really?'\n\n'No--o. I suppose I shouldn't--not for always. I'm growing up, you\nknow,' said Una.\n\n'But you told us last year, in the Long Slip--at the theatre--that you\ndidn't mind Cold Iron,' said Dan.\n\n'_I_ don't; but folk in housen, as the People of the Hills call them,\nmust be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of\nCold Iron--there's iron in every man's house, isn't there? They handle\nCold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune's made or spoilt\nby Cold Iron in some shape or other. That's how it goes with Flesh and\nBlood, and one can't prevent it.'\n\n'I don't quite see. How do you mean?' said Dan.\n\n'It would take me some time to tell you.'\n\n'Oh, it's ever so long to breakfast,' said Dan. 'We looked in the larder\nbefore we came out.' He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una\nanother, which they shared with Puck.\n\n'That's Little Lindens' baking,' he said, as his white teeth sunk in it.\n'I know Mrs. Vincey's hand.' He ate with a slow sideways thrust and\ngrind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb.\nThe sun flashed on Little Lindens' windows, and the cloudless sky grew\nstiller and hotter in the valley.\n\n'Ah--Cold Iron,' he said at last to the impatient children. 'Folk in\nhousen, as the People of the Hills say, grow so careless about Cold\nIron. They'll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put\nit over the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the Hills slip\nin, find the cradle-babe in the corner, and----'\n\n'Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,' Una cried.\n\n'No,' said Puck firmly. 'All that talk of changelings is people's excuse\nfor their own neglect. Never believe 'em. I'd whip 'em at the cart-tail\nthrough three parishes if I had my way.'\n\n'But they don't do it now,' said Una.\n\n'Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and some fields never alter.\nBut the People of the Hills didn't work any changeling tricks. They'd\ntiptoe in and whisper, and weave round the cradle-babe in the\nchimney-corner--a fag-end of a charm here, or half a spell there--like\nkettles singing; but when the babe's mind came to bud out afterwards, it\nwould act differently from other people in its station. That's no\nadvantage to man or maid. So I wouldn't allow it with my folks' babies\nhere. I told Sir Huon so once.'\n\n'Who was Sir Huon?' Dan asked, and Puck turned on him in quiet\nastonishment.\n\n'Sir Huon of Bordeaux--he succeeded King Oberon. He had been a bold\nknight once, but he was lost on the road to Babylon, a long while back.\nHave you ever heard, \"How many miles to Babylon?\"'\n\n'Of course,' said Dan, flushing.\n\n'Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was new. But about tricks on\nmortal babies. I said to Sir Huon in the fern here, on just such a\nmorning as this: \"If you crave to act and influence on folk in housen,\nwhich I know is your desire, why don't you take some human cradle-babe\nby fair dealing, and bring him up among yourselves on the far side of\nCold Iron--as Oberon did in time past? Then you could make him a\nsplendid fortune, and send him out into the world?\"\n\n'\"Time past is past time,\" says Sir Huon. \"I doubt if we could do it.\nFor one thing, the babe would have to be taken without wronging man,\nwoman, or child. For another, he'd have to be born on the far side of\nCold Iron--in some house where no Cold Iron ever stood; and for yet the\nthird, he'd have to be kept from Cold Iron all his days till we let him\nfind his fortune. No, it's not easy,\" he said, and he rode off,\nthinking. You see, Sir Huon had been a man once.\n\n'I happened to attend Lewes Market next Woden's Day even, and watched\nthe slaves being sold there--same as pigs are sold at Robertsbridge\nMarket nowadays. Only, the pigs have rings on their noses, and the\nslaves had rings round their necks.'\n\n'What sort of rings?' said Dan.\n\n'A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb thick, just like a\nquoit, but with a snap to it for to snap round the slave's neck. They\nused to do a big trade in slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship them\nto all parts of Old England, packed in oak sawdust. But, as I was\nsaying, there was a farmer out of the Weald who had bought a woman with\na babe in her arms, and he didn't want any encumbrances to her driving\nhis beasts home for him.'\n\n'Beast himself!' said Una, and kicked her bare heel on the gate.\n\n'So he blamed the auctioneer. \"It's none o' my baby,\" the wench puts in.\n\"I took it off a woman in our gang who died on Terrible Down yesterday.\"\n\"I'll take it off to the Church then,\" says the farmer. \"Mother\nChurch'll make a monk of it, and we'll step along home.\"\n\n'It was dusk then. He slipped down to St. Pancras' Church, and laid the\nbabe at the cold chapel door. I breathed on the back of his stooping\nneck--and--I've _heard_ he never could be warm at any fire afterwards. I\nshould have been surprised if he could! Then I whipped up the babe, and\ncame flying home here like a bat to his belfry.\n\n'On the dewy break of morning of Thor's own day--just such a day as\nthis--I laid the babe outside the Hill here, and the People flocked up\nand wondered at the sight.\n\n'\"You've brought him, then?\" Sir Huon said, staring like any mortal man.\n\n'\"Yes, and he's brought his mouth with him too,\" I said. The babe was\ncrying loud for his breakfast.\n\n'\"What is he?\" says Sir Huon, when the womenfolk had drawn him under to\nfeed him.\n\n'\"Full Moon and Morning Star may know,\" I says. \"_I_ don't. By what I\ncould make out of him in the moonlight, he's without brand or blemish.\nI'll answer for it that he's born on the far side of Cold Iron, for he\nwas born under a shaw on Terrible Down, and I've wronged neither man,\nwoman, nor child in taking him, for he is the son of a dead slave\nwoman.\"\n\n'\"All to the good, Robin,\" Sir Huon said. \"He'll be the less anxious to\nleave us. Oh, we'll give him a splendid fortune, and he shall act and\ninfluence on folk in housen as we have always craved.\" His Lady came up\nthen, and drew him under to watch the babe's wonderful doings.'\n\n'Who was his Lady?' said Dan.\n\n'The Lady Esclairmonde. She had been a woman once, till she followed\nSir Huon across the fern, as we say. Babies are no special treat to\nme--I've watched too many of them--so I stayed on the Hill. Presently I\nheard hammering down at the Forge there,' Puck pointed towards Hobden's\ncottage. 'It was too early for any workmen, but it passed through my\nmind that the breaking day was Thor's own day. A slow North-East wind\nblew up and set the oaks sawing and fretting in a way I remembered; so I\nslipped over to see what I could see.'\n\n'And what did you see?'\n\n'A smith forging something or other out of Cold Iron. When it was\nfinished, he weighed it in his hand (his back was towards me), and\ntossed it from him a longish quoit-throw down the valley. I saw Cold\nIron flash in the sun, but I couldn't quite make out where it fell.\n_That_ didn't trouble me. I knew it would be found sooner or later by\nsome one.'\n\n'How did you know?' Dan went on.\n\n'Because I knew the Smith that made it,' said Puck quietly.\n\n'Wayland Smith?'[2] Una suggested.\n\n[2] See 'Weland's Sword' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'No. I should have passed the time o' day with Wayland Smith, of course.\nThis other was different. So'--Puck made a queer crescent in the air\nwith his finger--'I counted the blades of grass under my nose till the\nwind dropped and he had gone--he and his Hammer.'\n\n'Was it Thor then?' Una murmured under her breath.\n\n'Who else? It was Thor's own day.' Puck repeated the sign. 'I didn't\ntell Sir Huon or his Lady what I'd seen. Borrow trouble for yourself if\nthat's your nature, but don't lend it to your neighbours. Moreover, I\nmight have been mistaken about the Smith's work. He might have been\nmaking things for mere amusement, though it wasn't like him, or he might\nhave thrown away an old piece of made iron. One can never be sure. So I\nheld my tongue and enjoyed the babe. He was a wonderful child--and the\nPeople of the Hills were so set on him, they wouldn't have believed me.\nHe took to me wonderfully. As soon as he could walk he'd putter forth\nwith me all about my Hill here. Fern makes soft falling! He knew when\nday broke on earth above, for he'd thump, thump, thump, like an old\nbuck-rabbit in a bury, and I'd hear him say \"Opy!\" till some one who\nknew the Charm let him out, and then it would be \"Robin! Robin!\" all\nround Robin Hood's barn, as we say, till he'd found me.'\n\n'The dear!' said Una. 'I'd like to have seen him!'\n\n'Yes, he was a boy. And when it came to learning his words--spells and\nsuch like--he'd sit on the Hill in the long shadows, worrying out bits\nof charms to try on passers-by. And when the bird flew to him, or the\ntree bowed to him for pure love's sake (like everything else on my\nHill), he'd shout, \"Robin! Look--see! Look, see, Robin!\" and sputter out\nsome spell or other that they had taught him, _all_ wrong end first,\ntill I hadn't the heart to tell him it was his own dear self and not\nthe words that worked the wonder. When he got more abreast of his words,\nand could cast spells for sure, as we say, he took more and more notice\nof things and people in the world. People, of course, always drew him,\nfor he was mortal all through.\n\n'Seeing that he was free to move among folk in housen, under or over\nCold Iron, I used to take him along with me night-walking, where he\ncould watch folk, and I could keep him from touching Cold Iron. That\nwasn't so difficult as it sounds, because there are plenty of things\nbesides Cold Iron in housen to catch a boy's fancy. He _was_ a handful,\nthough! I shan't forget when I took him to Little Lindens--his first\nnight under a roof. The smell of the rushlights and the bacon on the\nbeams--they were stuffing a feather-bed too, and it was a drizzling warm\nnight--got into his head. Before I could stop him--we were hiding in the\nbakehouse--he'd whipped up a storm of wildfire, with flashlights and\nvoices, which sent the folk shrieking into the garden, and a girl\noverset a hive there, and--of course _he_ didn't know till then such\nthings could touch him--he got badly stung, and came home with his face\nlooking like kidney potatoes!\n\n'You can imagine how angry Sir Huon and Lady Esclairmonde were with poor\nRobin! They said the Boy was never to be trusted with me night-walking\nany more--and he took about as much notice of their order as he did of\nthe bee-stings. Night after night, as soon as it was dark, I'd pick up\nhis whistle in the wet fern, and off we'd flit together among folk in\nhousen till break of day--he asking questions, and I answering\naccording to my knowledge. Then we fell into mischief again!' Puck shook\ntill the gate rattled.\n\n'We came across a man up at Brightling who was beating his wife with a\nbat in the garden. I was just going to toss the man over his own\nwoodlump when the Boy jumped the hedge and ran at him. Of course the\nwoman took her husband's part, and while the man beat him, the woman\nscratted his face. It wasn't till I danced among the cabbages like\nBrightling Beacon all ablaze that they gave up and ran indoors. The\nBoy's fine green-and-gold clothes were torn all to pieces, and he had\nbeen welted in twenty places with the man's bat, and scratted by the\nwoman's nails to pieces. He looked like a Robertsbridge hopper on a\nMonday morning.\n\n'\"Robin,\" said he, while I was trying to clean him down with a bunch of\nhay, \"I don't quite understand folk in housen. I went to help that old\nwoman, and she hit me, Robin!\"\n\n'\"What else did you expect?\" I said. \"That was the one time when you\nmight have worked one of your charms, instead of running into three\ntimes your weight.\"\n\n'\"I didn't think,\" he says. \"But I caught the man one on the head that\nwas as good as any charm. Did you see it work, Robin?\"\n\n'\"Mind your nose,\" I said. \"Bleed it on a dockleaf--not your sleeve, for\npity's sake.\" I knew what the Lady Esclairmonde would say.\n\n'_He_ didn't care. He was as happy as a gipsy with a stolen pony, and\nthe front part of his gold coat, all blood and grass stains, looked like\nancient sacrifices.\n\n'Of course the People of the Hills laid the blame on me. The Boy could\ndo nothing wrong, in their eyes.\n\n'\"You are bringing him up to act and influence on folk in housen, when\nyou're ready to let him go,\" I said. \"Now he's begun to do it, why do\nyou cry shame on me? That's no shame. It's his nature drawing him to his\nkind.\"\n\n'\"But we don't want him to begin _that_ way,\" the Lady Esclairmonde\nsaid. \"We intend a splendid fortune for him--not your flitter-by-night,\nhedge-jumping, gipsy-work.\"\n\n'\"I don't blame you, Robin,\" says Sir Huon, \"but I _do_ think you might\nlook after the Boy more closely.\"\n\n'\"I've kept him away from Cold Iron these sixteen years,\" I said. \"You\nknow as well as I do, the first time he touches Cold Iron he'll find his\nown fortune, in spite of everything you intend for him. You owe me\nsomething for that.\"\n\n'Sir Huon, having been a man, was going to allow me the right of it, but\nthe Lady Esclairmonde, being the Mother of all Mothers, over-persuaded\nhim.\n\n'\"We're very grateful,\" Sir Huon said, \"but we think that just for the\npresent you are about too much with him on the Hill.\"\n\n'\"Though you have said it,\" I said, \"I will give you a second chance.\" I\ndid not like being called to account for my doings on my own Hill. I\nwouldn't have stood it even that far except I loved the Boy.\n\n'\"No! No!\" says the Lady Esclairmonde. \"He's never any trouble when he's\nleft to me and himself. It's your fault.\"\n\n'\"You have said it,\" I answered. \"Hear me! From now on till the Boy has\nfound his fortune, whatever that may be, I vow to you all on my Hill, by\nOak, and Ash, and Thorn, _and_ by the Hammer of Asa Thor\"'--again Puck\nmade that curious double-cut in the air--'\"that you may leave me out of\nall your counts and reckonings.\" Then I went out'--he snapped his\nfingers--'like the puff of a candle, and though they called and cried,\nthey made nothing by it. I didn't promise not to keep an eye on the Boy,\nthough. I watched him close--close--close!\n\n'When he found what his people had forced me to do, he gave them a piece\nof his mind, but they all kissed and cried round him, and being only a\nboy, he came over to their way of thinking (I don't blame him), and\ncalled himself unkind and ungrateful; and it all ended in fresh shows\nand plays, and magics to distract him from folk in housen. Dear heart\nalive! How he used to call and call on me, and I couldn't answer, or\neven let him know that I was near!'\n\n'Not even once?' said Una. 'If he was very lonely?'\n\n'No, he couldn't,' said Dan, who had been thinking. 'Didn't you swear by\nthe Hammer of Thor that you wouldn't, Puck?'\n\n'By that Hammer!' was the deep rumbled reply. Then he came back to his\nsoft speaking voice. 'And the Boy _was_ lonely, when he couldn't see me\nany more. He began to try to learn all learning (he had good teachers),\nbut I saw him lift his eyes from the big black books towards folk in\nhousen all the time. He studied song-making (good teacher she had too!),\nbut he sung those songs with his back toward the Hill, and his face\ntoward folk. _I_ know! I have sat and grieved over him grieving within a\nrabbit's jump of him. Then he studied the High, Low, and Middle Magic.\nHe had promised the Lady Esclairmonde he would never go near folk in\nhousen; so he had to make shows and shadows for his mind to chew on.'\n\n'What sort of shows?' said Dan.\n\n'Just boy's magic as we say. I'll show you some, some time. It pleased\nhim for the while, and it didn't hurt any one in particular except a few\nmen coming home late from the taverns. But I knew what it was a sign of,\nand I followed him like a weasel follows a rabbit. As good a boy as ever\nlived! I've seen him with Sir Huon and the Lady Esclairmonde stepping\njust as they stepped to avoid the track of Cold Iron in a furrow, or\nwalking wide of some old ash-tot because a man had left his swop-hook or\nspade there; and all his heart aching to go straightforward among folk\nin housen all the time. Oh, a good boy! They always intended a fine\nfortune for him--but they could never find it in their heart to let him\nbegin. I've heard that many warned them, but they wouldn't be warned.\nSo it happened _as_ it happened.\n\n'One hot night I saw the Boy roving about here wrapped in his flaming\ndiscontents. There was flash on flash against the clouds, and rush on\nrush of shadows down the valley till the shaws were full of his hounds\ngiving tongue, and the wood-ways were packed with his knights in armour\nriding down into the water-mists--all his own magic, of course. Behind\nthem you could see great castles lifting slow and splendid on arches of\nmoonshine, with maidens waving their hands at the windows, which all\nturned into roaring rivers; and then would come the darkness of his own\nyoung heart wiping out the whole slateful. But boy's magic doesn't\ntrouble me--or Merlin's either for that matter. I followed the Boy by\nthe flashes and the whirling wildfire of his discontent, and oh, but I\ngrieved for him! Oh, but I grieved for him! He pounded back and forth\nlike a bullock in a strange pasture--sometimes alone--sometimes\nwaist-deep among his shadow-hounds--sometimes leading his shadow-knights\non a hawk-winged horse to rescue his shadow-girls. I never guessed he\nhad such magic at his command; but it's often that way with boys.\n\n'Just when the owl comes home for the second time, I saw Sir Huon and\nthe Lady ride down my Hill, where there's not much magic allowed except\nmine. They were very pleased at the Boy's magic--the valley flared with\nit--and I heard them settling his splendid fortune when they should find\nit in their hearts to let him go to act and influence among folk in\nhousen. Sir Huon was for making him a great King somewhere or other, and\nthe Lady was for making him a marvellous wise man whom all should praise\nfor his skill and kindness. She was very kind-hearted.\n\n'Of a sudden we saw the flashes of his discontent turned back on the\nclouds, and his shadow-hounds stopped baying.\n\n'\"There's Magic fighting Magic over yonder,\" the Lady Esclairmonde\ncried, reining up. \"Who is against him?\"\n\n'I could have told her, but I did not count it any of my business to\nspeak of Asa Thor's comings and goings.'\n\n'How did you know?' said Una.\n\n'A slow North-East wind blew up, sawing and fretting through the oaks in\na way I remembered. The wildfire roared up, one last time in one sheet,\nand snuffed out like a rush-light, and a bucketful of stinging hail\nfell. We heard the Boy walking in the Long Slip--where I first met you.\n\n'\"Here, oh, come here!\" said the Lady Esclairmonde, and stretched out\nher arms in the dark.\n\n'He was coming slowly, but he stumbled in the footpath, being, of\ncourse, mortal man.\n\n'\"Why, what's this?\" he said to himself. We three heard him.\n\n'\"Hold, lad, hold! 'Ware Cold Iron!\" said Sir Huon, and they two swept\ndown like night-jars, crying as they rode.\n\n'I ran at their stirrups, but it was too late. We felt that the Boy had\ntouched Cold Iron somewhere in the dark, for the Horses of the Hill\nshied off, and whipped round, snorting.\n\n'Then I judged it was time for me to show myself in my own shape; so I\ndid.\n\n'\"Whatever it is,\" I said, \"he has taken hold of it. Now we must find\nout whatever it _is_ that he has taken hold of; for that will be his\nfortune.\"\n\n'\"Come here, Robin,\" the Boy shouted, as soon as he heard my voice. \"I\ndon't know what I've hold of.\"\n\n'\"It is in your hands,\" I called back. \"Tell us if it is hard and cold,\nwith jewels atop. For that will be a King's Sceptre.\"\n\n'\"Not by a furrow-long,\" he said, and stooped and tugged in the dark. We\nheard him.\n\n'\"Has it a handle and two cutting edges?\" I called. \"For that'll be a\nKnight's Sword.\"\n\n'\"No, it hasn't,\" he says. \"It's neither ploughshare, whittle, hook, nor\ncrook, nor aught I've yet seen men handle.\" By this time he was\nscratting in the dirt to prize it up.\n\n'\"Whatever it is, you know who put it there, Robin,\" said Sir Huon to\nme, \"or you would not ask those questions. You should have told me as\nsoon as you knew.\"\n\n'\"What could you or I have done against the Smith that made it and laid\nit for him to find?\" I said, and I whispered Sir Huon what I had seen at\nthe Forge on Thor's Day, when the babe was first brought to the Hill.\n\n'\"Oh, good-bye, our dreams!\" said Sir Huon. \"It's neither sceptre,\nsword, nor plough! Maybe yet it's a bookful of learning, bound with\niron clasps. There's a chance for a splendid fortune in that\nsometimes.\"\n\n'But we knew we were only speaking to comfort ourselves, and the Lady\nEsclairmonde, having been a woman, said so.\n\n'\"Thur aie! Thur help us!\" the Boy called. \"It is round, without end,\nCold Iron, four fingers wide and a thumb thick, and there is writing on\nthe breadth of it.\"\n\n'\"Read the writing if you have the learning,\" I called. The darkness had\nlifted by then, and the owl was out over the fern again.\n\n'He called back, reading the runes on the iron:\n\n \"Few can see\n Further forth\n Than when the child\n Meets the Cold Iron.\"\n\nAnd there he stood, in clear starlight, with a new, heavy, shining\nslave-ring round his proud neck.\n\n'\"Is this how it goes?\" he asked, while the Lady Esclairmonde cried.\n\n'\"That is how it goes,\" I said. He hadn't snapped the catch home yet,\nthough.\n\n'\"What fortune does it mean for him?\" said Sir Huon, while the Boy\nfingered the ring. \"You who walk under Cold Iron, you must tell us and\nteach us.\"\n\n'\"Tell I can, but teach I cannot,\" I said. \"The virtue of the Ring is\nonly that he must go among folk in housen henceforward, doing what they\nwant done, or what he knows they need, all Old England over. Never will\nhe be his own master, nor yet ever any man's. He will get half he gives,\nand give twice what he gets, till his life's last breath; and if he lays\naside his load before he draws that last breath, all his work will go\nfor naught.\"\n\n'\"Oh, cruel, wicked Thor!\" cried the Lady Esclairmonde. \"Ah, look, see,\nall of you! The catch is still open! He hasn't locked it. He can still\ntake it off. He can still come back. Come back!\" She went as near as she\ndared, but she could not lay hands on Cold Iron. The Boy could have\ntaken it off, yes. We waited to see if he would, but he put up his hand,\nand the snap locked home.\n\n'\"What else could I have done?\" said he.\n\n'\"Surely, then, you will do,\" I said. \"Morning's coming, and if you three\nhave any farewells to make, make them now, for, after sunrise, Cold Iron\nmust be your master.\"\n\n'So the three sat down, cheek by wet cheek, telling over their farewells\ntill morning light. As good a boy as ever lived, he was.'\n\n'And what happened to him?' asked Dan.\n\n'When morning came, Cold Iron was master of him and his fortune, and he\nwent to work among folk in housen. Presently he came across a maid\nlike-minded with himself, and they were wedded, and had bushels of\nchildren, as the saying is. Perhaps you'll meet some of his breed, this\nyear.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Una. 'But what did the poor Lady Esclairmonde do?'\n\n'What _can_ you do when Asa Thor lays the Cold Iron in a lad's path? She\nand Sir Huon were comforted to think they had given the Boy good store\nof learning to act and influence on folk in housen. For he _was_ a good\nboy! Isn't it getting on for breakfast time? I'll walk with you a\npiece.'\n\nWhen they were well in the centre of the bone-dry fern, Dan nudged Una,\nwho stopped and put on a boot as quickly as she could.\n\n'Now,' she said, 'you can't get any Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves from\nhere, and'--she balanced wildly on one leg--'I'm standing on Cold Iron.\nWhat'll you do if we don't go away?'\n\n'E-eh? Of all mortal impudence!' said Puck, as Dan, also in one boot,\ngrabbed his sister's hand to steady himself. He walked round them,\nshaking with delight. 'You think I can only work with a handful of dead\nleaves? This comes of taking away your Doubt and Fear! I'll show you!'\n\n * * * * *\n\nA minute later they charged into old Hobden at his simple breakfast of\ncold roast pheasant, shouting that there was a wasps' nest in the fern\nwhich they had nearly stepped on, and asking him to come and smoke it\nout.\n\n'It's too early for wops-nestes, an' I don't go diggin' in the Hill, not\nfor shillin's,' said the old man placidly. 'You've a thorn in your foot,\nMiss Una. Sit down, and put on your t'other boot. You're too old to be\ncaperin' barefoot on an empty stomach. Stay it with this chicken o'\nmine.'\n\n\n\n\nCOLD IRON\n\n\n '_Gold is for the mistress--silver for the maid!\n Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade._'\n 'Good!' said the Baron, sitting in his hall,\n 'But Iron--Cold Iron--is master of them all!'\n\n So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,\n Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege--\n 'Nay!' said the cannoneer on the castle wall,\n 'But Iron--Cold Iron--shall be master of you all!'\n\n Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,\n When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along!\n He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,\n And Iron--Cold Iron--was master of it all!\n\n Yet his King spake kindly (Oh, how kind a Lord!)\n 'What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?'\n 'Nay!' said the Baron, 'mock not at my fall,\n For Iron--Cold Iron--is master of men all.'\n\n '_Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown--\n Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown._'\n 'As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,\n For Iron--Cold Iron--must be master of men all!'\n\n Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)\n 'Here is Bread and here is Wine--sit and sup with me.\n Eat and drink in Mary's name, the whiles I do recall\n How Iron--Cold Iron--can be master of men all!'\n\n He took the Wine and blessed It; He blessed and brake the Bread.\n With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:\n 'Look! These Hands they pierced with nails outside my city wall\n Show Iron--Cold Iron--to be master of men all!\n\n 'Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong,\n Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.\n I forgive thy treason--I redeem thy fall--\n For Iron--Cold Iron--must be master of men all!'\n\n '_Crowns are for the valiant--sceptres for the bold!\n Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold._'\n 'Nay!' said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,\n 'But Iron--Cold Iron--is master of man all!\n Iron, out of Calvary, is master of man all!'\n\n\n\n\nGloriana\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO COUSINS\n\n\n Valour and Innocence\n Have latterly gone hence\n To certain death by certain shame attended.\n Envy--ah! even to tears!--\n The fortune of their years\n Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.\n\n Scarce had they lifted up\n Life's full and fiery cup,\n Than they had set it down untouched before them.\n Before their day arose\n They beckoned it to close--\n Close in destruction and confusion o'er them.\n\n They did not stay to ask\n What prize should crown their task,\n Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;\n But passed into eclipse,\n Her kiss upon their lips--\n Even Belphoebe's, whom they gave their lives for!\n\n\n\n\nGloriana\n\n\nWillow Shaw, the little fenced wood where the hop-poles are stacked like\nIndian wigwams, had been given to Dan and Una for their very own kingdom\nwhen they were quite small. As they grew older, they contrived to keep\nit most particularly private. Even Phillips, the gardener, told them\nevery time he came in to take a hop-pole for his beans, and old Hobden\nwould no more have thought of setting his rabbit-wires there without\nleave, given fresh each spring, than he would have torn down the calico\nand marking-ink notice on the big willow which said: 'Grown-ups not\nallowed in the Kingdom unless brought.'\n\nNow you can understand their indignation when, one blowy July afternoon,\nas they were going up for a potato-roast, they saw somebody moving among\nthe trees. They hurled themselves over the gate, dropping half the\npotatoes, and while they were picking them up Puck came out of a wigwam.\n\n'Oh, it's you, is it?' said Una. 'We thought it was people.'\n\n'I saw you were angry--from your legs,' he answered with a grin.\n\n'Well, it's our own Kingdom--not counting you, of course.'\n\n'That's rather why I came. A lady here wants to see you.'\n\n'What about?' said Dan cautiously.\n\n'Oh, just Kingdoms and things. She knows about Kingdoms.'\n\nThere was a lady near the fence dressed in a long dark cloak that hid\neverything except her high red-heeled shoes. Her face was half covered\nby a black silk fringed mask, without goggles. And yet she did not look\nin the least as if she motored.\n\nPuck led them up to her and bowed solemnly. Una made the best\ndancing-lesson curtsy she could remember. The lady answered with a long,\ndeep, slow, billowy one.\n\n'Since it seems that you are a Queen of this Kingdom,' she said, 'I can\ndo no less than acknowledge your sovereignty.' She turned sharply on\nstaring Dan. 'What's in your head, lad? Manners?'\n\n'I was thinking how wonderfully you did that curtsy,' he answered.\n\nShe laughed a rather shrill laugh. 'You're a courtier already. Do you\nknow anything of dances, wench--or Queen, must I say?'\n\n'I've had some lessons, but I can't really dance a bit,' said Una.\n\n'You should learn then.' The lady moved forward as though she would\nteach her at once. 'It gives a woman alone among men or her enemies\ntime to think how she shall win or--lose. A woman can only work in man's\nplaytime. Heigho!' She sat down on the bank.\n\nOld Middenboro, the lawn-mower pony, stumped across the paddock and hung\nhis sorrowful head over the fence.\n\n'A pleasant Kingdom,' said the lady, looking round. 'Well enclosed. And\nhow does your Majesty govern it? Who is your Minister?'\n\nUna did not quite understand. 'We don't play that,' she said.\n\n'Play?' The lady threw up her hands and laughed.\n\n'We have it for our own, together,' Dan explained.\n\n'And d'you never quarrel, young Burleigh?'\n\n'Sometimes, but then we don't tell.'\n\nThe lady nodded. 'I've no brats of my own, but I understand keeping a\nsecret between Queens and their Ministers. _Ay de mi!_ But with no\ndisrespect to present majesty, methinks your realm is small, and\ntherefore likely to be coveted by man and beast. For example'--she\npointed to Middenboro--'yonder old horse, with the face of a Spanish\nfriar--does he never break in?'\n\n'He can't. Old Hobden stops all our gaps for us,' said Una, 'and we let\nHobden catch rabbits in the Shaw.'\n\nThe lady laughed like a man. 'I see! Hobden catches conies--rabbits--for\nhimself, and guards your defences for you. Does he make a profit out of\nhis coney-catching?'\n\n'We never ask,' said Una. 'Hobden's a particular friend of ours.'\n\n'Hoity-toity!' the lady began angrily. Then she laughed. 'But I forget.\nIt is your Kingdom. I knew a maid once that had a larger one than this\nto defend, and so long as her men kept the fences stopped, she asked 'em\nno questions either.'\n\n'Was she trying to grow flowers?' said Una.\n\n'No, trees--perdurable trees. Her flowers all withered.' The lady leaned\nher head on her hand.\n\n'They do if you don't look after them. We've got a few. Would you like\nto see? I'll fetch you some.' Una ran off to the rank grass in the shade\nbehind the wigwam, and came back with a handful of red flowers. 'Aren't\nthey pretty?' she said. 'They're Virginia stock.'\n\n'Virginia?' said the lady, and lifted them to the fringe of her mask.\n\n'Yes. They come from Virginia. Did your maid ever plant any?'\n\n'Not herself--but her men adventured all over the earth to pluck or to\nplant flowers for her crown. They judged her worthy of them.'\n\n'And was she?' said Dan cheerfully.\n\n'_Quien sabe?_ (who knows?) But at least, while her men toiled abroad\nshe toiled in England, that they might find a safe home to come back\nto.'\n\n'And what was she called?'\n\n'Gloriana--Belphoebe--Elizabeth of England.' Her voice changed at each\nword.\n\n'You mean Queen Bess?' The lady bowed her head a little towards Dan.\n\n'You name her lightly enough, young Burleigh. What might you know of\nher?' said she.\n\n'Well, I--I've seen the little green shoes she left at Brickwall\nHouse--down the road, you know. They're in a glass case--awfully tiny\nthings.'\n\n'Oh, Burleigh, Burleigh!' she laughed. 'You are a courtier too soon.'\n\n'But they are,' Dan insisted. 'As little as dolls' shoes. Did you really\nknow her well?'\n\n'Well. She was a--woman. I've been at her Court all my life. Yes, I\nremember when she danced after the banquet at Brickwall. They say she\ndanced Philip of Spain out of a brand-new kingdom that day. Worth the\nprice of a pair of old shoes--hey?'\n\nShe thrust out one foot, and stooped forward to look at its broad\nflashing buckle.\n\n'You've heard of Philip of Spain--long-suffering Philip,' she said, her\neyes still on the shining stones. 'Faith, what some men will endure at\nsome women's hands passes belief! If _I_ had been a man, and a woman had\nplayed with me as Elizabeth played with Philip, I would have----' She\nnipped off one of the Virginia stocks and held it up between finger and\nthumb. 'But for all that'--she began to strip the leaves one by\none--'they say--and I am persuaded--that Philip loved her.' She tossed\nher head sideways.\n\n'I don't quite understand,' said Una.\n\n'The high heavens forbid that you should, wench!' She swept the flowers\nfrom her lap and stood up in the rush of shadows that the wind chased\nthrough the wood.\n\n'I should like to know about the shoes,' said Dan.\n\n'So ye shall, Burleigh. So ye shall, if ye watch me. 'Twill be as good\nas a play.'\n\n'We've never been to a play,' said Una.\n\nThe lady looked at her and laughed. 'I'll make one for you. Watch! You\nare to imagine that she--Gloriana, Belphoebe, Elizabeth--has gone on a\nprogress to Rye to comfort her sad heart (maids are often melancholic),\nand while she halts at Brickwall House, the village--what was its name?'\nShe pushed Puck with her foot.\n\n'Norgem,' he croaked, and squatted by the wigwam.\n\n'Norgem village loyally entertains her with a masque or play, and a\nLatin oration spoken by the parson, for whose false quantities, if I'd\nmade 'em in my girlhood, I should have been whipped.'\n\n'You whipped?' said Dan.\n\n'Soundly, sirrah, soundly! She stomachs the affront to her scholarship,\nmakes her grateful, gracious thanks from the teeth outwards, thus'--(the\nlady yawned)--'Oh, a Queen may love her subjects in her heart, and yet\nbe dog-wearied of 'em in body and mind--and so sits down'--her skirts\nfoamed about her as she sat--'to a banquet beneath Brickwall Oak. Here\nfor her sins she is waited upon by---- What were the young cockerels'\nnames that served Gloriana at table?'\n\n'Frewens, Courthopes, Fullers, Husseys,' Puck began.\n\nShe held up her long jewelled hand. 'Spare the rest! They were the best\nblood of Sussex, and by so much the more clumsy in handling the dishes\nand plates. Wherefore'--she looked funnily over her shoulder--'you are\nto think of Gloriana in a green and gold-laced habit, dreadfully\nexpecting that the jostling youths behind her would, of pure jealousy or\ndevotion, spatter it with sauces and wines. The gown was Philip's gift,\ntoo! At this happy juncture a Queen's messenger, mounted and mired,\nspurs up the Rye road and delivers her a letter'--she giggled--'a letter\nfrom a good, simple, frantic Spanish gentleman called--Don Philip.'\n\n'That wasn't Philip, King of Spain?' Dan asked.\n\n'Truly, it was. 'Twixt you and me and the bedpost, young Burleigh, these\nkings and queens are very like men and women, and I've heard they write\neach other fond, foolish letters that none of their ministers should\nopen.'\n\n'Did her ministers ever open Queen Elizabeth's letters?' said Una.\n\n'Faith, yes! But she'd have done as much for theirs, any day. You are to\nthink of Gloriana, then (they say she had a pretty hand), excusing\nherself thus to the company--for the Queen's time is never her own--and,\nwhile the music strikes up, reading Philip's letter, as I do.' She drew\na real letter from her pocket, and held it out almost at arm's length,\nlike the old post-mistress in the village when she reads telegrams.\n\n'_Hm! Hm! Hm!_ Philip writes as ever most lovingly. He says his Gloriana\nis cold, for which reason he burns for her through a fair written\npage.' She turned it with a snap. 'What's here? Philip complains that\ncertain of her gentlemen have fought against his generals in the Low\nCountries. He prays her to hang 'em when they re-enter her realms. (Hm,\nthat's as may be.) Here's a list of burnt shipping slipped between two\nvows of burning adoration. Oh, poor Philip! His admirals at sea--no less\nthan three of 'em--have been boarded, sacked, and scuttled on their\nlawful voyages by certain English mariners (gentlemen, he will not call\nthem), who are now at large and working more piracies in _his_ American\nocean, which the Pope gave him. (He and the Pope should guard it, then!)\nPhilip hears, but his devout ears will not credit it, that Gloriana in\nsome fashion countenances these villains' misdeeds, shares in their\nbooty, and--oh, shame!--has even lent them ships royal for their sinful\nthefts. Therefore he requires (which is a word Gloriana loves not),\n_requires_ that she shall hang 'em when they return to England, and\nafterwards shall account to him for all the goods and gold they have\nplundered. A most loving request! If Gloriana will not be Philip's\nbride, she shall be his broker and his butcher! Should she still be\nstiff-necked, he writes--see where the pen digged the innocent\npaper!--that he hath both the means and the intention to be revenged on\nher. Aha! Now we come to the Spaniard in his shirt!' (She waved the\nletter merrily.) 'Listen here! Philip will prepare for Gloriana a\ndestruction from the West--a destruction from the West--far exceeding\nthat which Pedro de Avila wrought upon the Huguenots. And he rests and\nremains, kissing her feet and her hands, her slave, her enemy, or her\nconqueror, as he shall find that she uses him.'\n\nShe thrust back the letter under her cloak, and went on acting, but in a\nsofter voice. 'All this while--hark to it--the wind blows through\nBrickwall Oak, the music plays, and, with the company's eyes upon her,\nthe Queen of England must think what this means. She cannot remember the\nname of Pedro de Avila, nor what he did to the Huguenots, nor when, nor\nwhere. She can only see darkly some dark motion moving in Philip's dark\nmind, for he hath never written before in this fashion. She must smile\nabove the letter as though it were good news from her ministers--the\nsmile that tires the mouth and the poor heart. What shall she do?' Again\nher voice changed.\n\n'You are to fancy that the music of a sudden wavers away. Chris Hatton,\nCaptain of her bodyguard, quits the table all red and ruffled, and\nGloriana's virgin ear catches the clash of swords at work behind a wall.\nThe mothers of Sussex look round to count their chicks--I mean those\nyoung game-cocks that waited on her. Two dainty youths have stepped\naside into Brickwall garden with rapier and dagger on a private point of\nhonour. They are haled out through the gate, disarmed and glaring--the\nlively image of a brace of young Cupids transformed into pale, panting\nCains. Ahem! Gloriana beckons awfully--thus! They come up for judgment.\nTheir lives and estates lie at her mercy whom they have doubly offended,\nboth as Queen and woman. But la! what will not foolish young men do for\na beautiful maid?'\n\n'Why? What did she do? What had they done?' said Una.\n\n'Hsh! You mar the play! Gloriana had guessed the cause of the trouble.\nThey were handsome lads. So she frowns a while and tells 'em not to be\nbigger fools than their mothers had made 'em, and warns 'em, if they do\nnot kiss and be friends on the instant, she'll have Chris Hatton horse\nand birch 'em in the style of the new school at Harrow. (Chris looks\nsour at that.) Lastly, because she needed time to think on Philip's\nletter burning in her pocket, she signifies her pleasure to dance with\n'em and teach 'em better manners. Whereat the revived company call down\nHeaven's blessing on her gracious head; Chris and the others prepare\nBrickwall House for a dance, and she walks in the clipped garden between\nthose two lovely young sinners who are both ready to sink for shame.\nThey confess their fault. It appears that midway in the banquet the\nelder--they were cousins--conceived that the Queen looked upon him with\nspecial favour. The younger, taking the look to himself, after some\nwords gives the elder the lie; hence, as she guessed, the duel.'\n\n'And which had she really looked at?' Dan asked.\n\n[Illustration: 'Admiral Boy--Vice-Admiral Babe,' says Gloriana, 'I cry\nyour pardon.'--P. 41.]\n\n'Neither--except to wish them farther off. She was afraid all the while\nthey'd spill dishes on her gown. She tells 'em this, poor chicks--and\nit completes their abasement. When they had grilled long enough, she\nsays: \"And so you would have fleshed your maiden swords for me--for me?\"\nFaith, they would have been at it again if she'd egged 'em on! but their\nswords--oh, prettily they said it!--had been drawn for her once or twice\nalready.\n\n'\"And where?\" says she. \"On your hobby-horses before you were breeched?\"\n\n'\"On my own ship,\" says the elder. \"My cousin was vice-admiral of our\nventure in his pinnace. We would not have you think of us as brawling\nchildren.\"\n\n'\"No, no,\" says the younger, and flames like a very Tudor rose. \"At\nleast the Spaniards know us better.\"\n\n'\"Admiral Boy--Vice-Admiral Babe,\" says Gloriana, \"I cry your pardon.\nThe heat of these present times ripens childhood to age more quickly\nthan I can follow. But we are at peace with Spain. Where did you break\nyour Queen's peace?\"\n\n'\"On the sea called the Spanish Main, though 'tis no more Spanish than\nmy doublet,\" says the elder. Guess how that warmed Gloriana's already\nmelting heart! She would never suffer any sea to be called Spanish in\nher private hearing.\n\n'\"And why was I not told? What booty got you, and where have you hid it?\nDisclose,\" says she. \"You stand in some danger of the gallows for\npirates.\"\n\n'\"The axe, most gracious lady,\" says the elder, \"for we are gentle\nborn.\" He spoke truth, but no woman can brook contradiction.\n\"Hoity-toity,\" says she, and, but that she remembered that she was a\nQueen, she'd have cuffed the pair of 'em. \"It shall be gallows, hurdle,\nand dung-cart if I choose.\"\n\n'\"Had our Queen known of our going beforehand, Philip might have held\nher to blame for some small things we did on the seas,\" the younger\nlisps.\n\n'\"As for treasure,\" says the elder, \"we brought back but our bare lives.\nWe were wrecked on the Gascons' Graveyard, where our sole company for\nthree months was the bleached bones of De Avila's men.\"\n\n'Gloriana's mind jumped back to Philip's last letter.\n\n'\"De Avila that destroyed the Huguenots? What d'you know of him?\" she\nsays. The music called from the house here, and they three turned back\nbetween the yews.\n\n'\"Simply that De Avila broke in upon a plantation of Frenchmen on that\ncoast, and very Spaniardly hung them all for heretics--eight hundred or\nso. The next year Dominique de Gorgues, a Gascon, broke in upon De\nAvila's men, and very justly hung 'em all for murderers--five hundred or\nso. No Christians inhabit there now,\" says the elder lad, \"though 'tis a\ngoodly land north of Florida.\"\n\n'\"How far is it from England?\" asks prudent Gloriana.\n\n'\"With a fair wind, six weeks. They say that Philip will plant it again\nsoon.\" This was the younger, and he looked at her out of the corner of\nhis innocent eye.\n\n'Chris Hatton, fuming, meets and leads her into Brickwall Hall, where\nshe dances--thus. A woman can think while she dances--can think. I'll\nshow you. Watch!'\n\nShe took off her cloak slowly, and stood forth in dove-coloured satin,\nworked over with pearls that trembled like running water in the running\nshadows of the trees. Still talking--more to herself than to the\nchildren--she swam into a majestical dance of the stateliest balancings,\nthe haughtiest wheelings and turnings aside, the most dignified\nsinkings, the gravest risings, all joined together by the elaboratest\ninterlacing steps and circles.\n\nThey leaned forward breathlessly to watch the splendid acting.\n\n'Would a Spaniard,' she began, looking on the ground, 'speak of his\nrevenge till his revenge were ripe? No. Yet a man who loved a woman\nmight threaten her in the hope that his threats would make her love him.\nSuch things have been.' She moved slowly across a bar of sunlight. 'A\ndestruction from the West may signify that Philip means to descend on\nIreland. But then my Irish spies would have had some warning. The Irish\nkeep no secrets. No--it is not Ireland. Now why--why--why'--the red\nshoes clicked and paused--'does Philip name Pedro Melendez de Avila, a\ngeneral in his Americas, unless'--she turned more quickly--'unless he\nintends to work his destruction from the Americas? Did he say De Avila\nonly to put her off her guard, or for this once has his black pen\nbetrayed his black heart? We'--she raised herself to her full\nheight--'England must forestall Master Philip. But not openly,' she sank\nagain--'we cannot fight Spain openly--not yet--not yet.' She stepped\nthree paces as though she were pegging down some snare with her\ntwinkling shoe-buckles. 'The Queen's mad gentlemen may fight Philip's\npoor admirals where they find 'em, but England, Gloriana, Harry's\ndaughter, must keep the peace. Perhaps, after all, Philip loves her--as\nmany men and boys do. That may help England. Oh, _what_ shall help\nEngland?'\n\nShe raised her head--the masked head that seemed to have nothing to do\nwith the busy feet--and stared straight at the children.\n\n'I think this is rather creepy,' said Una with a shiver. 'I wish she'd\nstop.'\n\nThe lady held out her jewelled hand as though she were taking some one\nelse's hand in the Grand Chain.\n\n'Can a ship go down into the Gascons' Graveyard and wait there?' she\nasked into the air, and passed on rustling.\n\n'She's pretending to ask one of the cousins, isn't she?' said Dan, and\nPuck nodded.\n\nBack she came in the silent, swaying, ghostly dance. They saw she was\nsmiling beneath the mask, and they could hear her breathing hard.\n\n'I cannot lend you any my ships for the venture; Philip would hear of\nit,' she whispered over her shoulder; 'but as much guns and powder as\nyou ask, if you do not ask too----' her voice shot up and she stamped\nher foot thrice. 'Louder! Louder, the music in the gallery! Oh, me, but\nI have burst out of my shoe!'\n\nShe gathered her skirts in each hand, and began a curtsy. 'You will go\nat your own charges,' she whispered straight before her. 'Oh, enviable\nand adorable age of youth!' Her eyes shone through the mask-holes. 'But\nI warn you you'll repent it. Put not your trust in princes--or Queens.\nPhilip's ships'll blow you out of water. You'll not be frightened? Well,\nwe'll talk on it again, when I return from Rye, dear lads.'\n\nThe wonderful curtsy ended. She stood up. Nothing stirred on her except\nthe rush of the shadows.\n\n'And so it was finished,' she said to the children. 'Why d'you not\napplaud?'\n\n'What was finished?' said Una.\n\n'The dance,' the lady replied offendedly. 'And a pair of green shoes.'\n\n'I don't understand a bit,' said Una.\n\n'Eh? What did _you_ make of it, young Burleigh?'\n\n'I'm not quite sure,' Dan began, 'but----'\n\n'You never can be--with a woman. But----'\n\n'But I thought Gloriana meant the cousins to go back to the Gascons'\nGraveyard, wherever that was.'\n\n''Twas Virginia afterwards. Her plantation of Virginia.'\n\n'Virginia afterwards, and stop Philip from taking it. Didn't she say\nshe'd lend 'em guns?'\n\n'Right so. But not ships--_then_.'\n\n'And I thought you meant they must have told her they'd do it off their\nown bat, without getting her into a row with Philip. Was I right?'\n\n'Near enough for a Minister of the Queen. But remember she gave the lads\nfull time to change their minds. She was three long days at Rye\nRoyal--knighting of fat Mayors. When she came back to Brickwall, they\nmet her a mile down the road, and she could feel their eyes burn through\nher riding-mask. Chris Hatton, poor fool, was vexed at it.\n\n'\"You would not birch them when I gave you the chance,\" says she to\nChris. \"Now you must get me half an hour's private speech with 'em in\nBrickwall garden. Eve tempted Adam in a garden. Quick, man, or I may\nrepent!\"'\n\n'She was a Queen. Why did she not send for them herself,' said Una.\n\nThe lady shook her head. 'That was never her way. I've seen her walk to\nher own mirror by bye-ends, and the woman that cannot walk straight\n_there_ is past praying for. Yet I would have you pray for her! What\nelse--what else in England's name could she have done?' She lifted her\nhand to her throat for a moment. 'Faith,' she cried, 'I'd forgotten the\nlittle green shoes! She left 'em at Brickwall--so she did. And I\nremember she gave the Norgem parson--John Withers, was he?--a text for\nhis sermon--\"Over Edom have I cast out my shoe.\" Neat, if he'd\nunderstood!'\n\n'I don't understand,' said Una. 'What about the two cousins?'\n\n'You are as cruel as a woman,' the lady answered. '_I_ was not to blame.\nI told you I gave 'em time to change their minds. On my honour (_ay de\nmi!_), she asked no more of 'em at first than to wait a while off that\ncoast--the Gascons' Graveyard--to hover a little if their ships chanced\nto pass that way--they had only one tall ship and a pinnace--only to\nwatch and bring me word of Philip's doings. One must watch Philip\nalways. What a murrain right had he to make any plantation there, a\nhundred leagues north of his Spanish Main, and only six weeks from\nEngland? By my dread father's soul, I tell you he had none--none!' She\nstamped her red foot again, and the two children shrunk back for a\nsecond.\n\n'Nay, nay. You must not turn from me too! She laid it all fairly before\nthe lads in Brickwall garden between the yews. I told 'em that if Philip\nsent a fleet (and to make a plantation he could not well send less),\ntheir poor little cock-boats could not sink it. They answered that, with\nsubmission, the fight would be their own concern. She showed 'em again\nthat there could be only one end to it--quick death on the sea, or slow\ndeath in Philip's prisons. They asked no more than to embrace death for\nmy sake. Many men have prayed to me for life. I've refused 'em, and\nslept none the worse after; but when my men, my tall, fantastical young\nmen beseech me on their knees for leave to die for me, it shakes\nme--ah, it shakes me to the marrow of my old bones.'\n\nHer chest sounded like a board as she hit it.\n\n'She showed 'em all. I told 'em that this was no time for open war with\nSpain. If by miracle inconceivable they prevailed against Philip's\nfleet, Philip would hold me accountable. For England's sake, to save\nwar, I should e'en be forced (I told 'em so) to give him up their young\nlives. If they failed, and again by some miracle escaped Philip's hand,\nand crept back to England with their bare lives, they must lie--oh, I\ntold 'em all--under my sovereign displeasure. She could not know them,\nsee them, nor hear their names, nor stretch out a finger to save them\nfrom the gallows, if Philip chose to ask it.\n\n'\"Be it the gallows, then,\" says the elder. (I could have wept, but that\nmy face was made for the day.)\n\n'\"Either way--any way--this venture is death, which I know you fear not.\nBut it is death with assured dishonour,\" I cried.\n\n'\"Yet our Queen will know in her heart what we have done,\" says the\nyounger.\n\n'\"Sweetheart,\" I said. \"A queen has no heart.\"\n\n'\"But she is a woman, and a woman would not forget,\" says the elder. \"We\nwill go!\" They knelt at my feet.\n\n'\"Nay, dear lads--but here!\" I said, and I opened my arms to them and I\nkissed them.\n\n'\"Be ruled by me,\" I said. \"We'll hire some ill-featured old\ntarry-breeks of an admiral to watch the Graveyard, and you shall come\nto Court.\"\n\n'\"Hire whom you please,\" says the elder; \"we are ruled by you, body and\nsoul\"; and the younger, who shook most when I kissed 'em, says between\nhis white lips, \"I think you have power to make a god of a man.\"\n\n'\"Come to Court and be sure of it,\" I says.\n\n'They shook their heads and I knew--I knew, that go they would. If I had\nnot kissed them--perhaps I might have prevailed.'\n\n'Then why did you do it?' said Una. 'I don't think you knew really what\nyou wanted done.'\n\n'May it please your Majesty,' the lady bowed her head low, 'this\nGloriana whom I have represented for your pleasure was a woman and a\nQueen. Remember her when you come to your kingdom.'\n\n'But did the cousins go to the Gascons' Graveyard?' said Dan, as Una\nfrowned.\n\n'They went,' said the lady.\n\n'Did they ever come back?' Una began; but--'Did they stop King Philip's\nfleet?' Dan interrupted.\n\nThe lady turned to him eagerly.\n\n'D'you think they did right to go?' she asked.\n\n'I don't see what else they could have done,' Dan replied, after\nthinking it over.\n\n'D'you think she did right to send 'em?' The lady's voice rose a little.\n\n'Well,' said Dan, 'I don't see what else she could have done, either--do\nyou? How did they stop King Philip from getting Virginia?'\n\n'There's the sad part of it. They sailed out that autumn from Rye Royal,\nand there never came back so much as a single rope-yarn to show what had\nbefallen them. The winds blew, and they were not. Does that make you\nalter your mind, young Burleigh?'\n\n'I expect they were drowned, then. Anyhow, Philip didn't score, did he?'\n\n'Gloriana wiped out her score with Philip later. But if Philip had won,\nwould you have blamed Gloriana for wasting those lads' lives?'\n\n'Of course not. She was bound to try to stop him.'\n\nThe lady coughed. 'You have the root of the matter in you. Were I Queen,\nI'd make you Minister.'\n\n'We don't play that game,' said Una, who felt that she disliked the lady\nas much as she disliked the noise the high wind made tearing through\nWillow Shaw.\n\n'Play!' said the lady with a laugh, and threw up her hands affectedly.\nThe sunshine caught the jewels on her many rings and made them flash\ntill Una's eyes dazzled, and she had to rub them. Then she saw Dan on\nhis knees picking up the potatoes they had spilled at the gate.\n\n'There wasn't anybody in the Shaw, after all,' he said. 'Didn't you\nthink you saw some one?'\n\n'I'm most awfully glad there isn't,' said Una. Then they went on with\nthe potato-roast.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOOKING-GLASS\n\n\n _Queen Bess was Harry's daughter!_\n\n The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,\n Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold.\n Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,\n Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.\n The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass\n As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was!\n\n The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair,\n There came Queen Mary's spirit and it stood behind her chair,\n Singing, 'Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,\n But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.\n The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass\n As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!'\n\n The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,\n There came Lord Leicester's spirit and it scratched upon the door,\n Singing, 'Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,\n But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.\n The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass\n As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!'\n\n The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her head;\n She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:\n 'Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been,\n Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!'\n And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was),\n And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass\n In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass\n More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!\n\n\n\n\nThe Wrong Thing\n\n\n\n\nA TRUTHFUL SONG\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE BRICKLAYER:--\n\n _I tell this tale which is strictly true,\n Just by way of convincing you\n How very little since things were made\n Things have altered in the building trade._\n\n A year ago, come the middle o' March,\n We was building flats near the Marble Arch,\n When a thin young man with coal-black hair\n Came up to watch us working there.\n\n Now there wasn't a trick in brick or stone\n That this young man hadn't seen or known;\n Nor there wasn't a tool from trowel to maul\n But this young man could use 'em all!\n\n Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold,\n Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold:\n 'Since you with us have made so free,\n Will you kindly say what your name might be?'\n\n The young man kindly answered them:\n 'It might be Lot or Methusalem,\n Or it might be Moses (a man I hate),\n Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.\n\n 'Your glazing is new and your plumbing's strange,\n But otherwise I perceive no change,\n And in less than a month if you do as I bid\n I'd learn you to build me a Pyramid.'\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE SAILOR:--\n\n _I tell this tale which is stricter true,\n Just by way of convincing you\n How very little since things was made\n Things have altered in the shipwright's trade._\n\n In Blackwall Basin yesterday\n A China barque re-fitting lay,\n When a fat old man with snow-white hair\n Came up to watch us working there.\n\n Now there wasn't a knot which the riggers knew\n But the old man made it--and better too;\n Nor there wasn't a sheet, or a lift, or a brace,\n But the old man knew its lead and place.\n\n Then up and spake the caulkyers bold,\n Which was packing the pump in the after-hold:\n 'Since you with us have made so free,\n Will you kindly tell what your name might be?'\n\n The old man kindly answered them:\n 'It might be Japhet, it might be Shem,\n Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),\n Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.\n\n 'Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange,\n But otherwise I perceive no change,\n And in less than a week, if she did not ground,\n I'd sail this hooker the wide world round!'\n\nBOTH: _We tell these tales which are strictest true, etc._\n\n\n\n\nThe Wrong Thing\n\n\nDan had gone in for building model boats; but after he had filled the\nschoolroom with chips, which he expected Una to clear away, they turned\nhim out of doors and he took all his tools up the hill to Mr.\nSpringett's yard, where he knew he could make as much mess as he chose.\nOld Mr. Springett was a builder, contractor, and sanitary engineer, and\nhis yard, which opened off the village street, was always full of\ninteresting things. At one end of it was a long loft, reached by a\nladder, where he kept his iron-bound scaffold planks, tins of paints,\npulleys, and odds and ends he had found in old houses. He would sit here\nby the hour watching his carts as they loaded or unloaded in the yard\nbelow, while Dan gouged and grunted at the carpenter's bench near the\nloft window. Mr. Springett and Dan had always been particular friends,\nfor Mr. Springett was so old he could remember when railways were being\nmade in the southern counties of England, and people were allowed to\ndrive dogs in carts.\n\nOne hot, still afternoon--the tar-paper on the roof smelt like\nships--Dan, in his shirt sleeves, was smoothing down a new schooner's\nbow, and Mr. Springett was talking of barns and houses he had built. He\nsaid he never forgot any stick or stone he had ever handled, or any man,\nwoman, or child he had ever met. Just then he was very proud of the\nvillage Hall at the entrance to the village, which he had finished a few\nweeks before.\n\n'An' I don't mind tellin' you, Mus' Dan,' he said, 'that the Hall will\nbe my last job top of this mortal earth. I didn't make ten pounds--no,\nnor yet five--out o' the whole contrac', but my name's lettered on the\nfoundation stone--_Ralph Springett, Builder_--and the stone she's bedded\non four foot good concrete. If she shifts any time these five hundred\nyears, I'll sure-ly turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon architec' so\nwhen he come down to oversee my work.'\n\n'What did he say?' Dan was sandpapering the schooner's port bow.\n\n'Nothing. The Hall ain't more than one of his small jobs for _him_, but\n'tain't small to me, an' my name is cut and lettered, frontin' the\nvillage street, I do hope an' pray, for time everlastin.' You'll want\nthe little round file for that holler in her bow. Who's there?' Mr.\nSpringett turned stiffly in his chair.\n\nA long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of the loft. Dan\nlooked, and saw Hal of the Draft's touzled head beyond them.[3]\n\n[3] See 'Hal o' the Draft' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'Be you the builder of the village Hall?' he asked of Mr. Springett.\n\n'I be,' was the answer. 'But if you want a job----'\n\nHal laughed. 'No, faith!' he said. 'Only the Hall is as good and honest\na piece of work as I've ever run a rule over. So, being born hereabouts,\nand being reckoned a master among masons, and accepted as a master\nmason, I made bold to pay my brotherly respects to the builder.'\n\n'Aa--um!' Mr. Springett looked important. 'I be a bit rusty, but I'll\ntry ye!'\n\nHe asked Hal several curious questions, and the answers must have\npleased him, for he invited Hal to sit down. Hal moved up, always\nkeeping behind the pile of planks so that only his head showed, and sat\ndown on a trestle in the dark corner at the back of Mr. Springett's\ndesk. He took no notice of Dan, but talked at once to Mr. Springett\nabout bricks, and cement, and lead and glass, and after a while Dan went\non with his work. He knew Mr. Springett was pleased, because he tugged\nhis white sandy beard, and smoked his pipe in short puffs. The two men\nseemed to agree about everything, but when grown-ups agree they\ninterrupt each other almost as much as if they were quarrelling. Hal\nsaid something about workmen.\n\n'Why, that's what _I_ always say,' Mr. Springett cried. 'A man who can\nonly do one thing, he's but next-above-fool to the man that can't do\nnothing. That's where the Unions make their mistake.'\n\n'My thought to the very dot.' Dan heard Hal slap his tight-hosed leg.\n'I've suffered in my time from these same Guilds--Unions d'you call 'em?\nAll their precious talk of the mysteries of their trades--why, what\ndoes it come to?'\n\n'Nothin'! You've just about hit it,' said Mr. Springett, and rammed his\nhot tobacco with his thumb.\n\n'Take the art of wood-carving,' Hal went on. He reached across the\nplanks, grabbed a wooden mallet, and moved his other hand as though he\nwanted something. Mr. Springett without a word passed him one of Dan's\nbroad chisels. 'Ah! Wood-carving, for example. If you can cut wood and\nhave a fair draft of what ye mean to do, a Heaven's name take chisel and\nmall and let drive at it, say I! You'll soon find all the mystery,\nforsooth, of wood-carving under your proper hand!' Whack, came the\nmallet on the chisel, and a sliver of wood curled up in front of it. Mr.\nSpringett watched like an old raven.\n\n'All art is one, man--one!' said Hal between whacks; 'and to wait on\nanother man to finish out----'\n\n'To finish out your work ain't no sense,' Mr. Springett cut in. 'That's\nwhat I'm always saying to the boy here.' He nodded towards Dan. 'That's\nwhat I said when I put the new wheel into Brewster's Mill in Eighteen\nhundred Seventy-two. I reckoned I was millwright enough for the job\n'thout bringin' a man from Lunnon. An' besides, dividin' work eats up\nprofits, no bounds.'\n\nHal laughed his beautiful deep laugh, and Mr. Springett joined in till\nDan laughed too.\n\n'You handle your tools, I can see,' said Mr. Springett. 'I reckon, if\nyou're any way like me, you've found yourself hindered by those--Guilds,\ndid you call 'em?--Unions, we say.'\n\n'You may say so!' Hal pointed to a white scar on his cheek-bone. 'This\nis a remembrance from the master watching Foreman of Masons on Magdalen\nTower, because, please you, I dared to carve stone without their leave.\nThey said a stone had slipped from the cornice by accident.'\n\n'I know them accidents. There's no way to disprove 'em. An' stones ain't\nthe only things that slip,' Mr. Springett grunted. Hal went on:\n\n'I've seen a scaffold-plank keckle and shoot a too-clever workman thirty\nfoot on to the cold chancel floor below. And a rope can break----'\n\n'Yes, natural as nature; an' lime'll fly up in a man's eyes without any\nbreath o' wind sometimes,' said Mr. Springett. 'But who's to show\n'twasn't a accident?'\n\n'Who do these things?' Dan asked, and straightened his back at the bench\nas he turned the schooner end-for-end in the vice to get at her counter.\n\n'Them which don't wish other men to work no better nor quicker than they\ndo,' growled Mr. Springett. 'Don't pinch her so hard in the vice, Mus'\nDan. Put a piece o' rag in the jaws, or you'll bruise her. More than\nthat'--he turned towards Hal--'if a man has his private spite laid up\nagainst you, the Unions give him his excuse for working it off.'\n\n'Well I know it,' said Hal.\n\n'They never let you go, them spiteful ones. I knowed a plasterer in\nEighteen hundred Sixty-one--down to the Wells. He was a Frenchy--a bad\nenemy he was.'\n\n'I had mine too. He was an Italian, called Benedetto. I met him first at\nOxford on Magdalen Tower when I was learning my trade--or trades, I\nshould say. A bad enemy he was, as you say, but he came to be my\nsingular good friend,' said Hal as he put down the mallet and settled\nhimself comfortably.\n\n'What might his trade have been--plasterin'?' Mr. Springett asked.\n\n'Plastering of a sort. He worked in stucco--fresco we call it. Made\npictures on plaster. Not but what he had a fine sweep of the hand in\ndrawing. He'd take the long sides of a cloister, trowel on his stuff,\nand roll out his great all-abroad pictures of saints and croppy-topped\ntrees quick as a webster unrolling cloth almost. Oh, Benedetto could\ndraw, but a was a little-minded man, professing to be full of secrets of\ncolour or plaster--common tricks, all of 'em--and his one single talk\nwas how Tom, Dick or Harry had stole this or t'other secret art from\nhim.'\n\n'I know that sort,' said Mr. Springett. 'There's no keeping peace or\nmaking peace with such. An' they're mostly born an' bone idle.'\n\n'True. Even his fellow-countrymen laughed at his jealousy. We two came\nto loggerheads early on Magdalen Tower. I was a youngster then. Maybe I\nspoke my mind about his work.'\n\n'You shouldn't never do that.' Mr. Springett shook his head. 'That sort\nlay it up against you.'\n\n'True enough. This Benedetto did most specially. Body o' me, the man\nlived to hate me! But I always kept my eyes open on a plank or a\nscaffold. I was mighty glad to be shut of him when he quarrelled with\nhis Guild foreman, and went off, nose in air, and paints under his arm.\nBut'--Hal leaned forward--'if you hate a man or a man hates you----'\n\n'_I_ know. You're everlastin' running acrost him,' Mr. Springett\ninterrupted. 'Excuse me, sir.' He leaned out of the window, and shouted\nto a carter who was loading a cart with bricks.\n\n'Ain't you no more sense than to heap 'em up that way?' he said. 'Take\nan' throw a hundred of 'em off. It's more than the team can compass.\nThrow 'em off, I tell you, and make another trip for what's left over.\nExcuse me, sir. You was saying----'\n\n'I was saying that before the end of the year I went to Bury to\nstrengthen the lead-work in the great Abbey east window there.'\n\n'Now that's just one of the things I've never done. But I mind there was\na cheap excursion to Chichester in Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an' I\nwent an' watched 'em leading a won'erful fine window in Chichester\nCathedral. I stayed watchin' till 'twas time for us to go back. Dunno as\nI had two drinks p'raps, all that day.'\n\nHal smiled. 'At Bury then, sure enough, I met my enemy Benedetto. He had\npainted a picture in plaster on the south wall of the Refectory--a noble\nplace for a noble thing--a picture of Jonah.'\n\n'Ah! Jonah an' his whale. I've never been as fur as Bury. You've worked\nabout a lot,' said Mr. Springett, with his eyes on the carter below.\n\n'No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah and the pompion that\nwithered. But all that Benedetto had shown was a peevish greybeard\nhuggled up in angle-edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden trellis.\nThis last, being a dead thing, he'd drawn it as 'twere to the life. But\nfierce old Jonah, bared in the sun, angry even to death that his cold\nprophecy was disproven--Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing the children\nof Nineveh running to mock him--ah, that was what Benedetto had _not_\ndrawn!'\n\n'He better ha' stuck to his whale, then,' said Mr. Springett.\n\n'He'd ha' done no better with that. He draws the damp cloth off the\npicture, an' shows it to me. I was a craftsman too, d'ye see?\n\n'\"'Tis good,\" I said, \"but it goes no deeper than the plaster.\"\n\n'\"What?\" he said in a whisper.\n\n'\"Be thy own judge, Benedetto,\" I answered. \"Does it go deeper than the\nplaster?\"\n\n'He reeled against a piece of dry wall. \"No,\" he says, \"and I know it. I\ncould not hate thee more than I have done these five years, but if I\nlive, I will try, Hal. I will try.\" Then he goes away. I pitied him, but\nI had spoken truth. His picture went no deeper than the plaster.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Springett, who had turned quite red. 'You was talkin' so\nfast I didn't understand what you was drivin' at. I've seen men--good\nworkmen they was--try to do more than they could do, and--and they\ncouldn't compass it. They knowed it, and it nigh broke their hearts\nlike. You was in your right, o' course, sir, to say what you thought o'\nhis work; but if you'll excuse me, was you in your duty?'\n\n'I was wrong to say it,' Hal replied. 'God forgive me--I was young! He\nwas workman enough himself to know where he failed. But it all came\nevens in the long run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o' one\nTorrigiano--Torrisany we called him?'\n\n'I can't say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?'\n\n'No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian builder, as vain as\na peacock and as strong as a bull, but, mark you, a master workman. More\nthan that--he could get his best work out of the worst men.'\n\n'Which it's a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like him once,' said Mr.\nSpringett. 'He used to prod 'em in the back like with a pointing-trowel,\nand they did wonders.'\n\n'I've seen our Torrisany lay a 'prentice down with one buffet and raise\nhim with another--to make a mason of him. I worked under him at building\na chapel in London--a chapel and a tomb for the king.'\n\n'I never knew kings went to chapel much,' said Mr. Springett. 'But I\nalways hold with a man, don't care who he be, seein' about his own grave\nbefore he dies. Tidn't the sort of thing to leave to your family after\nthe will's read. I reckon 'twas a fine vault.'\n\n'None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the contract for it, as\nyou'd say. He picked master craftsmen from all parts--England, France,\nItaly, the Low Countries--no odds to him so long as they knew their\nwork, and he drove them like--like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called us\nEnglish all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft.\nIf he misliked any work that a man had done, with his own great hands\nhe'd rive it out, and tear it down before us all. \"Ah, you pig--you\nEnglish pig!\" he'd scream in the dumb wretch's face. \"You answer me? You\nlook at me? You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters. I will\nteach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!\" But when his\npassion had blown out, he'd slip his arm round the man's neck, and\nimpart knowledge worth gold. 'Twould have done your heart good, Mus'\nSpringett, to see the two hundred of us--masons, jewellers, carvers,\ngilders, iron workers and the rest--all toiling like cock-angels, and\nthis mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to next up and down the chapel.\n'Done your heart good, it would!'\n\n'I believe you,' said Mr. Springett. 'In Eighteen hundred Fifty-four, I\nmind, the railway was bein' made into Hastin's. There was two thousand\nnavvies on it--all young--all strong--an' I was one of 'em. Oh, dearie\nme! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin' with you?'\n\n'Benedetto? Be sure he was. He followed me like a lover. He painted\npictures on the chapel ceiling--slung from a chair. Torrigiano made us\npromise not to fight till the work should be finished. We were both\nmaster craftsmen, do ye see, and he needed us. None the less, I never\nwent aloft to carve 'thout testing all my ropes and knots each morning.\nWe were never far from each other. Benedetto 'ud sharpen his knife on\nhis sole while he waited for his plaster to dry--_wheet, wheet, wheet_.\nI'd hear it where I hung chipping round a pillar-head, and we'd nod to\neach other friendly-like. Oh, he was a craftsman, was Benedetto, but his\nhate spoiled his eye and his hand. I mind the night I had finished the\nmodels for the bronze saints round the tomb; Torrigiano embraced me\nbefore all the chapel, and bade me to supper. I met Benedetto when I\ncame out. He was slavering in the porch like a mad dog.'\n\n'Working himself up to it?' said Mr. Springett. 'Did he have it in at ye\nthat night?'\n\n'No, no. That time he kept his oath to Torrigiano. But I pitied him. Eh,\nwell! Now I come to my own follies. I had never thought too little of\nmyself; but after Torrisany had put his arm round my neck, I--I'--Hal\nbroke into a laugh--'I lay there was not much odds 'twixt me and a\ncock-sparrow in his pride.'\n\n'I was pretty middlin' young once on a time,' said Mr. Springett.\n\n'Then ye know that a man can't drink and dice and dress fine, and keep\ncompany above his station, but his work suffers for it, Mus' Springett.'\n\n'I never held much with dressin' up, but--you're right! The worst\nmistakes _I_ ever made they was made on a Monday morning,' Mr.\nSpringett answered. 'We've all been one sort of fool or t'other. Mus'\nDan, Mus' Dan, take the smallest gouge, or you'll be spluttin' her stern\nworks clean out. Can't ye see the grain of the wood don't favour a\nchisel?'\n\n'I'll spare you some of my follies. But there was a man called\nBrygandyne--Bob Brygandyne--Clerk of the King's Ships, a little, smooth,\nbustling atomy, as clever as a woman to get work done for nothin'--a\nwon'erful smooth-tongued pleader. He made much o' me, and asked me to\ndraft him out a drawing, a piece of carved and gilt scroll-work for the\nbows of one of the King's ships--the _Sovereign_ was her name.'\n\n'Was she a man-of-war?' asked Dan.\n\n'She was a war-ship, and a woman called Catherine of Castile desired the\nKing to give her the ship for a pleasure-ship of her own. _I_ did not\nknow at the time, but she'd been at Bob to get this scroll-work done and\nfitted that the King might see it. I made him the picture, in an hour,\nall of a heat after supper--one great heaving play of dolphins and a\nNeptune or so reining in webby-footed sea-horses, and Arion with his\nharp high atop of them. It was twenty-three foot long, and maybe nine\nfoot deep--painted and gilt.'\n\n'It must ha' just about looked fine,' said Mr. Springett.\n\n'That's the curiosity of it. 'Twas bad--rank bad. In my conceit I must\nneeds show it to Torrigiano, in the chapel. He straddles his legs;\nhunches his knife behind him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a\nsleet-shower. Benedetto was behind him. He were never far apart, I've\ntold you.\n\n'\"That is pig's work,\" says our Master. \"Swine's work. You make any more\nsuch things, even after your fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent\naway.\"\n\n'Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. \"Is it so bad then, Master?\" he\nsays. \"What a pity!\"\n\n'\"Yes,\" says Torrigiano. \"Scarcely _you_ could do things so bad. I will\ncondescend to show.\"\n\n'He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no swearing (it was too bad\nfor that); but good, memorable counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets\nme to draft out a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the taste of\nmy naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron's sweet stuff if you don't\ntorture her, and hammered work is all pure, truthful line, with a reason\nand a support for every curve and bar of it. A week at that settled my\nstomach handsomely, and the Master let me put the work through the\nsmithy, where I sweated out more of my foolish pride.'\n\n'Good stuff is good iron,' said Mr. Springett. 'I done a pair of lodge\ngates once in Eighteen hundred Sixty-three.'\n\n'Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped away my draft of the\nship's scroll-work, and would not give it back to me to re-draw. He said\n'twould do well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me too busied to\nremember him. Body o' me, but I worked that winter upon the gates and\nthe bronzes for the tomb as I'd never worked before! I was leaner than a\nlath, but I lived--I lived then!' Hal looked at Mr. Springett with his\nwise, crinkled-up eyes, and the old man smiled back.\n\n'Ouch!' Dan cried. He had been hollowing out the schooner's after-deck,\nthe little gouge had slipped and gashed the ball of his left thumb,--an\nugly, triangular tear.\n\n'That came of not steadying your wrist,' said Hal calmly. 'Don't bleed\nover the wood. _Do_ your work with your heart's blood, but no need to\nlet it show.' He rose and peered into a corner of the loft.\n\nMr. Springett had risen too, and swept down a ball of cobwebs from a\nrafter.\n\n'Clap that on,' was all he said, 'and put your handkerchief atop. 'Twill\ncake over in a minute. It don't hurt now, do it?'\n\n'No,' said Dan indignantly. 'You know it has happened lots of times.\nI'll tie it up myself. Go on, sir.'\n\n'And it'll happen hundreds of times more,' said Hal with a friendly nod\nas he sat down again. But he did not go on till Dan's hand was tied up\nproperly. Then he said:\n\n'One dark December day--too dark to judge colour--we was all sitting and\ntalking round the fires in the chapel (you heard good talk there), when\nBob Brygandyne bustles in and--\"Hal, you're sent for,\" he squeals. I was\nat Torrigiano's feet on a pile of put-locks, as I might be here,\ntoasting a herring on my knife's point. 'Twas the one English thing our\nMaster liked--salt herring.\n\n'\"I'm busy, about my art,\" I calls.\n\n'\"Art?\" says Bob. \"What's Art compared to your scroll-work for the\n_Sovereign_. Come.\"\n\n'\"Be sure your sins will find you out,\" says Torrigiano. \"Go with him\nand see.\" As I followed Bob out I was aware of Benedetto, like a black\nspot when the eyes are tired, sliddering up behind me.\n\n'Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, slips into a doorway,\nup stairs, along passages, and at last thrusts me into a little cold\nroom vilely hung with Flemish tapestries, and no furnishing except a\ntable and my draft of the _Sovereign's_ scroll-work. Here he leaves me.\nPresently comes in a dark, long-nosed man in a fur cap.\n\n'\"Master Harry Dawe?\" said he.\n\n'\"The same,\" I says. \"Where a plague has Bob Brygandyne gone?\"\n\n'His thin eyebrows surged up a piece and come down again in a stiff bar.\n\"He went to the King,\" he says.\n\n'\"All one. What's your pleasure with me?\" I says shivering, for it was\nmortal cold.\n\n'He lays his hand flat on my draft. \"Master Dawe,\" he says, \"do you know\nthe present price of gold leaf for all this wicked gilding of yours?\"\n\n'By that I guessed he was some cheese-paring clerk or other of the\nKing's Ships, so I gave him the price. I forget it now, but it worked\nout to thirty pounds--carved, gilt, and fitted in place.\n\n'\"Thirty pounds!\" he said, as though I had pulled a tooth of him. \"You\ntalk as though thirty pounds was to be had for the asking. None the\nless,\" he says, \"your draft's a fine piece of work.\"\n\n'I'd been looking at it ever since I came in, and 'twas viler even than\nI judged it at first. My eye and hand had been purified the past months,\nd'you see, by my iron work.\n\n'\"I could do it better now,\" I said. The more I studied my squabby\nNeptunes the less I liked 'em; and Arion was a pure flaming shame atop\nof the unbalanced dolphins.\n\n'\"I doubt it will be fresh expense to draft it again,\" he says.\n\n'\"Bob never paid me for the first draft. I lay he'll never pay me for\nthe second. 'Twill cost the King nothing if I re-draw it,\" I says.\n\n'\"There's a woman wishes it to be done quickly,\" he says. \"We'll stick\nto your first drawing, Mus' Dawe. But thirty pounds is thirty pounds.\nYou must make it less.\"\n\n'And all the while the faults in my draft fair leaped out and hit me\nbetween the eyes. At any cost, I thinks to myself, I must get it back\nand re-draft it. He grunts at me impatiently, and a splendid thought\ncomes to me, which shall save me. By the same token, 'twas quite\nhonest.'\n\n'They ain't always,' said Mr. Springett. 'How did you get out of it?'\n\n'By the truth. I says to Master Fur Cap, as I might to you here, I\nsays, \"I'll tell you something, since you seem a knowledgeable man. Is\nthe _Sovereign_ to lie in Thames river all her days, or will she take\nthe high seas?\"\n\n'\"Oh,\" he says quickly, \"the King keeps no cats that don't catch mice.\nShe must sail the seas, Master Dawe. She'll be hired to merchants for\nthe trade. She'll be out in all shapes o' weathers. Does that make any\nodds?\"\n\n'\"Why, then,\" says I, \"the first heavy sea she sticks her nose into 'll\nclaw off half that scroll-work, and the next will finish it. If she's\nmeant for a pleasure-ship give me my draft again, and I'll porture you a\npretty, light piece of scroll-work, good, cheap. If she's meant for the\nopen sea, pitch the draft into the fire. She can never carry that weight\non her bows.\"\n\n'He looks at me squintlings and plucks his under-lip.\n\n'\"Is this your honest, unswayed opinion?\" he says.\n\n'\"Body o' me! Ask about!\" I says. \"Any seaman could tell you 'tis true.\nI'm advising you against my own profit, but why I do so is my own\nconcern.\"\n\n'\"Not altogether,\" he says. \"It's some of mine. You've saved me thirty\npounds, Master Dawe, and you've given me good arguments to use against a\nwilful woman that wants my fine new ship for her own toy. We'll not have\nany scroll-work.\" His face shined with pure joy.\n\n'\"Then see that the thirty pounds you've saved on it are honestly paid\nthe King,\" I says, \"and keep clear o' womenfolk.\" I gathered up my\ndraft and crumpled it under my arm. \"If that's all you need of me I'll\nbe gone,\" I says, \"for I'm pressed.\"\n\n'He turns him round and fumbles in a corner. \"Too pressed to be made a\nknight, Sir Harry?\" he says, and comes at me smiling, with\nthree-quarters of a rusty sword.\n\n'I pledge you my Mark I never guessed it was the King till that moment.\nI kneeled, and he tapped me on the shoulder.\n\n'\"Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,\" he says, and, in the same breath, \"I'm\npressed, too,\" and slips through the tapestries, leaving me like a stuck\ncalf.\n\n'It come over me, in a bitter wave like, that here was I, a master\ncraftsman, who had worked no bounds, soul or body, to make the King's\ntomb and chapel a triumph and a glory for all time; and here, d'you see,\nI was made knight, not for anything I'd slaved over, or given my heart\nand guts to, but expressedly because I'd saved him thirty pounds and a\ntongue-lashing from Catherine of Castile--she that had asked for the\nship. That thought shrivelled me withinsides while I was folding away my\ndraft. On the heels of it--maybe you'll see why--I began to grin to\nmyself. I thought of the earnest simplicity of the man--the King, I\nshould say--because I'd saved him the money; his smile as though he'd\nwon half France! I thought of my own silly pride and foolish\nexpectations that some day he'd honour me as a master craftsman. I\nthought of the broken-tipped sword he'd found behind the hangings;\nthe dirt of the cold room, and his cold eye, wrapped up in his own\nconcerns, scarcely resting on me. Then I remembered the solemn chapel\nroof and the bronzes about the stately tomb he'd lie in, and--d'ye\nsee?--the unreason of it all--the mad high humour of it all--took hold\non me till I sat me down on a dark stair-head in a passage, and laughed\ntill I could laugh no more. What else could I have done?\n\n[Illustration: I kneeled, and he tapped me on the shoulder. 'Rise up,\nSir Harry Dawe,' he says.--P. 74.]\n\n'I never heard his feet behind me--he always walked like a cat--but his\narm slid round my neck, pulling me back where I sat, till my head lay on\nhis chest, and his left hand held the knife plumb over my\nheart--Benedetto! Even so I laughed--the fit was beyond my\nholding--laughed while he ground his teeth in my ear. He was stark\ncrazed for the time.\n\n'\"Laugh,\" he said. \"Finish the laughter. I'll not cut ye short. Tell me\nnow\"--he wrenched at my head--\"why the King chose to honour\nyou--you--you--you lickspittle Englishman? I am full of patience now. I\nhave waited so long.\" Then he was off at score about his Jonah in Bury\nRefectory, and what I'd said of it, and his pictures in the chapel which\nall men praised and none looked at twice (as if that was _my_ fault!)\nand a whole parcel of words and looks treasured up against me through\nyears.\n\n'\"Ease off your arm a little,\" I said. \"I cannot die by choking, for I\nam just dubbed knight, Benedetto.\"\n\n'\"Tell me, and I'll confess ye, Sir Harry Dawe, knight. There's a long\nnight before ye. Tell,\" says he.\n\n'So I told him--his chin on my crown--told him all; told it as well and\nwith as many words as I have ever told a tale at a supper with\nTorrigiano. I knew Benedetto would understand, for, mad or sad, he was a\ncraftsman. I believed it to be the last tale I'd ever tell top of mortal\nearth, and I would not put out bad work before I left the lodge. All\nart's one art, as I said. I bore Benedetto no malice. My spirits, d'you\nsee, were catched up in a high, solemn exaltation, and I saw all earth's\nvanities foreshortened and little, laid out below me like a town from a\ncathedral scaffolding. I told him what befell, and what I thought of it.\nI gave him the King's very voice at \"Master Dawe, you've saved me thirty\npounds!\" his peevish grunt while he looked for the sword; and how the\nbadger-eyed figures of Glory and Victory leered at me from the Flemish\nhangings. Body o' me, 'twas a fine, noble tale, and, as I thought, my\nlast work on earth.\n\n'\"That is how I was honoured by the King,\" I said. \"They'll hang ye for\nkilling me, Benedetto. And, since you've killed in the King's Palace,\nthey'll draw and quarter you; but you're too mad to care. Grant me,\nthough, ye never heard a better tale.\"\n\n'He said nothing, but I felt him shake. My head on his chest shook; his\nright arm fell away, his left dropped the knife, and he leaned with both\nhands on my shoulder--shaking--shaking! I turned me round. No need to\nput my foot on his knife. The man was speechless with laughter--honest\ncraftsman's mirth. The first time I'd ever seen him laugh. You know the\nmirth that cuts off the very breath, while ye stamp and snatch at the\nshort ribs? That was Benedetto's case.\n\n'When he began to roar and bay and whoop in the passage, I haled him out\ninto the street, and there we leaned against the wall and had it all\nover again--waving our hands and wagging our heads--till the watch came\nto know if we were drunk.\n\n'Benedetto says to 'em, solemn as an owl: \"You have saved me thirty\npound, Mus' Dawe,\" and off he pealed. In some sort we were mad drunk--I\nbecause dear life had been given back to me, and he because, as he said\nafterwards, because the old crust of hatred round his heart was broke up\nand carried away by laughter. His very face had changed too.\n\n'\"Hal,\" he cries, \"I forgive thee. Forgive me too, Hal. Oh, you English,\nyou English! Did it gall thee, Hal, to see the rust on the dirty sword?\nTell me again, Hal, how the King grunted with joy. Oh, let us tell the\nMaster.\"\n\n'So we reeled back to the chapel, arms round each other's necks, and\nwhen we could speak--he thought we'd been fighting--we told the Master.\nYes, we told Torrigiano, and he laughed till he rolled on the new cold\npavement. Then he knocked our heads together.\n\n'\"Ah, you English,\" he cried. \"You are more than pigs. You are English.\nNow you are well punished for your dirty fishes. Put the draft in the\nfire, and never do so any more. You are a fool, Hal, and you are a fool,\nBenedetto, but I need your works to please this beautiful English\nKing----\"\n\n'\"And I meant to kill Hal,\" says Benedetto. \"Master, I meant to kill him\nbecause the English King had made him a knight.\"\n\n'\"Ah!\" says the Master, shaking his finger. \"Benedetto, if you had\nkilled my Hal, I should have killed you--in the cloister. But you are a\ncraftsman too, so I should have killed you like a craftsman, very, very\nslowly--in an hour, if I could spare the time!\" That was Torrigiano--the\nMaster!'\n\nMr. Springett sat quite still for some time after Hal had finished. Then\nhe turned dark red; then he rocked to and fro; then he coughed and\nwheezed till the tears ran down his face. Dan knew by this that he was\nlaughing, but it surprised Hal at first.\n\n'Excuse me, sir,' said Mr. Springett, 'but I was thinkin' of some\nstables I built for a gentleman in Eighteen hundred Seventy-four. They\nwas stables in blue brick--very particular work. Dunno as they weren't\nthe best job which ever I'd done. But the gentleman's lady--she'd come\nfrom Lunnon, new married--she was all for buildin' what she called a\nhaw-haw--what you an' me 'ud call a dik--right acrost his park. A\nmiddlin' big job which I'd have had the contract of, for she spoke to me\nin the library about it. But I told her there was a line o' springs\njust where she wanted to dig her ditch, an' she'd flood the park if she\nwent on.'\n\n'Were there any springs at all?' said Hal.\n\n'Bound to be springs everywhere if you dig deep enough, ain't there? But\nwhat I said about the springs put her out o' conceit o' diggin'\nhaw-haws, an' she took an' built a white tile dairy instead. But when I\nsent in my last bill for the stables, the gentleman he paid it 'thout\neven lookin' at it, and I hadn't forgotten nothin', I do assure you.\nMore than that, he slips two five-pound notes into my hand in the\nlibrary, an' \"Ralph,\" he says--he allers called me by name--\"Ralph,\" he\nsays, \"you've saved me a heap of expense an' trouble this autumn.\" I\ndidn't say nothin', o' course. I knowed he didn't want any haw-haws\ndigged acrost his park no more'n _I_ did, but I never said nothing. No\nmore he didn't say nothing about my blue-brick stables, which was really\nthe best an' honestest piece o' work I'd done in quite a while. He give\nme ten pounds for savin' him a hem of a deal o' trouble at home. I\nreckon things are pretty much alike, all times, in all places.'\n\nHal and he laughed together. Dan couldn't quite understand what they\nthought so funny, and went on with his work for some time without\nspeaking.\n\nWhen he looked up, Mr. Springett, alone, was wiping his eyes with his\ngreen and yellow pocket-handkerchief.\n\n'Bless me, Mus' Dan, I've been asleep,' he said. 'An' I've dreamed a\ndream which has made me laugh--laugh as I ain't laughed in a long day.\nI can't remember what 'twas all about, but they do say that when old men\ntake to laughin' in their sleep, they're middlin' ripe for the next\nworld. Have you been workin' honest, Mus' Dan?'\n\n'Ra-ather,' said Dan, unclamping the schooner from the vice. 'And look\nhow I've cut myself with the small gouge.'\n\n'Ye-es. You want a lump o' cobwebs to that,' said Mr. Springett. 'Oh, I\nsee you've put it on already. That's right, Mus' Dan.'\n\n\n\n\nKING HENRY VII. AND THE SHIPWRIGHTS\n\n\n Harry our King in England, from London town is gone,\n And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the countie of Suthampton.\n For there lay _The Mary of the Tower_, his ship of war so strong,\n And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong.\n\n He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where he would go,\n (But only my Lord of Arundel,) and meanly did he show,\n In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might him mark;\n With his frieze hood and cloak about, he looked like any clerk.\n\n He was at Hamull on the Hoke about the hour of the tide,\n And saw the _Mary_ haled into dock, the winter to abide,\n With all her tackle and habiliments which are the King his own;\n But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her to the bone.\n\n They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of a trusty tree,\n And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of weather at sea.\n But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it might go,\n To maken beds for their own wives and little children also.\n\n There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath the deck,\n Crying: 'Good felawes, come and see! The ship is nigh a wreck!\n For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so fierce and fell,\n Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass pott as well!'\n\n With that he set the pott on his head and hied him up the hatch,\n While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they might snatch;\n All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good,\n He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on to the mud.\n\n 'I have taken plank and rope and nail, without the King his leave,\n After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer a thief.\n Nay, never lift up thy hand at me! There's no clean hands in the trade--\n Steal in measure,' quo' Brygandyne. 'There's measure in all things made!'\n\n 'Gramercy, yeoman!' said our King. 'Thy council liketh me.'\n And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled whistles three.\n Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down,\n And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry Suthampton town.\n\n They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the kettles in their hands,\n And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King's commands.\n But 'Since ye have made your beds,' said the King, 'ye needs must lie\n thereon.\n For the sake of your wives and little ones--felawes, get you gone!'\n\n When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips,\n Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his ships.\n 'Nay, never lift up thy hands to me--there's no clean hands in the trade.\n But steal in measure,' said Harry our King. 'There's measure in all\n things made!'\n\n _God speed the 'Mary of the Tower,' the 'Sovereign' and 'Grace Dieu,'\n The 'Sweepstakes' and the 'Mary Fortune,' and the 'Henry of Bristol' too!\n All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours stand,\n That they may keep measure with Harry our King and peace in Engeland!_\n\n\n\n\nMarklake Witches\n\n\n\n\nTHE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS\n\n\n They shut the road through the woods\n Seventy years ago.\n Weather and rain have undone it again,\n And now you would never know\n There was once a road through the woods\n Before they planted the trees.\n It is underneath the coppice and heath,\n And the thin anemones.\n Only the keeper sees\n That, where the ring-dove broods,\n And the badgers roll at ease,\n There was once a road through the woods.\n\n Yet, if you enter the woods\n Of a summer evening late,\n When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools\n Where the otter whistles his mate.\n (They fear not men in the woods\n Because they see so few)\n You will hear the beat of a horse's feet\n And the swish of a skirt in the dew,\n Steadily cantering through\n The misty solitudes,\n As though they perfectly knew\n The old lost road through the woods....\n But there is no road through the woods.\n\n\n\n\n\nMarklake Witches\n\n\nWhen Dan took up boat-building, Una coaxed Mrs. Vincey, the farmer's\nwife at Little Lindens, to teach her to milk. Mrs. Vincey milks in the\npasture in summer, which is different from milking in the shed, because\nthe cows are not tied up, and until they know you they will not stand\nstill. After three weeks Una could milk _Red Cow_ or _Kitty Shorthorn_\nquite dry, without her wrists aching, and then she allowed Dan to look.\nBut milking did not amuse him, and it was pleasanter for Una to be alone\nin the quiet pastures with quiet-spoken Mrs. Vincey. So, evening after\nevening, she slipped across to Little Lindens, took her stool from the\nfern-clump beside the fallen oak, and went to work, her pail between her\nknees, and her head pressed hard into the cow's flank. As often as not,\nMrs. Vincey would be milking cross _Pansy_ at the other end of the\npasture, and would not come near till it was time to strain and pour\noff.\n\nOnce, in the middle of a milking, _Kitty Shorthorn_ boxed Una's ear with\nher tail.\n\n'You old pig!' said Una, nearly crying, for a cow's tail can hurt.\n\n'Why didn't you tie it down, child?' said a voice behind her.\n\n'I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off--and this is what\nshe's done!' Una looked round, expecting Puck, and saw a curly-haired\ngirl, not much taller than herself, but older, dressed in a curious\nhigh-waisted, lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a high hunched collar\nand a deep cape and a belt fastened with a steel clasp. She wore a\nyellow velvet cap and tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop.\nHer cheeks were pale except for two pretty pink patches in the middle,\nand she talked with little gasps at the end of her sentences, as though\nshe had been running.\n\n'You don't milk so badly, child,' she said, and when she smiled her\nteeth showed small and even and pearly.\n\n'Can you milk?' Una asked, and then flushed, for she heard Puck's\nchuckle.\n\nHe stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding _Kitty Shorthorn's_\ntail. 'There isn't much,' he said, 'that Miss Philadelphia doesn't know\nabout milk--or, for that matter, butter and eggs. She's a great\nhousewife.'\n\n'Oh,' said Una. 'I'm sorry I can't shake hands. Mine are all milky; but\nMrs. Vincey is going to teach me butter-making this summer.'\n\n'Ah! _I_'m going to London this summer,' the girl said, 'to my aunt in\nBloomsbury.' She coughed as she began to hum, '\"Oh, what a town! What a\nwonderful metropolis!\"'\n\n'You've got a cold,' said Una.\n\n'No. Only my stupid cough. But it's vastly better than it was last\nwinter. It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D'you like\ndoctors, child?'\n\n'I don't know any,' Una replied. 'But I'm sure I shouldn't.'\n\n'Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,' the girl laughed, for\nUna frowned.\n\n'I'm not a child, and my name's Una,' she said.\n\n'Mine's Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I'm\nSquire Bucksteed's daughter--over at Marklake yonder.' She jerked her\nlittle round chin towards the south behind Dallington. 'Sure-ly you know\nMarklake?'\n\n'We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,' said Una. 'It's awfully\npretty. I like all those funny little roads that don't lead anywhere.'\n\n'They lead over our land,' said Philadelphia stiffly, 'and the coach\nroad is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went\nto the Assize Ball at Lewes last year.' She spun round and took a few\ndancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side.\n\n'It gives me a stitch,' she explained. 'No odds. 'Twill go away in\nLondon air. That's the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me.\nD'you hate the French, chi--Una?'\n\n'Well, I hate French, of course, but I don't mind Mam'selle. She's\nrather decent. Is Rene your French governess?'\n\nPhiladelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.\n\n'Oh no! Rene's a French prisoner--on parole. That means he's promised\nnot to escape till he has been properly exchanged for an Englishman.\nHe's only a doctor, so I hope they won't think him worth exchanging. My\nUncle captured him last year in the _Ferdinand_ privateer, off Belle\nIsle, and he cured my Uncle of a r-r-raging toothache. Of course, after\n_that_ we couldn't let him lie among the common French prisoners at Rye,\nand so he stays with us. He's of very old family--a Breton, which is\nnearly next door to being a true Briton, my father says--and he wears\nhis hair clubbed--not powdered. _Much_ more becoming, don't you think?'\n\n'I don't know what you're----' Una began, but Puck, the other side of\nthe pail, winked, and she went on with her milking.\n\n'He's going to be a great French physician when the war is over. He\nmakes me bobbins for my lace-pillow now--he's very clever with his\nhands; but he'd doctor our people on the Green if they would let him.\nOnly our Doctor--Dr. Break--says he's an emp----or imp something--worse\nthan impostor. But my Nurse says----'\n\n'Nurse! You're ever so old. What have you got a nurse for?' Una finished\nmilking, and turned round on her stool as _Kitty Shorthorn_ grazed off.\n\n'Because I can't get rid of her. Old Cissie nursed my mother, and she\nsays she'll nurse me till she dies. The idea! She never lets me alone.\nShe thinks I'm delicate. She has grown infirm in her understanding, you\nknow. Mad--quite mad, poor Cissie!'\n\n'Really mad?' said Una. 'Or just silly?'\n\n'Crazy I should say--from the things she does. Her devotion to me is\nterribly embarrassing. You know I have all the keys of the Hall except\nthe brewery and the tenants' kitchen. I give out all stores and the\nlinen and plate.'\n\n'How jolly! I love store-rooms and giving out things.'\n\n'Ah, it's a great responsibility you'll find when you come to my age.\nLast year Dad said I was fatiguing myself with my duties, and he\nactually wanted me to give up the keys to old Amoore, our housekeeper. I\nwouldn't. I hate her. I said, \"No, sir. I am Mistress of Marklake Hall\njust as long as I live, because I'm never going to be married, and I\nshall give out stores and linen till I die!\"'\n\n'And what did your father say?'\n\n'Oh, I threatened to pin a dishclout to his coattail. He ran away. Every\none's afraid of Dad, except me.' Philadelphia stamped her foot. 'The\nidea! If I can't make my own father happy in his own house, I'd like to\nmeet the woman that can, and--and--I'd have the living hide off her!'\n\nShe cut with her long-thonged whip. It cracked like a pistol-shot across\nthe still pasture. _Kitty Shorthorn_ threw up her head and trotted away.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' Philadelphia said; 'but it makes me furious. Don't\nyou hate those ridiculous old quizzes with their feathers and fronts,\nwho come to dinner and call you \"child\" in your own chair at your own\ntable?'\n\n'I don't always come to dinner,' said Una, 'but I hate being called\n\"child.\" Please tell me about store-rooms and giving out things.'\n\n'Ah, it's a great responsibility--particularly with that old cat Amoore\nlooking at the lists over your shoulder. And such a shocking thing\nhappened last summer! Poor crazy Cissie, my Nurse that I was telling you\nof, she took three solid silver tablespoons.'\n\n'Took! But isn't that stealing?' Una cried.\n\n'Hsh!' said Philadelphia, looking round at Puck. 'All I say is she took\nthem without my leave. I made it right afterwards. So, as Dad says--and\nhe's a magistrate--it wasn't a legal offence; it was only compounding a\nfelony.'\n\n'It sounds awful,' said Una.\n\n'It was. My dear, I was furious! I had had the keys for ten months, and\nI'd never lost anything before. I said nothing at first, because a big\nhouse offers so many chances of things being mislaid, and coming to hand\nlater. \"Fetching up in the lee-scuppers,\" my Uncle calls it. But next\nweek I spoke to old Cissie about it when she was doing my hair at night,\nand she said I wasn't to worry my heart for trifles!'\n\n'Isn't it like 'em?' Una burst out. 'They see you're worried over\nsomething that really matters, and they say, \"Don't worry\"; as if _that_\ndid any good!'\n\n'I quite agree with you, my dear; quite agree with you! I told Ciss the\nspoons were solid silver, and worth forty shillings, so if the thief\nwere found, he'd be tried for his life.'\n\n'Hanged, do you mean?' Una said.\n\n'They ought to be; but Dad says no jury will hang a man nowadays for a\nforty-shilling theft. They transport 'em into penal servitude at the\nuttermost ends of the earth beyond the seas, for the term of their\nnatural life. I told Cissie that, and I saw her tremble in my mirror.\nThen she cried, and caught hold of my knees, and I couldn't for my life\nunderstand what it was all about,--she cried so. _Can_ you guess, my\ndear, what that poor crazy thing had done? It was midnight before I\npieced it together. She had given the spoons to Jerry Gamm, the\nWitchmaster on the Green, so that he might put a charm on me! Me!'\n\n'Put a charm on you? Why?'\n\n'That's what _I_ asked; and then I saw how mad poor Cissie was! You know\nthis stupid little cough of mine? It will disappear as soon as I go to\nLondon. She was troubled about _that_, and about my being so thin, and\nshe told me Jerry had promised her, if she would bring him three silver\nspoons, that he'd charm my cough away and make me plump--\"flesh-up,\" she\nsaid. I couldn't help laughing; but it was a terrible night! I had to\nput Cissie into my own bed, and stroke her hand till she cried herself\nto sleep. What else could I have done? When she woke, and I coughed--I\nsuppose I _can_ cough in my own room if I please--she said that she'd\nkilled me, and asked me to have her hanged at Lewes sooner than send her\nto the uttermost ends of the earth away from me.'\n\n'How awful! What did you do, Phil?'\n\n'Do? I rode off at five in the morning to talk to Master Jerry, with a\nnew lash on my whip. Oh, I was _furious_! Witchmaster or no\nwitchmaster, I meant to----'\n\n'Ah! what's a Witchmaster?'\n\n'A master of witches, of course. _I_ don't believe there are witches;\nbut people say every village has a few, and Jerry was the master of all\nours at Marklake. He has been a smuggler, and a man-of-war's man, and\nnow he pretends to be a carpenter and joiner--he can make almost\nanything--but he really is a white wizard. He cures people by herbs and\ncharms. He can cure them after Dr. Break has given them up, and that's\nwhy Dr. Break hates him so. He used to make me toy carts, and charm off\nmy warts when I was a child.' Philadelphia spread out her hands with the\ndelicate shiny little nails. 'It isn't counted lucky to cross him. He\nhas his ways of getting even with you, they say. But _I_ wasn't afraid\nof Jerry! I saw him working in his garden, and I leaned out of my saddle\nand double-thonged him between the shoulders, over the hedge. Well, my\ndear, for the first time since Dad gave him to me, my _Troubadour_ (I\nwish you could see the sweet creature!) shied across the road, and I\nspilled out into the hedge-top. _Most_ undignified! Jerry pulled me\nthrough to his side and brushed the leaves off me. I was horribly\npricked, but I didn't care. \"Now, Jerry,\" I said, \"I'm going to take the\nhide off you first, and send you to Lewes afterwards. You well know\nwhy.\" \"Oh!\" he said, and he sat down among his bee-hives. \"Then I reckon\nyou've come about old Cissie's business, my dear.\" \"I reckon I just\nabout have,\" I said. \"Stand away from these hives. I can't get at you\nthere.\" \"That's why I be where I be,\" he said. \"If you'll excuse me,\nMiss Phil, I don't hold with bein' flogged before breakfast, at my time\no' life.\" He's a huge big man, but he looked so comical squatting among\nthe hives that--I know I oughtn't to--I laughed, and he laughed. I\nalways laugh at the wrong time. But I soon recovered my dignity, and I\nsaid, \"Then give me back what you made poor Cissie steal!\"\n\n'\"Your pore Cissie,\" he said. \"She's a hatful o' trouble. But you shall\nhave 'em, Miss Phil. They're all ready put by for you.\" And, would you\nbelieve it, the old sinner pulled my three silver spoons out of his\ndirty pocket, and polished them on his cuff! \"Here they be,\" he says,\nand he gave them to me, just as cool as though I'd come to have my warts\ncharmed. That's the worst of people having known you when you were\nyoung. But I preserved my composure. \"Jerry,\" I said, \"what in the world\nare we to do? If you'd been caught with these things on you, you'd have\nbeen hanged.\"\n\n'\"I know it,\" he said. \"But they're yours now.\"\n\n'\"But you made my Cissie steal them,\" I said.\n\n'\"That I didn't,\" he said. \"Your Cissie, she was pickin' at me and\ntarrifyin' me all the long day an' every day for weeks, to put a charm\non you, Miss Phil, and take away your little spitty cough.\"\n\n'\"Yes, I knew that, Jerry, and to make me flesh up!\" I said. \"I'm much\nobliged to you, but I'm not one of your pigs!\"\n\n'\"Ah! I reckon she've been talking to you, then,\" he said. \"Yes, she\ngive me no peace, and bein' tarrified--for I don't hold with old\nwomen--I laid a task on her which I thought 'ud silence her. _I_ never\nreckoned the old scrattle 'ud risk her neckbone at Lewes Assizes for\nyour sake, Miss Phil. But she did. She up an' stole, I tell ye, as\ncheerful as a tinker. You might ha' knocked me down with any one of them\nliddle spoons when she brung 'em in her apron.\"\n\n'\"Do you mean to say, then, that you did it to try my poor Cissie?\" I\nscreamed at him.\n\n'\"What else for, dearie?\" he said. \"_I_ don't stand in need of\nhedge-stealings. I'm a freeholder, with money in the bank; and now I\nwon't trust women no more! Silly old besom! I do beleft she'd ha' stole\nthe Squire's big fob-watch, if I'd required her.\"\n\n'\"Then you're a wicked, wicked old man,\" I said, and I was so angry that\nI couldn't help crying, and of course that made me cough.\n\n'Jerry was in a fearful taking. He picked me up and carried me into his\ncottage--it's full of foreign curiosities--and he got me something to\neat and drink, and he said he'd be hanged by the neck any day if it\npleased me. He said he'd even tell old Cissie he was sorry. That's a\ngreat come-down for a Witchmaster, you know.\n\n'I was ashamed of myself for being so silly, and I dabbed my eyes and\nsaid, \"The least you can do now is to give poor Ciss some sort of a\ncharm for me.\"\n\n'\"Yes, that's only fair dealings,\" he said. \"You know the names of the\nTwelve Apostles, dearie? You say them names, one by one, before your\nopen window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day fasting. But\nmind you, 'twixt every name you draw in your breath through your nose,\nright down to your pretty liddle toes, as long and as deep as you can,\nand let it out slow through your pretty liddle mouth. There's virtue for\nyour cough in those names spoke that way. And I'll give you something\nyou can see, moreover. Here's a stick of maple which is the warmest tree\nin the wood.\"'\n\n'That's true,' Una interrupted. 'You can feel it almost as warm as\nyourself when you touch it.'\n\n'\"It's cut one inch long for your every year,\" Jerry said. \"That's\nsixteen inches. You set it in your window so that it holds up the sash,\nand thus you keep it, rain or shine, or wet or fine, day and night. I've\nsaid words over it which will have virtue on your complaints.\"\n\n'\"I haven't any complaints, Jerry,\" I said. \"It's only to please\nCissie.\"\n\n'\"I know that as well as you do, dearie,\" he said. And--and that was all\nthat came of my going to give him a flogging. I wonder whether he made\npoor _Troubadour_ shy when I lashed at him? Jerry has his ways of\ngetting even of people.'\n\n'I wonder,' said Una. 'Well, did you try the charm? Did it work?'\n\n'What nonsense! I told Rene about it, of course, because he's a doctor.\nHe's going to be a most famous doctor. That's why our doctor hates him.\nRene said, \"Oho! Your Master Gamm, he is worth knowing,\" and he put up\nhis eyebrows--like this. He made joke of it all. He can see my window\nfrom the carpenter's shed, where he works, and if ever the maple stick\nfell down, he pretended to be in a fearful taking till I propped the\nwindow up again. He used to ask me whether I had said my Apostles\nproperly, and how I took my deep breaths. Oh yes, and the next day,\nthough he had been there ever so many times before, he put on his new\nhat and paid Jerry Gamm a visit of state--as a fellow-physician. Jerry\nnever guessed Rene was making fun of him, and so he told Rene about the\nsick people in the village, and how he cured them with herbs after Dr.\nBreak had given them up. Jerry could talk smugglers' French, of course,\nand I had taught Rene plenty of English, if only he wasn't so shy. They\ncalled each other Monsieur Gamm and Mosheur Lanark, just like gentlemen.\nI suppose it amused poor Rene. He hasn't much to do, except to fiddle\nabout in the carpenter's shop. He's like all the French\nprisoners--always making knick-knacks; and Jerry had a little lathe at\nhis cottage, and so--and so--Rene took to being with Jerry much more\nthan I approved of. The Hall is so big and empty when Dad's away, and I\nwill _not_ sit with old Amoore--she talks so horridly about every\none--specially about Rene.\n\n'I was rude to Rene, I'm afraid; but I was properly served out for it.\nOne always is. You see Dad went down to Hastings to pay his respects to\nthe General who commanded the brigade there, and to bring him to the\nHall afterwards. Dad told me he was a very brave soldier from India--he\nwas Colonel of Dad's regiment, the Thirty-third Foot, after Dad left the\nArmy, and then he changed his name from Wesley to Wellesley, or else the\nother way about; and Dad said I was to get out all the silver for him,\nand I knew that meant a big dinner. So I sent down to the sea for early\nmackerel, and had _such_ a morning in the kitchen and the store-rooms.\nOld Amoore nearly cried.\n\n'However, my dear, I made all my preparations in ample time, but the\nfish didn't arrive--it never does--and I wanted Rene to ride to Pevensey\nand bring it himself. He had gone over to Jerry, of course, as he always\nused, unless I requested his presence beforehand. _I_ can't send for\nRene every time I want him. He should be there. Now, don't you ever do\nwhat I did, child, because it's in the highest degree unladylike;\nbut--but one of our woods runs up to Jerry's garden, and if you\nclimb--it's ungenteel, but I can climb like a kitten--there's an old\nhollow oak just above the pigsty where you can hear and see everything\nbelow. Truthfully, I only went to tell Rene about the mackerel, but I\nsaw him and Jerry sitting on the seat playing with wooden toy trumpets.\nSo I slipped into the hollow, and choked down my cough, and listened.\nRene had never shown _me_ any of these trumpets.'\n\n'Trumpets? Aren't you too old for trumpets?' said Una.\n\n'They weren't real trumpets, because Jerry opened his shirt collar, and\nRene put one end of his trumpet against Jerry's chest, and put his ear\nto the other. Then Jerry put his trumpet against Rene's chest, and\nlistened while Rene breathed and coughed. I was afraid _I_ would cough\ntoo.\n\n'\"This hollywood one is the best,\" said Jerry. \"'Tis won'erful like\nhearin' a man's soul whisperin' in his innards; but unless I've a\nbuzzin' in my ears, Mosheur Lanark, you make much about the same kind o'\nnoises as old Gaffer Macklin--but not quite so loud as young Copper. It\nsounds like breakers on a reef--a long way off. Comprenny?\"\n\n'\"Perfectly,\" said Rene. \"I drive on the breakers. But before I strike,\nI shall save hundreds, thousands, millions perhaps, by my little\ntrumpets. Now tell me what sounds the old Gaffer Macklin have made in\nhis chest, and what the young Copper also.\"\n\n'Jerry talked for nearly a quarter of an hour about sick people in the\nvillage, while Rene asked questions. Then he sighed, and said, \"You\nexplain very well, Monsieur Gamm, but if only I had your opportunities\nto listen for myself! Do you think these poor people would let me listen\nto them through my trumpet--for a little money? No?\"--Rene's as poor as\na church mouse.\n\n'\"They'd kill you, Mosheur. It's all I can do to coax 'em to abide it,\nand I'm Jerry Gamm,\" said Jerry. He's very proud of his attainments.\n\n'\"Then these poor people are alarmed--No?\" said Rene.\n\n'\"They've had it in for me for some time back because o' my tryin' your\ntrumpets on their sick; and I reckon by the talk at the alehouse they\nwon't stand much more. Tom Dunch an' some of his kidney was drinkin'\nthemselves riot-ripe when I passed along after noon. Charms an'\nmutterin's and bits o' red wool and black hens is in the way o' nature\nto these fools, Mosheur; but anything likely to do 'em real service is\ndevil's work by their estimation. If I was you, I'd go home before they\ncome.\" Jerry spoke quite quietly, and Rene shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'\"I am prisoner on parole, Monsieur Gamm,\" he said. \"I have no home.\"\n\n'Now that was unkind of Rene. He's often told me that he looked on\nEngland as his home. I suppose it's French politeness.\n\n'\"Then we'll talk o' something that matters,\" said Jerry. \"Not to name\nno names, Mosheur Lanark, what might be your own opinion o' some one who\nain't old Gaffer Macklin nor young Copper? Is that person better or\nworse?\"\n\n'\"Better--for time that is,\" said Rene. He meant for the time being, but\nI never could teach him some phrases.\n\n'\"I thought so too,\" said Jerry. \"But how about time to come?\"\n\n'Rene shook his head, and then he blew his nose. You don't know how odd\na man looks blowing his nose when you are sitting directly above him.\n\n'\"I've thought that too,\" said Jerry. He rumbled so deep I could\nscarcely catch. \"It don't make much odds to me, because I'm old. But\nyou're young, Mosheur--you're young,\" and he put his hand on Rene's\nknee, and Rene covered it with his hand. I didn't know they were such\nfriends.\n\n'\"Thank you, _mon ami_,\" said Rene. \"I am much oblige. Let us return to\nour trumpet-making. But I forget\"--he stood up--\"it appears that you\nreceive this afternoon!\"\n\n'You can't see into Gamm's Lane from the oak, but the gate opened, and\nfat little Doctor Break stumped in, mopping his head, and half-a-dozen\nof our people followed him, very drunk.\n\n'You ought to have seen Rene bow; he does it beautifully.\n\n'\"A word with you, Laennec,\" said Dr. Break. \"Jerry has been practising\nsome devilry or other on these poor wretches, and they've asked me to be\narbiter.\"\n\n'\"Whatever that means, I reckon it's safer than asking you to be\ndoctor,\" said Jerry, and Tom Dunch, one of our carters, laughed.\n\n'\"That ain't right feeling of you, Tom,\" Jerry said, \"seeing how clever\nDr. Break put away your thorn in the flesh last winter.\" Tom's wife had\ndied at Christmas, though Dr. Break bled her twice a week. He danced\nwith rage.\n\n'\"This is all beside the mark,\" he said. \"These good people are willing\nto testify that you've been impudently prying into God's secrets by\nmeans of some papistical contrivance which this person\"--he pointed to\npoor Rene--\"has furnished you with. Why, here are the things\nthemselves!\" Rene was holding a trumpet in his hand.\n\n'Then all the men talked at once. They said old Gaffer Macklin was dying\nfrom stitches in his side where Jerry had put the trumpet--they called\nit the devil's ear-piece; and they said it left round red witchmarks on\npeople's skins, and dried up their lights, and made 'em spit blood, and\nthrew 'em into sweats. Terrible things they said. You never heard such a\nnoise. I took advantage of it to cough.\n\n'Rene and Jerry were standing with their backs to the pigsty. Jerry\nfumbled in his big flap pockets and fished up a pair of pistols. You\nought to have seen the men give back when he cocked his. He passed one\nto Rene.\n\n'\"Wait! Wait!\" said Rene. \"I will explain to the doctor if he permits.\"\nHe waved a trumpet at him, and the men at the gate shouted, \"Don't touch\nit, Doctor! Don't lay a hand to the thing.\"\n\n'\"Come, come!\" said Rene. \"You are not so big fool as you pretend, Dr.\nBreak. No?\"\n\n'Dr. Break backed toward the gate, watching Jerry's pistol, and Rene\nfollowed him with his trumpet, like a nurse trying to amuse a child, and\nput the ridiculous thing to his ear to show how it was used, and talked\nof _la Gloire_, and _la Humanite_, and _la Science_, while Dr. Break\nwatched Jerry's pistol and swore. I nearly laughed aloud.\n\n'\"Now listen! Now listen!\" said Rene. \"This will be moneys in your\npockets, my dear _confrere_. You will become rich.\"\n\n'Then Dr. Break said something about adventurers who could not earn an\nhonest living in their own country creeping into decent houses and\ntaking advantage of gentlemen's confidence to enrich themselves by base\nintrigues.\n\n'Rene dropped his absurd trumpet and made one of his best bows. I knew\nhe was angry from the way he rolled his \"r's.\"\n\n'\"Ver-r-ry good,\" said he. \"For that I shall have much pleasure to kill\nyou now and here. Monsieur Gamm\"--another bow to Jerry--\"you will please\nlend him your pistol, or he shall have mine. I give you my word I know\nnot which is best; and if he will choose a second from his friends over\nthere\"--another bow to our drunken yokels at the gate--\"we will\ncommence.\"\n\n'\"That's fair enough,\" said Jerry. \"Tom Dunch, you owe it to the doctor\nto be his second. Place your man.\"\n\n'\"No,\" said Tom. \"No mixin' in gentry's quarrels for me.\" And he shook\nhis head and went out, and the others followed him.\n\n'\"Hold on,\" said Jerry. \"You've forgot what you set out to do up at the\nalehouse just now. You was goin' to search me for witchmarks; you was\ngoin' to duck me in the pond; you was goin' to drag all my bits o'\nsticks out o' my little cottage here. What's the matter with you?\nWouldn't you like to be with your old woman to-night, Tom?\"\n\n'But they didn't even look back, much less come. They ran to the village\nalehouse like hares.\n\n'\"No matter for these canaille,\" said Rene, buttoning up his coat so as\nnot to show any linen. All gentlemen do that before a duel, Dad\nsays--and he's been out five times. \"You shall be his second, Monsieur\nGamm. Give him the pistol.\"\n\n'Dr. Break took it as if it was red-hot, but he said that if Rene\nresigned his pretensions in certain quarters he would pass over the\nmatter. Rene bowed deeper than ever.\n\n'\"As for that,\" he said, \"if you were not the ignorant which you are,\nyou would have known long ago that the subject of your remarks is not\nfor any living man.\"\n\n'I don't know what the subject of his remarks might have been, but he\nspoke in a simply dreadful voice, my dear, and Dr. Break turned quite\nwhite, and said Rene was a liar; and then Rene caught him by the throat,\nand choked him black.\n\n'Well, my dear, as if this wasn't deliciously exciting enough, just\nexactly at that minute I heard a strange voice on the other side of the\nhedge say, \"What's this? What's this, Bucksteed?\" and there was my\nfather and Sir Arthur Wesley on horseback in the lane; and there was\nRene kneeling on Dr. Break, and there was I up in the oak, listening\nwith all my ears.\n\n'I must have leaned forward too much, and the voice gave me such a start\nthat I slipped. I had only time to make one jump on to the pigsty\nroof--another, before the tiles broke, on to the pigsty wall--and then I\nbounced down into the garden, just behind Jerry, with my hair full of\nbark. Imagine the situation!'\n\n'Oh, I can!' Una laughed till she nearly fell off the stool.\n\n'Dad said, \"Phil--a--del--phia!\" and Sir Arthur Wesley said, \"Good Ged!\"\nand Jerry put his foot on the pistol Rene had dropped. But Rene was\nsplendid. He never even looked at me. He began to untwist Dr. Break's\nneckcloth as fast as he'd twisted it, and asked him if he felt better.\n\n'\"What's happened? What's happened?\" said Dad.\n\n'\"A fit!\" said Rene. \"I fear my _confrere_ has had a fit. Do not be\nalarmed. He recovers himself. Shall I bleed you a little, my dear\nDoctor?\" Dr. Break was very good too. He said, \"I am vastly obliged,\nMonsieur Laennec, but I am restored now.\" And as he went out of the gate\nhe told Dad it was a syncope--I think. Then Sir Arthur said, \"Quite\nright, Bucksteed. Not another word! They are both gentlemen.\" And he\ntook off his cocked hat to Dr. Break and Rene.\n\n'But poor Dad wouldn't let well alone. He kept saying, \"Philadelphia,\nwhat does all this mean?\"\n\n'\"Well, sir,\" I said, \"I've only just come down. As far as I could see,\nit looked as though Dr. Break had had a sudden seizure.\" That was quite\ntrue--if you'd seen Rene seize him. Sir Arthur laughed. \"Not much change\nthere, Bucksteed,\" he said. \"She's a lady--a thorough lady.\"\n\n'\"Heaven knows she doesn't look like one,\" said poor Dad. \"Go home,\nPhiladelphia.\"\n\n'So I went home, my dear--don't laugh so!--right under Sir Arthur's\nnose--a most enormous nose--feeling as though I were twelve years old,\ngoing to be whipped. Oh, I _beg_ your pardon, child!'\n\n'It's all right,' said Una. 'I'm getting on for thirteen. I've never\nbeen whipped, but I know how you felt. All the same, it must have been\nfunny!'\n\n'Funny! If you'd heard Sir Arthur jerking out, \"Good Ged, Bucksteed!\"\nevery minute as they rode behind me; and poor Dad saying, \"'Pon my\nhonour, Arthur, I can't account for it!\" Oh, how my cheeks tingled when\nI reached my room! But Cissie had laid out my very best evening dress,\nthe white satin one, vandyked at the bottom with spots of morone foil,\nand the pearl knots, you know, catching up the drapery from the left\nshoulder. I had poor mother's lace tucker and her coronet comb.'\n\n'Oh, you lucky!' Una murmured. '_And_ gloves?'\n\n'French kid, my dear'--Philadelphia patted her shoulder--'and morone\nsatin shoes and a morone and gold crape fan. That restored my calm. Nice\nthings always do. I wore my hair banded on my forehead with a little\ncurl over the left ear. And when I descended the stairs, _en grande\ntenue_, old Amoore curtsied to me without my having to stop and look at\nher, which alas! is too often the case. Sir Arthur highly approved of\nthe dinner, my dear: the mackerel _did_ come in time. We had all the\nMarklake silver out, and he toasted my health, and he asked me where my\nlittle bird's-nesting sister was. I _know_ he did it to quiz me, so I\nlooked him straight in the face, my dear, and I said, \"I always send her\nto the nursery, Sir Arthur, when I receive guests at Marklake Hall.\"'\n\n'Oh, how chee--clever of you. What did he say?' Una cried.\n\n'He said, \"Not much change there, Bucksteed. Ged, I deserved it,\" and he\ntoasted me again. They talked about the French and what a shame it was\nthat Sir Arthur only commanded a brigade at Hastings, and he told Dad of\na battle in India at a place called Assaye. Dad said it was a terrible\nfight, but Sir Arthur described it as though it had been a\nwhist-party--I suppose because a lady was present.'\n\n'Of course you were the lady; I wish I'd seen you,' said Una.\n\n'I wish you had, child. I had _such_ a triumph after dinner. Rene and\nDr. Break came in. They had quite made up their quarrel, and they told\nme they had the highest esteem for each other, and I laughed and said,\n\"I heard every word of it up in the tree.\" You never saw two men so\nfrightened in your life, and when I said, \"What _was_ 'the subject of\nyour remarks,' Rene?\" neither of them knew where to look. Oh, I quizzed\nthem unmercifully. They'd seen me jump off the pigsty roof, remember.'\n\n'But what _was_ the subject of their remarks?' said Una.\n\n'Oh, Dr. Break said it was a professional matter, so the laugh was\nturned on me. I was horribly afraid it might have been something\nunladylike and indelicate. But _that_ wasn't my triumph. Dad asked me to\nplay on the harp. Between just you and me, child, I had been practising\na new song from London--I don't always live in trees--for weeks; and I\ngave it them for a surprise.'\n\n'What was it?' said Una. 'Sing it.'\n\n'\"I have given my heart to a flower.\" Not very difficult fingering, but\nr-r-ravishing sentiment.'\n\nPhiladelphia coughed and cleared her throat.\n\n'I've a deep voice for my age and size,' she explained. 'Contralto, you\nknow, but it ought to be stronger,' and she began, her face all dark\nagainst the last of the soft pink sunset:\n\n 'I have given my heart to a flower,\n Though I know it is fading away,\n Though I know it will live but an hour\n And leave me to mourn its decay!\n\n'Isn't that touchingly sweet? Then the last verse--I wish I had my harp,\ndear--goes as low as my register will reach.' She drew in her chin, and\ntook a deep breath:\n\n 'Ye desolate whirlwinds that rave,\n I charge you be good to my dear!\n She is all--she is all that I have,\n And the time of our parting is near!'\n\n'Beautiful!' said Una. 'And did they like it?'\n\n'Like it? They were overwhelmed--_accables_, as Rene says. My dear, if I\nhadn't seen it, I shouldn't have believed that I could have drawn\ntears, genuine tears, to the eyes of four grown men. But I did! Rene\nsimply couldn't endure it! He's all French sensibility. He hid his face\nand said, \"_Assez Mademoiselle! C'est plus fort que moi! Assez!_\" And\nSir Arthur blew his nose and said, \"Good Ged! This is worse than\nAssaye!\" While Dad sat with the tears simply running down his cheeks.'\n\n'And what did Dr. Break do?'\n\n'He got up and pretended to look out of the window, but I saw his little\nfat shoulders jerk as if he had the hiccoughs. That _was_ a triumph. I\nnever suspected him of sensibility.'\n\n'Oh, I wish I'd seen! I wish I'd been you,' said Una, clasping her\nhands. Puck rustled and rose from the fern, just as a big blundering\ncockchafer flew smack against Una's cheek.\n\nWhen she had finished rubbing the place, Mrs. Vincey called to her that\n_Pansy_ had been fractious, or she would have come long before to help\nher strain and pour off.\n\n'It didn't matter,' said Una; 'I just waited. Is that old _Pansy_\nbarging about the lower pasture now?'\n\n'No,' said Mrs. Vincey, listening. 'It sounds more like a horse being\ngalloped middlin' quick through the woods; but there's no road there. I\nreckon it's one of Gleason's colts loose. Shall I see you up to the\nhouse, Miss Una?'\n\n'Gracious no! thank you. What's going to hurt me?' said Una, and she put\nher stool away behind the oak, and strolled home through the gaps that\nold Hobden kept open for her.\n\n\n\n\nBROOKLAND ROAD\n\n\n I was very well pleased with what I knowed,\n I reckoned myself no fool--\n Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road,\n That turned me back to school.\n\n _Low down--low down!\n Where the liddle green lanterns shine--\n Oh! maids, I've done with 'ee all but one,\n And she can never be mine!_\n\n 'Twas right in the middest of a hot June night,\n With thunder duntin' round,\n And I see'd her face by the fairy light\n That beats from off the ground.\n\n She only smiled and she never spoke,\n She smiled and went away;\n But when she'd gone my heart was broke,\n And my wits was clean astray.\n\n Oh! Stop your ringing and let me be--\n Let be, Oh Brookland bells!\n You'll ring Old Goodman[4] out of the sea,\n Before I wed one else!\n\n Old Goodman's farm is rank sea sand,\n And was this thousand year;\n But it shall turn to rich plough land\n Before I change my dear!\n\n Oh! Fairfield Church is water-bound\n From Autumn to the Spring;\n But it shall turn to high hill ground\n Before my bells do ring!\n\n Oh! leave me walk on the Brookland Road,\n In the thunder and warm rain--\n Oh! leave me look where my love goed\n And p'raps I'll see her again!\n\n _Low down--low down!\n Where the liddle green lanterns shine--\n Oh! maids, I've done with 'ee all but one,\n And she can never be mine._\n\n[4] Earl Godwin of the Goodwin Sands (?).\n\n\n\n\nThe Knife and the Naked Chalk\n\n\n\n\nTHE RUN OF THE DOWNS\n\n\n _The Weald is good, the Downs are best--\n I'll give you the run of 'em, East to West._\n Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill,\n They were once and they are still.\n Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry\n Go back as far as sums'll carry.\n Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring,\n They have looked on many a thing;\n And what those two have missed between 'em\n I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen 'em.\n Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down\n Knew Old England before the Crown.\n Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood\n Knew Old England before the Flood.\n And when you end on the Hampshire side--\n Butser's old as Time and Tide.\n _The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn,\n You be glad you are Sussex born!_\n\n\n\n\nThe Knife and the Naked Chalk\n\n\nThe children went to the seaside for a month, and lived in a flint\nvillage on the bare windy chalk Downs, quite thirty miles away from\nhome. They made friends with an old shepherd, called Mr. Dudeney, who\nhad known their father when their father was little. He did not talk\nlike their own people in the Weald of Sussex, and he used different\nnames for farm things, but he understood how they felt, and let them go\nwith him. He had a tiny cottage about half a mile from the village,\nwhere his wife made mead from thyme honey, and nursed sick lambs in\nfront of a coal fire, while Old Jim, who was Mr. Dudeney's sheep-dog's\nfather, lay at the door. They brought up beef bones for Old Jim (you\nmust never give a sheep-dog mutton bones), and if Mr. Dudeney happened\nto be far in the Downs, Mrs. Dudeney would tell the dog to take them to\nhim, and he did.\n\nOne August afternoon when the village water-cart had made the street\nsmell specially townified, they went to look for their shepherd as\nusual, and, as usual, Old Jim crawled over the door-step and took them\nin charge. The sun was hot, the dry grass was very slippery, and the\ndistances were very distant.\n\n'It's just like the sea,' said Una, when Old Jim halted in the shade of\na lonely flint barn on a bare rise. 'You see where you're going,\nand--you go there, and there's nothing between.'\n\nDan slipped off his shoes. 'When we get home I shall sit in the woods\nall day,' he said.\n\n'Whuff!' said Old Jim, to show he was ready, and struck across a long\nrolling stretch of turf. Presently he asked for his beef bone.\n\n'Not yet,' said Dan. 'Where's Mr. Dudeney? Where's master?'\n\nOld Jim looked as if he thought they were mad, and asked again.\n\n'Don't you give it him,' Una cried. 'I'm not going to be left howling in\na desert.'\n\n'Show, boy! Show!' said Dan, for the Downs seemed as bare as the palm of\nyour hand.\n\nOld Jim sighed, and trotted forward. Soon they spied the blob of Mr.\nDudeney's hat against the sky a long way off.\n\n'Right! All right!' said Dan. Old Jim wheeled round, took his bone\ncarefully between his blunted teeth, and returned to the shadow of the\nold barn, looking just like a wolf. The children went on. Two kestrels\nhung bivvering and squealing above them. A gull flapped lazily along the\nwhite edge of the cliffs. The curves of the Downs shook a little in the\nheat, and so did Mr. Dudeney's distant head.\n\nThey walked toward it very slowly and found themselves staring into a\nhorse-shoe-shaped hollow a hundred feet deep, whose steep sides were\nlaced with tangled sheep-tracks. The flock grazed on the flat at the\nbottom, under charge of Young Jim. Mr. Dudeney sat comfortably knitting\non the edge of the slope, his crook between his knees. They told him\nwhat Old Jim had done.\n\n'Ah, he thought you could see my head as soon as he did. The closeter\nyou be to the turf the more you see things. You look warm-like,' said\nMr. Dudeney.\n\n'We be,' said Una, flopping down. '_And_ tired.'\n\n'Set beside o' me here. The shadow'll begin to stretch out in a little\nwhile, and a heat-shake o' wind will come up with it that'll overlay\nyour eyes like so much wool.'\n\n'We don't want to sleep,' said Una indignantly; but she settled herself\nas she spoke, in the first strip of early afternoon shade.\n\n'O' course not. You come to talk with me same as your father used. _He_\ndidn't need no dog to guide him to Norton Pit.'\n\n'Well, he belonged here,' said Dan, and laid himself down at length on\nthe turf.\n\n'He did. And what beats me is why he went off to live among them messy\ntrees in the Weald, when he might ha' stayed here and looked all about\nhim. There's no profit to trees. They draw the lightning, and sheep\nshelter under 'em, and _so_, like as not, you'll lose a half score ewes\nstruck dead in one storm. Tck! Your father knew that.'\n\n'Trees aren't messy.' Una rose on her elbow. 'And what about firewood? I\ndon't like coal.'\n\n'Eh? You lie a piece more up-hill and you'll lie more natural,' said\nMr. Dudeney, with his provoking deaf smile. 'Now press your face down\nand smell to the turf. That's Southdown thyme which makes our Southdown\nmutton beyond compare, and, my mother told me, 'twill cure anything\nexcept broken necks, or hearts. I forget which.'\n\nThey sniffed, and somehow forgot to lift their cheeks from the soft\nthymy cushions.\n\n'You don't get nothing like that in the Weald. Watercress, maybe?' said\nMr. Dudeney.\n\n'But we've water--brooks full of it--where you paddle in hot weather,'\nUna replied, watching a yellow-and-violet-banded snail-shell close to\nher eye.\n\n'Brooks flood. Then you must shift your sheep--let alone foot-rot\nafterward. I put more dependence on a dew-pond any day.'\n\n'How's a dew-pond made?' said Dan, and tilted his hat over his eyes. Mr.\nDudeney explained.\n\nThe air trembled a little as though it could not make up its mind\nwhether to slide into the Pit or move across the open. But it seemed\neasiest to go down-hill, and the children felt one soft puff after\nanother slip and sidle down the slope in fragrant breaths that baffed on\ntheir eyelids. The little whisper of the sea by the cliffs joined with\nthe whisper of the wind over the grass, the hum of insects in the thyme,\nthe ruffle and rustle of the flock below, and a thickish mutter deep in\nthe very chalk beneath them. Mr. Dudeney stopped explaining, and went on\nwith his knitting.\n\nThey were roused by voices. The shadow had crept half-way down the steep\nside of Norton's Pit, and on the edge of it, his back to them, Puck sat\nbeside a half-naked man who seemed busy at some work. The wind had\ndropped, and in that funnel of ground every least noise and movement\nreached them like whispers up a water-pipe.\n\n'That is clever,' said Puck, leaning over. 'How truly you shape it!'\n\n'Yes, but what does The Beast care for a brittle flint tip? Bah!' The\nman flicked something contemptuously over his shoulder. It fell between\nDan and Una--a beautiful dark-blue flint arrow-head still hot from the\nmaker's hand.\n\nThe man reached for another stone, and worked away like a thrush with a\nsnail-shell.\n\n'Flint work is fool's work,' he said at last. 'One does it because one\nalways did it, but when it comes to dealing with The Beast--no good!' He\nshook his shaggy head.\n\n'The Beast was dealt with long ago. He has gone,' said Puck.\n\n'He'll be back at lambing-time. _I_ know him.' He chipped very\ncarefully, and the flints squeaked.\n\n'Not he. Children can lie out on the Chalk now all day through and go\nhome safe.'\n\n'Can they? Well, call The Beast by his True Name, and I'll believe it,'\nthe man replied.\n\n'Surely!' Puck leaped to his feet, curved his hands round his mouth and\nshouted: \"Wolf! Wolf!\"\n\nNorton's Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides--'Wuff! Wuff!' like\nYoung Jim's bark.\n\n'You see? You hear?' said Puck. 'Nobody answers. Grey Shepherd is gone.\nFeet-in-the-Night has run off. There are no more wolves.'\n\n'Wonderful!' The man wiped his forehead as though he were hot. 'Who\ndrove him away? You?'\n\n'Many men through many years, each working in his own country. Were you\none of them?' Puck answered.\n\nThe man slid his sheepskin cloak to his waist, and without a word\npointed to his side, which was all seamed and blotched with scars. His\narms too were dimpled from shoulder to elbow with horrible white\ndimples.\n\n'I see,' said Puck. 'It is The Beast's mark. What did you use against\nhim?'\n\n'Hand, hammer, and spear, as our fathers did before us.'\n\n'So? Then how'--Puck twitched aside the man's dark-brown cloak--'how did\na Flint-worker come by _that_? Show, man, show!' He held out his little\nhand.\n\nThe man slipped a long dark iron knife, almost a short sword, from his\nbelt, and after breathing on it, handed it hilt-first to Puck, who took\nit with his head on one side, as you should when you look at the works\nof a watch, squinted down the dark blade, and very delicately rubbed his\nforefinger from the point to the hilt.\n\n'Good!' said he, in a surprised tone.\n\n'It should be. The Children of the Night made it,' the man answered.\n\n'So I see by the iron. What might it have cost you?'\n\n'This!' The man raised his hand to his cheek. Puck whistled like a Weald\nstarling.\n\n'By the Great Rings of the Chalk!' he cried. 'Was _that_ your price?\nTurn sunward that I may see better, and shut your eye.'\n\nHe slipped his hand beneath the man's chin and swung him till he faced\nthe children up the slope. They saw that his right eye was gone, and the\neyelid lay shrunk. Quickly Puck turned him round again, and the two sat\ndown.\n\n'It was for the sheep. The sheep are the people,' said the man, in an\nashamed voice. 'What else could I have done? _You_ know, Old One.'\n\nPuck sighed a little fluttering sigh. 'Take the knife. I listen.'\n\nThe man bowed his head, drove the knife into the turf, and while it\nstill quivered said: 'This is witness between us that I speak the thing\nthat has been. Before my Knife and the Naked Chalk I speak. Touch!'\n\nPuck laid a hand on the hilt. It stopped shaking. The children wriggled\na little nearer.\n\n'I am of the People of the Worked Flint. I am the one son of the\nPriestess who sells the Winds to the Men of the Sea. I am the Buyer of\nthe Knife--the Keeper of the People,' the man began, in a sort of\nsinging shout. 'These are my names in this country of the Naked Chalk,\nbetween the Trees and the Sea.'\n\n'Yours was a great country. Your names are great too,' said Puck.\n\n'One cannot feed some things on names and songs'; the man hit himself on\nthe chest. 'It is better--always better--to count one's children safe\nround the fire, their Mother among them.'\n\n'Ahai!' said Puck. 'I think this will be a very old tale.'\n\n'I warm myself and eat at any fire that I choose, but there is no _one_\nto light me a fire or cook my meat. I sold all that when I bought the\nMagic Knife for my people. It was not right that The Beast should master\nman. What else could I have done?'\n\n'I hear. I know. I listen,' said Puck.\n\n'When I was old enough to take my place in the Sheepguard, The Beast\ngnawed all our country like a bone between his teeth. He came in behind\nthe flocks at watering-time, and watched them round the Dew-ponds; he\nleaped into the folds between our knees at the shearing; he walked out\nalongside the grazing flocks, and chose his meat on the hoof while our\nboys threw flints at him; he crept by night into the huts, and licked\nthe babe from between the mother's hands; he called his companions and\npulled down men in broad daylight on the Naked Chalk. No--not always did\nhe do so! _This_ was his cunning! He would go away for a while to let us\nforget him. A year--two years perhaps--we neither smelt, nor heard, nor\nsaw him. When our flocks had increased; when our men did not always look\nbehind them; when children strayed from the fenced places; when our\nwomen walked alone to draw water--back, back, back came the Curse of the\nChalk, Grey Shepherd, Feet-in-the Night--The Beast, The Beast, The\nBeast!\n\n'He laughed at our little brittle arrows and our poor blunt spears. He\nlearned to run in under the stroke of the hammer. I think he knew when\nthere was a flaw in the flint. Often it does not show till you bring it\ndown on his snout. Then--_Pouf!_--the false flint falls all to flinders,\nand you are left with the hammer-handle in your fist, and his teeth in\nyour flank! I have felt them. At evening, too, in the dew, or when it\nhas misted and rained, your spear-head lashings slack off, though you\nhave kept them beneath your cloak all day. You are alone--but so close\nto the home ponds that you stop to tighten the sinews with hands, teeth,\nand a piece of driftwood. You bend over and pull--so! That is the minute\nfor which he has followed you since the stars went out. \"Aarh!\" he says.\n\"Wurr-aarh!\" he says.' (Norton's Pit gave back the growl like a pack of\nreal wolves.) 'Then he is on your right shoulder feeling for the vein in\nyour neck, and--perhaps your sheep run on without you. To fight The\nBeast is nothing, but to be despised by The Beast when he fights\nyou--that is like his teeth in the heart! Old One, why is it that men\ndesire so greatly, and can do so little?'\n\n'I do not know. Did you desire so much?' said Puck.\n\n'I desired to master The Beast. It is not right that The Beast should\nmaster man. But my people were afraid. Even my Mother, the Priestess,\nwas afraid when I told her what I desired. We were accustomed to be\nafraid of The Beast. When I was made a man, and a maiden--she was a\nPriestess--waited for me at the Dew-ponds, The Beast flitted from off\nthe Chalk. Perhaps it was a sickness; perhaps he had gone to his Gods to\nlearn how to do us new harm. But he went, and we breathed more freely.\nThe women sang again; the children were not so much guarded; our flocks\ngrazed far out. I took mine yonder'--he pointed inland to the hazy line\nof the Weald--'where the new grass was best. They grazed north. I\nfollowed till we were close to the Trees'--he lowered his voice--'close\n_there_ where the Children of the Night live,' He pointed north again.\n\n'Ah, now I remember a thing,' said Puck. 'Tell me, why did your people\nfear the Trees so extremely?'\n\n'Because the Gods hate the Trees and strike them with lightning. We can\nsee them burning for days all along the Chalk's edge. Besides, all the\nChalk knows that the Children of the Night, though they worship our\nGods, are magicians. When a man goes into their country, they change his\nspirit; they put words into his mouth; they make him like talking water.\nBut a voice in my heart told me to go toward the north. While I watched\nmy sheep there I saw three Beasts chasing a man, who ran toward the\nTrees. By this I knew he was a Child of the Night. We Flint-workers fear\nthe Trees more than we fear The Beast. He had no hammer; he carried a\nknife like this one. A Beast leaped at him. He stretched out his knife.\nThe Beast fell dead. The other Beasts ran away howling, which they would\nnever have done from a Flint-worker. The man went in among the Trees. I\nlooked for the dead Beast. He had been killed in a new way--by a single\ndeep, clean cut, without bruise or tear, which had split his bad heart.\nWonderful! So I saw that the man's knife was magic, and I thought how to\nget it,--thought strongly how to get it.\n\n'When I brought the flocks to the shearing, my Mother the Priestess\nasked me, \"What is the new thing which you have seen and I see in your\nface?\" I said, \"It is a sorrow to me\"; and she answered, \"All new things\nare sorrow. Sit in my place, and eat sorrow.\" I sat down in her place by\nthe fire, where she talks to the ghosts in winter, and two voices spoke\nin my heart. One voice said, \"Ask the Children of the Night for the\nMagic Knife. It is not fit that The Beast should master man.\" I listened\nto that voice.\n\n'One voice said, \"If you go among the Trees, the Children of the Night\nwill change your spirit. Eat and sleep here.\" The other voice said, \"Ask\nfor the Knife.\" I listened to that voice.\n\n'I said to my Mother in the morning, \"I go away to find a thing for the\npeople, but I do not know whether I shall return in my own shape.\" She\nanswered, \"Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am your\nMother.\"'\n\n'True,' said Puck. 'The Old Ones themselves cannot change men's mothers\neven if they would.'\n\n'Let us thank the Old Ones! I spoke to my Maiden, the Priestess who\nwaited for me at the Dew-ponds. She promised fine things too.' The man\nlaughed. 'I went away to that place where I had seen the magician with\nthe knife. I lay out two days on the short grass before I ventured\namong the Trees. I felt my way before me with a stick. I was afraid of\nthe terrible talking Trees. I was afraid of the ghosts in the branches;\nof the soft ground underfoot; of the red and black waters. I was afraid,\nabove all, of the Change. It came!'\n\nThey saw him wipe his forehead once again, and his strong back-muscles\nquivered till he laid his hand on the knife-hilt.\n\n'A fire without a flame burned in my head; an evil taste grew in my\nmouth; my eyelids shut hot over my eyes; my breath was hot between my\nteeth, and my hands were like the hands of a stranger. I was made to\nsing songs and to mock the Trees, though I was afraid of them. At the\nsame time I saw myself laughing, and I was very sad for this fine young\nman, who was myself. Ah! The Children of the Night know magic.'\n\n'I think that is done by the Spirits of the Mist. They change a man if\nhe sleeps among them,' said Puck. 'Had you slept in any mists?'\n\n'Yes--but _I_ know it was the Children of the Night. After three days I\nsaw a red light behind the Trees, and I heard a heavy noise. I saw the\nChildren of the Night dig red stones from a hole, and lay them in fires.\nThe stones melted like tallow, and the men beat the soft stuff with\nhammers. I wished to speak to these men, but the words were changed in\nmy mouth, and all I could say was, \"Do not make that noise. It hurts my\nhead.\" By this I knew that I was bewitched, and I clung to the Trees,\nand prayed the Children of the Night to take off their spells. They were\ncruel. They asked me many questions which they would never allow me to\nanswer. They changed my words between my teeth till I wept. Then they\nled me into a hut and covered the floor with hot stones and dashed water\non the stones, and sang charms till the sweat poured off me like water.\nI slept. When I waked, my own spirit--not the strange, shouting\nthing--was back in my body, and I was like a cool bright stone on the\nshingle between the sea and the sunshine. The magicians came to hear\nme--women and men--each wearing a Magic Knife. Their Priestess was their\nEars and their Mouth.\n\n'I spoke. I spoke many words that went smoothly along like sheep in\norder when their shepherd, standing on a mound, can count those coming,\nand those far off getting ready to come. I asked for Magic Knives for my\npeople. I said that my people would bring meat, and milk, and wool, and\nlay them in the short grass outside the Trees, if the Children of the\nNight would leave Magic Knives for our people to take away. They were\npleased. Their Priestess said, \"For whose sake have you come?\" I\nanswered, \"The sheep are the people. If The Beast kills our sheep, our\npeople die. So I come for a Magic Knife to kill The Beast.\"\n\n'She said, \"We do not know if our God will let us trade with the people\nof the Naked Chalk. Wait till we have asked.\"\n\n'When they came back from the Question place (their Gods are our Gods),\ntheir Priestess said, \"The God needs a proof that your words are true.\"\nI said, \"What is the proof?\" She said, \"The God says that if you have\ncome for the sake of your people you will give him your right eye to be\nput out; but if you have come for any other reason you will not give it.\nThis proof is between you and the God. We ourselves are sorry.\"\n\n'I said, \"This is a hard proof. Is there no other road?\"\n\n'She said, \"Yes. You can go back to your people with your two eyes in\nyour head if you choose. But then you will not get any Magic Knives for\nyour people.\"\n\n'I said, \"It would be easier if I knew that I were to be killed.\"\n\n'She said, \"Perhaps the God knew this too. See! I have made my knife\nhot.\"\n\n'I said, \"Be quick, then!\" With her knife heated in the flame she put\nout my right eye. She herself did it. I am the son of a Priestess. She\nwas a Priestess. It was not work for any common man.'\n\n'True! Most true,' said Puck. 'No common man's work, that. And,\nafterwards?'\n\n'Afterwards I did not see out of that eye any more. I found also that a\none eye does not tell you truly where things are. Try it!'\n\nAt this Dan put his hand over one eye, and reached for the flint\narrow-head on the grass. He missed it by inches. 'It's true,' he\nwhispered to Una. 'You can't judge distances a bit with only one eye.'\n\nPuck was evidently making the same experiment, for the man laughed at\nhim.\n\n'I know it is so,' said he. 'Even now I am not always sure of my blow. I\nstayed with the Children of the Night till my eye healed. They said I\nwas the son of Tyr, the God who put his right hand in a Beast's mouth.\nThey showed me how they melted their red stone and made the Magic Knives\nof it. They told me the charms they sang over the fires and at the\nbeatings. I can sing many charms.' Then he began to laugh like a boy.\n\n'I was thinking of my journey home,' he said, 'and of the surprised\nBeast. He had come back to the Chalk. I saw him--I smelt his lairs as\nsoon as ever I left the Trees. He did not know I had the Magic Knife--I\nhid it under my cloak--the Knife that the Priestess gave me. Ho! Ho!\nThat happy day was too short! See! A Beast would wind me. \"Wow!\" he\nwould say, \"here is my Flint-worker!\" He would come leaping, tail in\nair; he would roll; he would lay his head between his paws out of\nmerriness of heart at his warm, waiting meal. He would leap--and, oh,\nhis eye in mid-leap when he saw--when he saw the knife held ready for\nhim! It pierced his hide as a rush pierces curdled milk. Often he had no\ntime to howl. I did not trouble to flay any beasts I killed. Sometimes I\nmissed my blow. Then I took my little flint hammer and beat out his\nbrains as he cowered. He made no fight. He knew the knife! But The Beast\nis very cunning. Before evening all The Beasts had smelt the blood on\nmy knife, and were running from me like hares. _They_ knew! Then I\nwalked as a man should--the Master of The Beast!\n\n'So came I back to my Mother's house. There was a lamb to be killed. I\ncut it in two halves with my knife, and I told her all my tale. She\nsaid, \"This is the work of a God.\" I kissed her and laughed. I went to\nmy Maiden who waited for me at the Dew-ponds. There was a lamb to be\nkilled. I cut it in two halves with my knife, and told her all my tale.\nShe said, \"It is the work of a God.\" I laughed, but she pushed me away,\nand being on my blind side, ran off before I could kiss her. I went to\nthe Men of the Sheepguard at watering-time. There was a sheep to be\nkilled for their meat. I cut it in two halves with my knife, and told\nthem all my tale. They said, \"It is the work of a God.\" I said, \"We talk\ntoo much about Gods. Let us eat and be happy, and to-morrow I will take\nyou to the Children of the Night, and each man will find a Magic Knife.\"\n\n'I was glad to smell our sheep again; to see the broad sky from edge to\nedge, and to hear the sea. I slept beneath the stars in my cloak. The\nmen talked among themselves.\n\n'I led them, the next day, to the Trees, taking with me meat, wool, and\ncurdled milk, as I had promised. We found the Magic Knives laid out on\nthe grass, as the Children of the Night had promised. They watched us\nfrom among the Trees. Their Priestess called to me and said, \"How is it\nwith your people?\" I said, \"Their hearts are changed. I cannot see\ntheir hearts as I used to.\" She said, \"That is because you have only one\neye. Come to me and I will be both your eyes.\" But I said, \"I must show\nmy people how to use their knives against The Beast, as you showed me\nhow to use my knife.\" I said this because the Magic Knife does not\nbalance like the flint. She said, \"What you have done, you have done for\nthe sake of a woman, and not for the sake of your people.\" I asked of\nher, \"Then why did the God accept my right eye, and why are you so\nangry?\" She answered, \"Because any man can lie to a God, but no man can\nlie to a woman. And I am not angry with you. I am only very sorrowful\nfor you. Wait a little, and you will see out of your one eye why I am\nsorry.\" So she hid herself.\n\n'I went back with my people, each one carrying his knife, and making it\nsing in the air--_tssee-sssse_. The Flint never sings. It\nmutters--_ump-ump_. The Beast heard. The Beast saw. _He_ knew!\nEverywhere he ran away from us. We all laughed. As we walked over the\ngrass my Mother's brother--the Chief on the Man's Side--he took off his\nChief's necklace of yellow sea-stones.'\n\n'How? Eh? Oh, I remember! Amber,' said Puck.\n\n'And would have put them on my neck. I said, \"No, I am content. What\ndoes my one eye matter if my other eye sees fat sheep and fat children\nrunning about safely?\" My Mother's brother said to them, \"I told you he\nwould never take such things.\" Then they began to sing a song in the\nOld Tongue--_The Song of Tyr_. I sang with them, but my Mother's brother\nsaid, \"This is _your_ song, oh, Buyer of the Knife. Let _us_ sing it,\nTyr.\"\n\n'Even then I did not understand, till I saw that--that no man stepped on\nmy shadow; and I knew that they thought me to be a God, like the God\nTyr, who gave his right hand to conquer a Great Beast.'\n\n'By the Fire in the Belly of the Flint, was that so?' Puck rapped out.\n\n'By my Knife and the Naked Chalk, so it was! They made way for my shadow\nas though it had been a Priestess walking to the Barrows of the Dead. I\nwas afraid. I said to myself, \"My Mother and my Maiden will know I am\nnot Tyr.\" But _still_ I was afraid with the fear of a man who falls into\na steep flint-pit while he runs, and feels that it will be hard to climb\nout.\n\n'When we came to the Dew-ponds all our people were there. The men showed\ntheir knives and told their tale. The sheepguards also had seen The\nBeast flying from us. The Beast went west across the river in\npacks--howling! He knew the Knife had come to the Naked Chalk at\nlast--at last! _He_ knew! So my work was done. I looked for my Maiden\namong the Priestesses. She looked at me, but she did not smile. She made\nthe sign to me that our Priestesses must make when they sacrifice to the\nOld Dead in the Barrows. I would have spoken, but my Mother's brother\nmade himself my Mouth, as though I had been one of the Old Dead in the\nBarrows for whom our Priests speak to the people on Midsummer mornings.'\n\n'I remember. Well I remember those Midsummer mornings!' said Puck.\n\n'Then I went away angrily to my Mother's house. She would have knelt\nbefore me. Then I was more angry, but she said, \"Only a God would have\nspoken to me thus, a Priestess. A man would have feared the punishment\nof the Gods.\" I looked at her and I laughed. I could not stop my unhappy\nlaughing. They called me from the door by the name of Tyr himself. A\nyoung man with whom I had watched my first flocks, and chipped my first\narrow, and fought my first Beast, called me by that name in the Old\nTongue. He asked my leave to take my Maiden. His eyes were lowered, his\nhands were on his forehead. He was full of the fear of a God, but of\n_me_, a man, he had no fear when he asked. I did not kill him. I said,\n\"Call the maiden.\" She came also without fear--this very one that had\nwaited for me, that had talked with me by our Dew-ponds. Being a\nPriestess, she lifted her eyes to me. As I look on a hill or a cloud, so\nshe looked at me. She spoke in the Old Tongue which Priestesses use when\nthey make prayers to the Old Dead in the Barrows. She asked leave that\nshe might light the fire in my companion's house--and that I should\nbless their children. I did not kill her. I heard my own voice, little\nand cold, say, \"Let it be as you desire,\" and they went away hand in\nhand. My heart grew little and cold, a wind shouted in my ears; my eye\ndarkened. I said to my Mother, \"Can a God die?\" I heard her say, \"What\nis it? What is it, my son?\" and I fell into darkness full of\nhammer-noises. I was not.'\n\n'Oh, poor--poor God!' said Puck. 'And your wise Mother?'\n\n'_She_ knew. As soon as I dropped she knew. When my spirit came back I\nheard her whisper on my ear, \"Whether you live or die, or are made\ndifferent, I am your Mother.\" That was good--better even than the water\nshe gave me and the going away of the sickness. Though I was ashamed to\nhave fallen down, yet I was very glad. She was glad too. Neither of us\nwished to lose the other. There is only the one Mother for the one son.\nI heaped the fire for her, and barred the doors, and sat at her feet as\nbefore I went away, and she combed my hair, and sang.\n\n'I said at last, \"What is to be done to the people who say that I am\nTyr?\"\n\n'She said, \"He who has done a God-like thing must bear himself like a\nGod. I see no way out of it. The people are now your sheep till you die.\nYou cannot drive them off.\"\n\n'I said, \"This is a heavier sheep than I can lift.\" She said, \"In time\nit will grow easy. In time perhaps you will not lay it down for any\nmaiden anywhere. Be wise--be very wise, my son, for nothing is left you\nexcept the words, and the songs, and the worship of a God.\"'\n\n'Oh, poor God!' said Puck. 'But those are not altogether bad things.'\n\n'I know they are not; but I would sell them all--all--all for one small\nchild of my own, smearing himself with the ashes of our own house-fire.'\n\nHe wrenched his knife from the turf, thrust it into his belt and stood\nup.\n\n'And yet, what else could I have done?' he said. 'The sheep are the\npeople.'\n\n'It is a very old tale,' Puck answered. 'I have heard the like of it not\nonly on the Naked Chalk, but also among the Trees--under Oak, and Ash,\nand Thorn.'\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe afternoon shadows filled all the quiet emptiness of Norton's Pit.\nThe children heard the sheep bells and Young Jim's busy bark above them,\nand they scrambled up the slope to the level.\n\n'We let you have your sleep out,' said Mr. Dudeney, as the flock\nscattered before them. 'It's making for tea-time now.'\n\n'Look what I've found,' said Dan, and held up a little blue flint\narrow-head as fresh as though it had been chipped that very day.\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Dudeney, 'the closeter you be to the turf the more you're\napt to see things. I've found 'em often. Some says the fairies made 'em,\nbut I says they was made by folks like ourselves--only a goodish time\nback. They're lucky to keep. Now, you couldn't ever have slept--not to\nany profit--among your father's trees same as you've laid out on Naked\nChalk--could you?'\n\n'One doesn't want to sleep in the woods,' said Una.\n\n'Then what's the good of 'em?' said Mr. Dudeney. 'Might as well set in\nthe barn all day. Fetch 'em 'long, Jim boy!'\n\nThe Downs, that looked so bare and hot when they came, were full of\ndelicious little shadow-dimples; the smell of the thyme and the salt\nmixed together on the south-west drift from the still sea; their eyes\ndazzled with the low sun, and the long grass under it looked golden. The\nsheep knew where their fold was, so Young Jim came back to his master,\nand they all four strolled home, the scabious-heads swishing about their\nankles, and their shadows streaking behind them like the shadows of\ngiants.\n\n\n\n\nSONG OF THE MEN'S SIDE\n\n\n Once we feared The Beast--when he followed us we ran,\n Ran very fast though we knew\n It was not right that The Beast should master Man;\n But what could we Flint-workers do?\n The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears--\n Grinned at the hammers that we made;\n But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife--\n And this is the Buyer of the Blade!\n\n _Room for his shadow on the grass--let it pass!\n To left and right--stand clear!\n This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!\n This is the great god Tyr!_\n\n Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan,\n For he knew it was not right\n (And it _is_ not right) that The Beast should master Man;\n So he went to the Children of the Night.\n He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.\n When he begged for the Knife they said:\n 'The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!'\n And that was the price he paid.\n\n _Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead--run ahead!\n Shout it so the Women's Side can hear!\n This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!\n This is the great god Tyr!_\n\n Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,\n As far as we can see them and beyond.\n We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep\n Tally at the shearing-pond.\n We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,\n We can sleep after meals in the sun;\n For Shepherd of the Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,\n Feet-in-the-Night have run!\n Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!),\n Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!\n\n Then:\n _Room for his shadow on the grass--let it pass!\n To left and right--stand clear!\n This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!\n This is the great god Tyr!_\n\n\n\n\nBrother Square-Toes\n\n\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA\n\n\n If you're off to Philadelphia in the morning,\n You mustn't take my stories for a guide.\n There's little left indeed of the city you will read of\n And all the folk I write about have died.\n Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand,\n Or remember what his cunning and his skill did.\n And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zinnendorf,\n Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded.\n\n It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis\n (Never say I didn't give you warning).\n In Seventeen Ninety-three 'twas there for all to see,\n But it's not in Philadelphia this morning.\n\n If you're off to Philadelphia in the morning,\n You mustn't go by everything I've said.\n Bob Bicknell's Southern Stages have been laid aside for ages,\n But the Limited will take you there instead.\n Toby Hirte can't be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen,\n North Second Street--no matter when you call;\n And I fear you'll search in vain for the wash-house down the lane\n Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball.\n\n It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden\n (Never say I didn't give you warning).\n In Seventeen Ninety-four 'twas a famous dancing-floor--\n But it's not in Philadelphia this morning.\n\n If you're off to Philadelphia in the morning,\n You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel.\n You needn't try your luck at Epply's or the 'Buck,'\n Though the Father of his Country liked them well.\n It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos,\n Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed--so\n You must treat as out of date the story I relate,\n Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so.\n\n He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Luther,\n (Never say I didn't give you warning).\n In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) alive.\n But he's not in Philadelphia this morning.\n\n If you're off to Philadelphia this morning,\n And wish to prove the truth of what I say,\n I pledge my word you'll find the pleasant land behind\n Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way.\n Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the catbird sings his tune;\n Still autumn sets the maple-forest blazing.\n Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-compelling musk;\n Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing.\n\n They are there, there, there with Earth immortal\n (Citizens, I give you friendly warning).\n The things that truly last when men and times have passed\n They are all in Pennsylvania this morning!\n\n\n\n\nBrother Square-Toes\n\n\nIt was almost the end of their visit to the seaside. They had turned\nthemselves out of doors while their trunks were being packed, and\nstrolled over the Downs towards the dull evening sea. The tide was dead\nlow under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled waves grieved along\nthe sands up the coast to Newhaven and down the coast to long, grey\nBrighton, whose smoke trailed out across the Channel.\n\nThey walked to The Gap where the cliff is only a few feet high. A\nwindlass for hoisting shingle from the beach below stands at the edge of\nit. The Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an old ship's\nfigure-head of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall.\n\n'This time to-morrow we shall be at home, thank goodness,' said Una. 'I\nhate the sea!'\n\n'I believe it's all right in the middle,' said Dan. 'The edges are the\nsorrowful parts.'\n\nCordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, levelled his telescope\nat some fishing-boats, shut it with a click and walked away. He grew\nsmaller and smaller along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of\nwhite chalk every few yards show the path even on the darkest night.\n\n'Where's Cordery going?' said Una.\n\n'Half-way to Newhaven,' said Dan. 'Then he'll meet the Newhaven\ncoastguard and turn back. He says if coastguards were done away with,\nsmuggling would start up at once.'\n\nA voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing:\n\n 'The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye--\n On Telscombe Tye at night it was--\n She saw the smugglers riding by,\n A very pretty sight it was!'\n\nFeet scrabbled on the flinty path. A dark, thin-faced man in very neat\nbrown clothes and broad-toed shoes came up, followed by Puck.\n\n 'Three Dunkirk boats was standin' in!'\n\nthe man went on.\n\n'Hssh!' said Puck. 'You'll shock these nice young people.'\n\n'Oh! Shall I? Mille pardons!' He shrugged his shoulders almost up to his\nears--spread his hands abroad, and jabbered in French. 'No comprenny?'\nhe said. 'I'll give it you in Low German.' And he went off in another\nlanguage, changing his voice and manner so completely that they hardly\nknew him for the same person. But his dark beady-brown eyes still\ntwinkled merrily in his lean face, and the children felt that they did\nnot suit the straight, plain, snuffy-brown coat, brown knee-breeches,\nand broad-brimmed hat. His hair was tied in a short pig-tail which\ndanced wickedly when he turned his head.\n\n'Ha' done!' said Puck, laughing. 'Be one thing or t'other,\nPharaoh--French or English or German--no great odds which.'\n\n'Oh, but it is, though,' said Una quickly. 'We haven't begun German yet,\nand--and we're going back to our French next week.'\n\n'Aren't you English?' said Dan. 'We heard you singing just now.'\n\n'Aha! That was the Sussex side o' me. Dad he married a French girl out\no' Boulogne, and French she stayed till her dyin' day. She was an\nAurette, of course. We Lees mostly marry Aurettes. Haven't you ever come\nacross the saying:\n\n 'Aurettes and Lees,\n Like as two peas.\n What they can't smuggle,\n They'll run over seas?'\n\n'Then, are you a smuggler?' Una cried; and, 'Have you smuggled much?'\nsaid Dan.\n\nMr. Lee nodded solemnly.\n\n'Mind you,' said he, 'I don't uphold smuggling for the generality o'\nmankind--mostly they can't make a do of it--but I was brought up to the\ntrade, d'ye see, in a lawful line o' descent on'--he waved across the\nChannel--'on both sides the water. 'Twas all in the families, same as\nfiddling. The Aurettes used mostly to run the stuff across from\nBoulogne, and we Lees landed it here and ran it up to London town, by\nthe safest road.'\n\n'Then where did you live?' said Una.\n\n'You mustn't ever live too close to your business in _our_ trade. We\nkept our little fishing smack at Shoreham, but otherwise we Lees was all\nhonest cottager folk--at Warminghurst under Washington--Bramber way--on\nthe old Penn estate.'\n\n'Ah!' said Puck, squatted by the windlass. 'I remember a piece about the\nLees at Warminghurst, I do:\n\n 'There was never a Lee to Warminghurst\n That wasn't a gipsy last and first.\n\nI reckon that's truth, Pharaoh.'\n\nPharaoh laughed. 'Admettin' that's true,' he said, 'my gipsy blood must\nbe wore pretty thin, for I've made and kept a worldly fortune.'\n\n'By smuggling?' Dan asked.\n\n'No, in the tobacco trade.'\n\n'You don't mean to say you gave up smuggling just to go and be a\ntobacconist!' Dan looked so disappointed they all had to laugh.\n\n'I'm sorry; but there's all sorts of tobacconists,' Pharaoh replied.\n'How far out, now, would you call that smack with the patch on her\nforesail?' He pointed to the fishing-boats.\n\n'A scant mile,' said Puck after a quick look.\n\n'Just about. It's seven fathom under her--clean sand. That was where\nUncle Aurette used to sink his brandy kegs from Boulogne, and we fished\n'em up and rowed 'em into The Gap here for the ponies to run inland. One\nthickish night in January of '93, Dad and Uncle Lot and me came over\nfrom Shoreham in the smack, and we found Uncle Aurette and the\nL'Estranges, my cousins, waiting for us in their lugger with New Year's\npresents from mother's folk in Boulogne. I remember Aunt Cecile she'd\nsent me a fine new red knitted cap, which I put on then and there, for\nthe French was having their Revolution in those days, and red caps was\nall the fashion. Uncle Aurette tells us that they had cut off their King\nLouis' head, and, moreover, the Brest forts had fired on an English\nman-o'-war. The news wasn't a week old.\n\n'\"That means war again, when we was only just getting used to the\npeace,\" says Dad. \"Why can't King George's men and King Louis' men do on\ntheir uniforms and fight it out over our heads?\"\n\n'\"Me too, I wish that,\" says Uncle Aurette. \"But they'll be pressing\nbetter men than themselves to fight for 'em. The press-gangs are out\nalready on our side: you look out for yours.\"\n\n'\"I'll have to bide ashore and grow cabbages for a while, after I've run\nthis cargo; but I do wish\"--Dad says, going over the lugger's side with\nour New Year presents under his arm and young L'Estrange holding the\nlantern--\"I just do wish that those folk which make war so easy had to\nrun one cargo a month all this winter. It 'ud show 'em what honest work\nmeans.\"\n\n'\"Well, I've warned ye,\" says Uncle Aurette. \"I'll be slipping off now\nbefore your Revenue cutter comes. Give my love to sister and take care\no' the kegs. It's thicking to southward.\"\n\n'I remember him waving to us and young Stephen L'Estrange blowing out\nthe lantern. By the time we'd fished up the kegs the fog came down so\nthick Dad judged it risky for me to row 'em ashore, even though we could\nhear the ponies stamping on the beach. So he and Uncle Lot took the\ndinghy and left me in the smack playing on my fiddle to guide 'em back.\n\n'Presently I heard guns. Two of 'em sounded mighty like Uncle Aurette's\nthree-pounders. He didn't go naked about the seas after dark. Then come\nmore, which I reckoned was Captain Giddens in the Revenue cutter. He was\nopen-handed with his compliments, but he _would_ lay his guns himself. I\nstopped fiddling to listen, and I heard a whole skyful o' French up in\nthe fog--and a high bow come down on top o' the smack. I hadn't time to\ncall or think. I remember the smack heeling over, and me standing on the\ngunwale pushing against the ship's side as if I hoped to bear her off.\nThen the square of an open port, with a lantern in it, slid by in front\nof my nose. I kicked back on our gunwale as it went under and slipped\nthrough that port into the French ship--me and my fiddle.'\n\n'Gracious!' said Una. 'What an adventure!'\n\n'Didn't anybody see you come in?' said Dan.\n\n'There wasn't any one there. I'd made use of an orlop-deck port--that's\nthe next deck below the gun-deck, which by rights should not have been\nopen at all. The crew was standing by their guns up above. I rolled on\nto a pile of dunnage in the dark and I went to sleep. When I woke, men\nwas talking all round me, telling each other their names and sorrows\njust like Dad told me pressed men used to talk in the last war. Pretty\nsoon I made out they'd all been hove aboard together by the press-gangs,\nand left to sort 'emselves. The ship she was the _Embuscade_, a\nthirty-six gun Republican frigate, Captain Jean Baptiste Bompard, two\ndays out of Le Havre, going to the United States with a Republican\nFrench Ambassador of the name of Genet. They had been up all night\nclearing for action on account of hearing guns in the fog. Uncle Aurette\nand Captain Giddens must have been passing the time o' day with each\nother off Newhaven, and the frigate had drifted past 'em. She never knew\nshe'd run down our smack. Seeing so many aboard was total strangers to\neach other, I thought one more mightn't be noticed; so I put Aunt\nCecile's red cap on the back of my head, and my hands in my pockets like\nthe rest, and, as we French say, I circulated till I found the galley.\n\n'\"What! Here's one of 'em that isn't sick!\" says a cook. \"Take his\nbreakfast to Citizen Bompard.\"\n\n'I carried the tray to the cabin, but I didn't call this Bompard\n\"Citizen.\" Oh no! \"Mon Capitaine\" was my little word, same as Uncle\nAurette used to answer in King Louis' Navy. Bompard, he liked it; he\ntook me on for cabin servant, and after that no one asked questions; and\nthus I got good victuals and light work all the way across to America.\nHe talked a heap of politics, and so did his officers, and when this\nAmbassador Genet got rid of his land-stomach and laid down the law\nafter dinner, a rook's parliament was nothing compared to their cabin. I\nlearned to know most of the men which had worked the French Revolution,\nthrough waiting at table and hearing talk about 'em. One of our\nforecas'le six-pounders was called Danton and t'other Marat. I used to\nplay the fiddle between 'em, sitting on the capstan. Day in and day out\nBompard and Monsieur Genet talked o' what France had done, and how the\nUnited States was going to join her to finish off the English in this\nwar. Monsieur Genet said he'd justabout make the United States fight for\nFrance. He was a rude common man. But I liked listening. I always helped\ndrink any healths that was proposed--specially Citizen Danton's who'd\ncut off King Louis' head. An all-Englishman might have been\nshocked--that's where my French blood saved me.\n\n'It didn't save me from getting a dose of ship's fever though, the week\nbefore we put Monsieur Genet ashore at Charleston; and what was left of\nme after bleeding and pills took the dumb horrors from living 'tween\ndecks. The surgeon, Karaguen his name was, kept me down there to help\nhim with his plasters--I was too weak to wait on Bompard. I don't\nremember much of any account for the next few weeks, till I smelled\nlilacs, and I looked out of the port, and we was moored to a wharf-edge\nand there was a town o' fine gardens and red-brick houses and all the\ngreen leaves in God's world waiting for me outside.\n\n'\"What's this?\" I said to the sick-bay man--old Pierre Tiphaigne he was.\n\"Philadelphia,\" says Pierre. \"You've missed it all. We're sailing next\nweek.\"\n\n'I just turned round and cried for longing to be amongst the laylocks.\n\n'\"If that's your trouble,\" says old Pierre, \"you go straight ashore.\nNone'll hinder you. They're all gone mad on these coasts--French and\nAmerican together. 'Tisn't _my_ notion o' war.\" Pierre was an old King\nLouis man.\n\n'My legs was pretty tottly, but I made shift to go on deck, which it was\nlike a fair. The frigate was crowded with fine gentlemen and ladies\npouring in and out. They sung and they waved French flags, while Captain\nBompard and his officers--yes, and some of the men--speechified to all\nand sundry about war with England. They shouted, \"Down with\nEngland!\"--\"Down with Washington!\"--\"Hurrah for France and the\nRepublic!\" _I_ couldn't make sense of it. I wanted to get out from that\ncrunch of swords and petticoats and sit in a field. One of the gentlemen\nsaid to me, \"Is that a genuine cap o' Liberty you're wearing?\" 'Twas\nAunt Cecile's red one, and pretty near wore out. \"Oh yes!\" I says,\n\"straight from France.\" \"I'll give you a shilling for it,\" he says, and\nwith that money in my hand and my fiddle under my arm I squeezed past\nthe entry-port and went ashore. It was like a dream--meadows, trees,\nflowers, birds, houses, and people _all_ different! I sat me down in a\nmeadow and fiddled a bit, and then I went in and out the streets,\nlooking and smelling and touching, like a little dog at a fair. Fine\nfolk was setting on the white stone doorsteps of their houses, and a\ngirl threw me a handful of laylock sprays, and when I said \"Merci\"\nwithout thinking, she said she loved the French. They was all the\nfashion in the city. I saw more tricolour flags in Philadelphia than\never I'd seen in Boulogne, and every one was shouting for war with\nEngland. A crowd o' folk was cheering after our French ambassador--that\nsame Monsieur Genet which we'd left at Charleston. He was a-horseback\nbehaving as if the place belonged to him--and commanding all and sundry\nto fight the British. But I'd heard that before. I got into a long\nstraight street as wide as the Broyle, where gentlemen was racing\nhorses. I'm fond o' horses. Nobody hindered 'em, and a man told me it\nwas called Race Street o' purpose for that. Then I followed some black\nniggers, which I'd never seen close before; but I left them to run after\na great, proud, copper-faced man with feathers in his hair and a red\nblanket trailing behind him. A man told me he was a real Red Indian\ncalled Red Jacket, and I followed him into an alley-way off Race Street\nby Second Street, where there was a fiddle playing. I'm fond o'\nfiddling. The Indian stopped at a baker's shop--Conrad Gerhard's it\nwas--and bought some sugary cakes. Hearing what the price was I was\ngoing to have some too, but the Indian asked me in English if I was\nhungry. \"Oh yes!\" I says. I must have looked a sore scrattel. He opens a\ndoor on to a staircase and leads the way up. We walked into a dirty\nlittle room full of flutes and fiddles and a fat man fiddling by the\nwindow, in a smell of cheese and medicines fit to knock you down. I\n_was_ knocked down too, for the fat man jumped up and hit me a smack in\nthe face. I fell against an old spinet covered with pill-boxes and the\npills rolled about the floor. The Indian never moved an eyelid.\n\n'\"Pick up the pills! Pick up the pills!\" the fat man screeches.\n\n'I started picking 'em up--hundreds of 'em--meaning to run out under the\nIndian's arm, but I came on giddy all over and I sat down. The fat man\nwent back to his fiddling.\n\n'\"Toby!\" says the Indian after quite a while. \"I brought the boy to be\nfed, not hit.\"\n\n'\"What?\" says Toby, \"I thought it was Gert Schwankfelder.\" He put down\nhis fiddle and took a good look at me. \"Himmel!\" he says. \"I have hit\nthe wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why are you not the new boy? Why\nare you not Gert Schwankfelder?\"\n\n'\"I don't know,\" I said. \"The gentleman in the pink blanket brought me.\"\n\n'Says the Indian, \"He is hungry, Toby. Christians always feed the\nhungry. So I bring him.\"\n\n'\"You should have said that first,\" said Toby. He pushed plates at me\nand the Indian put bread and pork on them, and a glass of Madeira wine.\nI told him I was off the French ship, which I had joined on account of\nmy mother being French. That was true enough when you think of it, and\nbesides I saw that the French was all the fashion in Philadelphia. Toby\nand the Indian whispered and I went on picking up the pills.\n\n'\"You like pills--eh?\" says Toby.\n\n'\"No,\" I says. \"I've seen our ship's doctor roll too many of 'em.\"\n\n'\"Ho!\" he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. \"What's those?\"\n\n'\"Calomel,\" I says. \"And t'other's senna.\"\n\n'\"Right,\" he says. \"One week have I tried to teach Gert Schwankfelder\nthe difference between them, yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?\" he\nsays. He'd just seen my kit on the floor.\n\n'\"Oh yes!\" says I.\n\n'\"Oho!\" he says. \"What note is this?\" drawing his bow acrost.\n\n'He meant it for A, so I told him it was.\n\n'\"My brother,\" he says to the Indian. \"I think this is the hand of\nProvidence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves any\nmore he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you\nthink.\"\n\n'The Indian looked me over whole minutes--there was a musical clock on\nthe wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked\nme over all the while they did it.\n\n'\"Good,\" he says at last. \"This boy is good.\"\n\n'\"Good, then,\" says Toby. \"Now I shall play my fiddle and you shall sing\nyour hymn, brother. Boy, go down to the bakery and tell them you are\nyoung Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in Davy Jones's\nlocker. If you ask any questions you shall hear from me.\"\n\n'I left 'em singing hymns and I went down to old Conrad Gerhard. He\nwasn't at all surprised when I told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder\nthat was. He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the back yard\nwithout a word, and she washed me and she cut my hair to the edge of a\nbasin, and she put me to bed, and Oh! how I slept--how I slept in that\nlittle room behind the oven looking on the flower garden! I didn't know\nToby went to the _Embuscade_ that night and bought me off Dr. Karaguen\nfor twelve dollars and a dozen bottles of Seneca Oil. Karaguen wanted a\nnew lace to his coat, and he reckoned I hadn't long to live; so he put\nme down as \"discharged sick.\"'\n\n'I like Toby,' said Una.\n\n'Who was he?' said Puck.\n\n'Apothecary Tobias Hirte,' Pharaoh replied. 'One Hundred and Eighteen,\nSecond Street--the famous Seneca Oil man, that lived half of every year\namong the Indians. But let me tell my tale my own way, same as his brown\nmare used to go to Lebanon.'\n\n'Then why did he keep her in Davy Jones's locker?' Dan asked.\n\n'That was his joke. He kept her under David Jones's hat shop in the\n\"Buck\" tavern yard, and his Indian friends kept their ponies there when\nthey visited him. I looked after the horses when I wasn't rolling pills\non top of the old spinet, while he played his fiddle and Red Jacket sang\nhymns. I liked it. I had good victuals, light work, a suit o' clean\nclothes, a plenty music, and quiet, smiling German folk all around that\nlet me sit in their gardens. My first Sunday, Toby took me to his church\nin Moravian Alley; and that was in a garden too. The women wore\nlong-eared caps and handkerchiefs. They came in at one door and the men\nat another, and there was a brass chandelier you could see your face in,\nand a nigger-boy to blow the organ bellows. I carried Toby's fiddle, and\nhe played pretty much as he chose all against the organ and the singing.\nHe was the only one they let do it, for they was a simple-minded folk.\nThey used to wash each other's feet up in the attic to keep 'emselves\nhumble: which Lord knows they didn't need.'\n\n'How very queer,' said Una.\n\nPharaoh's eyes twinkled. 'I've met many and seen much,' he said; 'but I\nhaven't yet found any better or quieter or forbearinger people than the\nBrethren and Sistern of the Moravian Church in Philadelphia. Nor will I\never forget my first Sunday--the service was in English that week--with\nthe smell of the flowers coming in from Pastor Meder's garden where the\nbig peach tree is, and me looking at all the clean strangeness and\nthinking of 'tween decks on the _Embuscade_ only six days ago. Being a\nboy, it seemed to me it had lasted for ever, and was going on for ever.\nBut I didn't know Toby then. As soon as the dancing clock struck\nmidnight that Sunday--I was lying under the spinet--I heard Toby's\nfiddle. He'd just done his supper, which he always took late and heavy.\n\"Gert,\" says he, \"get the horses. Liberty and Independence for ever! The\nflowers appear upon the earth and the time of the singing of birds is\ncome. We are going to my country seat in Lebanon.\"\n\n'I rubbed my eyes, and fetched 'em out of the \"Buck\" stable. Red Jacket\nwas there saddling his, and when I'd packed the saddle-bags we three\nrode up Race Street to the Ferry by starlight. So we went travelling.\nIt's a kindly, softly country there, back of Philadelphia among the\nGerman towns, Lancaster way. Little houses and bursting big barns, fat\ncattle, fat women, and all as peaceful as Heaven might be if they farmed\nthere. Toby sold medicines out of his saddle-bags, and gave the French\nwar-news to folk along the roads. Him and his long-hilted umberell was\nas well known as the stage coaches. He took orders for that famous\nSeneca Oil which he had the secret of from Red Jacket's Indians, and he\nslept in friend's farmhouses, but he _would_ shut all the windows; so\nRed Jacket and me slept outside. There's nothing to hurt except\nsnakes--and they slip away quick enough if you thrash in the bushes.'\n\n'I'd have liked that!' said Dan.\n\n'I'd no fault to find with those days. In the cool o' the morning the\ncat-bird sings. He's something to listen to. And there's a smell of\nwild grape-vine growing in damp hollows which you drop into, after\nlong rides in the heat, which is beyond compare for sweetness. So's\nthe puffs out of the pine woods of afternoons. Come sundown, the frogs\nstrike up, and later on the fireflies dance in the corn. Oh me, the\nfireflies in the corn! We were a week or ten days on the road, tacking\nfrom one place to another--such as Lancaster, Bethlehem-Ephrata--\"thou\nBethlehem-Ephrata\"--no odds--I loved the going about; and so we jogged\ninto dozy little Lebanon by the Blue Mountains, where Toby had a\ncottage and a garden of all fruits. He come north every year for this\nwonderful Seneca Oil the Seneca Indians made for him. They'd never\nsell to any one else, and he doctored 'em with von Swieten pills,\nwhich they valued more than their own oil. He could do what he chose\nwith them, and, of course, he tried to make them Moravians. The\nSenecas are a seemly, quiet people, and they'd had trouble enough from\nwhite men--Americans and English--during the wars, to keep 'em in that\nwalk. They lived on a Reservation by themselves away off by their\nlake. Toby took me up there, and they treated me as if I was their own\nblood brother. Red Jacket said the mark of my bare feet in the dust\nwas just like an Indian's and my style of walking was similar. I know\nI took to their ways all over.'\n\n'Maybe the gipsy drop in your blood helped you?' said Puck.\n\n'Sometimes I think it did,' Pharaoh went on. 'Anyhow Red Jacket and\nCornplanter, the other Seneca chief, they let me be adopted into the\ntribe. It's only a compliment, of course, but Toby was angry when I\nshowed up with my face painted. They gave me a side-name which means\n\"Two Tongues,\" because, d'ye see, I talked French and English.\n\n'They had their own opinions (_I_'ve heard 'em) about the French and the\nEnglish, _and_ the Americans. They'd suffered from all of 'em during\nthe wars, and they only wished to be left alone. But they thought a heap\nof the President of the United States. Cornplanter had had dealings with\nhim in some French wars out West when General Washington was only a lad.\nHis being President afterwards made no odds to 'em. They always called\nhim Big Hand, for he was a large-fisted man, and he was all of their\nnotion of a white chief. Cornplanter 'ud sweep his blanket round him,\nand after I'd filled his pipe he'd begin--\"In the old days, long ago,\nwhen braves were many and blankets were few, Big Hand said----\" If Red\nJacket agreed to the say-so he'd trickle a little smoke out of the\ncorners of his mouth. If he didn't, he'd blow through his nostrils. Then\nCornplanter 'ud stop and Red Jacket 'ud take on. Red Jacket was the\nbetter talker of the two. I've laid and listened to 'em for hours. Oh!\nthey knew General Washington well. Cornplanter used to meet him at\nEpply's--the great dancing place in the city before District Marshal\nWilliam Nichols bought it. They told me he was always glad to see 'em,\nand he'd hear 'em out to the end if they had anything on their minds.\nThey had a good deal in those days. I came at it by degrees, after I was\nadopted into the tribe. The talk up in Lebanon and everywhere else that\nsummer was about the French war with England and whether the United\nStates 'ud join in with France or make a peace treaty with England. Toby\nwanted peace so as he could go about the Reservation buying his oils.\nBut most of the white men wished for war, and they was angry because\nthe President wouldn't give the sign for it. The newspaper said men was\nburning Guy Fawke images of General Washington and yelling after him in\nthe streets of Philadelphia. You'd have been astonished what those two\nfine old chiefs knew of the ins and outs of such matters. The little\nI've learned of politics I picked up from Cornplanter and Red Jacket on\nthe Reservation. Toby used to read the _Aurora_ newspaper. He was what\nthey call a \"Democrat,\" though our Church is against the Brethren\nconcerning themselves with politics.'\n\n'I hate politics, too,' said Una, and Pharaoh laughed.\n\n'I might ha' guessed it,' he said. 'But here's something that isn't\npolitics. One hot evening late in August, Toby was reading the newspaper\non the stoop and Red Jacket was smoking under a peach tree and I was\nfiddling. Of a sudden Toby drops his _Aurora_.\n\n'\"I am an oldish man, too fond of my own comforts,\" he says. \"I will go\nto the church which is in Philadelphia. My brother, lend me a spare\npony. I must be there to-morrow night.\"\n\n'\"Good!\" says Red Jacket looking at the sun. \"My brother shall be there.\nI will ride with him and bring back the ponies.\"\n\n'I went to pack the saddle-bags. Toby had cured me of asking questions.\nHe stopped my fiddling if I did. Besides, Indians don't ask questions\nmuch and I wanted to be like 'em.\n\n'When the horses were ready I jumped up.\n\n'\"Get off,\" says Toby. \"Stay and mind the cottage till I come back. The\nLord has laid this on me, not on you--I wish he hadn't.\"\n\n'He powders off down the Lancaster road, and I sat on the door-step\nwondering after him. When I picked up the paper to wrap his\nfiddle-strings in, I spelled out a piece about the yellow fever being in\nPhiladelphia so dreadful every one was running away. I was scared, for I\nwas fond of Toby. We never said much to each other, but we fiddled\ntogether, and music's as good as talking to them that understand.'\n\n'Did Toby die of yellow fever?' Una asked.\n\n'Not him! There's justice left in the world still. He went down to the\nCity and bled 'em well again in heaps. He sent back word by Red Jacket\nthat, if there was war or he died I was to bring the oils along to the\ncity, but till then I was to go on working in the garden and Red Jacket\nwas to see me do it. Down at heart all Indians reckon digging a squaw's\nbusiness, and neither him nor Cornplanter, when he relieved watch, was a\nhard task-master. We hired a nigger-boy to do our work, and a lazy\ngrinning runagate he was. When I found Toby didn't die the minute he\nreached town, why, boylike, I took him off my mind and went with my\nIndians again. Oh! those days up north at Canasedago, running races and\ngambling with the Senecas, or bee-hunting in the woods, or fishing in\nthe lake.' Pharaoh sighed and looked across the water. 'But it's best,'\nhe went on suddenly, 'after the first frostes. You roll out o' your\nblanket and find every leaf left green over night turned red and\nyellow, not by trees at a time, but hundreds and hundreds of miles of\n'em, like sunsets splattered upside down. On one of such days--the\nmaples was flaming scarlet and gold, and the sumach bushes were\nredder--Cornplanter and Red Jacket came out in full war-dress, making\nthe very leaves look silly: feathered war-bonnets, yellow doe-skin\nleggings, fringed and tasselled, red horse-blankets, and their bridles\nfeathered and shelled and beaded no bounds. I thought it was war against\nthe British till I saw their faces weren't painted, and they only\ncarried wrist-whips. Then I hummed \"Yankee Doodle\" at 'em. They told me\nthey was going to visit Big Hand and find out for sure whether he meant\nto join the French in fighting the English or make a peace treaty with\nEngland. I reckon those two would ha' gone out on the war-path at a nod\nfrom Big Hand, but they knew well, if there was war 'twixt England and\nthe United States, their tribe 'ud catch it from both parties same as in\nall the other wars. They asked me to come along and hold the ponies.\nThat puzzled me, because they always put their ponies up at the \"Buck\"\nor Epply's when they went to see General Washington in the city, and\nhorse-holding is a nigger's job. Besides, I wasn't exactly dressed for\nit.'\n\n'D'you mean you were dressed like an Indian?' Dan demanded.\n\nPharaoh looked a little abashed. 'This didn't happen at Lebanon,' he\nsaid, 'but a bit farther north, on the Reservation; and at that\nparticular moment of time, so far as blanket, hair-band, moccasins, and\nsunburn went, there wasn't much odds 'twix me and a young Seneca buck.\nYou may laugh,' he smoothed down his long-skirted brown coat. 'But I\ntold you I took to their ways all over. I said nothing, though I was\nbursting to let out the war-whoop like the young men had taught me.'\n\n'No, and you don't let out one here, either,' said Puck before Dan could\nask. 'Go on, Brother Square-toes.'\n\n'We went on.' Pharaoh's narrow dark eyes gleamed and danced. 'We went\non--forty, fifty miles a day, for days on end--we three braves. And how\na great tall Indian a-horseback can carry his war-bonnet at a canter\nthrough thick timber without brushing a feather beats _me_! My silly\nhead was banged often enough by low branches, but they slipped through\nlike running elks. We had evening hymn-singing every night after they'd\nblown their pipe-smoke to the quarters of Heaven. Where did we go? I'll\ntell you, but don't blame me if you're no wiser. We took the old\nwar-trail from the end of the Lake along the East Susquehanna through\nthe Nantego country, right down to Fort Shamokin on the Senachse river.\nWe crossed the Juniata by Fort Granville, got into Shippensberg over the\nhills by the Ochwick trail, and then to Williams Ferry (it's a bad one).\nFrom Williams Ferry, across the Shanedore, over the Blue Mountains,\nthrough Ashby's Gap, and so south-east by south from there, till we\nfound the President at the back of his own plantations. I'd hate to be\ntrailed by Indians in earnest. They caught him like a partridge on a\nstump. After we'd left our ponies, we scouted forward through a woody\npiece, and, creeping slower and slower, at last if my moccasins even\nslipped Red Jacket 'ud turn and frown. I heard voices--Monsieur Genet's\nfor choice--long before I saw anything, and we pulled up at the edge of\na clearing where some niggers in grey and red liveries were holding\nhorses, and half-a-dozen gentlemen--but one was Genet--were talking\namong felled timber. I fancy they'd come to see Genet a piece on his\nroad, for his portmantle was with him. I hid in between two logs as near\nto the company as I be to that old windlass there. I didn't need anybody\nto show me Big Hand. He stood up, very still, his legs a little apart,\nlistening to Genet, that French Ambassador, which never had more manners\nthan a Bosham tinker. Genet was as good as ordering him to declare war\non England at once. I had heard that clack before on the _Embuscade_. He\nsaid he'd stir up the whole United States to have war with England,\nwhether Big Hand liked it or not.\n\n'Big Hand heard him out to the last end. I looked behind me and my two\nchiefs had vanished like smoke. Says Big Hand, \"That is very forcibly\nput, Monsieur Genet----\" \"Citizen--citizen!\" the fellow spits in. \"_I_,\nat least, am a Republican!\" \"Citizen Genet,\" he says, \"you may be sure\nit will receive my fullest consideration.\" This seemed to take Citizen\nGenet back a piece. He rode off grumbling, and never gave his nigger a\npenny. No gentleman!\n\n'The others all assembled round Big Hand then, and, in their way, they\nsaid pretty much what Genet had said. They put it to him, here was\nFrance and England at war, in a manner of speaking, right across the\nUnited States' stomach, and paying no regards to any one. The French was\nsearching American ships on pretence they was helping England, but\nreally for to steal the goods. The English was doing the same, only\nt'other way round, and besides searching, they was pressing American\ncitizens into their navy to help them fight France, on pretence that\nthose Americans was lawful British subjects. His gentlemen put this very\nclear to Big Hand. It didn't look to _them_, they said, as though the\nUnited States trying to keep out of the fight was any advantage to\n_her_, because she only catched it from both French and English. They\nsaid that nine out of ten good Americans was crazy to fight the English\nthen and there. They wouldn't say whether that was right or wrong; they\nonly wanted Big Hand to turn it over in his mind. He did--for a while. I\nsaw Red Jacket and Cornplanter watching him from the far side of the\nclearing, and how they had slipped round there was another mystery. Then\nBig Hand drew himself up, and he let his gentlemen have it.'\n\n'Hit 'em?' Dan asked.\n\n'No, nor yet was it what you might call swearing. He--he blasted 'em\nwith his natural speech. He asked them half-a-dozen times over whether\nthe United States had enough armed ships for any shape or sort of war\nwith any one. He asked 'em, if they thought she _had_ those ships, to\n_give_ him those ships, and they looked on the ground, as if they\nexpected to find 'em _there_. He put it to 'em whether, setting ships\naside, their country--I reckon he gave 'em good reasons--whether the\nUnited States was ready or able to face a new big war; she having but so\nfew years back wound up one against England, and being all holds full of\nher own troubles. As I said, the strong way he laid it all before 'em\nblasted 'em, and when he'd done it was like a still in the woods after a\nstorm. A little man--but they all looked little--pipes up like a young\nrook in a blowed-down nest, \"Nevertheless, General, it seems you will be\ncompelled to fight England.\" Quick Big Hand wheels on him, \"And is there\nanything in my past which makes you think I am averse to fighting Great\nBritain?\"\n\n'Everybody laughed except him. \"Oh, General, you mistake us entirely!\"\nthey says. \"I trust so,\" he says. \"But I know my duty. We _must_ have\npeace with England.\"\n\n'\"At any price?\" says the man with the rook's voice.\n\n'\"At any price,\" says he word by word. \"Our ships will be searched--our\ncitizens will be pressed, but----\"\n\n'\"Then what about the Declaration of Independence?\" says one.\n\n'\"Deal with facts, not fancies,\" says Big Hand. \"The United States are\nin no position to fight England.\"\n\n'\"But think of public opinion,\" another one starts up. \"The feeling\nin Philadelphia alone is at fever heat.\"\n\n[Illustration: They made the sign which no Indian makes outside of the\nMedicine Lodges.--P. 171.]\n\n'He held up one of his big hands. \"Gentlemen,\" he says--slow he spoke,\nbut his voice carried far--\"I have to think of our country. Let me\nassure you that the treaty with Great Britain will be made though every\ncity in the Union burn me in effigy.\"\n\n'\"At any price?\" the actor-like chap keeps on croaking.\n\n'\"The treaty must be made on Great Britain's own terms. What else can I\ndo?\"\n\n'He turns his back on 'em and they looked at each other and slinked off\nto the horses, leaving him alone: and then I saw he was an old man. Then\nRed Jacket and Cornplanter rode down the clearing from the far end as\nthough they had just chanced along. Back went Big Hand's shoulders, up\nwent his head and he stepped forward one single pace with a great deep\nHough! so pleased he was. That was a statelified meeting to\nbehold--three big men, and two of 'em looking like jewelled images among\nthe spattle of gay-coloured leaves. I saw my chiefs' war-bonnets sinking\ntogether, down and down. Then they made the sign which no Indian makes\noutside of the Medicine Lodges--a sweep of the right hand just clear of\nthe dust and an inbend of the left knee at the same time, and those\nproud eagle feathers almost touched his boot-top.'\n\n'What did it mean?' said Dan.\n\n'Mean!' Pharaoh cried. 'Why it's what you--what we--it's the Sachems'\nway of sprinkling the sacred corn-meal in front of--oh! it's a piece of\nIndian compliment really, and it signifies that you are a very big\nchief.\n\n'Big Hand looked down on 'em. First he says quite softly, \"My brothers\nknow it is not easy to be a chief.\" Then his voice grew. \"My children,\"\nsays he, \"what is in your minds?\"\n\n'Says Cornplanter, \"We came to ask whether there will be war with King\nGeorge's men, but we have heard what our Father has said to his chiefs.\nWe will carry away that talk in our hearts to tell to our people.\"\n\n'\"No,\" says Big Hand. \"Leave all that talk behind--it was between white\nmen only--but take this message from _me_ to your people--'There will be\nno war.'\"\n\n'His gentlemen were waiting, so they didn't delay him; only Cornplanter\nsays, using his old side-name, \"Big Hand, did you see us among the\ntimber just now?\"\n\n'\"Surely,\" says he. \"_You_ taught me to look behind trees when we were\nboth young.\" And with that he cantered off.\n\n'Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back on our ponies again and a\nhalf-hour along the home-trail. Then Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, \"We\nwill have the corn dance this year. There will be no war.\" And that was\nall there was to it.'\n\nPharaoh stood up as though he had finished.\n\n'Yes,' said Puck, rising too. 'And what came out of it in the long run?'\n\n'Let me get at my story my own way,' was the answer. 'Look! it's later\nthan I thought. That Shoreham smack's thinking of her supper.'\n\nThe children looked across the darkening Channel. A smack had hoisted a\nlantern and slowly moved west where Brighton pier lights ran out in a\ntwinkling line. When they turned round The Gap was empty behind them.\n\n'I expect they've packed our trunks by now,' said Dan. 'This time\nto-morrow we'll be home.'\n\n\n\n\nIF----\n\n\n If you can keep your head when all about you\n Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;\n If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,\n But make allowance for their doubting too;\n If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,\n Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,\n Or being hated don't give way to hating,\n And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;\n\n If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;\n If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim,\n If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster\n And treat those two impostors just the same;\n If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken\n Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,\n Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,\n And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;\n\n If you can make one heap of all your winnings\n And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,\n And lose, and start again at your beginnings\n And never breathe a word about your loss;\n If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew\n To serve your turn long after they are gone,\n And so hold on when there is nothing in you\n Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'\n\n If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,\n Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,\n If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,\n If all men count with you, but none too much;\n If you can fill the unforgiving minute\n With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,\n Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,\n And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!\n\n\n\n\n'A Priest in Spite of Himself'\n\n\n\n\nA ST. HELENA LULLABY\n\n\n How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?\n What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?\n Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.\n (_No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?\n I haven't time to answer now--the men are falling fast.\n The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.\n (_If you take the first step you will take the last!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?\n You couldn't hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar.\n But not so far for people who are living by their wits.\n (_'Gay go up' means 'gay go down' the wide world o'er!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?\n I cannot see--I cannot tell--the crowns they dazzle so.\n The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.\n (_After open weather you may look for snow!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?\n A longish way--a longish way--with ten year more to run.\n It's South across the water underneath a setting star.\n (_What you cannot finish you must leave undone!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?\n An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack.\n But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.\n (_When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!_)\n\n How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?\n A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon.\n A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.\n (_Morning never tries you till the afternoon!_)\n\n How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?\n That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will.\n But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,\n And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!\n\n\n\n\n'A Priest in Spite of Himself'\n\n\nThe day after they came home from the sea-side they set out on a tour of\ninspection to make sure everything was as they had left it. Soon they\ndiscovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-gaps with stakes\nand thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up the hedges where the blackberries\nwere setting.\n\n'It can't be time for the gipsies to come along,' said Una. 'Why, it was\nsummer only the other day!'\n\n'There's smoke in Low Shaw!' said Dan, sniffing. 'Let's make sure!'\n\nThey crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue smoke that leaned\nabove the hollow of Low Shaw which lies beside the King's Hill road. It\nused to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, and you can look\nstraight down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow.\n\n'I thought so,' Dan whispered, as they came up to the fence at the edge\nof the larches. A gipsy-van--not the showman's sort, but the old black\nkind, with little windows high up and a baby-gate across the door--was\ngetting ready to leave. A man was harnessing the horses; an old woman\ncrouched over the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; and a\ngirl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking,\nthin dog snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old woman put\nit carefully in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back inside the\nvan and tossed her a paper parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and\nthey smelt singed feathers.\n\n'Chicken feathers!' said Dan. 'I wonder if they are old Hobden's.'\n\nUna sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the girl's feet, the old\nwoman fanned the fire with her hat, while the man led the horses up to\nthe shafts. They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss.\n\n'Ah!' said the girl. 'I'll teach you!' She beat the dog, who seemed to\nexpect it.\n\n'Don't do that,' Una called down. 'It wasn't his fault.'\n\n'How do you know what I'm beating him for?' she answered.\n\n'For not seeing us,' said Dan. 'He was standing right in the smoke, and\nthe wind was wrong for his nose, anyhow.'\n\nThe girl stopped beating the dog and the old woman fanned faster than\never.\n\n'You've fanned some of your feathers out of the fire,' said Una.\n'There's a tail-feather by that chestnut-tot.'\n\n'What of it?' said the old woman, as she grabbed it.\n\n'Oh, nothing!' said Dan. 'Only I've heard say that tail-feathers are as\nbad as the whole bird, sometimes.'\n\nThat was a saying of Hobden's about pheasants. Old Hobden always burned\nall feather and fur before he sat down to eat.\n\n'Come on, mother,' the man whispered. The old woman climbed into the van\nand the horses drew it out of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road.\n\nThe girl waved her hands and shouted something they could not catch.\n\n'That was gipsy for \"Thank you kindly, Brother and Sister,\"' said\nPharaoh Lee.\n\nHe was standing behind them, his fiddle under his arm.\n\n'Gracious, you startled me!' said Una.\n\n'_You_ startled old Priscilla Savile,' Puck called from below them.\n'Come and sit by their fire. She ought to have put it out before they\nleft.'\n\nThey dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una raked the ashes\ntogether, Dan found a dead wormy oak branch that burns without flame,\nand they watched the smoke while Pharaoh played a curious wavery air.\n\n'That's what the girl was humming to the baby,' said Una.\n\n'I know it,' he nodded, and went on:\n\n 'Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai! Luludia!\n Ai Luludia!'\n\nHe passed from one odd tune to another, and quite forgot the children.\nAt last Puck asked him to go on with his adventures in Philadelphia and\namong the Seneca Indians.\n\n'I'm telling it,' he said, staring straight in front of him as he\nplayed. 'Can't you hear?'\n\n'Maybe, but _they_ can't. Tell it aloud,' said Puck.\n\nPharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, and began:\n\n'I'd left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home with me after Big Hand\nhad said that there wouldn't be any war. That's all there was to it. We\nbelieved Big Hand and we went home again--we three braves. When we\nreached Lebanon we found Toby at the cottage with his waistcoat a foot\ntoo big for him--so hard he had worked amongst the yellow-fever people.\nHe beat me for running off with the Indians, but 'twas worth it--I was\nglad to see him,--and when we went back to Philadelphia for the winter,\nand I was told how he'd sacrificed himself over sick people in the\nyellow fever, I thought the world and all of him. No I didn't neither.\nI'd thought that all along. That yellow fever must have been something\ndreadful. Even in December people had no more than begun to trinkle back\nto town. Whole houses stood empty and the niggers was robbing them out.\nBut I can't call to mind that any of the Moravian Brethren had died. It\nseemed like they had just kept on with their own concerns, and the good\nLord he'd just looked after 'em. That was the winter--yes, winter of\nNinety-three--the Brethren bought a stove for the Church. Toby spoke in\nfavour of it because the cold spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought\nstove-heat not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which\nalways brought hickory coal foot-warmers to service and wouldn't speak\neither way. They ended by casting the Lot for it, which is like pitch\nand toss. After my summer with the Senecas, church-stoves didn't highly\ninterest me, so I took to haunting round among the French _emigres_\nwhich Philadelphia was full of. My French and my fiddling helped me\nthere, d'ye see. They come over in shiploads from France, where, by what\nI made out, every one was killing every one else by any means, and they\nspread 'emselves about the city--mostly in Drinker's Alley and Elfrith's\nAlley--and they did odd jobs till times should mend. But whatever they\nstooped to, they were gentry and kept a cheerful countenance, and after\nan evening's fiddling at one of their poor little proud parties, the\nBrethren seemed old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goose\ndidn't like my fiddling for hire, but Toby said it was lawful in me to\nearn my living by exercising my talents. He never let me be put upon.\n\n'In February of Ninety-four--No, March it must have been, because a new\nambassador called Fauchet had come from France, with no more manners\nthan Genet the old one--in March, Red Jacket came in from the\nReservation bringing news of all kind friends there. I showed him round\nthe city, and we saw General Washington riding through a crowd of folk\nthat shouted for war with England. They gave him quite rough music, but\nhe looked 'twixt his horse's ears and made out not to notice. His stirrup\nbrished Red Jacket's elbow, and Red Jacket whispered up, \"My brother knows\nit is not easy to be a chief?\" Big Hand shot just one look at him and\nnodded. Then there was a scuffle behind us over some one who wasn't hooting\nat Washington loud enough to please the people. We went away to be out of\nthe fight. Indians won't risk being hit.'\n\n'What do they do if they are?' Dan asked.\n\n'Kill, of course. That's why they have such proper manners. Well, then,\ncoming home by Drinker's Alley to get a new shirt which a French\nVicomte's lady was washing to take the stiff out of (I'm always choice\nin my body-linen) a lame Frenchman pushes a paper of buttons at us. He\nhadn't long landed in the United States, and please would we buy. He\nsure-ly was a pitiful scrattel--his coat half torn off, his face cut,\nbut his hands steady; so I knew it wasn't drink. He said his name was\nPeringuey, and he'd been knocked about in the crowd round the\nStadt--Independence Hall. One thing leading to another we took him up to\nToby's rooms, same as Red Jacket had taken me the year before. The\ncompliments he paid to Toby's Madeira wine fairly conquered the old man,\nfor he opened a second bottle and he told this Monsieur Peringuey all\nabout our great stove dispute in the Church. I remember Pastor Meder and\nBrother Adam Goose dropped in, and although they and Toby were direct\nopposite sides regarding stoves, yet this Monsieur Peringuey he made 'em\nfeel as if he thought each one was in the right of it. He said he had\nbeen a clergyman before he had to leave France. He admired at Toby's\nfiddling, and he asked if Red Jacket, sitting by the spinet, was a\nsimple Huron. Senecas aren't Hurons, they're Iroquois, of course, and\nToby told him so. Well, then, in due time he arose and left in a style\nwhich made us feel he'd been favouring us, instead of us feeding him.\nI've never seen that so strong before--in a man. We all talked him over\nbut couldn't make head or tail of him, and Red Jacket come out to walk\nwith me to the French quarter when I was due to fiddle at a party.\nPassing Drinker's Alley again we saw a naked window with a light in it,\nand there sat our button-selling Monsieur Peringuey throwing dice all\nalone, right hand against left.\n\n'Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, \"Look at his face!\"\n\n'I was looking. I protest to you I wasn't frightened like I was when Big\nHand talked to his gentlemen. I--I only looked, and I only wondered that\neven those dead dumb dice 'ud dare to fall different from what that face\nwished. It--it _was_ a face!\n\n'\"He is bad,\" says Red Jacket. \"But he is a great chief. The French have\nsent away a great chief. I thought so when he told us his lies. Now I\nknow.\"\n\n'I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call round for me\nafterwards and we'd have hymn-singing at Toby's as usual.\n\n'\"No,\" he says. \"Tell Toby I am not Christian to-night. All Indian.\" He\nhad those fits sometimes. I wanted to know more about Monsieur\nPeringuey, and the _emigre_ party was the very place to find out. It's\nneither here nor there of course, but those French _emigre_ parties they\nalmost make you cry. The men that you bought fruit of in Market Street,\nthe hairdressers and fencing-masters and French teachers, they turn back\nagain by candlelight to what they used to be at home, and you catch\ntheir real names. There wasn't much room in the wash-house, so I sat on\ntop of the copper and played 'em the tunes they called for--\"_Si le Roi\nm'avait donne_,\" and such nursery stuff. They cried sometimes. It hurt\nme to take their money afterwards, indeed it did. And there I found out\nabout Monsieur Peringuey. He was a proper rogue too! None of 'em had a\ngood word for him except the Marquise that kept the French\nboarding-house on Fourth Street. I made out that his real name was the\nCount Talleyrand de Perigord--a priest right enough, but sorely come\ndown in the world. He'd been King Louis' ambassador to England a year or\ntwo back, before the French had cut off King Louis' head; and, by what I\nheard, that head wasn't hardly more than hanging loose before he'd run\nback to Paris and prevailed on Danton, the very man which did the\nmurder, to send him back to England again as Ambassador of the French\nRepublic! That was too much for the English, so they kicked him out by\nAct of Parliament, and he'd fled to the Americas without money or\nfriends or prospects. I'm telling you the talk in the wash-house. Some\nof 'em was laughing over it. Says the French Marquise, \"My friends, you\nlaugh too soon. That man will be on the winning side before any of us.\"\n\n'\"I did not know you were so fond of priests, Marquise,\" says the\nVicomte. His lady did my washing, as I've told you.\n\n'\"I have my reasons,\" says the Marquise. \"He sent my uncle and my two\nbrothers to Heaven by the little door,\"--that was one of the _emigre_\nnames for the guillotine. \"He will be on the winning side if it costs\nhim the blood of every friend he has in the world.\"\n\n'\"Then what does he want here?\" says one of 'em. \"We have all lost our\ngame.\"\n\n'\"My faith!\" says the Marquise. \"He will find out, if any one can,\nwhether this canaille of a Washington means to help us to fight England.\nGenet (that was my ambassador in the _Embuscade_) has failed and gone\noff disgraced; Fauchet (he was the new man) hasn't done any better, but\nour abbe will find out, and he will make his profit out of the news.\nSuch a man does not fail.\"\n\n'\"He begins unluckily,\" says the Vicomte. \"He was set upon to-day in the\nstreet for not hooting your Washington.\" They all laughed again, and one\nremarks, \"How does the poor devil keep himself.\"\n\n'He must have slipped in through the wash-house door, for he flits past\nme and joins 'em, cold as ice.\n\n'\"One does what one can,\" he says. \"I sell buttons. And you, Marquise?\"\n\n'\"I?\"--she waves her poor white hands all burned--\"I am a cook--a very\nbad one--at your service, abbe. We were just talking about you.\"\n\n'They didn't treat him like they talked of him. They backed off and\nstood still.\n\n\"'I have missed something then,\" he says. \"But I spent this last hour\nplaying--only for buttons, Marquise--against a noble savage, the\nveritable Huron himself.\"\n\n'\"You had your usual luck, I hope?\" she says.\n\n'\"Certainly,\" he says. \"I cannot afford to lose even buttons in these\ndays.\"\n\n'\"Then I suppose the child of nature does not know that your dice are\nusually loaded, Father Tout-a-tous,\" she continues. I don't know whether\nshe meant to accuse him of cheating. He only bows.\n\n'\"Not yet, Mademoiselle Cunegonde,\" he says, and goes on to make himself\nagreeable to the rest of the company. And that was how I found out our\nMonsieur Peringuey was Count Charles Maurice Talleyrand de Perigord.'\n\nPharaoh stopped, but the children said nothing.\n\n'You've heard of him?' said Pharaoh.\n\nUna shook her head.\n\n'Was Red Jacket the Indian he played dice with?' Dan asked.\n\n'He was. Red Jacket told me the next time we met. I asked if the lame\nman had cheated. Red Jacket said no--he had played quite fair and was a\nmaster player. I allow Red Jacket knew. I've seen him, on the\nReservation, play himself out of everything he had and in again. Then I\ntold Red Jacket all I'd heard at the party concerning Talleyrand.\n\n'\"I was right,\" he says. \"I saw the man's war-face when he thought he\nwas alone. That is why I played him. I played him face to face. He is a\ngreat chief. Do they say why he comes here?\"\n\n'\"They say he comes to find out if Big Hand makes war against the\nEnglish,\" I said.\n\n'Red Jacket grunted. \"Yes,\" he says. \"He asked me that too. If he had\nbeen a small chief I should have lied. But he is a great chief. He knew\nI was a chief, so I told him the truth. I told him what Big Hand said to\nCornplanter and me in the clearing--'There will be no war.' I could not\nsee what he thought. I could not see behind his face. But he is a great\nchief. He will believe.\"\n\n'\"Will he believe that Big Hand can keep his people back from war?\" I\nsaid, thinking of the crowds that hooted Big Hand whenever he rode out.\n\n'\"He is as bad as Big Hand is good, but he is not as strong as Big\nHand,\" says Red Jacket. \"When he talks with Big Hand he will feel this\nin his heart. The French have sent away a great chief. Presently he will\ngo back and make them afraid.\"\n\n'Now wasn't that comical? The French woman that knew him and owed all\nher losses to him; the Indian that picked him up, cut and muddy on the\nstreet and played dice with him; they neither of 'em doubted that\nTalleyrand was something by himself--appearances notwithstanding.'\n\n'And was he something by himself?' asked Una.\n\nPharaoh began to laugh, but stopped. 'The way _I_ look at it,' he said,\n'Talleyrand was one of just three men in this world who are quite by\nthemselves. Big Hand I put first, because I've seen him.'\n\n'Ay,' said Puck. 'I'm sorry we lost him out of Old England. Who d'you\nput second?'\n\n'Talleyrand: maybe because I've seen him too,' said Pharaoh.\n\n'Who's third?' said Puck.\n\n'Boney--even though I've seen him.'\n\n'Whew!' said Puck. 'Every man has his own weights and measures, but\nthat's queer reckoning.'\n\n'Boney?' said Una. 'You don't mean you've ever met Napoleon Bonaparte?'\n\n'There, I knew you wouldn't have patience with the rest of my tale after\nhearing that! But wait a minute. Talleyrand he come round to Hundred and\nEighteen in a day or two to thank Toby for his kindness. I didn't\nmention the dice-playing, but I could see that Red Jacket's doings had\nmade Talleyrand highly curious about Indians--though he would call him\nthe Huron. Toby, as you may believe, was all holds full of knowledge\nconcerning their manners and habits. He only needed a listener. The\nBrethren don't study Indians much till they join the church, but Toby\nknew 'em wild. So evening after evening Talleyrand crossed his sound leg\nover his game one and Toby poured forth. Having been adopted into the\nSenecas I, naturally, kept still, but Toby 'ud call on me to back up\nsome of his remarks, and by that means, and a habit he had of drawing\nyou on in talk, Talleyrand saw I knew something of his noble savages\ntoo. Then he tried a trick. Coming back from an _emigre_ party he turns\ninto his little shop and puts it to me, laughing like, that I'd gone\nwith the two chiefs on their visit to Big Hand. _I_ hadn't told. Red\nJacket hadn't told, and Toby, of course, didn't know. 'Twas just\nTalleyrand's guess. \"Now,\" he says, \"my English and Red Jacket's French\nwas so bad that I am not sure I got the rights of what the President\nreally said to the unsophisticated Huron. Do me the favour of telling it\nagain.\" I told him every word Red Jacket had told him and not one word\nmore. I had my suspicions, having just come from an _emigre_ party where\nthe Marquise was hating and praising him as usual.\n\n'\"Much obliged,\" he said. \"But I couldn't gather from Red Jacket exactly\nwhat the President said to Monsieur Genet, or to his American gentlemen\nafter Monsieur Genet had ridden away.\"\n\n'I saw Talleyrand was guessing again, for Red Jacket hadn't told him a\nword about the white man's pow-wow.'\n\n'Why hadn't he?' Puck asked.\n\n'Because Red Jacket was a chief. He told Talleyrand what the President\nhad said to him and Cornplanter; but he didn't repeat the talk, between\nthe white men, that Big Hand ordered him to leave behind.'\n\n'Oh!' said Puck. 'I see. What did _you_ do?'\n\n'First I was going to make some sort of tale round it, but Talleyrand\nwas a chief too. So I said, \"As soon as I get Red Jacket's permission to\ntell that part of the tale, I'll be delighted to refresh your memory,\nabbe.\" What else could I have done?\n\n'\"Is that all?\" he says, laughing. \"Let me refresh your memory. In a\nmonth from now I can give you a hundred dollars for your account of the\nconversation.\"\n\n'\"Make it five hundred, abbe,\" I says.\n\n'\"Five, then,\" says he.\n\n'\"That will suit me admirably,\" I says. \"Red Jacket will be in town\nagain by then, and the moment he gives me leave I'll claim the money.\"\n\n'He had a hard fight to be civil but he come out smiling.\n\n'\"Monsieur,\" he says. \"I beg your pardon as sincerely as I envy the\nnoble Huron your loyalty. Do me the honour to sit down while I explain.\"\n\n'There wasn't another chair, so I sat on the button-box.\n\n'He was a clever man. He had got hold of the gossip that the President\nmeant to make a peace treaty with England at any cost. He had found\nout--from Genet, I reckon, who was with the President on the day the two\nchiefs met him. He'd heard that Genet had had a huff with the President\nand had ridden off leaving his business at loose ends. What he\nwanted--what he begged and blustered to know--was just the very words\nwhich the President had said to his gentlemen _after_ Genet had left,\nconcerning the peace treaty with England. He put it to me that in\nhelping him to those very words I'd be helping three great countries as\nwell as mankind. The room was as bare as the palm of your hand, but I\ncouldn't laugh.\n\n'\"I'm sorry,\" I says, when he wiped his forehead. \"As soon as Red Jacket\ngives permission----\"\n\n'\"You don't believe me, then?\" he cuts in.\n\n'\"Not one little, little word, abbe,\" I says; \"except that you mean to\nbe on the winning side. Remember, I've been fiddling to all your old\nfriends for months.\"\n\n'Well, then, his temper fled him and he called me names.\n\n'\"Wait a minute, ci-devant,\" I says at last. \"I _am_ half English and\nhalf French, but I am not the half of a man. I will tell thee something\nthe Indian told me. Has thee seen the President?\"\n\n'\"Oh yes!\" he sneers, \"I had letters from the Lord Lansdowne to that\nestimable old man.\"\n\n'\"Then,\" I says, \"thee will understand. The Red Skin said that when thee\nhas met the President thee will feel in thy heart he is a stronger man\nthan thee.\"\n\n'\"Go!\" he whispers. \"Before I kill thee, go.\"\n\n'He looked like it. So I left him.'\n\n'Why did he want to know so badly?' said Dan.\n\n'The way I look at it is that if he _had_ known for certain that\nWashington meant to make the peace treaty with England at any price,\nhe'd ha' left old Fauchet fumbling about in Philadelphia while he went\nstraight back to France and told old Danton--\"It's no good your wasting\ntime and hopes on the United States, because she won't fight on our\nside--that I've proof of!\" Then Danton might have been grateful and\ngiven Talleyrand a job, because a whole mass of things hang on knowing\nfor sure who's your friend and who's your enemy. Just think of us poor\nshopkeepers, for instance.'\n\n'Did Red Jacket let you tell, when he came back?' Una asked.\n\n'Of course not. He said, \"When Cornplanter and I ask you what Big Hand\nsaid to the whites you can tell the Lame Chief. All that talk was left\nbehind in the timber, as Big Hand ordered. Tell the Lame Chief there\nwill be no war. He can go back to France with that word.\"\n\n'Talleyrand and me hadn't met for a long time except at _emigre_\nparties. When I give him the message he just shook his head. He was\nsorting buttons in the shop.\n\n'\"I cannot return to France with nothing better than the word of an\nunsophisticated savage,\" he says.\n\n'\"Hasn't the President said anything to you?\" I asked him.\n\n'\"He has said everything that one in his position ought to say, but--but\nif only I had what he said to his Cabinet after Genet rode off I believe\nI could change Europe--the world, maybe.\"\n\n'\"I'm sorry,\" I says. \"Maybe you'll do that without my help.\"\n\n'He looked at me hard. \"Either you have unusual observation for one so\nyoung, or you choose to be insolent,\" he says.\n\n'\"It was intended for a compliment,\" I says. \"But no odds. We're off in\na few days for our summer trip, and I've come to make my good-byes.\"\n\n'\"I go on my travels too,\" he says. \"If ever we meet again you may be\nsure I will do my best to repay what I owe you.\"\n\n'\"Without malice, abbe, I hope,\" I says.\n\n'\"None whatever,\" says he. \"Give my respects to your adorable Dr.\nPangloss (that was one of his side-names for Toby) and the Huron.\" I\nnever _could_ teach him the difference betwixt Hurons and Senecas.\n\n'Then Sister Haga came in for a paper of what we call \"pilly buttons,\"\nand that was the last I saw of Talleyrand in those parts.'\n\n'But after that you met Napoleon, didn't you?' said Una.\n\n'Wait just a little, dearie. After that, Toby and I went to Lebanon and\nthe Reservation, and, being older and knowing better how to manage him,\nI enjoyed myself well that summer with fiddling and fun. When we came\nback, the Brethren got after Toby because I wasn't learning any lawful\ntrade, and he had hard work to save me from being apprenticed to\nHelmbold and Geyer the printers. 'Twould have ruined our music together,\nindeed it would; and when we escaped that, old Mattes Roush, the\nleather-breeches maker round the corner, took a notion I was cut out for\nskin-dressing. But we were rescued. Along towards Christmas there comes\na big sealed letter from the Bank saying that a Monsieur Talleyrand had\nput five hundred dollars--a hundred pounds--to my credit there to use as\nI pleased. There was a little note from him inside--he didn't give any\naddress--to thank me for past kindnesses and my believing in his future\nwhich he said was pretty cloudy at the time of writing. I wished Toby\nto share the money. _I_ hadn't done more than bring Talleyrand up to\nHundred and Eighteen. The kindnesses were Toby's. But Toby said, \"No!\nLiberty and Independence for ever. I have all my wants, my son.\" So I\ngave him a set of new fiddle-strings and the Brethren didn't advise us\nany more. Only Pastor Meder he preached about the deceitfulness of\nriches, and Brother Adam Goose said if there was war the English 'ud\nsurely shoot down the Bank. _I_ knew there wasn't going to be any war,\nbut I drew the money out and on Red Jacket's advice I put it into\nhorse-flesh, which I sold to Bob Bicknell for the Baltimore\nstage-coaches. That way, I doubled my money inside the twelvemonth.'\n\n'You gipsy! You proper gipsy!' Puck shouted.\n\n'Why not? 'Twas fair buying and selling. Well, one thing leading to\nanother, in a few years I had made the beginning of a worldly fortune\nand was in the tobacco trade.'\n\n'Ah!' said Puck, suddenly. 'Might I inquire if you'd ever sent any news\nto your people in England--or in France?'\n\n'O' course I had. I wrote regular every three months after I'd made\nmoney in the horse trade. We Lees don't like coming home empty-handed.\nIf it's only a turnip or an egg, it's something. Oh yes, I wrote good\nand plenty to Uncle Aurette, and--Dad don't read very quickly--Uncle\nused to slip over Newhaven way and tell Dad what was going on in the\ntobacco trade.'\n\n'I see--\n\n 'Aurettes and Lees--\n Like as two peas.\n\nGo on, Brother Square-toes,' said Puck. Pharaoh laughed and went on.\n\n'Talleyrand he'd gone up in the world same as me. He'd sailed to France\nagain, and was a great man in the Government there awhile, but they had\nto turn him out on account of some story about bribes from American\nshippers. All our poor _emigres_ said he was surely finished this time,\nbut Red Jacket and me we didn't think it likely, not unless he was quite\ndead. Big Hand had made his peace treaty with Great Britain, just _as_\nhe said he would, and there was a roaring trade 'twixt England and the\nUnited States for such as 'ud take the risk of being searched by British\nand French men-of-wars. Those two was fighting, and just _as_ his\ngentlemen told Big Hand 'ud happen--the United States was catching it\nfrom both. If an English man-o'-war met an American ship he'd press half\nthe best men out of her, and swear they was British subjects. Most of\n'em was! If a Frenchman met her he'd, likely, have the cargo out of her,\nswearing it was meant to aid and comfort the English; and if a Spaniard\nor a Dutchman met her--they was hanging on to England's coat-tails\ntoo--Lord only knows what _they_ wouldn't do! It came over me that what\nI wanted in my tobacco trade was a fast-sailing ship and a man who could\nbe French, English, or American at a pinch. Luckily I could lay my hands\non both articles. So along towards the end of September in the year '99\nI sailed from Philadelphia with a hundred and eleven hogshead o' good\nVirginia tobacco, in the brig _Berthe Aurette_ named after mother's\nmaiden name, hoping 'twould bring me luck, which she didn't--and yet she\ndid.'\n\n'Where was you bound for?' Puck asked.\n\n'Er--any port I found handiest. I didn't tell Toby or the Brethren. They\ndon't understand the inns and outs of the tobacco trade.'\n\nPuck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece of wood with his bare\nfoot.\n\n'It's easy for you to sit and judge,' Pharaoh cried. 'But think o' what\n_we_ had to put up with! We spread our wings and run across the broad\nAtlantic like a hen through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by an\nEnglish frigate, three days out. He sent a boat alongside and pressed\nseven able seamen. I remarked it was hard on honest traders, but the\nofficer said they was fighting all creation and hadn't time to argue.\nThe next English frigate we escaped with no more than a shot in our\nquarter. Then we was chased two days and a night by a French privateer,\nfiring between squalls, and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which\nmade him sheer off had the impudence to press another five of our men.\nThat's how we reached to the chops of the Channel. Twelve good men\npressed out of thirty-five; an eighteen-pound shot-hole close besides\nour rudder; our mainsail looking like spectacles where the Frenchman had\nhit us--and the Channel crawling with short-handed British cruisers. Put\n_that_ in your pipe and smoke it next time you grumble at the price of\ntobacco!\n\n'Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to get at our leaks, a\nFrench lugger come swooping at us out o' the dusk. We warned him to keep\naway, but he fell aboard us, and up climbed his jabbering red-caps. We\ncouldn't endure any more--indeed we couldn't. We went at 'em with all we\ncould lay hands on. It didn't last long. They was fifty odd to our\ntwenty-three. Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses thrown down and some one\nbellowed for the _sacre_ captain.\n\n'\"Here I am!\" I says. \"I don't suppose it makes any odds to you thieves,\nbut this is the United States brig _Berthe Aurette_.\"\n\n'\"My aunt!\" the man says, laughing. \"Why is she named that?\"\n\n'\"Who's speaking?\" I said. 'Twas too dark to see, but I thought I knew\nthe voice.\n\n'\"Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L'Estrange,\" he sings out, and then I was\nsure.\n\n'\"Oh!\" I says. \"It's all in the family, I suppose, but you _have_ done a\nfine day's work, Stephen.\"\n\n'He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it to my face. He was young\nL'Estrange, my full cousin, that I hadn't seen since the night the smack\nsank off Telscombe Tye--six years ago.\n\n'\"Whew!\" he says. \"That's why she was named for Aunt Berthe, is it?\nWhat's your share in her, Pharaoh?\"\n\n'\"Only half owner, but the cargo's mine.\"\n\n'\"That's bad,\" he says. \"I'll do what I can, but you shouldn't have\nfought us.\"\n\n'\"Steve,\" I says, \"you aren't ever going to report our little fall-out\nas a fight! Why, a Revenue cutter 'ud laugh at it!\"\n\n'\"So'd I if I wasn't in the Republican Navy,\" he says. \"But two of our\nmen are dead, d'ye see, and I'm afraid I'll have to take you to the\nPrize Court at Le Havre.\"\n\n'\"Will they condemn my 'baccy?\" I asks.\n\n'\"To the last ounce. But I was thinking more of the ship. She'd make a\nsweet little craft for the Navy if the Prize Court 'ud let me have her,\"\nhe says.\n\n'Then I knew there was no hope. I don't blame him--a man must consider\nhis own interests--but nigh every dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and\nSteve kept on saying, \"You shouldn't have fought us.\"\n\n'Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that being the one time\nwe _did_ want a British ship to rescue us, why o' course we never saw\none. My cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he'd\nno right to rush alongside in the face o' the United States flag, but we\ncouldn't get over those two men killed, d'ye see, and the Court\ncondemned both ship and cargo. They was kind enough not to make us\nprisoners--only beggars--and young L'Estrange was given the _Berthe\nAurette_ to re-arm into the French Navy.\n\n'\"I'll take you round to Boulogne,\" he says. \"Mother and the rest'll be\nglad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette.\nOr you can ship with me, like most o' your men, and have a turn at King\nGeorge's loose trade. There's plenty pickings,\" he says.\n\n'Crazy as I was, I couldn't help laughing.\n\n'\"I've had my allowance of pickings and stealings,\" I says. \"Where are\nthey taking my tobacco?\" 'Twas being loaded on to a barge.\n\n'\"Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,\" he says. \"Neither you nor I will\never touch a penny of that money.\"\n\n'\"Get me leave to go with it,\" I says. \"I'll see if there's justice to\nbe gotten out of our American Ambassador.\"\n\n'\"There's not much justice in this world,\" he says, \"without a Navy.\"\nBut he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That\ntobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched\nbone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as\nwell as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty.\nOutside o' that they were the reasonablest o' God's creatures. They\nnever even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river; along in\nNovember, which the French had christened Brumaire. They'd given new\nnames to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o'\nbusiness as _that_, they wasn't likely to trouble 'emselves with my\nrights and wrongs. They didn't. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame\nchurch in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I'd\nrun about all day from office to office, seeking justice and fair\ndealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me.\nLooking back on it I can't rightly blame 'em. I'd no money, my clothes\nwas filthy mucked; I hadn't changed my linen in weeks, and I'd no proof\nof my claims except the ship's papers, which, they said, I might have\nstolen. The thieves! The doorkeeper to the American Ambassador--for I\nnever saw even the Secretary--he swore I spoke French a sight too well\nfor an American citizen. Worse than that--I had spent my money, d'ye\nsee, and I--I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and--and, a\nship's captain with a fiddle under his arm--well, I _don't_ blame 'em\nthat they didn't believe me.\n\n'I come back to the barge one day--late in this month Brumaire it\nwas--fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he'd lit a fire in a\nbucket and was grilling a herring.\n\n'\"Courage, mon ami,\" he says. \"Dinner is served.\"\n\n'\"I can't eat,\" I says. \"I can't do any more. It's stronger than I am.\"\n\n'\"Bah!\" he says. \"Nothing's stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less\nthan two years ago I was blown up in the _Orient_ in Aboukir Bay, but I\ndescended again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now,\" he\nsays. He wasn't much to look at, for he'd only one leg and one eye, but\nthe cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. \"That's worse than a\nhundred and eleven hogshead of 'baccy,\" he goes on. \"You're young, too!\nWhat wouldn't I give to be young in France at this hour! There's nothing\nyou couldn't do,\" he says. \"The ball's at your feet--kick it!\" he says.\nHe kicks the old fire bucket with his peg-leg. \"General Buonaparte, for\nexample!\" he goes on. \"That man's a babe compared to me, and see what\nhe's done already. He's conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy--oh! half\nEurope!\" he says, \"and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to\nSt. Cloud down the river here--_don't_ stare at the river, you young\nfool!--and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he\nmakes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He'll _be_ King, too,\nin the next three turns of the capstan--King of France, England, and the\nworld! Think o' that!\" he shouts, \"and eat your herring.\"\n\n'I says something about Boney. If he hadn't been fighting England I\nshouldn't have lost my 'baccy--should I?\n\n'\"Young fellow,\" says Maingon, \"you don't understand.\"\n\n'We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it.\n\n'\"That's the man himself,\" says Maingon. \"He'll give 'em something to\ncheer for soon.\" He stands at the salute.\n\n'\"Who's t'other in black beside him?\" I asks, fairly shaking all over.\n\n'\"Ah! he's the clever one. You'll hear of him before long. He's that\nscoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.\"\n\n'\"It is!\" I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after\nthe carriage calling, \"Abbe, abbe!\"\n\n'A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I\nhad sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped--and there just\nwas a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I\nwouldn't have struck up \"_Si le Roi m'avait donne, Paris la grande\nville!_\" I thought it might remind him.\n\n'\"That is a good omen!\" he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he\nlooks straight at me.\n\n'\"Abbe--oh, abbe!\" I says. \"Don't you remember Toby and Hundred and\nEighteen Second Street?\"\n\n'He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard\nat the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into\nthe house, and they slammed the door in the crowd's face.\n\n'\"You go there,\" says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where\nI catched my first breath since I'd left the barge. Presently I heard\nplates rattling next door--there were only folding doors between--and a\ncork drawn. \"I tell you,\" some one shouts with his mouth full, \"it was\nall that sulky ass Sieyes' fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred\nsaved the situation.\"\n\n'\"Did it save your coat?\" says Talleyrand. \"I hear they tore it when\nthey threw you out. Don't gasconade to me. You may be in the road of\nvictory, but you aren't there yet.\"\n\n'Then I guessed t'other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at\nTalleyrand.\n\n'\"You forget yourself, Consul,\" says Talleyrand, \"or rather you remember\nyourself--Corsican.\"\n\n'\"Pig!\" says Boney, and worse.\n\n'\"Emperor!\" says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of\nall. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew\nopen and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his\npistol before I could stand up. \"General,\" says Talleyrand to him, \"this\ngentleman has a habit of catching us canaille _en deshabille_. Put that\nthing down.\"\n\n'Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was master. Talleyrand\ntakes my hand--\"Charmed to see you again, Candide,\" he says. \"How is the\nadorable Dr. Pangloss and the noble Huron?\"\n\n'\"They were doing very well when I left,\" I said. \"But I'm not.\"\n\n'\"Do _you_ sell buttons now?\" he says, and fills me a glass of wine off\nthe table.\n\n'\"Madeira,\" says he. \"Not so good as some I have drunk.\"\n\n'\"You mountebank!\" Boney roars. \"Turn that out.\" (He didn't even say\n\"man,\" but Talleyrand, being gentle born, just went on.)\n\n'\"Pheasant is not so good as pork,\" he says. \"You will find some at that\ntable if you will do me the honour to sit down. Pass him a clean plate,\nGeneral.\" And, as true as I'm here, Boney slid a plate along just like a\nsulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned little man, as\nnervous as a cat--and as dangerous. I could feel that.\n\n'\"And now,\" said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg over his sound one,\n\"will you tell me your story?\"\n\n'I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything from the time he\nleft me the five hundred dollars in Philadelphia, up to my losing ship\nand cargo at Le Havre. Boney began by listening, but after a bit he\ndropped into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd sideways through\nthe front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to him when I'd done.\n\n'\"Eh? What we need now,\" says Boney, \"is peace for the next three or\nfour years.\"\n\n'\"Quite so,\" says Talleyrand. \"Meantime I want the Consul's order to the\nPrize Court at Le Havre to restore my friend here his ship.\"\n\n'\"Nonsense!\" says Boney. \"Give away an oak-built brig of two hundred and\nseven tons for sentiment? Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy\nwith ten--no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours. Is she strong\nenough to bear a long twelve forward?\"\n\n'Now I could ha' sworn he'd paid no heed to my talk, but that wonderful\nhead-piece of his seemingly skimmed off every word of it that was useful\nto him.\n\n'\"Ah, General!\" says Talleyrand. \"You are a magician--a magician without\nmorals. But the brig is undoubtedly American, and we don't want to\noffend them more than we have.\"\n\n'\"Need anybody talk about the affair?\" he says. He didn't look at me,\nbut I knew what was in his mind--just cold murder because I worried him;\nand he'd order it as easy as ordering his carriage.\n\n'\"You can't stop 'em,\" I said. \"There's twenty-two other men besides\nme.\" I felt a little more 'ud set me screaming like a wired hare.\n\n'\"Undoubtedly American,\" Talleyrand goes on. \"You would gain\nsomething if you returned the ship--with a message of fraternal\ngood-will--published in the _Moniteur_\" (that's a French paper like\nthe Philadelphia _Aurora_).\n\n'\"A good idea!\" Boney answers. \"One could say much in a message.\"\n\n'\"It might be useful,\" says Talleyrand. \"Shall I have the message\nprepared?\" He wrote something in a little pocket ledger.\n\n'\"Yes--for me to embellish this evening. The _Moniteur_ will publish it\nto-night.\"\n\n'\"Certainly. Sign, please,\" says Talleyrand, tearing the leaf out.\n\n'\"But that's the order to return the brig,\" says Boney. \"Is that\nnecessary? Why should I lose a good ship? Haven't I lost enough ships\nalready?\"\n\n'Talleyrand didn't answer any of those questions. Then Boney sidled up\nto the table and jabs his pen into the ink. Then he shies at the paper\nagain: \"My signature alone is useless,\" he says. \"You must have the\nother two Consuls as well. Sieyes and Roger Ducos must sign. We must\npreserve the Laws.\"\n\n'\"By the time my friend presents it,\" says Talleyrand, still looking out\nof the window, \"only one signature will be necessary.\"\n\n'Boney smiles. \"It's a swindle,\" says he, but he signed and pushed the\npaper across.\n\n'\"Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le Havre,\" says\nTalleyrand, \"and he will give you back your ship. I will settle for the\ncargo myself. You have told me how much it cost. What profit did you\nexpect to make on it?\"\n\n'Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him that I'd set out to\nrun it into England without troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn't\nrightly set bounds to my profits.'\n\n'I guessed that all along,' said Puck.\n\n 'There was never a Lee to Warminghurst--\n That wasn't a smuggler last and first.'\n\nThe children laughed.\n\n'It's comical enough now,' said Pharaoh. 'But I didn't laugh then. Says\nTalleyrand after a minute, \"I am a bad accountant and I have several\ncalculations on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the\ncargo?\"\n\n'Say? I couldn't say a word. I sat choking and nodding like a China\nimage while he wrote an order to his secretary to pay me, I won't say\nhow much, because you wouldn't believe it.\n\n'\"Oh! Bless you, abbe! God bless you!\" I got it out at last.\n\n'\"Yes,\" he says, \"I am a priest in spite of myself, but they call me\nbishop now. Take this for my episcopal blessing,\" and he hands me the\npaper.\n\n'\"He stole all that money from me,\" says Boney over my shoulder. \"A Bank\nof France is another of the things we must make. Are you mad?\" he shouts\nat Talleyrand.\n\n'\"Quite,\" says Talleyrand, getting up. \"But be calm; the disease will\nnever attack you. It is called gratitude. This gentleman found me in the\nstreet and fed me when I was hungry.\"\n\n'\"I see; and he has made a fine scene of it and you have paid him, I\nsuppose. Meantime, France waits.\"\n\n'\"Oh! poor France!\" says Talleyrand. \"Good-bye, Candide,\" he says to\nme. \"By the way,\" he says, \"have you yet got Red Jacket's permission to\ntell me what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur Genet rode\naway?\"\n\n'I couldn't speak, I could only shake my head, and Boney--so impatient\nhe was to go on with his doings--he ran at me and fair pushed me out of\nthe room. And that was all there was to it.'\n\nPharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big skirt pockets\nas though it were a dead hare.\n\n'Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,' said Dan. 'How you got\nhome--and what old Maingon said on the barge--and wasn't your cousin\nsurprised when he had to give back the _Berthe Aurette_, and----'\n\n'Tell us more about Toby!' cried Una.\n\n'Yes, and Red Jacket,' said Dan.\n\n'Won't you tell us any more?' they both pleaded.\n\nPuck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up a column of\nsmoke that made them sneeze. When they had finished the Shaw was empty\nexcept for old Hobden stamping through the larches.\n\n'They gipsies have took two,' he said: 'my black pullet and my liddle\ngingy-speckled cockrel.'\n\n'I thought so,' said Dan, picking up one tail-feather the old woman had\noverlooked.\n\n'Which way did they go? Which way did the runagates go?' said Hobden.\n\n'Hobby!' said Una. 'Would you like it if we told Keeper Ridley all your\ngoings and comings?'\n\n\n\n\n'POOR HONEST MEN'\n\n\n Your jar of Virginny\n Will cost you a guinea,\n Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;\n But light your churchwarden\n And judge it according\n When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.\n\n From the Capes of the Delaware,\n As you are well aware,\n We sail with tobacco for England--but then\n Our own British cruisers,\n They watch us come through, sirs,\n And they press half a score of us poor honest men.\n\n Or if by quick sailing\n (Thick weather prevailing)\n We leave them behind (as we do now and then)\n We are sure of a gun from\n Each frigate we run from,\n Which is often destruction to poor honest men!\n\n Broadsides the Atlantic\n We tumble short-handed,\n With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend,\n And off the Azores,\n Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs\n Are waiting to terrify poor honest men!\n\n Napoleon's embargo\n Is laid on all cargo\n Which comfort or aid to King George may intend;\n And since roll, twist and leaf,\n Of all comforts is chief,\n They try for to steal it from poor honest men!\n\n With no heart for fight,\n We take refuge in flight,\n But fire as we run, our retreat to defend,\n Until our stern-chasers\n Cut up her fore-braces,\n And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men!\n\n Twix' the Forties and Fifties,\n South-eastward the drift is,\n And so, when we think we are making Land's End,\n Alas, it is Ushant\n With half the King's Navy,\n Blockading French ports against poor honest men!\n\n But they may not quit station\n (Which is our salvation),\n So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again;\n And finding the tail of\n A homeward-bound convoy,\n We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.\n\n Twix' the Lizard and Dover,\n We hand our stuff over,\n Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when;\n But a light on each quarter\n Low down on the water\n Is well understanded by poor honest men!\n\n Even then we have dangers\n From meddlesome strangers,\n Who spy on our business and are not content\n To take a smooth answer,\n Except with a handspike ...\n And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!\n\n To be drowned or be shot\n Is our natural lot,\n Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end--\n After all our great pains\n For to dangle in chains,\n As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?\n\n\n\n\nThe Conversion of St. Wilfrid\n\n\n\n\nEDDI'S SERVICE\n\n\n Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid\n In the chapel at Manhood End,\n Ordered a midnight service\n For such as cared to attend.\n\n But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,\n And the night was stormy as well.\n Nobody came to service\n Though Eddi rang the bell.\n\n 'Wicked weather for walking,'\n Said Eddi of Manhood End.\n 'But I must go on with the service\n For such as care to attend.'\n\n The altar candles were lighted,--\n An old marsh donkey came,\n Bold as a guest invited,\n And stared at the guttering flame.\n\n The storm beat on at the windows,\n The water splashed on the floor,\n And a wet yoke-weary bullock\n Pushed in through the open door.\n\n 'How do I know what is greatest,\n How do I know what is least?\n That is My Father's business,'\n Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.\n\n 'But, three are gathered together--\n Listen to me and attend.\n I bring good news, my brethren!'\n Said Eddi, of Manhood End.\n\n And he told the Ox of a manger\n And a stall in Bethlehem,\n And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider\n That rode to Jerusalem.\n\n They steamed and dripped in the chancel,\n They listened and never stirred,\n While, just as though they were Bishops,\n Eddi preached them The Word.\n\n Till the gale blew off on the marshes\n And the windows showed the day,\n And the Ox and the Ass together\n Wheeled and clattered away.\n\n And when the Saxons mocked him,\n Said Eddi of Manhood End,\n 'I dare not shut His chapel\n On such as care to attend.'\n\n\n\n\nThe Conversion of St. Wilfrid\n\n\nThey had bought peppermints up at the village, and were coming home past\nlittle St. Barnabas's church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the\ncarpenter's baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with a shaving in his\nmouth and the tears running down his cheeks.\n\nUna pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint. Jimmy said he was\nlooking for his grand-daddy--he never seemed to take much notice of his\nfather--so they went up between the old graves, under the leaf-dropping\nlimes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about the empty\nchurch, and screamed like a gate-hinge.\n\nYoung Sam Kidbrooke's voice came from the bell-tower, and made them\njump.\n\n'Why, Jimmy,' he called, 'what are you doin' here? Fetch him, Father!'\n\nOld Mr. Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked Jimmy on to his shoulder,\nstared at the children beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back\nagain. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr. Kidbrooke.\n\n'It's all right,' Una called up the stairs. 'We found him, Sam. Does\nhis mother know?'\n\n'He's come off by himself. She'll be just about crazy,' Sam answered.\n\n'Then I'll run down street and tell her.' Una darted off.\n\n'Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how we're mendin' the\nbell-beams, Mus' Dan?'\n\nDan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his stomach in a most\ndelightful place among beams and ropes, close to the five great bells.\nOld Mr. Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and\nJimmy was eating the shavings as fast as they came away. He never looked\nat Jimmy; Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum\nof the church clock never stopped swinging across the white-washed wall\nof the tower.\n\nDan winked through the sawdust that fell on his up-turned face. 'Ring a\nbell,' he called.\n\n'I mustn't do that, but I'll buzz one of 'em a bit for you,' said Sam.\nHe pounded on the sound-bow of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow\ngroaning boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down\nyour back. Just when it almost began to hurt, it died away in a hurry of\nbeautiful sorrowful cries, like a wineglass rubbed with a wet finger.\nThe pendulum clanked--one loud clank to each silent swing.\n\nDan heard Una return from Mrs. Kidbrooke's, and ran down to fetch her.\nShe was standing by the font staring at some one who kneeled at the\naltar rail.\n\n'Is that the lady who practises the organ?' she whispered.\n\n'No. She's gone into the organ-place. Besides, she wears black,' Dan\nreplied.\n\nThe figure rose and came down the nave. It was a white-haired man in a\nlong white gown with a sort of scarf looped low on the neck, one end\nhanging over his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with\ngold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and sparkled round the\nhem of his gown.\n\n'Go and meet him,' said Puck's voice behind the font. 'It's only\nWilfrid.'\n\n'Wilfrid who?' said Dan. 'You come along too.'\n\n'Wilfrid--Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. _I_ shall wait till\nhe asks me.' He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave\nslabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink\nring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his\nthin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair.\n\n'Are you alone?' he asked.\n\n'Puck's here, of course,' said Una. 'Do you know him?'\n\n'I know him better now than I used to.' He beckoned over Dan's shoulder,\nand spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as\nstraight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.\n\n'Be welcome,' said he. 'Be very welcome.'\n\n'Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church,' Puck replied. The\nArchbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white\nmoth in the shadow by the font.\n\n'He does look awfully princely,' said Una. 'Isn't he coming back?'\n\n'Oh yes. He's only looking over the church. He's very fond of churches,'\nsaid Puck. 'What's that?'\n\nThe Lady who practises the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind\nthe organ-screen. 'We can't very well talk here,' Puck whispered. 'Let's\ngo to Panama Corner.'\n\nHe led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron\nwhich says in queer, long-tailed letters: _Orate p. annema Jhone\nColine._ The children always called it Panama Corner.\n\nThe Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old\nmemorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the\norgan began to pull out stops and rustle hymnbooks behind the screen.\n\n'I hope she'll do all the soft lacey tunes--like treacle on porridge,'\nsaid Una.\n\n'I like the trumpety ones best,' said Dan. 'Oh, look at Wilfrid! He's\ntrying to shut the altar gates!'\n\n'Tell him he mustn't,' said Puck, quite seriously.\n\n'He can't, anyhow,' Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while\nthe Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang\nopen again beneath his hand.\n\n'That's no use, sir,' Dan whispered. 'Old Mr. Kidbrooke says altar-gates\nare just _the_ one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made 'em so\nhimself.'\n\nThe Archbishop's blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' Dan stammered--very angry with Puck.\n\n'Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.' The Archbishop smiled, and\ncrossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded\narm-chair for him to sit on.\n\nThe organ played softly. 'What does that music say?' he asked.\n\nUna dropped into the chant without thinking: '\"Oh, all ye works of the\nLord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.\" We call\nit the Noah's Ark, because it's all lists of things--beasts and birds\nand whales, you know.'\n\n'Whales?' said the Archbishop quickly.\n\n'Yes--\"O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,\"' Una\nhummed--'\"Bless ye the Lord\"--it sounds like a wave turning over,\ndoesn't it?'\n\n'Holy Father,' said Puck with a demure face, 'is a little seal also \"one\nwho moves in the water\"?'\n\n'Eh? Oh yes--yess!' he laughed. 'A seal moves wonderfully in the waters.\nDo the seal come to my island still?'\n\nPuck shook his head. 'All those little islands have been swept away.'\n\n'Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there. Do you know the land\nof the Sea-calf, maiden?'\n\n'No--but we've seen seals--at Brighton.'\n\n'The Archbishop is thinking of a little farther down the coast. He means\nSeal's Eye--Selsea--down Chichester way--where he converted the South\nSaxons,' Puck explained.\n\n'Yes--yess; if the South Saxons did not convert me,' said the\nArchbishop, smiling. 'The first time I was wrecked was on that coast. As\nour ship took ground and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow, I\nremember, reared breast high out of the water, and scratched his head\nwith his flipper as if he were saying: \"What _does_ that respectable\nperson with the pole think he is doing?\" I was very wet and miserable,\nbut I could not help laughing, till the natives came down and attacked\nus.'\n\n'What did you do?' Dan asked.\n\n'One couldn't very well go back to France, so one tried to make them go\nback to the shore. All the South Saxons are born wreckers, like my own\nNorthumbrian folk. I was bringing over a few things for my old church at\nYork, and some of the natives laid hands on them, and--and I'm afraid I\nlost my temper.'\n\n'It is said,' Puck's voice was wickedly meek, 'that there was a great\nfight.'\n\n'Eh, but I must ha' been a silly lad.' Wilfrid spoke with a sudden thick\nburr in his voice. He coughed, and took up his silvery tones again.\n'There was no fight really. My men thumped a few of them, but the tide\nrose half an hour before its time, with a strong wind, and we backed\noff. What I wanted to say, though, was, that the seas about us were full\nof sleek seals watching the scuffle. My good Eddi--my chaplain--insisted\nthat they were demons. Yes--yess! That was my first acquaintance with\nthe South Saxons and their seals.'\n\n'But not the only time you were wrecked, was it?' said Dan.\n\n'Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have been one long\nshipwreck,' He looked at the Jhone Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes\nlooks into the fire. 'Ah, well!'\n\n'But did you ever have any more adventures among the seals?' said Una,\nafter a pause.\n\n'Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are the important things.\nYes--yess! I went back to the South Saxons after twelve--fifteen years.\nNo, I did not come by water, but overland from my own Northumbria, to\nsee what I could do. It's little one _can_ do with that class of native\nexcept make them stop killing each other and themselves----'\n\n'Why did they kill themselves?' Una asked, her chin in her hand.\n\n'Because they were heathen. When they grew tired of life (as if they\nwere the only people) they would jump into the sea. They called it going\nto Wotan. It wasn't want of food always--by any means. A man would tell\nyou that he felt grey in the heart, or a woman would say that she saw\nnothing but long days in front of her; and they'd saunter away to the\nmud-flats and--that would be the end of them, poor souls, unless one\nheaded them off! One had to run quick, but one can't allow people to lay\nhands on themselves because they happen to feel grey. Yes--yess!\nExtraordinary people, the South Saxons. Disheartening, sometimes....\nWhat does that say now?' The organ had changed tune again.\n\n'Only a hymn for next Sunday,' said Una. '\"The Church's One Foundation.\"\nGo on, please, about running over the mud. I should like to have seen\nyou.'\n\n'I dare say you would, and I really _could_ run in those days.\nEthelwalch the king gave me some five or six muddy parishes by the sea,\nand the first time my good Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouching\nalong the slob, among the seals at Manhood End. My good Eddi disliked\nseals--but he swallowed his objections and ran like a hare.'\n\n'Why?' said Dan.\n\n'For the same reason that I did. We thought it was one of our people\ngoing to drown himself. As a matter of fact, Eddi and I were nearly\ndrowned in the pools before we overtook him. To cut a long story short,\nwe found ourselves very muddy, very breathless, being quietly made fun\nof in good Latin by a very well-spoken person. No--he'd no idea of going\nto Wotan. He was fishing on his own beaches, and he showed us the\nbeacons and turf-heaps that divided his lands from the Church property.\nHe took us to his own house, gave us a good dinner, some more than good\nwine, sent a guide with us into Chichester, and became one of my best\nand most refreshing friends. He was a Meon by descent, from the west\nedge of the kingdom; a scholar educated, curiously enough, at Lyons, my\nold school; had travelled the world over, even to Rome, and was a\nbrilliant talker. We found we had scores of acquaintances in common. It\nseemed he was a small chief under King Ethelwalch, and I fancy the King\nwas somewhat afraid of him. The South Saxons mistrust a man who talks\ntoo well. Ah! _Now_, I've left out the very point of my story. He kept a\ngreat grey-muzzled old dog-seal that he had brought up from a pup. He\ncalled it Padda--after one of my clergy. It _was_ rather like fat,\nhonest old Padda. The creature followed him everywhere, and nearly\nknocked down my good Eddi when we first met him. Eddi loathed it. It\nused to sniff at his thin legs and cough at him. I can't say I ever took\nmuch notice of it (I was not fond of animals), till one day Eddi came to\nme with a circumstantial account of some witchcraft that Meon worked. He\nwould tell the seal to go down to the beach the last thing at night, and\nbring him word of the weather. When it came back, Meon might say to his\nslaves, \"Padda thinks we shall have wind to-morrow. Haul up the boats!\"\nI spoke to Meon casually about the story, and he laughed.\n\n'He told me he could judge by the look of the creature's coat and the\nway it sniffed what weather was brewing. Quite possible. One need not\nput down everything one does not understand to the work of bad\nspirits--or good ones, for that matter.' He nodded towards Puck, who\nnodded gaily in return.\n\n'I say so,' he went on, 'because to a certain extent I have been made a\nvictim of that habit of mind. Some while after I was settled at Selsea,\nKing Ethelwalch and Queen Ebba ordered their people to be baptized. I\nfear I'm too old to believe that a whole nation can change its heart at\nthe King's command, and I had a shrewd suspicion that their real motive\nwas to get a good harvest. No rain had fallen for two or three years,\nbut as soon as we had finished baptizing, it fell heavily, and they all\nsaid it was a miracle.'\n\n'And was it?' Dan asked.\n\n'Everything in life is a miracle, but'--the Archbishop twisted the heavy\nring on his finger--'I should be slow--ve-ry slow should I be--to assume\nthat a certain sort of miracle happens whenever lazy and improvident\npeople say they are going to turn over a new leaf if they are paid for\nit. My friend Meon had sent his slaves to the font, but he had not come\nhimself, so the next time I rode over--to return a manuscript--I took\nthe liberty of asking why. He was perfectly open about it. He looked on\nthe King's action as a heathen attempt to curry favour with the\nChristians' God through me the Archbishop, and he would have none of it.\n\"My dear man,\" I said, \"admitting that that is the case, surely you, as\nan educated person, don't believe in Wotan and all the other hobgoblins\nany more than Padda here.\" The old seal was hunched up on his ox-hide\nbehind his master's chair.\n\n'\"Even if I don't,\" he said, \"why should I insult the memory of my\nfathers' Gods? I have sent you a hundred and three of my rascals to\nchristen. Isn't that enough?\"\n\n'\"By no means,\" I answered. \"I want _you_.\"\n\n'\"He wants us! What do you think of that, Padda?\" He pulled the seal's\nwhiskers till it threw back its head and roared, and he pretended to\ninterpret. \"No! Padda says he won't be baptized yet awhile. He says\nyou'll stay to dinner and come fishing with me to-morrow, because you're\noverworked and need a rest.\"\n\n'\"I wish you'd keep yon brute in its proper place,\" I said, and Eddi, my\nchaplain, agreed.\n\n'\"I do,\" said Meon. \"I keep him just next my heart. He can't tell a lie,\nand he doesn't know how to love any one except me. It 'ud be the same if\nI were dying on a mud-bank, wouldn't it, Padda?\"\n\n'\"Augh! Augh!\" said Padda, and put up his head to be scratched.\n\n'Then Meon began to tease Eddi: \"Padda says, if Eddi saw his Archbishop\ndying on a mud-bank Eddi would tuck up his gown and run. Padda knows\nEddi can run too! Padda came into Wittering Church last Sunday--all\nwet--to hear the music, and Eddi ran out.\"\n\n'My good Eddi rubbed his hands and his shins together, and flushed.\n\"Padda is a child of the Devil, who is the father of lies!\" he cried,\nand begged my pardon for having spoken. I forgave him.\n\n'\"Yes. You are just about stupid enough for a musician,\" said Meon. \"But\nhere he is. Sing a hymn to him, and see if he can stand it. You'll find\nmy small harp beside the fireplace.\"\n\n'Eddi, who is really an excellent musician, played and sang for quite\nhalf an hour. Padda shuffled off his ox-hide, hunched himself on his\nflippers before him, and listened with his head thrown back. Yes--yess!\nA rather funny sight! Meon tried not to laugh, and asked Eddi if he were\nsatisfied.\n\n'It takes some time to get an idea out of my good Eddi's head. He looked\nat me.\n\n'\"Do you want to sprinkle him with holy water, and see if he flies up\nthe chimney? Why not baptize him?\" said Meon.\n\n'Eddi was really shocked. I thought it was bad taste myself.\n\n'\"That's not fair,\" said Meon. \"You call him a demon and a familiar\nspirit because he loves his master and likes music, and when I offer you\na chance to prove it you won't take it. Look here! I'll make a bargain.\nI'll be baptized if you'll baptize Padda too. He's more of a man than\nmost of my slaves.\"\n\n'\"One doesn't bargain--or joke--about these matters,\" I said. He was\ngoing altogether too far.\n\n'\"Quite right,\" said Meon; \"I shouldn't like any one to joke about\nPadda. Padda, go down to the beach and bring us to-morrow's weather!\"\n\n'My good Eddi must have been a little over-tired with his day's work.\n\"I am a servant of the Church,\" he cried. \"My business is to save souls,\nnot to enter into fellowships and understandings with accursed beasts.\"\n\n'\"Have it your own narrow way,\" said Meon. \"Padda, you needn't go.\" The\nold fellow flounced back to his ox-hide at once.\n\n'\"Man could learn obedience at least from that creature,\" said Eddi, a\nlittle ashamed of himself. Christians should not curse.\n\n'\"Don't begin to apologise just when I am beginning to like you,\" said\nMeon. \"We'll leave Padda behind to-morrow--out of respect to your\nfeelings. Now let's go to supper. We must be up early to-morrow for the\nwhiting.\"\n\n'The next was a beautiful crisp autumn morning--a weather breeder, if I\nhad taken the trouble to think; but it's refreshing to escape from kings\nand converts for half a day. We three went by ourselves in Meon's\nsmallest boat, and we got on the whiting near an old wreck, a mile or so\noff shore. Meon knew the marks to a yard, and the fish were keen.\nYes--yess! A perfect morning's fishing! If a bishop can't be a\nfisherman, who can?' He twiddled his ring again. 'We stayed there a\nlittle too long, and while we were getting up our stone, down came the\nfog. After some discussion, we decided to row for the land. The ebb was\njust beginning to make round the point, and sent us all ways at once\nlike a coracle.'\n\n'Selsea Bill,' said Puck under his breath. 'The tides run something\nfurious there.'\n\n'I believe you,' said the Archbishop. 'Meon and I have spent a good many\nevenings arguing as to where exactly we drifted. All I know is we found\nourselves in a little rocky cove that had sprung up round us out of the\nfog, and a swell lifted the boat on to a ledge, and she broke up beneath\nour feet. We had just time to shuffle through the weed before the next\nwave. The sea was rising.\n\n'\"It's rather a pity we didn't let Padda go down to the beach last\nnight,\" said Meon. \"He might have warned us this was coming.\"\n\n'\"Better fall into the hands of God than the hands of demons,\" said\nEddi, and his teeth chattered as he prayed. A nor'-west breeze had just\ngot up--distinctly cool.\n\n'\"Save what you can of the boat,\" said Meon; \"we may need it,\" and we\nhad to drench ourselves again, fishing out stray planks.'\n\n'What for?' said Dan.\n\n'For firewood. We did not know when we should get off. Eddi had flint\nand steel, and we found dry fuel in the old gulls' nests and lit a fire.\nIt smoked abominably, and we guarded it with boat-planks up-ended\nbetween the rocks. One gets used to that sort of thing if one travels.\nUnluckily I'm not so strong as I was. I fear I must have been a trouble\nto my friends. It was blowing a full gale before midnight. Eddi wrung\nout his cloak, and tried to wrap me in it, but I ordered him on his\nobedience to keep it. However, he held me in his arms all the first\nnight, and Meon begged his pardon for what he'd said the night\nbefore--about Eddi running away if he found me on a sandbank, you\nremember.\n\n'\"You are right in half your prophecy,\" said Eddi. \"I have tucked up my\ngown, at any rate.\" (The wind had blown it over his head.) \"Now let us\nthank God for His mercies.\"\n\n'\"Hum!\" said Meon. \"If this gale lasts, we stand a very fair chance of\ndying of starvation.\"\n\n'\"If it be God's will that we live, God will provide,\" said Eddi. \"At\nleast help me to sing to Him.\" The wind almost whipped the words out of\nhis mouth, but he braced himself against a rock and sang psalms.\n\n'I'm glad I never concealed my opinion--from myself--that Eddi was a\nbetter man than I. Yet I have worked hard in my time--very hard!\nYes--yess! So the morning and the evening were our second day on that\nislet. There was rainwater in the rock pools, and, as a Churchman, I\nknew how to fast, but I admit we were hungry. Meon fed our fire chip by\nchip to eke it out, and they made me sit over it, the dear fellows, when\nI was too weak to object. Meon held me in his arms the second night,\njust like a child. My good Eddi was a little out of his senses, and\nimagined himself teaching a York choir to sing. Even so, he was\nbeautifully patient with them.\n\n'I heard Meon whisper, \"If this keeps up we shall go to our Gods. I\nwonder what Wotan will say to me. He must know I don't believe in him.\nOn the other hand, I can't do what Ethelwalch finds so easy--curry\nfavour with your God at the last minute, in the hope of being saved--as\nyou call it. How do you advise, Bishop?\"\n\n'\"My dear man,\" I said, \"if that is your honest belief, I take it upon\nmyself to say you had far better not curry favour with any God. But if\nit's only your Jutish pride that holds you back, lift me up, and I'll\nbaptize you even now.\"\n\n'\"Lie still,\" said Meon. \"I could judge better if I were in my own hall.\nBut to desert one's fathers' Gods--even if one doesn't believe in\nthem--in the middle of a gale, isn't quite--What would you do yourself?\"\n\n'I was lying in his arms, kept alive by the warmth of his big, steady\nheart. It did not seem to me the time or the place for subtle arguments,\nso I answered, \"No, I certainly should not desert my God.\" I don't see\neven now what else I could have said.\n\n'\"Thank you. I'll remember that, if I live,\" said Meon, and I must have\ndrifted back to my dreams about Northumbria and beautiful France, for it\nwas broad daylight when I heard him calling on Wotan in that high,\nshaking heathen yell that I detest so.\n\n'\"Lie quiet. I'm giving Wotan his chance,\" he said. Our dear Eddi ambled\nup, still beating time to his imaginary choir.\n\n'\"Yes. Call on your Gods,\" he cried, \"and see what gifts they will send\nyou. They are gone on a journey, or they are hunting.\"\n\n'I assure you the words were not out of his mouth when old Padda shot\nfrom the top of a cold wrinkled swell, drove himself over the weedy\nledge, and landed fair in our laps with a rock-cod between his teeth. I\ncould not help smiling at Eddi's face. \"A miracle! A miracle!\" he cried,\nand kneeled down to clean the cod.\n\n'\"You've been a long time winding us, my son,\" said Meon. \"Now\nfish--fish for all our lives. We're starving, Padda.\"\n\n'The old fellow flung himself quivering like a salmon backward into the\nboil of the currents round the rocks, and Meon said, \"We're safe. I'll\nsend him to fetch help when this wind drops. Eat and be thankful.\"\n\n'I never tasted anything so good as those rock-codlings we took from\nPadda's mouth and half roasted over the fire. Between his plunges Padda\nwould hunch up and purr over Meon with the tears running down his face.\nI never knew before that seals could weep for joy--as I have wept.\n\n'\"Surely,\" said Eddi, with his mouth full, \"God has made the seal the\nloveliest of His creatures in the water. Look how Padda breasts the\ncurrent! He stands up against it like a rock; now watch the chain of\nbubbles where he dives; and now--there is his wise head under that rock\nledge! Oh, a blessing be on thee, my little brother Padda!\"\n\n'\"You _said_ he was a child of the Devil!\" Meon laughed.\n\n'\"There I sinned,\" poor Eddi answered. \"Call him here, and I will ask\nhis pardon. God sent him out of the storm to humble me, a fool.\"\n\n'\"I won't ask you to enter into fellowships and understandings with any\naccursed brute,\" said Meon, rather unkindly. \"Shall we say he was sent\nto our Bishop as the ravens were sent to your prophet Elijah?\"\n\n'\"Doubtless that is so,\" said Eddi. \"I will write it so if I live to get\nhome.\"\n\n'\"No--no!\" I said. \"Let us three poor men kneel and thank God for His\nmercies.\"\n\n'We kneeled, and old Padda shuffled up and thrust his head under Meon's\nelbows. I laid my hand upon it and blessed him. So did Eddi.\n\n'\"And now, my son,\" I said to Meon, \"shall I baptize thee?\"\n\n'\"Not yet,\" said he. \"Wait till we are well ashore and at home. No God\nin any Heaven shall say that I came to him or left him because I was wet\nand cold. I will send Padda to my people for a boat. Is that witchcraft,\nEddi?\"\n\n'\"Why, no. Surely Padda will go and pull them to the beach by the skirts\nof their gowns as he pulled me in Wittering Church to ask me to sing.\nOnly then I was afraid, and did not understand,\" said Eddi.\n\n'\"You are understanding now,\" said Meon, and at a wave of his arm off\nwent Padda to the mainland, making a wake like a war-boat till we lost\nhim in the rain. Meon's people could not bring a boat across for some\nhours; even so it was ticklish work among the rocks in that tideway. But\nthey hoisted me aboard, too stiff to move, and Padda swam behind us,\nbarking and turning somersaults all the way to Manhood End!'\n\n'Good old Padda!' murmured Dan.\n\n'When we were quite rested and re-clothed, and his people had been\nsummoned--not an hour before--Meon offered himself to be baptized.'\n\n'Was Padda baptized too?' Una asked.\n\n'No, that was only Meon's joke. But he sat blinking on his ox-hide in\nthe middle of the hall. When Eddi (who thought I wasn't looking) made a\nlittle cross in holy water on his wet muzzle, he kissed Eddi's hand. A\nweek before Eddi wouldn't have touched him. _That_ was a miracle, if you\nlike! But seriously, I was more glad than I can tell you to get Meon. A\nrare and splendid soul that never looked back--never looked back!' The\nArchbishop half closed his eyes.\n\n'But, sir,' said Puck, most respectfully, 'haven't you left out what\nMeon said afterwards?' Before the Bishop could speak he turned to the\nchildren and went on: 'Meon called all his fishers and ploughmen and\nherdsmen into the hall and he said: \"Listen, men! Two days ago I asked\nour Bishop whether it was fair for a man to desert his fathers' Gods in\na time of danger. Our Bishop said it was not fair. You needn't shout\nlike that, because you are all Christians now. My red war-boat's crew\nwill remember how near we all were to death when Padda fetched them over\nto the Bishop's islet. You can tell your mates that even in that place,\nat that time, hanging on the wet, weedy edge of death, our Bishop, a\nChristian, counselled me, a heathen, to stand by my fathers' Gods. I\ntell you now that a faith which takes care that every man shall keep\nfaith, even though he may save his soul by breaking faith, is the faith\nfor a man to believe in. So I believe in the Christian God, and in\nWilfrid His Archbishop, and in the Church that Wilfrid rules. You have\nbeen baptized once by the King's orders. I shall not have you baptized\nagain; but if I find any more old women being sent to Wotan, or any\ngirls dancing on the sly before Balder, or any men talking about Thun or\nLok or the rest, I will teach you with my own hands how to keep faith\nwith the Christian God. Go out quietly; you'll find a couple of beefs on\nthe beach.\" Then of course they shouted \"Hurrah!\" which meant \"Thor help\nus!\" and--I think you laughed, sir?'\n\n'I think you remember it all too well,' said the Archbishop, smiling.\n'It was a joyful day for me. I had learned a great deal on that rock\nwhere Padda found us. Yes--yess! One should deal kindly with all the\ncreatures of God, and gently with their masters. But one learns late.'\n\nHe rose, and his gold-embroidered sleeves rustled thickly.\n\nThe organ clacked and took deep breaths.\n\n'Wait a minute,' Dan whispered. 'She's going to do the trumpety one. It\ntakes all the wind you can pump. It's in Latin, sir.'\n\n'There is no other tongue,' the Archbishop answered.\n\n'It's not a real hymn,' Una explained. 'She does it as a treat after her\nexercises. She isn't a real organist, you know. She just comes down here\nsometimes, from the Albert Hall.'\n\n'Oh, what a miracle of a voice!' said the Archbishop.\n\nIt rang out suddenly from a dark arch of lonely noises--every word\nspoken to the very end.\n\n 'Dies Irae, dies illa\n Solvet saeclum in favilla\n Teste David cum Sibylla.'\n\nThe Archbishop caught his breath and moved forward.\n\nThe music carried on by itself a while.\n\n'Now it's calling all the light out of the windows,' Una whispered to\nDan.\n\n'I think it's more like a horse neighing in battle,' he whispered back.\nThe voice cried:\n\n 'Tuba mirum spargens sonum\n Per sepulchra regionum.'\n\nDeeper and deeper the organ dived down, but far below its deepest note\nthey heard Puck's voice joining in the last line:\n\n 'Coget omnes ante thronum.'\n\nAs they looked in wonder, for it sounded like the dull jar of one of the\nvery pillars shifting, the little fellow turned and went out through the\nsouth door.\n\n'Now's the sorrowful part, but it's very beautiful.' Una found herself\nspeaking to the empty chair in front of her.\n\n'What are you doing that for?' Dan said behind her. 'You spoke so\npolitely too.'\n\n'I don't know ... I thought ...' said Una. 'Funny!'\n\n''Tisn't. It's the part you like best,' Dan grunted.\n\nThe music had turned soft--full of little sounds that chased each other\non wings across the broad gentle flood of the main tune. But the voice\nwas ten times lovelier than the music.\n\n 'Recordare Jesu pie,\n Quod sum causa Tuae viae,\n Ne me perdas illa die!'\n\nThere was no more. They moved out into the centre-aisle.\n\n''That you?' the Lady called as she shut the lid. 'I thought I heard\nyou, and I played it on purpose.'\n\n'Thank you awfully,' said Dan. 'We hoped you would, so we waited. Come\non, Una, it's pretty nearly dinner-time.'\n\n\n\n\nSONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT\n\n\n Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady!\n Watch for a smooth! Give way!\n If she feels the lop already\n She'll stand on her head in the bay.\n It's ebb--it's dusk--it's blowing,\n The shoals are a mile of white,\n But (snatch her along!) we're going\n To find our master to-night.\n\n For we hold that in all disaster\n Of shipwreck, storm, or sword,\n A man must stand by his master\n When once he has pledged his word!\n\n Raging seas have we rowed in,\n But we seldom saw them thus;\n Our master is angry with Odin--\n Odin is angry with us!\n Heavy odds have we taken,\n But never before such odds.\n The Gods know they are forsaken,\n We must risk the wrath of the Gods!\n\n Over the crest she flies from,\n Into its hollow she drops,\n Crouches and clears her eyes from\n The wind-torn breaker-tops,\n Ere out on the shrieking shoulder\n Of a hill-high surge she drives.\n Meet her! Meet her and hold her!\n Pull for your scoundrel lives!\n\n The thunders bellow and clamour\n The harm that they mean to do;\n There goes Thor's own Hammer\n Cracking the dark in two!\n Close! But the blow has missed her,\n Here comes the wind of the blow!\n Row or the squall'll twist her\n Broadside on to it!--_Row!_\n\n Hearken, Thor of the Thunder!\n We are not here for a jest--\n For wager, warfare, or plunder,\n Or to put your power to test.\n This work is none of our wishing--\n We would stay at home if we might--\n But our master is wrecked out fishing,\n We go to find him to-night.\n\n For we hold that in all disaster--\n As the Gods Themselves have said--\n A man must stand by his master\n Till one of the two is dead.\n\n That is our way of thinking,\n Now you can do as you will,\n While we try to save her from sinking,\n And hold her head to it still.\n Bale her and keep her moving,\n Or she'll break her back in the trough ...\n Who said the weather's improving,\n Or the swells are taking off?\n\n * * * * *\n\n Sodden, and chafed and aching,\n Gone in the loins and knees--\n No matter--the day is breaking,\n And there's far less weight to the seas!\n Up mast, and finish baling--\n In oars, and out with the mead--\n The rest will be two-reef sailing ...\n That was a night indeed!\n\n But we hold that in all disaster\n (And faith, we have found it true!)\n If only you stand by your master,\n The Gods will stand by you!\n\n\n\n\nA Doctor of Medicine\n\n\n\n\nAN ASTROLOGER'S SONG\n\n\n To the Heavens above us\n O look and behold\n The Planets that love us\n All harnessed in gold!\n What chariots, what horses,\n Against us shall bide\n While the Stars in their courses\n Do fight on our side?\n\n All thought, all desires,\n That are under the sun,\n Are one with their fires,\n As we also are one;\n All matter, all spirit,\n All fashion, all frame,\n Receive and inherit\n Their strength from the same.\n\n (Oh, man that deniest\n All power save thine own,\n Their power in the highest\n Is mightily shown.\n Not less in the lowest\n That power is made clear.\n Oh, man, if thou knowest,\n What treasure is here!)\n\n Earth quakes in her throes\n And we wonder for why!\n But the blind planet knows\n When her ruler is nigh;\n And, attuned since Creation,\n To perfect accord,\n She thrills in her station\n And yearns to her Lord.\n\n The waters have risen,\n The springs are unbound--\n The floods break their prison,\n And ravin around.\n No rampart withstands 'em,\n Their fury will last,\n Till the Sign that commands 'em\n Sinks low or swings past.\n\n Through abysses unproven,\n And gulfs beyond thought,\n Our portion is woven,\n Our burden is brought.\n Yet They that prepare it,\n Whose Nature we share,\n Make us who must bear it\n Well able to bear.\n Though terrors o'ertake us\n We'll not be afraid,\n No power can unmake us\n Save that which has made.\n Nor yet beyond reason\n Nor hope shall we fall--\n All things have their season,\n And Mercy crowns all.\n\n Then, doubt not, ye fearful--\n The Eternal is King--\n Up, heart, and be cheerful,\n And lustily sing:--\n _What chariots, what horses,\n Against us shall bide\n While the Stars in their courses\n Do fight on our side?_\n\n\n\n\nA Doctor of Medicine\n\n\nThey were playing hide-and-seek with bicycle lamps after tea. Dan had\nhung his lamp on the apple tree at the end of the hellebore bed in the\nwalled garden, and was crouched by the gooseberry bushes ready to dash\noff when Una should spy him. He saw her lamp come into the garden and\ndisappear as she hid it under her cloak. While he listened for her\nfootsteps, somebody (they both thought it was Phillips the gardener)\ncoughed in the corner of the herb-beds.\n\n'All right,' Una shouted across the asparagus; 'we aren't hurting your\nold beds, Phippsey!'\n\nShe flashed her lantern towards the spot, and in its circle of light\nthey saw a Guy Fawkes-looking man in a black cloak and a steeple-crowned\nhat, walking down the path beside Puck. They ran to meet him, and the\nman said something to them about _rooms_ in their head. After a time\nthey understood he was warning them not to catch colds.\n\n'You've a bit of a cold yourself, haven't you?' said Una, for he ended\nall his sentences with a consequential cough. Puck laughed.\n\n'Child,' the man answered, 'if it hath pleased Heaven to afflict me with\nan infirmity----'\n\n'Nay, nay,' Puck struck in, 'the maid spoke out of kindness. _I_ know\nthat half your cough is but a catch to trick the vulgar; and that's a\npity. There's honesty enough in you, Nick, without rasping and hawking.'\n\n'Good people'--the man shrugged his lean shoulders--'the vulgar crowd\nlove not truth unadorned. Wherefore we philosophers must needs dress her\nto catch their eye or--ahem!--their ear.'\n\n'And what d'you think of _that_?' said Puck solemnly to Dan.\n\n'I don't know,' he answered. 'It sounds like lessons.'\n\n'Ah--well! There have been worse men than Nick Culpeper to take lessons\nfrom. Now, where can we sit that's not indoors?'\n\n'In the hay-mow, next to old Middenboro,' Dan suggested. '_He_ doesn't\nmind.'\n\n'Eh?' Mr. Culpeper was stooping over the pale hellebore blooms by the\nlight of Una's lamp. 'Does Master Middenboro need my poor services,\nthen?'\n\n'Save him, no!' said Puck. 'He is but a horse--next door to an ass, as\nyou'll see presently. Come!'\n\nTheir shadows jumped and slid on the fruit-tree walls. They filed out of\nthe garden by the snoring pig-pound and the crooning hen-house, to the\nshed where Middenboro the old lawn-mower pony lives. His friendly eyes\nshowed green in the light as they set their lamps down on the chickens'\ndrinking-trough outside, and pushed past to the hay-mow. Mr. Culpeper\nstooped at the door.\n\n'Mind where you lie,' said Dan. 'This hay's full of hedge-brishings.'\n\n'In! in!' said Puck. 'You've lain in fouler places than this, Nick. Ah!\nLet us keep touch with the stars!' He kicked open the top of the half\ndoor, and pointed to the clear sky. 'There be the planets you conjure\nwith! What does your wisdom make of that wandering and variable star\nbehind those apple boughs?'\n\nThe children smiled. A bicycle that they knew well was being walked down\nthe steep lane.\n\n'Where?' Mr. Culpeper leaned forward quickly. 'That? Some countryman's\nlantern.'\n\n'Wrong, Nick,' said Puck. ''Tis a singular bright star in Virgo,\ndeclining towards the house of Aquarius the water-carrier, who hath\nlately been afflicted by Gemini. Aren't I right, Una?'\n\nMr. Culpeper snorted contemptuously.\n\n'No. It's the village nurse going down to the Mill about some fresh\ntwins that came there last week. Nurse,' Una called, as the light\nstopped on the flat, 'when can I see the Morris twins? And how are\nthey?'\n\n'Next Sunday, perhaps. Doing beautifully,' the Nurse called back, and\nwith a _ping-ping-ping_ of the bell brushed round the corner.\n\n'Her Uncle's a vetinary surgeon near Banbury,' Una explained, 'and if\nyou ring her bell at night, it rings right beside her bed--not\ndownstairs at all. Then she jumps up--she always keeps a pair of dry\nboots in the fender, you know--and goes anywhere she's wanted. We help\nher bicycle through gaps sometimes. Most of her babies do beautifully.\nShe told us so herself.'\n\n'I doubt not, then, that she reads in my books,' said Mr. Culpeper\nquietly. 'Twins at the Mill!' he muttered half aloud. '\"And again He\nsayeth, Return, ye children of men.\"'\n\n'Are you a doctor or a rector?' Una asked, and Puck with a shout turned\nhead over heels in the hay. But Mr. Culpeper was quite serious. He told\nthem that he was a physician-astrologer--a doctor who knew all about the\nstars as well as all about herbs for medicine. He said that the sun, the\nmoon, and five Planets, called Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn, and\nVenus, governed everybody and everything in the world. They all lived in\nHouses--he mapped out some of them against the dark with a busy\nforefinger--and they moved from House to House like pieces at draughts;\nand they went loving and hating each other all over the skies. If you\nknew their likes and dislikes, he said, you could make them cure your\npatient and hurt your enemy, and find out the secret causes of things.\nHe talked of these five Planets as though they belonged to him, or as\nthough he were playing long games against them. The children burrowed in\nthe hay up to their chins, and looked out over the half door at the\nsolemn, star-powdered sky till they seemed to be falling upside down\ninto it, while Mr. Culpeper talked about 'trines' and 'oppositions' and\n'conjunctions' and 'sympathies' and 'antipathies' in a tone that just\nmatched things.\n\nA rat ran between Middenboro's feet, and the old pony stamped.\n\n'Mid hates rats,' said Dan, and passed him over a lock of hay. 'I wonder\nwhy.'\n\n'Divine Astrology tells us,' said Mr. Culpeper. 'The horse, being a\nmartial beast that beareth man to battle, belongs naturally to the red\nplanet Mars--the Lord of War. I would show you him, but he's too near\nhis setting. Rats and mice, doing their businesses by night, come under\nthe dominion of our Lady the Moon. Now between Mars and Luna, the one\nred, t'other white, the one hot, t'other cold and so forth, stands, as I\nhave told you, a natural antipathy, or, as you say, hatred. Which\nantipathy their creatures do inherit. Whence, good people, you may both\nsee and hear your cattle stamp in their stalls for the self-same causes\nas decree the passages of the stars across the unalterable face of\nHeaven! Ahem!'\n\nPuck lay along chewing a leaf. They felt him shake with laughter, and\nMr. Culpeper sat up stiffly.\n\n'I myself,' said he, 'have saved men's lives, and not a few neither, by\nobserving at the proper time--there is a time, mark you, for all things\nunder the sun--by observing, I say, so small a beast as a rat in\nconjunction with so great a matter as this dread arch above us.' He\nswept his hand across the sky. 'Yet there are those,' he went on sourly,\n'who have years without knowledge.'\n\n'Right,' said Puck. 'No fool like an old fool.'\n\nMr. Culpeper wrapped his cloak round him and sat still while the\nchildren stared at the Great Bear on the hill-top.\n\n'Give him time,' Puck whispered behind his hand. 'He turns like a\ntimber-tug--all of a piece.'\n\n'Ahem!' Mr. Culpeper said suddenly. 'I'll prove it to you. When I was\nphysician to Saye's Horse, and fought the King--or rather the man\nCharles Stuart--in Oxfordshire (I had _my_ learning at Cambridge), the\nplague was very hot all around us. I saw it at close hands. He who says\nI am ignorant of the plague, for example, is altogether beside the\nbridge.'\n\n'We grant it,' said Puck solemnly. 'But why talk of the plague this rare\nnight?'\n\n'To prove my argument. This Oxfordshire plague, good people, being\ngenerated among rivers and ditches, was of a werish, watery nature.\nTherefore it was curable by drenching the patient in cold water, and\nlaying him in wet cloths; or at least, so I cured some of them. Mark\nthis. It bears on what shall come after.'\n\n'Mark also, Nick,' said Puck, 'that we are not your College of\nPhysicians, but only a lad and a lass and a poor lubberkin. Therefore be\nplain, old Hyssop on the Wall!'\n\n'To be plain and in order with you, I was shot in the chest while\ngathering of betony from a brookside near Thame, and was took by the\nKing's men before their Colonel, one Blagg or Bragge, whom I warned\nhonestly that I had spent the week past among our plague-stricken. He\nflung me off into a cowshed, much like this here, to die, as I\nsupposed; but one of their priests crept in by night and dressed my\nwound. He was a Sussex man like myself.'\n\n'Who was that?' said Puck suddenly. 'Zack Tutshom?'\n\n'No, Jack Marget,' said Mr. Culpeper.\n\n'Jack Marget of New College? The little merry man that stammered so? Why\na plague was stuttering Jack at Oxford then?' said Puck.\n\n'He had come out of Sussex in hope of being made a Bishop when the King\nshould have conquered the rebels, as he styled us Parliament men. His\nCollege had lent the King some monies too, which they never got again,\nno more than simple Jack got his bishopric. When we met he had had a\nbitter bellyful of King's promises, and wished to return to his wife and\nbabes. This came about beyond expectation, for, so soon as I could stand\nof my wound the man Blagge made excuse that I had been among the plague,\nand Jack had been tending me, to thrust us both out from their camp. The\nKing had done with Jack now that Jack's College had lent the money, and\nBlagge's physician could not abide me because I would not sit silent and\nsee him butcher the sick. (He was a College of Physicians man!) So\nBlagge, I say, thrust us both out, with many vile words, for a pair of\npestilent, prating, pragmatical rascals.'\n\n'Ha! Called _you_ pragmatical, Nick?' Puck started up. 'High time Oliver\ncame to purge the land! How did you and honest Jack fare next?'\n\n'We were in some sort constrained to each other's company. I was for\ngoing to my house in Spitalfields, he would go to his parish in Sussex;\nbut the plague was broke out and spreading through Wiltshire, Berkshire,\nand Hampshire, and he was so mad distracted to think that it might even\nthen be among his folks at home that I bore him company. He had\ncomforted me in my distress. I could not have done less; and I\nremembered that I had a cousin at Great Wigsell, near by Jack's parish.\nThus we footed it from Oxford, cassock and buff coat together, resolute\nto leave wars on the left side henceforth; and either through our mean\nappearances, or the plague making men less cruel, we were not hindered.\nTo be sure they put us in the stocks one half-day for rogues and\nvagabonds at a village under St. Leonard's forest, where, as I have\nheard, nightingales never sing; but the constable very honestly gave me\nback my Astrological Almanac, which I carry with me.' Mr. Culpeper\ntapped his thin chest. 'I dressed a whitlow on his thumb. So we went\nforward.\n\n'Not to trouble you with impertinences, we fetched over against Jack\nMarget's parish in a storm of rain about the day's end. Here our roads\ndivided, for I would have gone on to my cousin at Great Wigsell, but\nwhile Jack was pointing me out his steeple, we saw a man lying drunk, as\nhe conceived, athwart the road. He said it would be one Hebden, a\nparishioner, and till then a man of good life; and he accused himself\nbitterly for an unfaithful shepherd, that had left his flock to follow\nprinces. But I saw it was the plague, and not the beginnings of it\nneither. They had set out the plague-stone, and the man's head lay on\nit.'\n\n'What's a plague-stone?' Dan whispered.\n\n'When the plague is so hot in a village that the neighbours shut the\nroads against 'em, people set a hollowed stone, pot, or pan, where such\nas would purchase victual from outside may lay money and the paper of\ntheir wants, and depart. Those that would sell come later--what will a\nman not do for gain?--snatch the money forth, and leave in exchange such\ngoods as their conscience reckons fair value. I saw a silver groat in\nthe water, and the man's list of what he would buy was rain-pulped in\nhis wet hand.\n\n'\"My wife! Oh, my wife and babes!\" says Jack of a sudden, and makes\nup-hill--I with him.\n\n'A woman peers out from behind a barn, crying out that the village is\nstricken with the plague, and that for our lives' sake we must avoid it.\n\n'\"Sweetheart!\" says Jack. \"Must I avoid thee?\" and she leaps at him and\nsays the babes are safe. She was his wife.\n\n'When he had thanked God, even to tears, he tells me this was not the\nwelcome he had intended, and presses me to flee the place while I was\nclean.\n\n'\"Nay! The Lord do so to me and more also if I desert thee now,\" I said.\n\"These affairs are, under God's leave, in some fashion my strength.\"\n\n'\"Oh, sir,\" she says, \"are you a physician? We have none.\"\n\n'\"Then, good people,\" said I, \"I must e'en justify myself to you by my\nworks.\"\n\n'\"Look--look ye,\" stammers Jack, \"I took you all this time for a crazy\nRoundhead preacher.\" He laughs, and she, and then I--all three together\nin the rain are overtook by an unreasonable gust or clap of laughter,\nwhich none the less eased us. We call it in medicine the Hysterical\nPassion. So I went home with 'em.'\n\n'Why did you not go on to your cousin at Great Wigsell, Nick?' Puck\nsuggested. ''Tis barely seven mile up the road.'\n\n'But the plague was here,' Mr. Culpeper answered, and pointed up the\nhill. 'What else could I have done?'\n\n'What were the parson's children called?' said Una.\n\n'Elizabeth, Alison, Stephen, and Charles--a babe. I scarce saw them at\nfirst, for I separated to live with their father in a cart-lodge. The\nmother we put--forced--into the house with her babes. She had done\nenough.\n\n'And now, good people, give me leave to be particular in this case. The\nplague was worst on the north side of the street, for lack, as I showed\n'em, of sunshine; which, proceeding from the _primum mobile_, or source\nof life (I speak astrologically), is cleansing and purifying in the\nhighest degree. The plague was hot too by the corn-chandler's, where\nthey sell forage to the carters; extreme hot in both Mills along the\nriver, and scatteringly in other places, _except_, mark you, at the\nsmithy. Mark here, that all forges and smith-shops belong to Mars, even\nas corn and meat and wine-shops acknowledge Venus for their mistress.\nThere was no plague in the smithy at Munday's Lane----'\n\n'Munday's Lane? You mean our village? I thought so when you talked about\nthe two Mills,' cried Dan. 'Where did we put the plague-stone? I'd like\nto have seen it.'\n\n'Then look at it now,' said Puck, and pointed to the chickens'\ndrinking-trough where they had set their bicycle lamps. It was a rough,\noblong stone pan, rather like a small kitchen sink, which Phillips, who\nnever wastes anything, had found in a ditch and had used for his\nprecious hens.\n\n'That?' said Dan and Una, and stared, and stared, and stared.\n\nMr. Culpeper made impatient noises in his throat and went on.\n\n'I am at these pains to be particular, good people, because I would have\nyou follow, so far as you may, the operations of my mind. That plague\nwhich I told you I had handled outside Wallingford in Oxfordshire was of\na watery nature, conformable to the brookish riverine country it bred\nin, and curable, as I have said, by drenching in water. This plague of\nours here, for all that it flourished along watercourses--every soul at\nboth Mills died of it,--could not be so handled. Which brought me to a\nstand. Ahem!'\n\n'And your sick people in the meantime?' Puck demanded.\n\n'We persuaded them on the north side of the street to lie out in\nHitheram's field. Where the plague had taken one, or at most two, in a\nhouse, folk would not shift for fear of thieves in their absence. They\ncast away their lives to die among their goods.'\n\n'Human nature,' said Puck. 'I've seen it time and again. How did your\nsick do in the fields?'\n\n'They died not near so thick as those that kept within doors, and even\nthen they died more out of distraction and melancholy than plague. But I\nconfess, good people, I could not in any sort master the sickness, or\ncome at a glimmer of its nature or governance. To be brief, I was flat\nbewildered at the brute malignity of the disease, and so--did what I\nshould have done before--dismissed all conjectures and apprehensions\nthat had grown up within me, chose a good hour by my Almanac, clapped my\nvinegar-cloth to my face, and entered some empty houses, resigned to\nwait upon the stars for guidance.'\n\n'At night? Were you not horribly frightened?' said Puck.\n\n'I dared to hope that the God who hath made man so nobly curious to\nsearch out His mysteries might not destroy a devout seeker. In due\ntime--there is a time, as I have said, for everything under the sun--I\nspied a whitish rat, very puffed and scabby, which sat beneath the\ndormer of an attic through which shined our Lady the Moon. Whilst I\nlooked on him--and her--she was moving towards old cold Saturn, her\nancient ally--the rat creeped languishingly into her light, and there,\nbefore my eyes, died. Presently his mate or companion came out, laid him\ndown beside there, and in like fashion died too. Later--an hour or less\nto midnight--a third rat did e'en the same; always choosing the\nmoonlight to die in. This threw me into an amaze, since, as we know, the\nmoonlight is favourable, not hurtful, to the creatures of the Moon; and\nSaturn, being friends with her, as you would say, was hourly\nstrengthening her evil influence. Yet these three rats had been stricken\ndead in very moonlight. I leaned out of the window to see which of\nHeaven's host might be on our side, and there beheld I good trusty Mars,\nvery red and heated, bustling about his setting. I straddled the roof to\nsee better.\n\n'Jack Marget came up street going to comfort our sick in Hitheram's\nfield. A tile slipped under my foot.\n\n'Says he heavily enough, \"Watchman, what of the night?\"\n\n\"Heart up, Jack,\" says I. \"Methinks there's one fighting for us that,\nlike a fool, I've forgot all this summer.\" My meaning was naturally the\nplanet Mars.\n\n'\"Pray to Him then,\" says he. \"I forgot Him too this summer.\"\n\n'He meant God, whom he always bitterly accused himself of having\nforgotten up in Oxfordshire, among the King's men. I called down that he\nhad made amends enough for his sin by his work among the sick, but he\nsaid he would not believe so till the plague was lifted from 'em. He was\nat his strength's end--more from melancholy than any just cause. I have\nseen this before among priests and over-cheerful men. I drenched him\nthen and there with a half cup of waters, which I do not say cure the\nplague, but are excellent against heaviness of the spirits.'\n\n'What were they?' said Dan.\n\n'White brandy rectified, camphor, cardamoms, ginger, two sorts of\npepper, and aniseed.'\n\n'Whew!' said Puck. 'Waters you call 'em!'\n\n'Jack coughed on it valiantly, and went down hill with me. I was for the\nLower Mill in the valley, to note the aspect of the Heavens. My mind had\nalready shadowed forth the reason, if not the remedy, for our troubles,\nbut I would not impart it to the vulgar till I was satisfied. That\npractice may be perfect, judgment ought to be sound, and to make\njudgment sound is required an exquisite knowledge. Ahem! I left Jack and\nhis lantern among the sick in Hitheram's field. He still maintained the\nprayers of the so-called Church, which were rightly forbidden by\nCromwell.'\n\n'You should have told your cousin at Wigsell,' said Puck, 'and Jack\nwould have been fined for it, and you'd have had half the money. How did\nyou come so to fail in your duty, Nick?'\n\nMr. Culpeper laughed--his only laugh that evening--and the children\njumped at the loud neigh of it.\n\n'We were not fearful of _men's_ judgment in those days,' he answered.\n'Now mark me closely, good people, for what follows will be to you,\nthough not to me, remarkable. When I reached the empty Mill, old Saturn,\nlow down in the House of the Fishes, threatened the Sun's rising-place.\nOur Lady the Moon was moving towards the help of him (understand, I\nspeak astrologically). I looked abroad upon the high Heavens, and I\nprayed the Maker of 'em for guidance. Now Mars sparklingly withdrew\nhimself below the sky. On the instant of his departure, which I noted, a\nbright star or vapour leaped forth above his head (as though he had\nheaved up his sword), and broke all about in fire. The cocks crowed\nmidnight through the valley, and I sat me down by the mill-wheel,\nchewing spearmint (though that's a herb of Venus), and calling myself\nall the asses' heads in the world! 'Twas plain enough _now_!'\n\n'What was plain?' said Una.\n\n'The true cause and cure of the plague. Mars, good fellow, had fought\nfor us to the uttermost. Faint though he had been in the Heavens, and\nthis had made me overlook him in my computations, he more than any of\nthe other planets had kept the Heavens--which is to say, had been\nvisible some part of each night wellnigh throughout the year. Therefore\nhis fierce and cleansing influence, warring against the Moon, had\nstretched out to kill those three rats under my nose, and under the nose\nof their natural mistress, the Moon. I had known Mars lean half across\nHeaven to deal our Lady the Moon some shrewd blow from under his shield,\nbut I had never before seen his strength displayed so effectual.'\n\n'I don't understand a bit. Do you mean Mars killed the rats because he\nhated the Moon?' said Una.\n\n'_That_ is as plain as the pikestaff with which Blagge's men pushed me\nforth,' Mr. Culpeper answered. 'I'll prove it. Why had the plague not\nbroken out at the blacksmith's shop in Munday's Lane? Because, as I've\nshown you, forges and smithies belong naturally to Mars, and, for his\nhonour's sake, Mars 'ud keep 'em clean from the creatures of the Moon.\nBut was it like, think you, that he'd come down and rat-catch in general\nfor lazy, ungrateful mankind? That were working a willing horse to\ndeath. So then you can see that the meaning of the blazing star above\nhim when he set was simply this: \"Destroy and burn the creatures of the\nMoon, for they are at the root of your trouble. And thus, having shown\nyou a taste of my power, good people, adieu.\"'\n\n'Did Mars really say all that?' Una whispered.\n\n'Yes, and twice so much as that to any one who had ears to hear.\nBriefly, he enlightened me that the plague was spread by the creatures\nof the Moon. The Moon, our Lady of Ill-aspect, was the offender. My own\npoor wits showed me that I, Nick Culpeper, had the people in my charge,\nGod's good providence aiding me, and no time to lose neither.\n\n'I posted up the hill, and broke into Hitheram's field amongst 'em all\nat prayers.\n\n'\"Eureka, good people!\" I cried, and cast down a dead mill-rat which I'd\nfound. \"Here's your true enemy, revealed at last by the stars.\"\n\n'\"Nay, but I'm praying,\" says Jack. His face was as white as washed\nsilver.\n\n'\"There's a time for everything under the sun,\" says I. \"If you would\nstay the plague, take and kill your rats.\"\n\n'\"Oh, mad, stark mad!\" says he, and wrings his hands.\n\n'A fellow lay in the ditch beside him, who bellows that he'd as soon die\nmad hunting rats as be preached to death on a cold fallow. They laughed\nround him at this, but Jack Marget falls on his knees, and very\npresumptuously petitions that he may be appointed to die to save the\nrest of his people. This was enough to thrust 'em back into their\nmelancholy.\n\n'\"You are an unfaithful shepherd, Jack,\" I says. \"Take a bat\" (which we\ncall a stick in Sussex) \"and kill a rat if you die before sunrise.\n'Twill save your people.\"\n\n'\"Aye, aye. Take a bat and kill a rat,\" he says ten times over, like a\nchild, which moved 'em to ungovernable motions of that hysterical\npassion before mentioned, so that they laughed all, and at least warmed\ntheir chill bloods at that very hour--one o'clock or a little\nafter--when the fires of life burn lowest. Truly there is a time for\neverything; and the physician must work with it--ahem!--or miss his\ncure. To be brief with you, I persuaded 'em, sick or sound, to have at\nthe whole generation of rats throughout the village. And there's a\nreason for all things too, though the wise physician need not blab 'em\nall. _Imprimis_, or firstly, the mere sport of it, which lasted ten\ndays, drew 'em most markedly out of their melancholy. I'd defy sorrowful\nJob himself to lament or scratch while he's routing rats from a rick.\n_Secundo_, or secondly, the vehement act and operation of this chase or\nwar opened their skins to generous transpiration--more vulgarly,\nsweated 'em handsomely; and this further drew off their black bile--the\nmother of sickness. Thirdly, when we came to burn the bodies of the\nrats, I sprinkled sulphur on the faggots, whereby the onlookers were as\nhandsomely suffumigated. This I could not have compassed if I had made\nit a mere physician's business; they'd have thought it some conjuration.\nYet more, we cleansed, limed, and burned out a hundred foul poke-holes,\nsinks, slews, and corners of unvisited filth in and about the houses in\nthe village, and by good fortune (mark here that Mars was in opposition\nto Venus) burned the corn-chandler's shop to the ground. Mars loves not\nVenus. Will Noakes the saddler dropped his lantern on a truss of straw\nwhile he was rat-hunting there.'\n\n'Had ye given Will any of that gentle cordial of yours, Nick, by any\nchance?' said Puck.\n\n'A glass--or two glasses--not more. But as I would say, in fine, when we\nhad killed the rats, I took ash, slag, and charcoal from the smithy, and\nburnt earth from the brickyard (I reason that a brickyard belongs to\nMars), and rammed it with iron crowbars into the rat-runs and buries,\nand beneath all the house floors. The Creatures of the Moon hate all\nthat Mars hath used for his own clean ends. For example--rats bite not\niron.'\n\n'And how did poor stuttering Jack endure it?' said Puck.\n\n'He sweated out his melancholy through his skin, and catched a loose\ncough, which I cured with electuaries, according to art. It is\nnoteworthy, were I speaking among my equals, that the venom of the\nplague translated, or turned itself into, and evaporated, or went away\nas, a very heavy hoarseness and thickness of the head, throat, and\nchest. (Observe from my books which planets govern these portions of\nman's body, and your darkness, good people, shall be illuminated--ahem!)\nNone the less, the plague, _qua_ plague, ceased and took off (for we\nonly lost three more, and two of 'em had it already on 'em) from the\nmorning of the day that Mars enlightened me by the Lower Mill.' He\ncoughed--almost trumpeted--triumphantly.\n\n'It is proved,' he jerked out. 'I say I have proved my contention, which\nis, that by Divine Astrology and humble search into the veritable causes\nof things--at the proper time--the sons of wisdom may combat even the\nplague.'\n\n'H'm!' Puck replied. 'For my own part I hold that a simple soul----'\n\n'Mine?--simple, forsooth?' said Mr. Culpeper.\n\n'A very simple soul, a high courage tempered with sound and stubborn\nconceit, is stronger than all the stars in their courses. So I confess\ntruly that you saved the village, Nick.'\n\n'I stubborn? I stiff-necked? I ascribed all my poor success, under God's\ngood providence, to Divine Astrology. Not to me the glory! You talk as\nthat dear weeping ass Jack Marget preached before I went back to my work\nin Red Lion House, Spitalfields.\n\n'Oh! Stammering Jack preached, did he? They say he loses his stammer in\nthe pulpit.'\n\n'And his wits with it. He delivered a most idolatrous discourse when the\nplague was stayed. He took for his text: \"The wise man that delivered\nthe city.\" I could have given him a better, such as: \"There is a time\nfor----\"'\n\n'But what made you go to church to hear him?' Puck interrupted. 'Wail\nAttersole was your lawfully appointed preacher, and a dull dog he was!'\n\nMr. Culpeper wriggled uneasily.\n\n'The vulgar,' said he, 'the old crones and--ahem--the children, Alison\nand the others, they dragged me to the House of Rimmon by the hand. I\nwas in two minds to inform on Jack for maintaining the mummeries of the\nfalsely called Church, which, I'll prove to you, are founded merely on\nancient fables----'\n\n'Stick to your herbs and planets,' said Puck, laughing. 'You should have\ntold the magistrates, Nick, and had Jack fined. Again, why did you\nneglect your plain duty?'\n\n'Because--because I was kneeling, and praying, and weeping with the rest\nof 'em at the altar rails. In medicine this is called the Hysterical\nPassion. It may be--it may be.'\n\n'That's as may be,' said Puck. They heard him turn the hay. 'Why, your\nhay is half hedge-brishings,' he said. 'You don't expect a horse to\nthrive on oak and ash and thorn leaves, do you?'\n\n * * * * *\n\n_Ping-ping-ping_ went the bicycle bell round the corner. Nurse was\ncoming back from the Mill.\n\n'Is it all right?' Una called.\n\n'All quite right,' Nurse called back. 'They're to be christened next\nSunday.'\n\n'What? What?' They both leaned forward across the half-door. It could\nnot have been properly fastened, for it opened, and tilted them out with\nhay and leaves sticking all over them.\n\n'Come on! We must get those two twins' names,' said Una, and they\ncharged up-hill shouting over the hedge, till Nurse slowed up and told\nthem.\n\nWhen they returned, old Middenboro had got out of his stall, and they\nspent a lively ten minutes chasing him in again by starlight.\n\n\n\n\n'OUR FATHERS OF OLD'\n\n\n Excellent herbs had our fathers of old--\n Excellent herbs to ease their pain--\n Alexanders and Marigold,\n Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane,\n Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,\n (Almost singing themselves they run)\n Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you--\n Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.\n Anything green that grew out of the mould\n Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.\n\n Wonderful tales had our fathers of old--\n Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars--\n The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,\n Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.\n Pat as a sum in division it goes--\n (Every plant had a star bespoke)--\n Who but Venus should govern the Rose?\n Who but Jupiter own the Oak?\n Simply and gravely the facts are told\n In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.\n\n Wonderful little, when all is said,\n Wonderful little our fathers knew.\n Half their remedies cured you dead--\n Most of their teaching was quite untrue--\n 'Look at the stars when a patient is ill,\n (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)\n Bleed and blister as much as you will,\n Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.'\n Whence enormous and manifold\n Errors were made by our fathers of old.\n\n Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,\n And neither planet nor herb assuaged,\n They took their lives in their lancet-hand\n And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!\n Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door--\n Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,\n Excellent courage our fathers bore--\n Excellent heart had our fathers of old.\n None too learned, but nobly bold\n Into the fight went our fathers of old.\n\n If it be certain, as Galen says,\n And sage Hippocrates holds as much--\n 'That those afflicted by doubts and dismays\n Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch,'\n Then, be good to us, stars above!\n Then, be good to us, herbs below!\n We are afflicted by what we can prove;\n We are distracted by what we know--\n So--ah so!\n Down from your heaven or up from your mould,\n Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!\n\n\n\n\nSimple Simon\n\n\n\n\nTHE THOUSANDTH MAN\n\n\n One man in a thousand, Solomon says,\n Will stick more close than a brother.\n And it's worth while seeking him half your days\n If you find him before the other.\n Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend\n On what the world sees in you,\n But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend\n With the whole round world agin you.\n\n 'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show\n Will settle the finding for 'ee.\n Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go\n By your looks or your acts or your glory.\n But if he finds you and you find him,\n The rest of the world don't matter;\n For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim\n With you in any water.\n\n You can use his purse with no more shame\n Than he uses yours for his spendings;\n And laugh and mention it just the same\n As though there had been no lendings.\n Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call\n For silver and gold in their dealings;\n But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all,\n Because you can show him your feelings!\n\n His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,\n In season or out of season.\n Stand up and back it in all men's sight--\n With _that_ for your only reason!\n Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide\n The shame or mocking or laughter,\n But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side\n To the gallows-foot--and after!\n\n\n\n\nSimple Simon\n\n\nCattiwow came down the steep lane with his five-horse timber-tug. He\nstopped by the woodlump at the back gate to take off the brakes. His\nreal name was Brabon, but the first time the children met him, years and\nyears ago, he told them he was 'carting wood,' and it sounded so exactly\nlike 'cattiwow' that they never called him anything else.\n\n'Hi!' Una shouted from the top of the woodlump, where they had been\nwatching the lane. 'What are you doing? Why weren't we told?'\n\n'They've just sent for me,' Cattiwow answered. 'There's a middlin' big\nlog sticked in the dirt at Rabbit Shaw, and'--he flicked his whip back\nalong the line--'so they've sent for us all.'\n\nDan and Una threw themselves off the woodlump almost under black\nSailor's nose. Cattiwow never let them ride the big beam that makes the\nbody of the timber-tug, but they hung on behind while their teeth\nthuttered.\n\nThe wood road beyond the brook climbs at once into the woods, and you\nsee all the horses' backs rising, one above another, like moving\nstairs. Cattiwow strode ahead in his sackcloth woodman's petticoat,\nbelted at the waist with a leather strap; and when he turned and\ngrinned, his red lips showed under his sackcloth-coloured beard. His cap\nwas sackcloth too, with a flap behind, to keep twigs and bark out of his\nneck. He navigated the tug among pools of heather-water that splashed in\ntheir faces, and through clumps of young birches that slashed at their\nlegs, and when they hit an old toadstooled stump, they never knew\nwhether it would give way in showers of rotten wood, or jar them back\nagain.\n\nAt the top of Rabbit Shaw half-a-dozen men and a team of horses stood\nround a forty-foot oak log in a muddy hollow. The ground about was\npoached and stoached with sliding hoof-marks, and a wave of dirt was\ndriven up in front of the butt.\n\n'What did you want to bury her for this way?' said Cattiwow. He took his\nbroad-axe and went up the log tapping it.\n\n'She's sticked fast,' said 'Bunny' Lewknor, who managed the other team.\n\nCattiwow unfastened the five wise horses from the tug. They cocked their\nears forward, looked, and shook themselves.\n\n'I believe Sailor knows,' Dan whispered to Una.\n\n'He do,' said a man behind them. He was dressed in flour sacks like the\nothers, and he leaned on his broad-axe, but the children, who knew all\nthe wood gangs, knew he was a stranger. In his size and oily hairiness\nhe might have been Bunny Lewknor's brother, except that his brown eyes\nwere as soft as a spaniel's, and his rounded black beard, beginning\nclose up under them, reminded Una of the walrus in _The Walrus and the\nCarpenter_.\n\n'Don't he just about know?' he said shyly, and shifted from one foot to\nthe other.\n\n'Yes. \"What Cattiwow can't get out of the woods must have roots growing\nto her\"'--Dan had heard old Hobden say this a few days before.\n\nAt that minute Puck pranced up, picking his way through the pools of\nblack water in the ling.\n\n'Look _out_!' cried Una, jumping forward. 'He'll see you, Puck!'\n\n'Me and Mus' Robin are pretty middlin' well acquainted,' the man\nanswered with a smile that made them forget all about walruses.\n\n'This is Simon Cheyneys,' Puck began, and cleared his throat.\n'Shipbuilder of Rye Port; burgess of the said town, and the only----'\n\n'Oh, look! Look ye! That's a knowing one,' said the man. Cattiwow had\nfastened his team to the thin end of the log, and was moving them about\nwith his whip till they stood at right angles to it, heading downhill.\nThen he grunted. The horses took the strain, beginning with Sailor next\nthe log, like a tug-of-war team, and dropped almost to their knees. The\nlog shifted a nail's breadth in the clinging dirt, with the noise of a\ngiant's kiss.\n\n'You're getting her!' Simon Cheyneys slapped his knee. 'Hing on! Hing\non, lads, or she'll master ye! Ah!'\n\nSailor's left hind hoof had slipped on a heather-tuft. One of the men\nwhipped off his sack apron and spread it down. They saw Sailor feel for\nit, and recover. Still the log hung, and the team grunted in despair.\n\n'Hai!' shouted Cattiwow, and brought his dreadful whip twice across\nSailor's loins with the crack of a shot-gun. The horse almost screamed\nas he pulled that extra last ounce which he did not know was in him. The\nthin end of the log left the dirt and rasped on dry gravel. The butt\nground round like a buffalo in his wallow. Quick as an axe-cut, Lewknor\nsnapped on his five horses, and sliding, trampling, jingling, and\nsnorting, they had the whole thing out on the heather.\n\n'Dat's the very first time I've knowed you lay into Sailor--to hurt\nhim,' said Lewknor.\n\n'It is,' said Cattiwow, and passed his hand over the two wheals. 'But\nI'd ha' laid my own brother open at that pinch. Now we'll twitch her\ndown the hill a piece--she lies just about right--and get her home by\nthe low road. My team'll do it, Bunny; you bring the tug along. Mind\nout!'\n\nHe spoke to the horses, who tightened the chains. The great log half\nrolled over, and slowly drew itself out of sight downhill, followed by\nthe wood gang and the timber-tug. In half a minute there was nothing to\nsee but the deserted hollow of the torn-up dirt, the birch undergrowth\nstill shaking, and the water draining back into the hoof-prints.\n\n'Ye heard him?' Simon Cheyneys asked. 'He cherished his horse, but he'd\nha' laid him open in that pinch.'\n\n'Not for his own advantage,' said Puck quickly. ''Twas only to shift the\nlog.'\n\n'I reckon every man born of woman has his log to shift in the world--if\nso be you're hintin' at any o' Frankie's doings. _He_ never hit beyond\nreason or without reason,' said Simon.\n\n'_I_ never said a word against Frankie,' Puck retorted, with a wink at\nthe children. 'An' if I did, do it lie in your mouth to contest my\nsay-so, seeing how you----'\n\n'Why don't it lie in my mouth, seeing I was the first which knowed\nFrankie for all he was?' The burly sack-clad man puffed down at cool\nlittle Puck.\n\n'Yes, and the first which set out to poison him--Frankie--on the high\nseas----'\n\nSimon's angry face changed to a sheepish grin. He waggled his immense\nhands, but Puck stood off and laughed mercilessly.\n\n'But let me tell you, Mus' Robin,' he pleaded.\n\n'I've heard the tale. Tell the children here. Look, Dan! Look,\nUna!'--Puck's straight brown finger levelled like an arrow. 'There's the\nonly man that ever tried to poison Sir Francis Drake!'\n\n'Oh, Mus' Robin! Tidn't fair. You've the 'vantage of us all in your\nupbringin's by hundreds o' years. 'Stands to nature you know all the\ntales against every one.'\n\nHe turned his soft eyes so helplessly on Una that she cried, 'Stop\nragging him, Puck! You know he didn't really.'\n\n'I do. But why are you so sure, little maid?'\n\n'Because--because he doesn't look like it,' said Una stoutly.\n\n'I thank you,' said Simon to Una. 'I--I was always trustable like with\nchildren if you let me alone, you double handful o' mischief!' He\npretended to heave up his axe on Puck; and then his shyness overtook him\nafresh.\n\n'Where did you know Sir Francis Drake?' said Dan, not relishing being\ncalled a child.\n\n'At Rye Port, to be sure,' said Simon, and seeing Dan's bewilderment,\nrepeated it.\n\n'Yes, but look here,' said Dan. 'Drake he was a Devon man. The song says\nso.'\n\n'\"_And_ ruled the Devon seas,\"' Una went on. 'That's what I was\nthinking--if you don't mind.'\n\nSimon Cheyneys seemed to mind very much indeed, for he swelled in\nsilence while Puck laughed.\n\n'Hutt!' he burst out at last, 'I've heard that talk too. If you listen\nto them West Country folk, you'll listen to a pack o' lies. I believe\nFrankie was born somewhere out west among the Shires, but his father had\nto run for it when Frankie was a baby, because the neighbours was\nwishful to kill him, d'ye see? He run to Chatham, old Parson Drake did,\nan' Frankie was brought up in a old hulks of a ship moored in the Medway\nriver, same as it might ha' been the Rother. Brought up _at_ sea, you\nmight say, before he could walk _on_ land--nigh Chatham in Kent. And\nain't Kent back-door to Sussex? And don't that make Frankie Sussex? O'\ncourse it do. Devon man! Bah! Those West Country boats they're always\nfishin' in other folks' water.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Dan. 'I'm sorry.'\n\n'No call to be sorry. You've been misled. I met Frankie at Rye Port when\nmy Uncle, that was the shipbuilder there, pushed me off his wharf-edge\non to Frankie's ship. Frankie had put in from Chatham with his rudder\nsplutted, and a man's arm--Moon's that 'ud be--broken at the tiller.\n\"Take this boy aboard an' drown him,\" says my Uncle, \"and I'll mend your\nrudder-piece for love.\"'\n\n'What did your Uncle want you drowned for?' said Una.\n\n'That was only his fashion of say-so, same as Mus' Robin. I'd a\nfoolishness in my head that ships could be builded out of iron.\nYes--iron ships! I'd made me a liddle toy one of iron plates beat out\nthin--and she floated a wonder! But my Uncle, bein' a burgess of Rye,\nand a shipbuilder, he 'prenticed me to Frankie in the fetchin' trade, to\ncure this foolishness.'\n\n'What was the fetchin' trade?' Dan interrupted.\n\n'Fetchin' poor Flemishers and Dutchmen out o' the Low Countries into\nEngland. The King o' Spain, d'ye see, he was burnin' 'em in those parts,\nfor to make 'em Papishers, so Frankie he fetched 'em away to _our_\nparts, and a risky trade it was. His master wouldn't never touch it\nwhile he lived, but he left his ship to Frankie when he died, and\nFrankie turned her into this fetchin' trade. Outrageous cruel hard\nwork--on besom black nights bulting back and forth off they Dutch roads\nwith shoals on all sides, and having to hark out for the\n_frish-frish-frish_-like of a Spanish galliwopses' oars creepin' up on\nye. Frankie 'ud have the tiller and Moon he'd peer forth at the bows,\nour lantern under his skirts, till the boat we was lookin' for 'ud blurt\nup out o' the dark, and we'd lay hold and haul aboard whoever\n'twas--man, woman, or babe,--an' round we'd go again, the wind bewling\nlike a kite in our riggin's, and they'd drop into the hold and praise\nGod for happy deliverance till they was all sick.\n\n'I had nigh a year at it, an' we must have fetched off--oh, a hundred\npore folk, I reckon. Outrageous bold, too, Frankie growed to be.\nOutrageous cunning he was. Once we was as near as nothing nipped by a\ntall ship off Tergo Sands in a snowstorm. She had the wind of us, and\nspooned straight before it, shooting all bow guns. Frankie fled inshore\nsmack for the beach, till he was atop of the first breakers. Then he\nhove his anchor out, which nigh tore our bows off, but it twitched us\nround end-for-end into the wind, d'ye see, an' we clawed off them sands\nlike a drunk man rubbin' along a tavern bench. When we could see, the\nSpanisher was laid flat along in the breakers with the snows whitening\non his wet belly. He thought he could go where Frankie went.'\n\n'What happened to the crew?' said Una.\n\n'We didn't stop,' Simon answered. 'There was a very liddle new baby in\nour hold, and the mother, she wanted to get to some dry bed middlin'\nquick. We runned into Dover, and said nothing.'\n\n'Was Sir Francis Drake very much pleased?'\n\n'Heart alive, maid, he'd no head to his name in those days. He was just\na outrageous, valiant, crop-haired, tutt-mouthed boy roarin' up an' down\nthe narrer seas, with his beard not yet quilled out. He made a\nlaughing-stock of everything all day, and he'd hold our lives in the\nbight of his arm all the besom-black night among they Dutch sands; and\nwe'd ha' jumped overside to behove him any one time, all of us.'\n\n'Then why did you try to poison him?' Una asked wickedly, and Simon hung\nhis head like a shy child.\n\n'Oh, that was when he set me to make a pudden, for because our cook was\nhurted. _I_ done my uttermost, but she all fetched adrift like in the\nbag, an' the more I biled the bits of her, the less she favoured any\nfashion o' pudden. Moon he chawed and chammed his piece, and Frankie\nchawed and chammed his'n, and--no words to it--he took me by the ear an'\nwalked me out over the bow-end, an' him an' Moon hove the pudden at me\non the bowsprit gub by gub, something cruel hard!' Simon rubbed his\nhairy cheek.\n\n'\"Nex' time you bring me anything,\" says Frankie, \"you bring me\ncannon-shot an' I'll know what I'm getting.\" But as for poisoning----' He\nstopped, the children laughed so.\n\n'Of course you didn't,' said Una. 'Oh, Simon, we _do_ like you!'\n\n'I was always likeable with children.' His smile crinkled up through the\nhair round his eyes. 'Simple Simon they used to call me through our\nyard gates.'\n\n'Did Sir Francis mock you?' Dan asked.\n\n'Ah, no. He was gentle-born. Laugh he did--he was always laughing--but\nnot so as to hurt a feather. An' I loved 'en. I loved 'en before England\nknew 'en, or Queen Bess she broke his heart.'\n\n'But he hadn't really done anything when you knew him, had he?' Una\ninsisted. 'Armadas and those things, I mean.'\n\nSimon pointed to the scars and scrapes left by Cattiwow's great log.\n'You tell me that that good ship's timber never done nothing against\nwinds and weathers since her upspringing, and I'll confess ye that young\nFrankie never done nothing neither. Nothing? He adventured and suffered\nand made shift on they Dutch sands _as_ much in any one month as ever he\nhad occasion for to do in a half-year on the high seas afterwards. An'\nwhat was his tools? A coaster boat--a liddle box o' walty plankin' an'\nsome few fathom feeble rope held together an' made able by _him_ sole.\nHe drawed our spirits up in our bodies same as a chimney-towel draws a\nfire. 'Twas in him, and it comed out all times and shapes.'\n\n'I wonder did he ever 'magine what he was going to be? Tell himself\nstories about it?' said Dan with a flush.\n\n'I expect so. We mostly do--even when we're grown. But bein' Frankie, he\ntook good care to find out beforehand what his fortune might be. Had I\nrightly ought to tell 'em this piece?' Simon turned to Puck, who\nnodded.\n\n'My mother, she was just a fair woman, but my Aunt, her sister, she had\ngifts by inheritance laid up in her,' Simon began.\n\n'Oh, that'll never do,' cried Puck, for the children stared blankly. 'Do\nyou remember what Robin promised to the Widow Whitgift so long as her\nblood and get lasted?'[5]\n\n[5] See 'Dymchurch Flit' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'Yes. There was always to be one of them that could see farther through\na millstone than most,' Dan answered promptly.\n\n'Well, Simon's Aunt's mother,' said Puck slowly, 'married the Widow's\nblind son on the Marsh, and Simon's Aunt was the one chosen to see\nfarthest through millstones. Do you understand?'\n\n'That was what I was gettin' at,' said Simon, 'but you're so desperate\nquick. My Aunt she knew what was coming to people. My Uncle being a\nburgess of Rye, he counted all such things odious, and my Aunt she\ncouldn't be got to practise her gifts hardly at all, because it hurted\nher head for a week afterwards; but when Frankie heard she had 'em, he\nwas all for nothing till she foretold on him--till she looked in his\nhand to tell his fortune, d'ye see? One time we was at Rye she come\naboard with my other shirt and some apples, and he fair beazled the life\nout of her about it.\n\n'\"Oh, you'll be twice wed, and die childless,\" she says, and pushes his\nhand away.\n\n'\"That's the woman's part,\" he says. \"What'll come to me--to me?\" an' he\nthrusts it back under her nose.\n\n'\"Gold--gold, past belief or counting,\" she says. \"Let go 'o me, lad.\"\n\n'\"Sink the gold!\" he says. \"What'll I _do_, mother?\" He coaxed her like\nno woman could well withstand. I've seen him with 'em--even when they\nwere sea-sick.\n\n'\"If you _will_ have it,\" she says at last, \"you shall have it. You'll\ndo a many things, and eating and drinking with a dead man beyond the\nworld's end will be the least of them. For you'll open a road from the\nEast unto the West, and back again, and you'll bury your heart with your\nbest friend by that road-side, and the road you open none shall shut so\nlong as you're let lie quiet in your grave.\"[6]\n\n[6] The old lady's prophecy is in a fair way to come true, for when the\nPanama Canal is finished, one end of it will open into the very bay\nwhere Sir Francis Drake was buried. Then ships will be taken through the\nCanal, and the road round Cape Horn which Sir Francis opened will be\nabandoned.\n\n'\"And if I'm not?\" he says.\n\n'\"Why then,\" she says, \"Sim's iron ships will be sailing on dry land.\nNow ha' done with this foolishness. Where's Sim's shirt?\"\n\n'He couldn't fetch no more out of her, and when we come up from the\ncabin, he stood mazed like by the tiller, playing with a apple.\n\n'\"My Sorrow!\" says my Aunt; \"d'ye see that? The great world lying in his\nhand, liddle and round like a apple.\"\n\n'\"Why, 'tis one you gived him,\" I says.\n\n'\"To be sure,\" she says. \"'Tis just a apple,\" and she went ashore with\nher hand to her head. It always hurted her to show her gifts.\n\n[Illustration: 'You'll open a road from the East unto the West, and back\nagain.'--P. 292.]\n\n'Him and me puzzled over that talk plenty. It sticked in his mind\nquite extravagant. The very next time we slipped out for some fetchin'\ntrade, we met Mus' Stenning's boat over by Calais sands; and he warned\nus that the Spanishers had shut down all their Dutch ports against us\nEnglish, and their galliwopses was out picking up our boats like flies\noff hogs' backs. Mus' Stenning he runs for Shoreham, but Frankie held on\na piece, knowin' that Mus' Stenning was jealous of our good trade. Over\nby Dunkirk a great gor-bellied Spanisher, with the Cross on his sails,\ncame rampin' at us. We left him. We left him all they bare seas to\nconquest in.\n\n'\"Looks like this road was going to be shut pretty soon,\" says Frankie,\nhumouring her at the tiller. \"I'll have to open that other one your Aunt\nforetold of.\"\n\n'\"The Spanisher's crowdin' down on us middlin' quick,\" I says.\n\n'\"No odds,\" says Frankie, \"he'll have the inshore tide against him. Did\nyour Aunt say I was to lie quiet in my grave for ever?\"\n\n'\"Till my iron ships sailed dry land,\" I says.\n\n'\"That's foolishness,\" he says. \"Who cares where Frankie Drake makes a\nhole in the water now or twenty years from now?\"\n\n'The Spanisher kept muckin' on more and more canvas. I told him so.\n\n'\"He's feelin' the tide,\" was all he says. \"If he was among Tergoes\nSands with this wind, we'd be picking his bones proper. I'd give my\nheart to have all their tall ships there some night before a north gale,\nand me to windward. There'd be gold in my hands then. Did your Aunt say\nshe saw the world settin' in my hand, Sim?\"\n\n'\"Yes, but 'twas a apple,\" says I, and he laughed like he always did at\nme. \"Do you ever feel minded to jump overside and be done with\neverything?\" he asks after a while.\n\n'\"No. What water comes aboard is too wet as 'tis,\" I says. \"The\nSpanisher's going about.\"\n\n'\"I told you,\" says he, never looking back. \"He'll give us the Pope's\nBlessing as he swings. Come down off that rail. There's no knowin' where\nstray shots may hit.\" So I came down off the rail, and leaned against\nit, and the Spanisher he ruffled round in the wind, and his port-lids\nopened all red inside.\n\n'\"Now what'll happen to my road if they don't let me lie quiet in my\ngrave?\" he says. \"Does your Aunt mean there's two roads to be found and\nkept open--or what does she mean? I don't like that talk about t'other\nroad. D'you believe in your iron ships, Sim?\"\n\n'He knowed I did, so I only nodded, and he nodded back again.\n\n'\"Anybody but me 'ud call you a fool, Sim,\" he says. \"Lie down. Here\ncomes the Pope's Blessing!\"\n\n'The Spanisher gave us his broadside as he went about. They all fell\nshort except one that smack-smooth hit the rail behind my back, an' I\nfelt most won'erful cold.\n\n'\"Be you hit anywhere to signify?\" he says. \"Come over to me.\"\n\n'\"O Lord, Mus' Drake,\" I says, \"my legs won't move,\" and that was the\nlast I spoke for months.'\n\n'Why? What had happened?' cried Dan and Una together.\n\n'The rail had jarred me in here like.' Simon reached behind him\nclumsily. 'From my shoulders down I didn't act no shape. Frankie carried\nme piggy-back to my Aunt's house, and I lay bed-rid and tongue-tied\nwhile she rubbed me day and night, month in and month out. She had faith\nin rubbing with the hands. P'raps she put some of her gifts into it,\ntoo. Last of all, something loosed itself in my pore back, and lo! I was\nwhole restored again, but kitten-feeble.\n\n'\"Where's Frankie?\" I says, thinking I'd been a longish while abed.\n\n'\"Down-wind amongst the Dons--months ago,\" says my Aunt.\n\n'\"When can I go after 'en?\" I says.\n\n'\"Your duty's to your town and trade now,\" says she. \"Your Uncle he died\nlast Michaelmas and he've left you and me the yard. So no more iron\nships, mind ye.\"\n\n'\"What?\" I says. \"And you the only one that beleft in 'em!\"\n\n'\"Maybe I do still,\" she says, \"but I'm a woman before I'm a Whitgift,\nand wooden ships is what England needs us to build. I lay it on ye to do\nso.\"\n\n'That's why I've never teched iron since that day--not to build a toy\nship of. I've never even drawed a draft of one for my pleasure of\nevenings.' Simon smiled down on them all.\n\n'Whitgift blood is terrible resolute--on the she-side,' said Puck.\n\n'Didn't you ever see Sir Francis Drake again?' Dan asked.\n\n'With one thing and another, and my being made a burgess of Rye, I never\nclapped eyes on him for the next twenty years. Oh, I had the news of his\nmighty doings the world over. They was the very same bold, cunning\nshifts and passes he'd worked with beforetimes off they Dutch sands,\nbut, naturally, folk took more note of them. When Queen Bess made him\nknight, he sent my Aunt a dried orange stuffed with spiceries to smell\nto. She cried outrageous on it. She blamed herself for her foretellings,\nhaving set him on his won'erful road; but I reckon he'd ha' gone that\nway all withstanding. Curious how close she foretelled it! The world in\nhis hand like an apple, an' he burying his best friend, Mus'\nDoughty----'\n\n'Never mind for Mus' Doughty,' Puck interrupted. 'Tell us where you met\nSir Francis next.'\n\n'Oh, ha! That was the year I was made a burgess of Rye--the same year\nwhich King Philip sent his ships to take England without Frankie's\nleave.'\n\n'The Armada!' said Dan contentedly. 'I was hoping that would come.'\n\n'_I_ knowed Frankie would never let 'em smell London smoke, but plenty\ngood men in Rye was two-three minded about the upshot. 'Twas the noise\nof the gun-fire terrified us. The wind favoured it our way from off\nbehind the Isle of Wight. It made a mutter like, which growed and\ngrowed, and by the end of a week women was shruckin' in the streets.\nThen _they_ come sliddering past Fairlight in a great smoky pat\nvambrished with red gun-fire, and our ships flying forth and ducking in\nagain. The smoke-pat sliddered over to the French shore, so I knowed\nFrankie was edging the Spanishers toward they Dutch sands where he was\nmaster. I says to my Aunt, \"The smoke's thinning out. I lay Frankie's\njust about scrapin' his hold for a few last rounds shot. 'Tis time for\nme to go.\"\n\n'\"Never in them clothes,\" she says. \"Do on the doublet I bought you to\nbe made burgess in, and don't you shame this day.\"\n\n'So I mucked it on, and my chain, and my stiffed Dutch breeches and all.\n\n'\"I be comin', too,\" she says from her chamber, and forth she come\npavisanding like a peacock--stuff, ruff, stomacher and all. She was a\nnotable woman.'\n\n'But how did you go? You haven't told us,' said Una.\n\n'In my own ship--but half-share was my Aunt's. In the _Antony of Rye_ to\nbe sure; and not empty-handed. I'd been loadin' her for three days with\nthe pick of our yard. We was ballasted on cannon-shot of all three\nsizes; and iron rods and straps for his carpenters; and a nice passel of\nclean three-inch oak planking and hide breech-ropes for his cannon, and\ngubs of good oakum, and bolts o' canvas, and all the sound rope in the\nyard. What else could I ha' done? _I_ knowed what he'd need most after\na week's such work. I'm a shipbuilder, little maid.\n\n'We'd a fair slant o' wind off Dungeness, and we crept on till it fell\nlight airs and puffed out. The Spanishers was all in a huddle over by\nCalais, and our ships was strawed about mending 'emselves like dogs\nlickin' bites. Now and then a Spanisher would fire from a low port, and\nthe ball 'ud troll across the flat swells, but both sides was finished\nfightin' for that tide.\n\n'The first ship we foreslowed on, her breast-works was crushed in, an'\nmen was shorin' 'em up. She said nothing. The next was a black pinnace,\nhis pumps clackin' middling quick, and he said nothing. But the third,\nmending shot holes, he spoke out plenty. I asked him where Mus' Drake\nmight be, and a shiny-suited man on the poop looked down into us, and\nsaw what we carried.\n\n'\"Lay alongside, you!\" he says. \"We'll take that all.\"\n\n'\"'Tis for Mus' Drake,\" I says, keeping away lest his size should lee\nthe wind out of my sails.\n\n'\"Hi! Ho! Hither! We're Lord High Admiral of England! Come alongside, or\nwe'll hang ye,\" he says.\n\n''Twas none of my affairs who he was if he wasn't Frankie, and while he\ntalked so hot I slipped behind a green-painted ship with her top-sides\nsplintered. We was all in the middest of 'em then.\n\n'\"Hi! Hoi!\" the green ship says. \"Come alongside, honest man, and I'll\nbuy your load. I'm Fenner that fought the seven Portugals--clean out of\nshot or bullets. Frankie knows me.\"\n\n'\"Ay, but I don't,\" I says, and I slacked nothing.\n\n'He was a masterpiece. Seein' I was for goin' on, he hails a Bridport\nhoy beyond us and shouts, \"George! Oh, George! Wing that duck. He's\nfat!\" An' true as we're all here, that squatty Bridport boat rounds to\nacrost our bows, intending to stop us by means o' shooting.\n\n'My Aunt looks over our rail. \"George,\" she says, \"you finish with your\nenemies afore you begin on your friends.\"\n\n'Him that was laying the liddle swivel-gun at us sweeps off his hat an'\ncalls her Queen Bess, and asks if she was selling liquor to pore dry\nsailors. My Aunt answered him quite a piece. She was a notable woman.\n\n'Then _he_ come up--his long pennant trailing overside--his waistcloths\nand netting tore all to pieces where the Spanishers had grappled, and\nhis sides black-smeared with their gun-blasts like candle-smoke in a\nbottle. We hooked on to a lower port and hung.\n\n'\"Oh, Mus' Drake! Mus' Drake,\" I calls up.\n\n'He stood on the great anchor cathead, his shirt open to the middle, and\nhis face shining like the sun.\n\n'\"Why, Sim!\" he says. Just like that--after twenty year! \"Sim,\" he says,\n\"what brings you?\"\n\n'\"Pudden,\" I says, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. \"You told me to\nbring cannon-shot next time, an' I've brought 'em.\"\n\n'He saw we had. He ripped out a fathom and a half o' brimstone Spanish,\nand he swung down on our rail, and he kissed me before all his fine\nyoung captains. His men was swarming out of the lower ports ready to\nunload us. When he saw how I'd considered all his likely wants, he\nkissed me again.\n\n'\"Here's a friend that sticketh closer than a brother!\" he says.\n\"Mistress,\" he says to my Aunt, \"all you foretold on me was true. I've\nopened that road from the East to the West, and I've buried my heart\nbeside it.\"\n\n\"I know,\" she says. \"That's why I be come.\"\n\n'\"But ye never foretold this\"; he points to both they great fleets.\n\n'\"This don't seem to me to make much odds compared to what happens _to_\na man,\" she says. \"Do it?\"\n\n'\"Certain sure a man forgets to remember when he's proper mucked up with\nwork. Sim,\" he says to me, \"we must shift every living Spanisher round\nDunkirk corner on to our Dutch sands before morning. The wind'll come\nout of the North after this calm--same as it used--and then they're our\nmeat.\"\n\n'\"Amen,\" says I. \"I've brought you what I could scutchel up of odds and\nends. Be you hit anywhere to signify?\"\n\n'\"Oh, our folk'll attend to all that when we've time,\" he says. He turns\nto talk to my Aunt, while his men flew the stuff out of our hold. I\nthink I saw old Moon amongst 'em, but we was too busy to more than nod\nlike. Yet the Spanishers was going to prayers with their bells and\ncandles before we'd cleaned out the _Antony_. Twenty-two ton o' useful\nstuff I'd fetched him.\n\n'\"Now, Sim,\" says my Aunt, \"no more devouring of Mus' Drake's time. He's\nsending us home in the Bridport hoy. I want to speak to them young\nspringalds again.\"\n\n'\"But here's our ship all ready and swept,\" I says.\n\n'\"Swep' an' garnished,\" says Frankie. \"I'm going to fill her with devils\nin the likeness o' pitch and sulphur. We must shift the Dons round\nDunkirk corner, and if shot can't do it, we'll send down fireships.\"\n\n'\"I've given him my share of the _Antony_,\" says my Aunt. \"What do you\nreckon to do about yours?\"\n\n'\"She offered it,\" said Frankie, laughing.\n\n'\"She wouldn't have if I'd overheerd her,\" I says; \"because I'd have\noffered my share first.\" Then I told him how the _Antony's_ sails was\nbest trimmed to drive before the wind, and seeing he was full of\noccupations we went acrost to that Bridport hoy, and left him.\n\n'But Frankie was gentle-born, d'ye see, and that sort they never\noverlook any folks' dues.\n\n'When the hoy passed under his stern, he stood bare-headed on the poop\nsame as if my Aunt had been his Queen, and his musicianers played \"Mary\nAmbree\" on their silver trumpets quite a long while. Heart alive,\nlittle maid! I never meaned to make you look sorrowful----'\n\n * * * * *\n\nBunny Lewknor in his sackcloth petticoats burst through the birch scrub\nwiping his forehead.\n\n'We've got the stick to rights now! She've been a whole hatful o'\ntrouble. You come an' ride her home, Mus' Dan and Miss Una!'\n\nThey found the proud wood-gang at the foot of the slope, with the log\ndouble-chained on the tug.\n\n'Cattiwow, what are you going to do with it?' said Dan, as they\nstraddled the thin part.\n\n'She's going down to Rye to make a keel for a Lowestoft fishin' boat,\nI've heard. Hold tight!'\n\nCattiwow cracked his whip, and the great log dipped and tilted, and\nleaned and dipped again, exactly like a stately ship upon the high\nseas.\n\n\n\n\nFRANKIE'S TRADE\n\n\n Old Horn to All Atlantic said:\n (_A-hay O! To me O!_)\n 'Now where did Frankie learn his trade?\n For he ran me down with a three-reef mains'le.'\n (_All round the Horn!_)\n\n Atlantic answered:--'Not from me!\n You'd better ask the cold North Sea,\n For he ran me down under all plain canvas.'\n (_All round the Horn!_)\n\n The North Sea answered:--'He's my man,\n For he came to me when he began--\n Frankie Drake in an open coaster.'\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'I caught him young and I used him sore,\n So you never shall startle Frankie more,\n Without capsizing Earth and her waters.\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'I did not favour him at all,\n I made him pull and I made him haul--\n And stand his trick with the common sailors.\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'I froze him stiff and I fogged him blind,\n And kicked him home with his road to find\n By what he could see of a three-day snow-storm.\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'I learned him his trade o' winter nights,\n 'Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights\n On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing.\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'Before his beard began to shoot,\n I showed him the length of the Spaniard's foot--\n And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later.\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'If there's a risk which you can make\n That's worse than he was used to take\n Nigh every week in the way of his business;\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'If there's a trick that you can try\n Which he hasn't met in time gone by,\n Not once or twice, but ten times over;\n (_All round the Sands!_)\n\n 'If you can teach him aught that's new,\n (_A-hay O! To me O!_)\n I'll give you Bruges and Niewport too,\n And the ten tall churches that stand between 'em.'\n _Storm along my gallant Captains!_\n (_All round the Horn!_)\n\n\n\n\nThe Tree of Justice\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW\n\n\n About the time that taverns shut\n And men can buy no beer,\n Two lads went up by the keepers' hut\n To steal Lord Pelham's deer.\n\n Night and the liquor was in their heads--\n They laughed and talked no bounds,\n Till they waked the keepers on their beds,\n And the keepers loosed the hounds.\n\n They had killed a hart, they had killed a hind,\n Ready to carry away,\n When they heard a whimper down the wind\n And they heard a bloodhound bay.\n\n They took and ran across the fern,\n Their crossbows in their hand,\n Till they met a man with a green lantern\n That called and bade 'em stand.\n\n 'What are ye doing, O Flesh and Blood,\n And what's your foolish will,\n That you must break into Minepit Wood\n And wake the Folk of the Hill?'\n\n 'Oh, we've broke into Lord Pelham's park,\n And killed Lord Pelham's deer,\n And if ever you heard a little dog bark\n You'll know why we come here!\n\n 'We ask you let us go our way,\n As fast as we can flee,\n For if ever you heard a bloodhound bay,\n You'll know how pressed we be.'\n\n 'Oh, lay your crossbows on the bank\n And drop the knife from your hand,\n And though the hounds are at your flank\n I'll save you where you stand!'\n\n They laid their crossbows on the bank\n They threw their knives in the wood,\n And the ground before them opened and sank\n And saved 'em where they stood.\n\n 'Oh, what's the roaring in our ears\n That strikes us well-nigh dumb?'\n 'Oh, that is just how things appears\n According as they come.'\n\n 'What are the stars before our eyes\n That strike us well-nigh blind?'\n 'Oh, that is just how things arise\n According as you find.'\n\n 'And why's our bed so hard to the bones\n Excepting where it's cold?'\n 'Oh, that's because it is precious stones\n Excepting where 'tis gold.'\n\n 'Think it over as you stand,\n For I tell you without fail,\n If you haven't got into Fairyland\n You're not in Lewes Gaol.'\n\n All night long they thought of it,\n And, come the dawn, they saw\n They'd tumbled into a great old pit,\n At the bottom of Minepit Shaw.\n\n And the keepers' hound had followed 'em close\n And broke her neck in the fall;\n So they picked up their knives and their crossbows\n And buried the dog. That's all.\n\n But whether the man was a poacher too\n Or a Pharisee so bold--\n I reckon there's more things told than are true,\n And more things true than are told.\n\n\n\n\nThe Tree of Justice\n\n\nIt was a warm, dark winter day with the Sou'-West wind singing through\nDallington Forest, and the woods below the Beacon. The children set out\nafter dinner to find old Hobden, who had a three months' job in the\nRough at the back of Pound's Wood. He had promised to get them a\ndormouse in its nest. The bright leaf still clung to the beech coppice;\nthe long chestnut leaves lay orange on the ground, and the rides were\nspeckled with scarlet-lipped sprouting acorns. They worked their way by\ntheir own short cuts to the edge of Pound's Wood, and heard a horse's\nfeet just as they came to the beech where Ridley the keeper hangs up the\nvermin. The poor little fluffy bodies dangled from the branches--some\nperfectly good, but most of them dried to twisted strips.\n\n'Three more owls,' said Dan, counting. 'Two stoats, four jays, and a\nkestrel. That's ten since last week. Ridley's a beast.'\n\n'In my time this sort of tree bore heavier fruit.' Sir Richard\nDalyngridge[7] reined up his grey horse, Swallow, in the ride behind\nthem. 'What play do you make?' he asked.\n\n[7] This is the Norman knight they met the year before in _Puck of\nPook's Hill_. See 'Young Men at the Manor,' 'The Knights of the Joyous\nVenture,' and 'Old Men at Pevensey,' in that book.\n\n'Nothing, sir. We're looking for old Hobden,' Dan replied. 'He promised\nto get us a sleeper.'\n\n'Sleeper? A _dormeuse_ do you say?'\n\n'Yes, a dormouse, sir.'\n\n'I understand. I passed a woodman on the low grounds. Come!'\n\nHe wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through an opening to the\npatch of beech-stubs, chestnut, hazel, and birch that old Hobden would\nturn into firewood, hop-poles, pea-boughs, and house-faggots before\nspring. The old man was as busy as a beaver.\n\nSomething laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole out, his finger on his\nlip.\n\n'Look!' he whispered. 'Along between the spindle trees. Ridley has been\nthere this half-hour.'\n\nThe children followed his point, and saw Ridley the keeper in an old dry\nditch, watching Hobden as a cat watches a mouse.\n\n'Huhh!' cried Una. 'Hobden always 'tends to his wires before breakfast.\nHe puts his rabbits into the faggots he's allowed to take home. He'll\ntell us about 'em to-morrow.'\n\n'We had the same breed in my day,' Sir Richard replied, and moved off\nquietly, Puck at his bridle, the children on either side between the\nclose-trimmed beech stuff.\n\n'What did you do to them?' said Dan, as they repassed Ridley's terrible\ntree.\n\n'That!' Sir Richard jerked his head toward the dangling owls.\n\n'Not he,' said Puck. 'There was never enough brute Norman in you to hang\na man for taking a buck.'\n\n'I--I cannot abide to hear their widows screech. But why am I on\nhorseback while you are afoot?' He dismounted lightly, tapped Swallow on\nthe chest, so that the wise thing backed instead of turning in the\nnarrow ride, and put himself at the head of the little procession. He\nwalked as though all the woods belonged to him. 'I have often told my\nfriends,' he went on, 'that Red William the King was not the only Norman\nfound dead in a forest while he hunted.'\n\n'D'you mean William Rufus?' said Dan.\n\n'Yes,' said Puck, kicking a clump of red toadstools off a dead log.\n\n'For example, there was a knight new from Normandy,' Sir Richard went\non, 'to whom Henry our King granted a manor in Kent near by. He chose to\nhang his forester's son the day before a deer-hunt that he gave to\npleasure the King.'\n\n'Now when would that be?' said Puck, and scratched an ear thoughtfully.\n\n'The summer of the year King Henry broke his brother Robert of Normandy\nat Tenchebrai fight. Our ships were even then at Pevensey loading for\nthe war.'\n\n'What happened to the knight?' Dan asked.\n\n'They found him pinned to an ash, three arrows through his leather coat.\n_I_ should have worn mail that day.'\n\n'And did you see him all bloody?' Dan continued.\n\n'Nay, I was with De Aquila at Pevensey, counting horse-shoes, and arrow\nsheaves, and ale-barrels into the holds of the ships. The army only\nwaited for our King to lead them against Robert in Normandy, but he sent\nword to De Aquila that he would hunt with him here before he set out for\nFrance.'\n\n'Why did the King want to hunt so particularly?' Una demanded.\n\n'If he had gone straight to France after the Kentish knight was killed,\nmen would have said he feared being slain like the knight. It was his\nduty to show himself debonair to his English people as it was De\nAquila's duty to see that he took no harm while he did it. But it was a\ngreat burden! De Aquila, Hugh, and I ceased work on the ships, and\nscoured all the Honour of the Eagle--all De Aquila's lands--to make a\nfit, and, above all, a safe sport for our King. Look!'\n\nThe ride twisted, and came out on the top of Pound's Hill Wood. Sir\nRichard pointed to the swells of beautiful, dappled Dallington, that\nshowed like a woodcock's breast up the valley. 'Ye know the forest?'\nsaid he.\n\n'You ought to see the bluebells there in Spring!' said Una.\n\n'I have seen,' said Sir Richard, gazing, and stretched out his hand.\n'Hugh's work and mine was first to move the deer gently from all parts\ninto Dallington yonder, and there to hold them till the King came. Next,\nwe must choose some three hundred beaters to drive the deer to the\nstands within bowshot of the King. Here was our trouble! In the mellay\nof a deer-drive a Saxon peasant and a Norman King may come over close to\neach other. The conquered do not love their conquerors all at once. So\nwe needed sure men, for whom their village or kindred would answer in\nlife, cattle, and land if any harm come to the King. Ye see?'\n\n'If one of the beaters shot the King,' said Puck, 'Sir Richard wanted to\nbe able to punish that man's village. Then the village would take care\nto send a good man.'\n\n'So! So it was. But, lest our work should be too easy, the King had done\nsuch a dread justice over at Salehurst, for the killing of the Kentish\nknight (twenty-six men he hanged, as I heard), that our folk were\nhalf-mad with fear before we began. It is easier to dig out a badger\ngone to earth than a Saxon gone dumb-sullen. And atop of their misery\nthe old rumour waked that Harold the Saxon was alive and would bring\nthem deliverance from us Normans. This has happened every autumn since\nSenlac fight.'\n\n'But King Harold was killed at Hastings,' said Una.\n\n'So it was said, and so it was believed by us Normans, but our Saxons\nalways believed he would come again. _That_ rumour did not make our work\nany more easy.'\n\nSir Richard strode on down the far slope of the wood, where the trees\nthin out. It was fascinating to watch how he managed his long spurs\namong the lumps of blackened ling.\n\n'But we did it!' he said. 'After all, a woman is as good as a man to\nbeat the woods, and the mere word that deer are afoot makes cripples and\ncrones young again. De Aquila laughed when Hugh told him over the list\nof beaters. Half were women; and many of the rest were clerks--Saxon and\nNorman priests.\n\n'Hugh and I had not time to laugh for eight days, till De Aquila, as\nLord of Pevensey, met our King and led him to the first shooting\nstand--by the Mill on the edge of the forest. Hugh and I--it was no work\nfor hot heads or heavy hands--lay with our beaters on the skirts of\nDallington to watch both them and the deer. When De Aquila's great horn\nblew we went forward, a line half a league long. Oh, to see the fat\nclerks, their gowns tucked up, puffing and roaring, and the sober\nmillers dusting the undergrowth with their staves; and, like as not,\nbetween them a Saxon wench, hand in hand with her man, shrilling like a\nkite as she ran, and leaping high through the fern, all for joy of the\nsport.'\n\n'_Ah! How! Ah! How! How-ah! Sa-how-ah!_' Puck bellowed without warning,\nand Swallow bounded forward, ears cocked, and nostrils cracking.\n\n'_Hal-lal-lal-lal-la-hai-ie!_' Sir Richard answered in a high clear\nshout.\n\nThe two voices joined in swooping circles of sound, and a heron rose out\nof a red osier bed below them, circling as though he kept time to the\noutcry. Swallow quivered and swished his glorious tail. They stopped\ntogether on the same note.\n\nA hoarse shout answered them across the bare woods.\n\n'That's old Hobden,' said Una.\n\n'Small blame to him. It is in his blood,' said Puck. 'Did your beaters\ncry so, Sir Richard?'\n\n'My faith, they forgot all else. (Steady, Swallow, steady!) They forgot\nwhere the King and his people waited to shoot. They followed the deer to\nthe very edge of the open till the first flight of wild arrows from the\nstands flew fair over them.\n\n'I cried, \"'Ware shot! 'Ware shot!\" and a knot of young knights new from\nNormandy, that had strayed away from the Grand Stand, turned about, and\nin mere sport loosed off at our line shouting: \"'Ware Senlac arrows!\n'Ware Senlac arrows!\" A jest, I grant you, but too sharp. One of our\nbeaters answered in Saxon: \"'Ware New Forest arrows! 'Ware Red William's\narrow!\" so I judged it time to end the jests, and when the boys saw my\nold mail gown (for, to shoot with strangers _I_ count the same as war),\nthey ceased shooting. So _that_ was smoothed over, and we gave our\nbeaters ale to wash down their anger. They were excusable! We--they had\nsweated to show our guests good sport, and our reward was a flight of\nhunting-arrows which no man loves, and worse, a churl's jibe over\nhard-fought, fair-lost Hastings fight. So, before the next beat, Hugh\nand I assembled and called the beaters over by name, to steady them. The\ngreater part we knew, but among the Netherfield men I saw an old, old\nman, in the dress of a pilgrim.\n\n'The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by repute for twenty\nyears as a witless man that journeyed without rest to all the shrines of\nEngland. The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans\nrest our chin on our left palm.\n\n'\"Who answers for him?\" said I. \"If he fails in his duty, who will pay\nhis fine?\"\n\n'\"Who will pay my fine?\" the pilgrim said. \"I have asked that of all\nthe Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine\ndays! They have not answered!\" When he lifted his thin face I saw he was\none-eyed, and frail as a rushlight.\n\n'\"Nay but, Father,\" I said, \"to whom hast thou commended thyself?\" He\nshook his head, so I spoke in Saxon: \"Whose man art thou?\"\n\n'\"I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King's Jester,\" said he\nafter a while. \"I am, as I suppose, Rahere's man.\"\n\n'He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh coming up, read it.\n\n'It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere's man, and that Rahere was the\nKing's Jester. There was Latin writ at the back.\n\n'\"What a plague conjuration's here?\" said Hugh, turning it over.\n\"_Pum-quum-sum oc-occ._ Magic?\"\n\n'\"Black Magic,\" said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at\nBattle). \"They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a\nwizard than either. Here's Rahere's name writ, and there's Rahere's red\ncockscomb sign drawn below for such as cannot read.\" He looked slyly at\nme.\n\n'\"Then read it,\" said I, \"and show thy learning.\" He was a vain little\nman, and he gave it us after much mouthing.\n\n'\"The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the Sorcerer, says: 'When\nthou art once dead, and Minos (which is a heathen judge) has doomed\nthee, neither cunning, nor speechcraft, nor good works will restore\nthee!' A terrible thing! It denies any mercy to a man's soul!\"\n\n'\"Does it serve?\" said the pilgrim, plucking at Hugh's cloak. \"Oh, man\nof the King's blood, does it cover me?\"\n\n'Hugh was of Earl Godwin's blood, and all Sussex knew it, though no\nSaxon dared call him kingly in a Norman's hearing. There can be but one\nKing.\n\n'\"It serves,\" said Hugh. \"But the day will be long and hot. Better rest\nhere. We go forward now.\"\n\n'\"No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,\" he answered like a child. He\nwas indeed childish through great age.\n\n'The line had not moved a bowshot when De Aquila's great horn blew for a\nhalt, and soon young Fulke--our false Fulke's son--yes, the imp that lit\nthe straw in Pevensey Castle[8]--came thundering up a woodway.\n\n[8] See 'Old Men at Pevensey' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'\"Uncle,\" said he (though he was a man grown, he called me Uncle),\n\"those young Norman fools who shot at you this morn are saying that your\nbeaters cried treason against the King. It has come to Harry's long\nears, and he bids you give account of it. There are heavy fines in his\neye, but I am with you to the hilt, Uncle.\"\n\n'When the boy had fled back, Hugh said to me: \"It was Rahere's witless\nman cried, ''Ware Red William's arrow!' I heard him, and so did the\nClerk of Netherfield.\"\n\n'\"Then Rahere must answer to the King for his man,\" said I. \"Keep him by\nyou till I send,\" and I hastened down.\n\n'The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand above Welansford down in\nthe valley yonder. His Court--knights and dames--lay glittering on the\nedge of the glade. I made my homage, and Henry took it coldly.\n\n'\"How came your beaters to shout threats against me?\" said he.\n\n'\"The tale has grown,\" I answered. \"One old witless man cried out,\n''Ware Red William's arrow,' when the young knights shot at our line. We\nhad two beaters hit.\"\n\n'\"I will do justice on that man,\" he answered. \"Who is his master?\"\n\n'\"He is Rahere's man,\" said I.\n\n'\"Rahere's?\" said Henry. \"Has my fool a fool?\"\n\n'I heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, and a red leg waved\nover it, then a black one. So, very slowly, Rahere the King's Jester\nstraddled the edge of the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing his\nchin. Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad priest's face, under his\ncockscomb cap, that he could twist like a strip of wet leather. His eyes\nwere hollow-set.\n\n'\"Nay, nay, Brother,\" said he. \"If I suffer you to keep your fool, you\nmust e'en suffer me to keep mine.\"\n\n'This he delivered slowly into the King's angry face! My faith, a King's\nJester must be bolder than lions!\n\n'\"Now we will judge the matter,\" said Rahere. \"Let these two brave\nknights go hang my fool because he warned King Henry against running\nafter Saxon deer through woods full of Saxons. 'Faith, Brother, if _thy_\nBrother, Red William, now among the Saints as we hope, had been timely\nwarned against a certain arrow in New Forest, one fool of us four would\nnot be crowned fool of England this morning. Therefore, hang the fool's\nfool, knights!\"\n\n'Mark the fool's cunning! Rahere had himself given us order to hang the\nman. No king dare confirm a fool's command to such a great baron as De\nAquila; and the helpless King knew it.\n\n'\"What? No hanging?\" said Rahere, after a silence. \"A God's Gracious\nName, kill something, then! Go forward with the hunt!\"\n\n'He splits his face ear to ear in a yawn like a fish-pond. \"Henry,\" says\nhe, \"the next time I sleep, do not pester me with thy fooleries.\" Then\nhe throws himself out of sight behind the back of the stand.\n\n'I have seen courage with mirth in De Aquila and Hugh, but stark mad\ncourage of Rahere's sort I had never even guessed at.'\n\n'What did the King say?' cried Dan.\n\n'He had opened his mouth to speak, when young Fulke, who had come into\nthe stand with us, laughed, and, boy like, once begun, could not check\nhimself. He kneeled on the instant for pardon, but fell sideways,\ncrying: \"His legs! Oh, his long, waving red legs as he went backward!\"\n\n'Like a storm breaking, our grave King laughed,--stamped and reeled with\nlaughter till the stand shook. So, like a storm, this strange thing\npassed!\n\n'He wiped his eyes, and signed to De Aquila to let the drive come on.\n\n'When the deer broke, we were pleased that the King shot from the\nshelter of the stand, and did not ride out after the hurt beasts as Red\nWilliam would have done. Most vilely his knights and barons shot!\n\n'De Aquila kept me beside him, and I saw no more of Hugh till evening.\nWe two had a little hut of boughs by the camp, where I went to wash me\nbefore the great supper, and in the dusk I heard Hugh on the couch.\n\n'\"Wearied, Hugh?\" said I.\n\n'\"A little,\" he says. \"I have driven Saxon deer all day for a Norman\nKing, and there is enough of Earl Godwin's blood left in me to sicken at\nthe work. Wait awhile with the torch.\"\n\n'I waited then, and I thought I heard him sob.'\n\n'Poor Hugh! Was he so tired?' said Una. 'Hobden says beating is hard\nwork sometimes.'\n\n'I think this tale is getting like the woods,' said Dan, 'darker and\ntwistier every minute.'\n\nSir Richard had walked as he talked, and though the children thought\nthey knew the woods well enough, they felt a little lost.\n\n'A dark tale enough,' says Sir Richard, 'but the end was not all black.\nWhen we had washed, we went to wait on the King at meat in the great\npavilion. Just before the trumpets blew for the Entry--all the guests\nupstanding--long Rahere comes posturing up to Hugh, and strikes him with\nhis bauble-bladder.\n\n'\"Here's a heavy heart for a joyous meal!\" he says. \"But each man must\nhave his black hour or where would be the merit of laughing? Take a\nfool's advice, and sit it out with my man. I'll make a jest to excuse\nyou to the King if he remember to ask for you. That's more than I would\ndo for Archbishop Anselm.\"\n\n'Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. \"Rahere?\" said he. \"The King's Jester?\nOh, Saints, what punishment for my King!\" and smites his hands together.\n\n'\"Go--go fight it out in the dark,\" says Rahere, \"and thy Saxon Saints\nreward thee for thy pity to my fool.\" He pushed him from the pavilion,\nand Hugh lurched away like one drunk.'\n\n'But why?' said Una. 'I don't understand.'\n\n'Ah, why indeed? Live you long enough, maiden, and you shall know the\nmeaning of many whys.' Sir Richard smiled. 'I wondered too, but it was\nmy duty to wait on the King at the High Table in all that glitter and\nstir.\n\n'He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped show him, and he had\nlearned from De Aquila enough of my folk and my castle in Normandy to\ngraciously feign that he knew and had loved my brother there. (This,\nalso, is part of a king's work.) Many great men sat at the High\nTable--chosen by the King for their wits, not for their birth. I have\nforgotten their names, and their faces I only saw that one night.\nBut'--Sir Richard turned in his stride--'but Rahere, flaming in black\nand scarlet among our guests, the hollow of his dark cheek flushed with\nwine--long, laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face when\nhe was not twisting it about--Rahere I shall never forget.\n\n'At the King's outgoing De Aquila bade me follow him, with his great\nbishops and two great barons, to the little pavilion. We had devised\njugglers and dances for the Court's sport; but Henry loved to talk\ngravely with grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels to the\nworld's end. We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet as incense,--and the\ncurtains at the door being looped up, we could hear the music and see\nthe lights shining on mail and dresses.\n\n'Rahere lay behind the King's chair. The questions he darted forth at me\nwere as shrewd as the flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes,\nas ye called them, at the world's end.[9]\n\n[9] See 'The Knights of the Joyous Venture,' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.\n\n'\"But where is the Saxon knight that went with you?\" said Henry. \"He\nmust confirm these miracles.\"\n\n'\"He is busy,\" said Rahere, \"confirming a new miracle.\"\n\n'\"Enough miracles for to-day,\" said the King. \"Rahere, you have saved\nyour long neck. Fetch the Saxon knight.\"\n\n'\"Pest on it,\" said Rahere. \"Who would be a King's Jester? I'll bring\nhim, Brother, if you'll see that none of your home-brewed bishops taste\nmy wine while I am away.\" So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms at\nthe door.\n\n'Henry had made many bishops in England without the Pope's leave. I know\nnot the rights of the matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We\nwaited on the King's next word.\n\n'\"I think Rahere is jealous of you,\" said he, smiling, to Nigel of Ely.\nHe was one bishop; and William of Exeter, the other--Wel-Wast the Saxons\ncalled him--laughed long. \"Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I make him\na bishop, De Aquila?\" says the King.\n\n'\"There might be worse,\" said our Lord of Pevensey. \"Rahere would never\ndo what Anselm has done.\"\n\n'This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone off raging to the Pope\nat Rome, because Henry would make bishops without _his_ leave either. I\nknew not the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed.\n\n'\"Anselm means no harm. He should have been a monk, not a bishop,\" said\nthe King. \"I'll never quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel\nwith my England. If we can keep the King's peace till my son comes to\nrule, no man will lightly quarrel with our England.\"\n\n'\"Amen,\" said De Aquila. \"But the King's peace ends when the King dies.\"\n\n'That is true. The King's peace dies with the King. The custom then is\nthat all laws are outlaw, and men do what they will till the new king is\nchosen.\n\n'\"I will amend that,\" said the King hotly. \"I will have it so that\nthough King, son, and grandson were all slain in one day, _still_ the\nKing's peace should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere\ndeath must upheave a people? We must have the Law.\"\n\n'\"Truth,\" said William of Exeter; but that he would have said to any\nword of the King.\n\n'The two great barons behind said nothing. This teaching was clean\nagainst their stomachs, for when the King's peace ends, the great barons\ngo to war and increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere's\nvoice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against William of Exeter:\n\n \"Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune\n When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,\"\n\nand amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one\nround the old pilgrim of Netherfield.\n\n'\"Here is your knight, Brother,\" said he, \"and for the better disport of\nthe company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza\nare clean carried away!\"\n\n'Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man\nblinked upon the company.\n\n'We looked at the King, but he smiled.\n\n'\"Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his\nmorning's offence,\" said he to De Aquila. \"So this is thy man, Rahere?\"\n\n'\"Even so,\" said Rahere. \"My man he has been, and my protection he has\ntaken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge\ntelling the kites atop of it that he was--Harold of England!\"\n\n'There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid\nhis face on my shoulder, woman-fashion.\n\n'\"It is most cruel true,\" he whispered to me. \"The old man proved it to\nme at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is\nHarold, my King!\"\n\n'De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed.\n\n'\"Bones of the Saints!\" said he, staring.\n\n'\"Many a stray shot goes too well home,\" said Rahere.\n\n'The old man flinched as at an arrow. \"Why do you hurt me still?\" he\nsaid in Saxon. \"It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I\nwould give my England to the Great Duke.\" He turns on us all crying,\nshrilly: \"Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen--a lifetime ago. If I had\nnot promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I\nhave done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less.\nThere is no need to throw stones at me.\" He guarded his face with his\narms, and shivered.\n\n'\"Now his madness will strike him down,\" said Rahere. \"Cast out the evil\nspirit, one of you new bishops.\"\n\n'Said William of Exeter: \"Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the\nworld knows it.\"\n\n'\"I think this man must have forgotten,\" said Rahere. \"Be comforted,\nFather. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three\nmonths and nine days. Tell the King.\"\n\n'The man uncovered his face. \"I thought they would stone me,\" he said.\n\"I did not know I spoke before a King.\" He came to his full towering\nheight--no mean man, but frail beyond belief.\n\n'The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine.\nThe old man drank, and beckoned behind him, and, before all the Normans,\nmy Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon fashion, upon the knee.\n\n'\"It is Harold!\" said De Aquila. \"His own stiff-necked blood kneels to\nserve him.\"\n\n'\"Be it so,\" said Henry. \"Sit, then, thou that hast been Harold of\nEngland.\"\n\n'The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at him between half-shut\neyes. We others stared like oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere\nas I have seen him watch a far sail on the sea.\n\n'The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a dream. His white head\nbowed; his hands hung. His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was\nshut. When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like a\nslave's.\n\n'\"Ah, Rahere,\" cried Hugh, \"why hast thou shown him thus? Better have\nlet him die than shame him--and me!\"\n\n'\"Shame thee?\" said the King. \"Would any baron of mine kneel to me if I\nwere witless, discrowned, and alone, and Harold had my throne?\"\n\n'\"No,\" said Rahere. \"I am the sole fool that might do it, Brother,\nunless\"--he pointed at De Aquila, whom he had only met that day--\"yonder\ntough Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to\nshame him. He hath been somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault\nof his own.\"\n\n'\"Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,\" said the King, and the old\nman flinched in his sleep.\n\n'\"Maybe,\" said Rahere, \"but thy Brother Robert, whose throat we purpose\nsoon to slit with our own hands----\"\n\n'\"Hutt!\" said the King, laughing. \"I'll keep Robert at my table for a\nlife's guest when I catch him. Robert means no harm. It is all his\ncursed barons.\"\n\n'\"None the less,\" said Rahere, \"Robert may say that thou hast not always\nspoken the stark truth to him about England. I should not hang too many\nmen on _that_ bough, Brother.\"\n\n'\"And it is certain,\" said Hugh, \"that\"--he pointed to the old\nman--\"Harold was forced to make his promise to the Great Duke.\"\n\n'\"Very strongly forced,\" said De Aquila. He had never any pride in the\nDuke William's dealings with Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said,\none cannot build a house all of straight sticks.\n\n'\"No matter how he was forced,\" said Henry, \"England was promised to my\nFather William by Edward the Confessor. Is it not so?\" William of Exeter\nnodded. \"Harold confirmed that promise to my Father on the bones of the\nSaints. Afterwards he broke his oath and would have taken England by the\nstrong hand.\"\n\n'\"Oh! La! La!\" Rahere rolled up his eyes like a girl. \"That ever England\nshould be taken by the strong hand!\"\n\n'Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had each in just that\nfashion snatched England from Robert of Normandy, we others knew not\nwhere to look; but De Aquila saved us quickly.\n\n'\"Promise kept or promise broken,\" he said, \"Harold came near enough to\nbreaking us Normans at Senlac.\"\n\n'\"Was it so close a fight, then?\" said Henry.\n\n'\"A hair would have turned it either way,\" De Aquila answered. \"His\nhouse-carles stood like rocks against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, in\nit?\"\n\n'\"Among Godwin's folk beneath the Golden Dragon till your front gave\nback, and we broke our ranks to follow,\" said Hugh.\n\n'\"But I bade you stand! I bade you stand! I knew it was all a deceit!\"\nHarold had waked, and leaned forward as one crying from the grave.\n\n'\"Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was betrayed!\" said William of\nExeter, and looked for a smile from the King.\n\n'\"I made thee Bishop to preach at _my_ bidding,\" said Henry; and turning\nto Harold, \"Tell us here how thy people fought us?\" said he. \"Their sons\nserve me now against my Brother Robert!\"\n\n'The old man shook his head cunningly. \"Na--Na--Na,\" he cried. \"I know\nbetter. Every time I tell my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I will tell\nyou a greater thing. Listen!\" He told us how many paces it was from some\nSaxon Saint's shrine to another shrine, and how many more back to the\nAbbey of the Battle.\n\n'\"Ay,\" said he. \"I have trodden it too often to be out even ten paces. I\nmove very swiftly. Harold of Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my\nbrother. They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stamford Bridge\nto the Battle Abbey it is----\" he muttered over many numbers and forgot\nus.\n\n'\"Ay,\" said De Aquila, all in a muse. \"That man broke Harold of Norway\nat Stamford Bridge, and came near to breaking us at Santlache--all\nwithin one month.\"\n\n'\"But how did he come alive from Santlache fight?\" asked the King. \"Ask\nhim! Hast thou heard it, Rahere?\"\n\n'\"Never. He says he has been stoned too often for telling the tale. But\nhe can count you off Saxon and Norman shrines till daylight,\" said\nRahere, and the old man nodded proudly.\n\n'\"My faith,\" said Henry after a while, \"I think even my Father the Great\nDuke would pity if he could see him.\"\n\n\"How if he _does_ see?\" said Rahere.\n\n'Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. \"Ah, why hast thou shamed\nhim?\" he cried again to Rahere.\n\n'\"No--no,\" says the old man, reaching to pluck at Rahere's cape. \"I am\nRahere's man. None stone me now,\" and he played with the bells on the\nscollops of it.\n\n'\"How if he had been brought to me when you found him?\" said the King to\nRahere.\n\n'\"You would have held him prisoner again--as the Great Duke did,\" Rahere\nanswered.\n\n'\"True,\" said our King. \"He is nothing except his name. Yet that name\nmight have been used by stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must\nhave made him my life's guest--as I shall make Robert.\"\n\n'\"I knew it,\" said Rahere. \"But while this man wandered mad by the\nwayside, none cared what he called himself.\"\n\n'\"I learned to cease talking before the stones flew,\" says the old man,\nand Hugh groaned.\n\n'\"Ye have heard!\" said Rahere. \"Witless, landless, nameless, and, but\nfor my protection, masterless, he can still make shift to bide his doom\nunder the open sky.\"\n\n'\"Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a mock and a shame?\"\ncried Hugh, beside himself with woe.\n\n'\"A right mock and a just shame!\" said William of Exeter.\n\n'\"Not to me,\" said Nigel of Ely. \"I see and I tremble, but I neither\nmock nor judge.\"\n\n'\"Well spoken, Ely.\" Rahere falls into the pure fool again. \"I'll pray\nfor thee when I turn monk. Thou hast given thy blessing on a war between\ntwo most Christian brothers.\" He meant the war forward 'twixt Henry and\nRobert of Normandy. \"I charge you, Brother,\" he says, wheeling on the\nKing, \"dost thou mock my fool?\"\n\n'The King shook his head, and so then did smooth William of Exeter.\n\n'\"De Aquila, dost thou mock him?\" Rahere jingled from one to another,\nand the old man smiled.\n\n'\"By the Bones of the Saints, not I,\" said our Lord of Pevensey. \"I know\nhow dooms near he broke us at Santlache.\"\n\n'\"Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal,\nhonourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man's Justice in your own\nbounds, do _you_ mock my fool?\"\n\n'He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names I\nhave forgotten. \"Na--Na!\" they said, and waved him back foolishly\nenough.\n\n'He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind\nhis chair.\n\n'\"No man mocks thee. Who here judges this man? Henry of\nEngland--Nigel--De Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!\" he\ncried.\n\n'None answered. We were all--the King not least--overborne by that\nterrible scarlet and black wizard-jester.\n\n'\"Well for your souls,\" he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a\nwoman: \"Oh, come to me!\" and Hugh ran forward to hold Harold, that had\nslidden down in the chair.\n\n'\"Hearken,\" said Rahere, his arm round Harold's neck. \"The King--his\nbishops--the knights--all the world's crazy chessboard neither mock nor\njudge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!\"\n\n'Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled.\n\n'\"Good comfort,\" said Harold. \"Tell me again! I have been somewhat\npunished----\"\n\n'Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the head rolled. We heard\nhim sigh, and Nigel of Ely stood forth, praying aloud.\n\n'\"Out! I will have no Norman!\" Harold said as clearly as I speak now,\nand he refuged himself on Hugh's sound shoulder, and stretched out, and\nlay all still.'\n\n'Dead?' said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk.\n\n'That was his good fortune. To die in the King's presence, and on the\nbreast of the most gentlest, truest knight of his own house. Some of us\nenvied him,' said Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow's bridle.\n\n'Turn left here,' Puck called ahead of them from under an oak. They\nducked down a narrow path through close ash plantation.\n\nThe children hurried forward, but cutting a corner charged full breast\ninto the thorn-faggot that old Hobden was carrying home on his back.\n\n'My! My!' said he. 'Have you scratted your face, Miss Una?'\n\n'Sorry! It's all right,' said Una, rubbing her nose. 'How many rabbits\ndid you get to-day?'\n\n'That's tellin's,' the old man grinned as he re-hoisted his faggot. 'I\nreckon Mus' Ridley he've got rheumatism along o' lyin' in the dik to see\nI didn't snap up any. Think o' that now!'\n\nThey laughed a good deal while he told them the tale.\n\n'An' just as he crawled away I heard some one hollerin' to the hounds in\nour woods,' said he. 'Didn't you hear? You must ha' been asleep\nsure-ly.'\n\n'Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show us?' Dan cried.\n\n''Ere he be--house an' all!' Hobden dived into the prickly heart of the\nfaggot and took out a dormouse's wonderfully woven nest of grass and\nleaves. His blunt fingers parted it as if it had been precious lace, and\ntilting it toward the last of the light he showed the little, red, furry\nchap curled up inside, his tail between his eyes that were shut for\ntheir winter sleep.\n\n'Let's take him home. Don't breathe on him,' said Una. 'It'll make him\nwarm and he'll wake up and die straight off. Won't he, Hobby?'\n\n'That's a heap better by my reckonin' than wakin' up and findin' himself\nin a cage for life. No! We'll lay him into the bottom o' this hedge.\nDat's jus' right! No more trouble for him till come Spring. An' now\nwe'll go home.'\n\n\n\n\n_A CAROL_\n\n\n _Our Lord Who did the Ox command\n To kneel to Judah's King,\n He binds His frost upon the land\n To ripen it for Spring--\n To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,\n According to His word;\n Which well must be as ye can see--\n And who shall judge the Lord?_\n\n _When we poor fenmen skate the ice\n Or shiver on the wold,\n We hear the cry of a single tree\n That breaks her heart in the cold--\n That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,\n And rendeth by the board;\n Which well must be as ye can see--\n And who shall judge the Lord?_\n\n _Her wood is crazed and little worth\n Excepting as to burn,\n That we may warm and make our mirth\n Until the Spring return--\n Until the Spring return, good sirs,\n When people walk abroad;\n Which well must be as ye can see--\n And who shall judge the Lord?_\n\n _God bless the master of this house,\n And all that sleep therein!\n And guard the fens from pirate folk,\n And keep us all from sin,\n To walk in honesty, good sirs,\n Of thought and deed and word!\n Which shall befriend our latter end--\n And who shall judge the Lord?_\n\n\nTHE END\n\n_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _EDINBURGH_.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\n Some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed or closed with the\n wrong mark. Possible printer's errors and omissions have been silently\n corrected, while those requiring interpretation have been left open.\n Spelling is preserved except as noted below.\n\n The page numbers referred to here are in the original printed edition.\n\n \"Winters bee-thronged ivy-bloom\" was changed to \"Winter's\n bee-thronged ivy-bloom\". (page x)\n\n A missing period was added to the final word. (page xiii)\n\n (good teacher she had too!)\" changed\n to \"(good teacher he had too!)\" (page 18)\n\n A missing period was added after \"she laughed\". (page 45)\n\n \"King Philip's fleet!\" was changed to \"King Philip's fleet?\" (page 49)\n\n A missing period was added after \"called gratitude\". (page 210)\n\n \"soeclum\" was changed to \"saeclum\". (page 241)\n\n A missing comma was added to \"That's tellin's,'\" (page 335)\n\n The [oe] ligature is represented here as \"oe\".","title":"Rewards and Fairies","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":73097}