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Title: Coldknuckles Author: Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson (1878-1962) Date of first publication: 1947 Edition used as base for this ebook: London: Frederick Muller, 1947 [first edition] Date first posted: 3 February 2013 Date last updated: 3 February 2013 Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1040 This ebook was produced by Al Haines [Illustration: Cover] COLDKNUCKLES by WILFRID GIBSON LONDON FREDERICK MULLER LTD 29 GREAT JAMES STREET W.C.1 FIRST PUBLISHED BY FREDERICK MULLER LTD. IN 1947 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE CAMELOT PRESS LTD. LONDON AND SOUTHAMPTON by Wilfrid Gibson _Collected Poems, 1905-1925 The Golden Room Hazards Islands Fuel Coming and Going The Alert Challenge The Searchlights The Outpost Solway Ford and Other Poems: A Selection The Island Stag_ Coldknuckles ONE I For mooning at his task, kept in, Before young Isaac Bell could win To the bleak ridge above the town, The dank November night closed down: And, when he'd passed the last street-lamp, He'd still got three mirk miles to tramp Across the mizzle-hidden moor, Till he'd draw nigh Coldknuckles' door-- Three miles, ere he might reach again The two-roomed cottage, but and ben, Where, with his mother, Ellen Bell, He dwelt, perched high on Caller Fell. Though sturdily the youngster strode Along the solitary road, And brave and sharp his heelplates rang On the hard metal, while he sang In little jerks beneath his breath The ballad of Cockrobin's death, Yet, pit-a-pat the lad's heart went, In dread of the skirlnaked bent Stretching betwixt him and his seat In the snug ingle by the peat. How clearly he could see it there In the red glow--the battered chair, Awaiting him, with broken back And slippery seat of shiny black, Where he would crouch with nodding head, Till, slithering to the floor, to bed His mother'd pack him off! But, he Was hungry now: and there'd be tea-- His cracked blue mug and scrap-heaped plate-- And mother, vexed that he was late! Ay, she'd the nippy tongue to sting A lad's wit for woolgathering, A hettle tongue and skelping hand... At times, he scarce could understand What came to her at all, that she Should glare at him so huffily And mutter to herself, as if His face had given her a gliff. What was there in his looks at all To take a scunner at? What call Had his own mother ... Why, at school, Though, odd whiles, teacher'd dub him "fool," His classmates liked him well enough: They kenned Coldknuckles was no guff At games, or, fighting... But, her tongue, He'd not mind that now, though it stung As bees when you stirred up their bike. 'Twas this long road he didn't like-- This lonesome road he couldn't stand, With not a house on either hand To show a lad a friendly light And keep his heart up this thick night, No glisk nor glimmer all the way. And he'd to go by Dead Man's Brae, Where underneath a ragged wood A dour forbidding church had stood; And to its soggy burial ground Had gathered from the country round Forgotten generations in; While men of God and men of sin Had mouldered in its shadow dank, And raised a crop of nettles rank, Nurturing with rain-rotted bones The weeds that swarmed the cracked headstones, As though they strove with all their might To screen those kinless names from sight-- Forgotten by the countryside That once was all their love and pride-- Till nettle, darnel, dock and rush, Thistle and sprawling bramble bush, Flourishing fat on that sour sod, Had buried the grim house of God, Whose half-sunk weather-perished stones Crumbled above man's crumbling bones. Yet, the first nippy night would show Those tombstones, naked, row on row, Above the nettles stricken black. Cold prickles crawled up Isaac's back, Bristling his scalp, till, cluttering, He would have given anything If only he might make a round And dodge that spooky burial ground: But in such fog he feared to quit The road, lest he should stray, and It, Through sluthery moss and clungy sump, Should track him until the Last Trump-- The nameless shapeless Dread, that now Dogged close at heel; though when, or, how The Thing had fallen in behind, He could not tell; and, fleyed to find His own fetch following, and learn His doom of death, he dared not turn His eyes to meet that grisly grin Which sent cold shivers under his skin, As, mimicking the way he walked, Stealthily his own spectre stalked, Fumbling chill fingers through his hair.... Then, all at once, the foggy air Was ripped with ellerish yells and wails; And boggles out of old wives' tales-- Brag, homey, hobthrush, wirrikow-- Were flaffering all about him now. Skirl after skirl sang through the night, Till he was bivvering with fright; When, in his lug, more shrill than skreel Of pencil on slate, or, piercing squeal Of griding drag-locked wagon-wheel, Shivered a last nerve-riving shriek. He felt a soft wing brush his cheek; And knew those eldritch hoots and howls Were only cries of hungry owls, Chilling his very blood to ice, As, quartering the bent for mice, They hunted, baffled by blind mist. So, now unclasping one clenched fist, Whose fingernails had bitten deep Into his aching palm to keep His courage from quite oozing out, He gave a hearty hoyting shout; Then, fingers thrust between his teeth. After the owls, across the heath He sent a mocking whistle shrill, Whose echo, tossed from hill to hill, Seemed to reply from every art; And warmed the cockles of his heart; And kept his pecker up a while.... Yet, when he'd trudged another mile And neared the fog-filled burial ground, And now could only catch the sound Of his own heelplates, as he trod The endless turnpike, iron-shod, Clat-clat, clat-clatter, heel and toe, As if for ever he must go Through that unearthly hush, aghast, Getting no further, till at last He'd drop, deadbeat, he longed to hear The hoolets shrieking, shrill and clear: Because, far worse than any yell, He feared that fogbound eerie fell Silence, wherein the Unseen Thing, Bristling, with sinews taut to spring, If he should stumble in the least, Slunk round him like a sleiching beast. It seemed he must let out a scream To break the spell: when, as in dream, Far off and faint, he caught the ring Of hoofs and heard the lumbering Of wheels; and hope was in his heart It might be some belated cart Rumbling towards him through the night. If only he could see a light, Might only change a word or two, In passing with some chap he knew-- "What fettle, Isaac?"--"What cheer, Dick?"-- He'd scuttle by the graves so slick, Before the spryest ghost.... His heart Stopt dead. He stood stockstill. No cart-- No earthly cart could make the row Of hoofs and wheels that he heard now-- The pattering and clattering, The rumbling and the lumbering, The hubblyshew and hullabaloo Racketing through the night, that drew, Slowly and surely nigh and nigher.... His blood congealed to ice, that fire Melted to water in a trice, Then in his veins to prickling ice Crystalled again in agony. That coming Thing could only be The Death Coach; and his eye must see The headless driver lashing on His headless steeds.... Now redly shone Through thinning mist a wavering light: And, rooted to the road with fright, He heard a hackle-raising yowl, And knew it for the Barguest's howl-- The hound with eyes of glowing coal That hunts the godforsaken soul.... When, slouching through the drizzle stole Two wambling shambling shapes, that strode With feet splayed wide across the road, Swaying their lean heads, evil-eyed, On squirmy necks from side to side.... Now two huge monsters blocked the way, Dark as tarpaulined loads of hay, With tails before and tails behind.... Then, jittering, he seemed struck blind By a bright flash; and heard a yell-- "Say--are we making straight for hell?" II It seemed a wild wanchancy night, Hag-ridden, held him, till the light No longer dazzled his scared eyes; And now he saw with glad surprise Something familiar in the ray A lantern shot across the way-- Ay, horses!--and as brave a pair Of greys as ever drew a share Up Barebones Ridge; and they stood now With steaming flanks, as though the plough Had sweltered them, drooked tails and manes Dripping in puddles: then the reins, Red leather, starred with studs of brass, Pranked with half-moons of looking-glass Jarbled with raindrops, and headstalls And girths, above which gilded balls, As big as oranges, floated high, Like four suns dangled from the sky, Their long black slender stems, unseen, Astonished him.... Along the sheen Of the wet reins his glance slid back To the brown hands that held them slack And up the bare arms, round which squirmed Tattooed blue scaly snakes that wormed Under uprolled shirt-sleeves of red, To shoot out, each, a flame-tongued head, Defiant, on the bare brown chest. Then Isaac's dazed eyes came to rest, As suddenly he saw a man Against a scarlet caravan, Picked out with chamfers, newly-gilt, Slouched on the limmers, cap, a-tilt, And watching him with grinning stare-- A tall man, sinewy and spare, With cold unblinking eyes, the blue Of tempered steel, that ran him through, Searching his vitals. "So," he said "Your wits are homing, gonnerhead? Likely, I staggered you a bit." Then, pursing up his lips to spit Over the off-wheel, he revealed The scar of an old gash, long-healed, From scalp to jowl, a livid streak, As though a knife had slit his cheek, Or, some wild beast had chanced to draw Through the hale flesh a cruel claw. "On such a night, it's hard to tell Whether you're heading slap for hell-- Or, Hexham, son." "You're ganning right For Hexham"--flurried still with fright Stammered the boy. With keener stare The man's eyes scanned him, with the flare Of yellow light full on his face, As though his memory sought to trace Something familiar in the lean Clearcut young features and the clean Blue winkers: then his own hard eyes Twinkled, as, with amused surprise, He drawled "I called you 'son'--by gad! What is the name you go by, lad?" "Isaac they call me, though I get Coldknuckles, oftener," dozzened yet By such queer chancings, chirped the boy. "Isaac Coldknuckles? What a ploy! Whatever made her ... But, your dad Was likely called Coldknuckles, lad?" "My dad? Nay, it's the house where we, I and my mother bide." "I see," The stranger said. "And what may be Your mammy's name, son?" "Ellen Bell." "Of all the queer starts! Ay, it's hell! Only in hell a man may meet Himself, a lad again, and greet His own past stottering on two feet, The half-forgotten sin he spawned Grown to his living spit!" He yawned; Then laughed "'Twould serve God-fearing John As a grand text for spouting on." Now, over his, a woman's head, A tousled mop of frowsy red, Was thrust across the van's half-door. "Say, Abe, what are you stopping for?" She asked, "and who's the poor lost lamb?" "Isaac, the son of Abraham." "Ay, ay, I heard you call him 'son': But, we can't pull up for each one Of your mishaps we chance upon; Or, we'll not reach Tyne Green to-night." "Forgimity! Redpoll, you're right!" "Drive on, drive on! The lads behind Are getting riled." "I've half a mind To take the young limb with us." "Nay! Drive on. You're blocking up the way." Then back she ducked into the van To soothe her squalling bairn. Her man Grinned, as though Isaac shared his joke; And, gathering up the traces, spoke "Redpoll, or, black-poll, it's all one: She's jealous for your brother, son. Well, every she-wolf for her whelp; Each mammy, her own brat to skelp!" Then, winking one blue eye, he said "Coldknuckles, you nip home to bed; And, when you've lisped your prayers to-night, Before your mam has dowsed the light, Give her an extra kiss--from dad." He grinned: and now the gaping lad Caught from the shadows in the rear Hoarse bawlings and shrill whistles clear-- "Has Jumbo fallen in a fit?" "Why can't you put a jerk in it?" "What's up with Cold Steel?" "Abraham, Get a move on with that red pram!" "Is't doomsday that you're waiting for?" Then the hair-raising muffled roar Of unknown beasts iced Isaac's blood, As on the van lurched; and he stood Back in the ditch; and watched amazed, Still in the clutch of nightmare dazed, While caravan on caravan, Green, yellow, purple, blue and tan, Each with a white black-spotted dog Trotting beneath, loomed through the fog; And horses, such as made him stare With wide delighted eyes--each pair A perfect match--cream, chestnut, bay, Roan, piebald, skewbald, sorrel, grey, Snow-white and jet-black--on they drew Through lamplit mist. And now, anew, The long fantastical parade Was for another moment stayed, As, lank and lantern-jawed, a man Dropt from a black funereal van, Drawn by black horses, like a hearse; And, crouching down, with pious curse, Lifted a hirpling hoof and scooped A lodged stone out: while, as he stooped, Over the half-door grinned a face At Isaac with a sly grimace: And jetty eyes and curly hair Bobbed up; and Isaac saw the bare Plump arms and girlish breasts, as white As twin moons in enchanted night, While over the black half-door hung A little lass with out-thrust tongue; Till the man lifted up his head, And sent her scuttling, as he said "To bed, you whore of Babylon!" When, in a twinkling, she was gone. "What's up? What's up, God-fearing John? And who's the lady-friend, to-night, Has charmed your sour mug so polite?" Wheezed a fat voice from the next van. But, muttering to himself, the man Leapt to the limmers: and again The caravan in misty rain Was lost to sight: and, following then Came yellow closed vans, each the den Of some wild prisoned beast that snored Uneasily, or, wakeful, roared Half-scared defiance in the hell Of jolting night that in its spell Had wampished him and held him fast. And now a bunch of ponies passed, With startled eyes and nostrils wide, Jostling and joggling side by side, By those dread yowlings driven half-wild: And then a string of wagons, piled, Each with its huge tarpaulined load, Rumbled and swayed along the road, Like mist-clad mountains moving by, Toppling beneath the weight of sky. Yet, when at length it seemed the last Of all those marvels had rolled past-- The garish dream-procession gone, Though, dwindling, one red star still shone From the last tailboard, by its light He caught a glimpse of something white, Shambling alone; and heard the patter Of little hoofs, as, clatter-clatter, Came a white donkey. On its back A ghoulish figure, gaunt and black, Muttering and mumbling, sat astride With long legs dangling either side-- A gaunt black guy without a face, Only a grinning fierce grimace Of teeth and whites of rolling eyes. While Isaac shied in stark surprise, The negro groaned as though in pain "The goddam rain--the goddam rain!" And then again and yet again "O Jesus Christ, the goddam rain!" III As though made fey by the refrain, He stood, bewattled, while the insane Lamplighted hurly-burly sped, Glooming and glancing, through his head; And a loud darkness shot with flame And laced with scarlet life became-- No longer the chill cheerless grey That was his world of everyday: For everyday had died to-night, Blindfolded by a beam of light And raked and riddled through and through By two cold eyes of steely blue. As home he turned with kindled mind The frightened bairn was left behind; And now a fearless callant strode With manly stride the ringing road, Spellbound, through an enchanted night; His quickened heart and brain alight With hazardous imaginings Of flighty queer outlandish things That, flashing, each, an unsheathed knife Out of the darkness, through his life Jabbed riving wildfires. In the strife Of dreams that like remembrance seemed And memories like something dreamed Flaunting barbaric visions flared Before his eyes; and, now unscared By blaring beasts whose yowls had searched His midriff, as dark vans had lurched And lumbered by him, his roused blood, No longer curdled, in a flood, A rampant burning torrent, flowed Through his young limbs that pulsed and glowed With nigh unbearable delight. He scarcely noticed that the night Had twitched its muffling mist aside And now looked down on him clear-eyed; Or, how about him far and wide Again owls hooted--only owls, No horneys now with shrieks and howls! And even Dead Man's Brae was passed Without a quaver; and at last, As in a trice, he'd reached the turn Where the road bridged the Caller Burn; And he must strike across the moor The beast-track to Coldknuckles' door. Beneath the signpost's arm of wood, No longer swithering, Isaac stood Haze-gazing into the clear sky Whose constellations spinning by In burning fury, seemed to be An icy-cold tranquillity To his unrealising sight, Mazed yet by smoky lantern light. After the flaring rattling rout Of gaudy van and raucous shout That made his senses reel and swim, Consoling quiet stole through him And cooled the fevers of his heart. Somewhere a stoat yelped. With a start He leapt the broken drystone-dyke And took the track up Callersyke, Where over boulders through brown fern Tumbled the singing Caller Burn, Whose tinkling treble, cool and clear, Had sounded in his baby-ear The first notes of awaking life; So soon to mingle with harsh strife Of raspy words that bit and stung From his resentful mother's tongue, That wreaked on him the rankling blame Because his birth had brought her shame-- Words, even waters brawling down In winter spate could barely drown. Onward he plunged through crackling heath Until at last he stood beneath The hanging eaves of heather-thatch; And paused, half-scared to lift the latch, And face his mother's wrath, so late. He well knew, she'd be in a state, A fine fantigue! He'd have to pay For all had fashed her through the day; Or, happen, she'd just sit and glower At him till bedtime, dern and dour, Without a word. You never knew How she'd take on; but, see it through, He'd got to. And he had to-night Some news to tell her--ay, it might Divert her spleen from him, to hear All he'd been seeing. So, his fear, By hunger overcome, at last He raised the clicking sneck and passed Stealthily in: and then once more With wilting courage by the door He daffled, seeing his mother there Bolt-upright in her straight-backed chair, Staring into the fire's dull red. She didn't speak, or, turn her head-- Never let on she knew he'd come; But still sat glowering, grim and glum, Into the sultry flameless peat. Then as he stole with grating feet Across the sanded flags, amazed, With sinking heart again, half-dazed He faltered now, for he could see On the bare board no sign of tea. When, without turning, Ellen said, Tetchily "Why aren't you in bed? It's long past bedtime." Desperately He blurted out "I want my tea." "Your tea?" she sneered, "'twas cleared away Three hours ago. My working-day, Ten hours on end of picking stones Till I'm a rackle of aching bones, Is all too long. I'll not set to, This time of night, to wait on you-- You needn't think it, my braw lad! If you can't come in time, by gad! You've got to go without, and learn, Till you've the guts to do your turn, To mend your mooning feckless ways; Not keep me drudging all my days To pamper you in idleness. So, just look slippy and undress And into bed with you." He stood A second, scowling, as his blood, Prickling with anger, flushed his cheek: But, choking when he strove to speak, Bitterness galled his heart; and he, Turning to go ben, sullenly, Had set his hand upon the latch, When, spirting like a kindling match, A thought flared in his reckless head; And, spluttering spitefully, he said "What wild beast gave dad such a claw, To scar his face from brow to jaw?" His mother started from her chair And flounced round with a flustered stare And eager questions: but, he said No more; and made to go to bed; Slipped off his togs, and tumbled in, And drew the patched quilt to his chin; And lay there, mum, with eyes shut tight; Though at the bedfoot half the night, A thrawn wild randy, in the dim And shadowy room, she heckled him, Threatening, or, coaxing, all in vain. Something was frozen in his brain; And, though he kind of pitied her, He couldn't get his tongue to stir: So, nattering curses at his head, At length she crept away to bed. IV The raw wind at the windowpane Wept, blurring it with blobs of rain, As, in the dismal and forlorn Dank dusk of the November morn Arousing, for a spell he lay Half-dreading a new humdrum day. Then his dull blinkers suddenly Sparkled alive with fiery glee, Reviewing with intense delight The queer clamjamfry that last night Had burst into his life to change The world for him, with those chance strange Words that had struck his startled ear. He heard again the chuckling jeer That told him all the truth, unguessed, His mother in her bitter breast Had kept from him--that he had, too, Like every other bairn he knew A father, still alive. No lad, Not one of all his schoolmates had A dad the like of thon!--with eyes Blue as the steel of frosty skies-- Steel eyes that seemed to pierce you through And slice your very heart in two And drain it of its blood; and then, Twinkling, brought it to life again And, with a flutter of delight, Set it once more with all its might Beating within your breast, until It seemed about to burst and spill Your life in laughter. Little he, In days that had dragged drearily, Since he could mind, had ever known Of laughter, dwelling here alone With his sour mother, harsh and stern As stony fields she picked to earn Their livelihood; till, older, he Could lend a hand and work, maybe, At Farmer Black's and help to keep Things going, herding stupid sheep. Not, if he knew it! Sheep--when all His heart since he could first recall Hankered to live with horses! Nay: Now he could see another way, And meant to take it! Then again Passed a procession through his brain; But, this time, only cantering Horses with manes and tails aswing And spanking hoofs--cream chestnut, grey, Roan, piebald, skewbald, sorrel, bay, Snow-white, jet-black.... Now, as the pang Of hunger rived his reins, he sprang Eagerly out of bed and dressed, Quickly and quietly; his breast, A hubbub of excitement: then Into the but stole from the ben; And saw his mother in the grey Cold light of the late laggard day Still huddled on her tumbled bed; Now sleeping, with uneasy head Tossing its tangled tousled hair Over the grubby pillow, where No respite had come to her, till Her wrath had smouldered to a chill Ashy indifference. With a look, Half-bold, half-fearful, now he took Out of the cupboard a stale crust And chunk of cheese and slyly thrust Them in his pocket. Gingerly He tiptoed to the door; then he Lifted the latch; and presently Stood safe outside; and nimbly dropt Down the steep brae, as the rain stopt, And daylight kindled the raw air, And flushed the wet fells to a fair Welcoming world of glistening green. Dazzled by the quicksilver sheen, And hearkening to the Caller Burn That rushed rain-swollen through dank fern, He tarried, blithely drinking deep The snell fresh breeze; until a sheep Suddenly baa-ed at him; when he, Rounding on it, yelped tauntingly "Sheep!"--and set off upon his way Into the promise of the day; Now breaking blue, with billowy white Clouds swinging through a lift of light; Munching his breakfast, as he went Across the shadow-dappled bent. The solitude, that overnight Had flushed his harried heart with fright, No haunt of owls, or, ghouls, now seemed, As in the morning light it gleamed Like a new world to which his eyes Were just awaking in surprise-- A world, alive with the delights Of fresh and spirit-kindling sights-- A weasel sleeking through the green Tussocks of wet ling in its clean Spruce chestnut-coloured coat; a slick Grass-snake that at a lightning lick Whisked underneath a sheltering stone; Seemed curious creatures, newly-known; And the light-heeled careering hare, A beast fantastical and rare; A kestrel hovering overhead With tawny quivering wings outspread; A blackcock, with his queer curled tail, Perched, clucking, on a wet fence-rail; A hoodie, honking from a pike, That set sheep scurrying up the syke; And grouse that swerved on whirring wings; Seemed freakish unfamiliar things; While in his ear the Caller Burn Sang a fresh tune at every turn; And even the ruined graveyard stones, Mounded above the mouldering bones, Flourished their nettles in the light, Glistered with raindrops, wonder-bright; As now again he gaily strode With cheerful clatter the highroad, Where he had watched in mist and rain The passing of the circus-train Out of the night into the night; And, drawn on by the blue steel-bright Strong magnet of his father's eyes, Hiked up the slithery rain-wet rise With hope-hot heart and racing blood, Trailing the wheel tracks through the mud Towards Hexham Town, six miles away; Where on Tyne Green, beyond the grey Towers of the Abbey and Moot Hall, He reckoned, surely now, that all The caravans had come to rest. And, as he topped the stiff hillcrest And caught, far off, the silver shine Of the swift waters of the Tyne, He seemed to see already there The preparations for the Fair, In fancy, and the big tent's round Rising serenely from the ground, On the turf gleaming like the white Mushroom that springs up overnight; Though several miles yet stretched between That hilltop and far off Tyne Green. Then, entering on the last mile, He rested on a wayside stile To ease his blistered heels that burned Like embers; while his thoughts returned Now to Coldknuckles, and saw there His mother shake back unkempt hair That draggled round her haggish head From opening eyes, and slip from bed With scowling brows, and cross the floor To batter on the shut ben-door And rout him from his rest; and heard With fearful heart each fratching word She uttered, when no answer came. He heard her shrilling out his name With curses, as, this many a year He'd heard her, till his shivering fear, Numbed by that nagging nattering spite That scarified him day and night At length had hardened into ice In his young heart. She called him thrice; Then savagely flung the door wide.... But, when she found no son inside, What she would do, he dared not think.... And now he felt his courage sink As he slouched, weary and alone And famished, on the stile's cold stone: When all at once he seemed to hear His father chortle in his ear; And see again those eyes of blue Twinkle, even as they stabbed him through; And his heart felt in closer kin With that gay giant, than with his thin And shrewish mother, as he rose And shrugged himself in his patched clothes: Then, in a daze, down Causey Hill From Yarridge dropt; and, dreaming still, Through Hencotes trudged, and by the Sele And Church Flags, clinking 'neath his heel, Reached the stall-crowded market place; And, crossing it with lagging pace, As from the embattled Abbey Tower The bell boomed out the noonday hour, Down steep Bull Bank, came to the Tyne. Then, with a gush, the song and shine, The roaring and the white froth-gleam Of the rain-swollen tawny stream, Whose spate of waters, ridge on ridge, Through spanning arches of the bridge Swirled crashing, charged his heart anew With courage as he slowly drew Towards Tyne Green; and saw the wide Haugh set about on every side With horseless caravans--and then, A husky bunch of hefty men, Led by his father, hoisting high The big-top's king-post to the sky. V He watched the flagged pole stab the blue of noon, Swayed by the tugging of guy-ropes; but, soon By Abe and the gaunt gangling nigger gripped The post into its iron socket slipped, Steadied by taut stays: and his father now, Mopping the perspiration from his brow, Turned to his glum companion and, with a laugh That rippled all his thews, began to chaff The surly Sambo: and, as they stood there With tawny gold and ebony torsos bare, They towered in the wan November light Like very images of day and night. While as, admiring, Isaac stared, agape, Startled he felt sharp fingers tweak his nape; And, yanked round, with a yell looked with surprise Into the saucy and sloe-coloured eyes Of the young hussy who the night before Had grinned at him above the low half-door Of sour God-fearing John's black caravan. "Well, bless me, if it's not the bogieman Who dithered by the roadside in a fright As if he'd met his own fetch in the night!" She tardy clucked, while Isaac, blushing red, In dumb annoyance turned away his head Just as a lean hand on Kit's shoulder fell And gripped it--and "You flirtigig of hell!" Rasped out the riled voice of God-fearing John-- "I might have guessed it, when I found you gone And the dinner charred to cinder. The true whelp Of your man-wolfing mother!" With a yelp, Skedaddling, from his clutch the lassie slipped; And over her scuttling heels her father tripped And sprawled upon the turf; while a hot spate Of Bible-curses at rampageous rate Belched from his lips. "Now, take it easy, John!" Abe's voice sang out "or, you'll find them all gone And not the mildest mutter of a curse Left you when you barge into something worse. If I'd a mind to make you eat your words You'd find them riskier swallowing than the swords You slither down your gullet greedily; And far more fatal fare they'd prove to be I'll warrant. Why, because a lightskirt bitch, Bolting, deserts the old dog in the ditch, Vent pious anger on her helpless pup?" Now, thrusting through the throng, Abe hiked John up On to his pins; then stopt with a sharp stare As now he spotted Isaac gaping there; Then grinned, guffawing "So, you've turned up, son, For dinner? Well, there'll be enough for one Extra I've little doubt; for Redpoll's got A generous fist in filling up the pot. But, we had best look sharp, before young Bill, Your brother, has a chance to eat his fill And gobble up the best, or, we'll just get The nipper's leavings. There's none so sharpset Of all my little lot of cats: no whip, Nor, even redhot iron could keep the rip Back from the stewpot once he'd caught a whiff Of cooking collops. Little doubt that if Old Roarer and he should start fair on a feast The younker'd snatch the titbits from the beast And lick him easily!" With hand upon Isaac's proud shoulder, now he steered his son Through all the gear that cluttered up the way Towards the scarlet caravan. As they, Together, turned to cross the Green, the eye Of Sambo lowered at them in slouching by; And his low forehead, ruckled with a scowl, And the white snarling teeth in that black jowl For Isaac held a menace: but, Cold Steel, Chuckling at his own notions, close at heel Stalked on, indifferently, towards the van, As though he took no count of any man. So, Isaac rapidly forgot his fear, As to the scarlet van they now drew near; And Redpoll, ladling out into a dish Hot stew, glanced up. "And so, you've had your wish?" Grinning at Abe, she gurgled--"one more cub To tame?" She set upon an upturned tub The steaming bowl. "Well, you had best fall to Before Bill guzzles all." Sharp eyes of blue, Met Isaac's, as the whipper-snapper, Bill, Greedily gorging, set to with a will. And while Abe supped and munched he murmured now, Shaking the yellow hair back from his brow-- "Another cub--ay, and too old to learn, At his advanced age, any circus-turn, I take it--too stiff-jointed, and no brat Supple enough to make an acrobat. If I'm not out of my reckoning, he must be Hard upon twelve years old--ay, easily." Then Redpoll tittered "Aren't you just the true And faithful lover! Lord--to fancy you Should keep an ancient date like that in mind!" Abe only grinned. "Well, anyway, we'll find Something to suit. There's jobs enough to do About a circus, if he'll cotton to." He turned to Isaac. "What's the game you had In mind when you set out so rashly, lad, To track us? What's your fancy--horses?" "Ay!" Came, gaspingly, the eager boy's reply. "Ah well, we'll find out. But you'd best begin To tuck some fodder in that empty skin, Young bag-of-bones. Then you can come with me To lend a hand: and, afterwards, we'll see What the boss says. It's time we were away, If we're to get the big-top rigged to-day And all set going for tomorrow's show. Just clear your plate, Coldknuckles, and we'll go." Then, as they went, together, they caught a laugh; And the fat voice that Isaac had heard chaff God-fearing John last night, from a near van Rallied them---"Well, Cold Steel, my gallant man, You'd seem to have found yourself again all right, Begot and born all in a single night, Seemingly, though your double's not fullgrown-- Yet, none too bad for one night's work, I'll own!" And Isaac, glancing up, saw lounging there A muckle woman in an easy chair By the van door, burbling at her own joke, With rolls of fat aquiver. Now she spoke More solemnly, while under her smooth brow Her small eyes smouldered. "I spied you just now Handling that skunk, John Molt; and hoped, by heck, You were about to wring his pious neck: But, like a gaumless nowt, you let him go-- Why, the de'il kens! Yet, sure as hell, I know You missed a grand chance; and may live to rue The day you mulled what you were meant to do, And spared him still to make his daughter's life The Bedlam that it's been since his wise wife, Bewalloped till nigh witless, cut her stick. Yet, though your fumbling failed to do the trick, Or, you were too fainthearted, happen, your son One day will finish what you've left undone: For, in my bones, I feel Kit Molt and he Are tokened for each other." "That may be," Laughed Abe--"But, bones! Who could have guessed you'd got A single bone in all that little lot Of lovely flesh?" Now the Fat Women smiled; And turned to Isaac. "Well, let's trust the child Has got at least more gumption and more spunk; And, bones, or, not, I feel that he won't funk When the time comes. Well, what's to be, will be: And, looking into the future, I seem to see God-fearing John, a huddled body, He With broken neck beneath the open sky." Then Cold Steel answered "Though you may be right, You're not the only one with second sight: I've got bones, too: and, sure as anything, I sense my son was never born to swing. But, happen, now you'd care to prophesy How Isaac's father, too, will come to die?" Yet, though her tranced eyes burned with a fey light, Now the Fat Woman kept plump lips pursed tight: While Cold Steel jeered "The Witch of Endor's dumb For once, it seems: but, what's to come, will come." VI When the thronged day was through at last, Within the van with eyes shut fast, Famished for sleep that failed to come, Young Isaac lay--the throb and thrum Of wild thoughts buzzing in his brain, Shooting off sparkles as again They circled in a crazy way About the doings of the day. Again he shut Coldknuckles' door Behind him; and, almost before He'd quit the threshold, seemed to be Watching the king-post jerkily Jabbing the sky of Winter blue.... The post that juggled, ere he knew, Into a nigger, tall and thin, With sweat drops glistening on his skin-- Drops that changed, even as he stared, To blood; while now gaunt Sambo glared With goggling eyeballs in his face.... Then, just as he drew back a pace To clasp his father's hand, and hide, Someone was giggling by his side; And now he looked with hurt surprise Into Kit's cute and saucy eyes That mocked him till the blood again Swilled, scalding, through each burning vein. And now there threshed about his ear John's curses, crumpling him with fear, As the foul flood, in furious spate Outpouring, in some dreadful fate Seemed to embroil both him and Kit-- Though what that cheeky little chit Could have to do with him--well, he, Lord knows, was blest if he could see! Yet, he half-pitied her that she Should have a dad the like of thon, That blatherskite, God-fearing John, Instead of Cold Steel. He'd a man For father now: and in a van Was bedded--he, who never before Had slept outside Coldknuckles' door.... And now he snoozed--then suddenly Stared with wide eyes, half-fearfully, Into Old Roarer's gaping jaw, While, by the bars, with lifted paw, The lion glared and growled, as he, Helping his father eagerly To feed the beasts, had flung the red Raw chunks towards that huge maned head.. And now he seemed to wince again Beside the highroad in the rain, And look again with shuddering awe On nightmare creatures ... till he saw, As drizzle changed to golden dust, Those humped, and those trunked beasts were just Camels and elephants, who stood, Tucking in hay from racks of wood, In the great shadowy lamplit tent... And now he dozed again, quite spent; And saw, in dream, the rumpled bed At Coldknuckles--his mother's head Tossing in sleep uneasily On the crushed pillow.... But, even as he Looked, that harsh wried familiar face By some strange miracle gave place To younger features; and he saw there The chubby cheeks and curly hair Of the sword-swallower's sonsy lass-- Though, somehow, it had come to pass That, even as Kit lay there and smiled In sleep, she was no more a child-- A woman, grown, whose waking eyes Looked into his without surprise.... And now it seemed he strove to keep His feet, against a flock of sheep That charged him down a slippery steep, Till he was buried in a heap Of smothering fleeces ... and sank deep In quiet dream-unhaunted sleep. VII Within the big-top the next afternoon, Tranced by the razzle-dazzle and the noise, Isaac sat glowing 'mid a gang of boys At his first circus; while the jigging tune The brassband blared set hopping in his breast His jolly heart, as, with inane grimaces, Leering, in rainbow tints, from chalk-white faces Clowns capered, cackling out jest after jest. And, as he snuffed the sawdust reek and heard The melody and the laughter, that vast tent Was paradise to him, as his wits went Around it, somersaulting, then were stirred To utter bliss, when, like a heavenly dream, Suddenly surged into the outer ring A torrent of white horses, flourishing Long manes and tails, like foam, while, in a stream, Keeping time with the music, round and round They circled; and young Isaac's heart was whirled In the swift maelstrom as it swept and swirled And throbbed and thudded to the threshing sound. Then turn on startling turn with eyes enthralled He watched; and now it seemed his heart with ease Swung to the tent-top on a high trapeze, To drop into a pit of dread, appalled; Then with the youngest acrobat, a boy About his own age, a redheaded lad-- The hot blood coursing through his veins like mad Until it seemed his heart must burst with joy-- He soared again in ever-wilder flights; And now with Redpoll on her dappled grey He balanced, tiptoe, as, serenely gay She rode the ring in natty emerald tights; Then pins and needles prickled through his veins As grim black-avised John thrust sword and knife Down his long gullet, till the very life Seemed leaking out of Isaac's own pierced reins: But, soon his heart revived when, winged with gauze Of tinselled red, Kit pranced in on a plump Wee piebald pony; and, at every jump, His heart leapt with her, while, to loud applause, She flashed through flaming hoops: and now at last, After some score of sequin-spangled stars Had dazzled him, a ring of iron bars Was set up in the centre, while the vast And breathless audience awaited in hushed awe The grand finale; when from a wheeled cage Abe's lions sprang, sullen with thwarted rage, On to the sawdust; and now Isaac saw His father in a leopard-skin arrayed Holding them in subjection with a glance From eyes of steel that countered each advance They made towards him, starkly undismayed; And with smart whip-cracks made those skulkers poise On globes and bound through hoops and abjectly Cower in the dust, while, calmly smoking, he Stood on Old Roarer's skull.... The shattering noise Of the applauding audience brattled still Through Isaac's noddle as he left the tent, Bamboozled; and with lagging footsteps went Towards the caravan, to find young Bill, Agape, and raking with resentful gaze A figure seated on the steps, a black Bolt-upright form; and Isaac started back, Seeing his mother there, in stunned amaze. VIII Cowed in numb panic, gasping, he quaked there With eyes that shrank to meet the shrivelling glare That sapped his vitals; though, as yet, no word She spoke, nor, from her rigid posture stirred: for that crazed contemplation seemed a chain, Shackling his limbs, to haul him back again Home to Coldknuckles. Then she rose at last, And clutched him by the arm; and, turning, cast A scornful squint at the red caravan And sniffed; then shrilled out fiercely "Come, my man, It's time to end these cantrips. I have lost A day, already. You don't count the cost Of your calleevering: but, by hell, you'll learn, You will, when you've got your own bread to earn And thankless mouths to feed, that every bite Has to be slaved for, and that it's no light Job labouring life-long at picking stones, Until I'm just a rackle of aching bones. I can't afford to squander another day: So, we had best be getting on our way. 'Twas luck I twigged, from what you splurged at me Before you sulked, where you might chance to be." She tugged his arm: he struggled to escape; But, now her left hand nipped him by the nape And held him, while she screeched out savagely "You wastrel, you'll not get away from me A second time, by God!--though you may be Your gangrel of a father's very spit And image, ay!--and he was quick to quit When he had tricked and cheated me and had His sport. Nay, you'll not follow him, my lad, Not, though I've got to lug you by the scruff Back to Coldknuckles. I've had more than enough Of being left to struggle on my own Till I am wellnigh worn to skin and bone Without a hand to help. If I've my way, I reckon to make your father's bastard pay For his desertion. So, you may as well Come quietly before I give you hell." Desperately Isaac wriggled; when his eye Caught sight of Abe and Redpoll standing by With arms akimbo, grinning mockingly-- He, still in his spotted leopard-skin, and she, In her green tights: and Ellen, turning, saw Those jaunty figures; and, with sagging jaw, Taken aback, gaped glowering, as Abe spoke, Ironically smiling, "What's the joke? What lark has the limb been up to? What's he done, That you should lay your hand upon my son?" "Your son?" "My son." "And not a jot you've cared About your son--and mine!" "Ay, true, we shared The game of his begetting! But, you've had More than your due of him since: so, now the lad Chooses to let his father have a turn." "Ay, now he's growing old enough to earn, You'd filch him from me?--the fine father who Deserted me and..." "never even knew He'd got a son!" "left me to bear the blame And bring disgrace upon my parents' name, While he went gallivanting through the dirt To tag himself to some newfangled skirt." "Skirt, say you! Redpoll, you'd best slip inside The van with those bold legs of yours and hide Your shame from this chaste madam, and before You catch your death of cold. I've little more To say; and, sure enough, I ken no door Could keep your ears from snooping all they care To eavesdrop." As now, Redpoll climbed the stair, Smiling, she glanced at Ellen and said "Maybe, Before you leave you'd like a cup of tea?" In fury bridling, Ellen turned as though To strike her: when Abe spoke again "Let go The youngster's arm!" And, shrinking from the glare Of his marrow-piercing liontamer stare, Ellen obeyed, as Abe snapped clinchingly "My testy termagant, attend to me! If we could try the trick of Solomon, Then we might, each of us, have half a son; But, as we cannot split him, you may as well Be hiking back again to your own hell." And, while he spoke, Isaac saw with surprise Something like admiration fire her eyes, As Ellen looked at Cold Steel: then the grey Eyes clouded as, downcast, she turned away With a low sobbing moan: and, foiled, she went Blindly by crowding caravan and tent, Stumbling into the cauldrife winter gloam, Without him, traiking towards her lonely home. And then the fat voice from a nearby van Wheezed "Well done, Cold Steel! Spoken like a man-- Ay, like a man! for men must have their way At all costs, though the woman's left to pay." TWO I His dearest wish, come true--to spend His days with horses, and to tend Their toilet till he knew each hair In their groomed glossy coats, no care Now haunted Isaac's happy days; As over England by green ways The circus roamed from fair to fair. As month traipsed after month, and year, Stravaiging year, he lost all fear Of those unknown and nameless things-- Uncanny cruel cankerings That through his uncouth and unkind Upbringing had beset his mind. Now cold neglect and nettling stings Of nagging spite were clean forgot, Since it had fallen to his lot To share the generous circus-life With his own father and Abe's wife, Happy-go-lucky Redpoll, and The rest of that odd friendly band Of troupers. Though, at times, the knife Of Cold Steel's tongue with caustic fierce Stark daggered wit would seem to pierce His very vitals, and, afraid, He'd shrink from that keen scathing blade; Yet, even as he squirmed, the smile Lurking in those blue eyes the while Would staunch the wound, when he obeyed Wholeheartedly his father's will; And he would feel again the thrill To think that such a man could be His parent--one who dauntlessly A pride of lions could subdue, And, as he put Old Roarer through His paces, could lightheartedly Outjest the cutest clown of all. And, now he'd grown into a tall And strapping open-hearted lad, Among the company Isaac had A host of friends; while only two-- Rabid John Molt, and Sambo, who Would glump for days in rancid mad Festering resentment at some jest Of Cold Steel's, spurned him: all the rest Were ever hail-fellow-well-met with him. But he was closest chums with Jim, The acrobat of his own age; And the two, meeting, would engage In friendly tussles, limb with limb And tongue with tongue, when they were free To court each other's company. Jim was a good sort, sure enough, Though a hot-headed blade--a tough Customer to deal with when he'd got A grievance. But, a nervy lot Were all the acrobats: and he Would somehow manage usually To cool Jim's head, however hot. Jim--ay, he never would forget His madpash rage the day they met! Isaac, cut up at something Kit Had squawked, had given back the chit As good as she gave; when loony Jim, His dander raised, lunged out at him And sent him staggering with a hit Clean on the jaw. They'd fought it out; And Jim, when Isaac set about Him seriously, had given in; And yet, somehow had seemed to win The battle; for, as he lay there With bloody snout and rumpled hair, He'd looked up with a friendly grin. Even when Kit, though now more shy, As, cock-a-hoop, he jaunted by, Lashed out some sally that would flick His self-conceit, he, now more quick Of wit than she, when she let fly, Would give her tit for tat. He held No grudge against her now--impelled To pity her that she should be The victim of the tyranny Of vile God-fearing John. And most Of all the many-coloured host Of horses that so happily He helped to curry every day And feed and water--sorrel, grey, Cream, chestnut, roan, snow-white, jet-black-- He loved the pony on whose back He'd seen Kit ride into the ring With gauzy red wings fluttering-- The piebald that at every crack Of the ringmaster's whip had reared And snorted, while Kit lightly cleared With easy spring the hoops of flame-- The skittish beast that none could tame Save Kit, herself; and that, like her, For all the check of bit and spur, To hold its own was always game. Yet, sometimes came into his head The queer things the Fat Woman said That first day about Kit and him. And, though she hadn't mentioned Jim-- Only himself and Molt and Kit-- Jim somehow seemed involved in it. And then his waffled wits would swim In dizzy eddies, while cold sweat Trickled until his brow was wet.... When he'd recall how mockingly His father'd scorned her prophecy About God-fearing John's grim death: And now again with easier breath He'd think of Kit more happily. II One night, as, under a clear moonlit sky, With hands in pockets, Isaac sauntered by The shadowy booths and caravans alone; Dribbling with dawdling feet a rounded stone Before him, harking back, he called to mind The time when he'd seen Sambo jog behind The circus-train that dwindled out of sight Down the dark fell road into the wet night, A rammelly figure, like a faceless clown, On his white ass with long legs dangling down. Softly he chuckled as he heard again That sour voice muttering "The goddam rain! O Jesus Christ, the goddam rain!" But, now A vague dread troubled him, recalling how Sambo would glower at his father's back When Cold Steel, passing him, would chance to crack Some joke at his expense; even though his face Strained in a smirking wide white-toothed grimace While Abe's eyes still were on him: and a cold Shudder went through him, when, as now he strolled By the big tent of the menagerie, The canvas door-flap lifted furtively And he saw Sambo stealthily sneak out. He wondered what the devil he'd been about, What mischief he'd been up to: for he'd got No business there, well Isaac knew; and not A soul was ever allowed inside the tent While the beasts slept. Then, as the moocher went Slinking into the shadows of the night, Halted, uncertain, in the full moonlight, Isaac, still rattled, heard a stunning roar As a huge beast burst out through the tent-door With tossing mane and, gnashing, pawed the ground; While his moon-kindled eyes ranged all around, To fix themselves on Isaac with a glare, As, jellied in cold terror, he quaked there. Then in a flash the brute towards him sprang; And Isaac winced to see each separate fang In that great gaping hellmouth of a jaw, As, pinning him to earth with clamping paw, Old Roarer snarled above him where he lay.... But, even as he seemed to pass away, He caught his father's voice; and a clenched fist Crashed on the monster's muzzle.... Then a mist Smothered his senses, blanketing him in night.... And he knew nothing of the desperate fight 'Twixt man and beast that raged in the moonlight About his body and how Cold Steel fought With naked fists; till he at last was caught-- Just as, with iron bars and brands of flame, To rescue him his circus-comrades came-- And crushed beneath those fatal pounding paws And mauled and mangled by those steel-tanged claws.... Till, next day Isaac wakened in his bed At length, to learn that Abraham was dead; And how, even as he writhed, with gasping breath He'd gibed into the very face of death, Deriding, "Though the fat witch wouldn't tell What she foresaw, it seems she knew too well! But, anyhow, God-fearing John can spout Above my corpse--'Your sins will find you out!'" III That night as in his bunk he lyy His wits in fevered disarray; While, worn with weeping, Redpoll slept With worried breathing; Isaac kept Going over and over in his brain Again, again, and yet again, All that had happened since the night By the fell road in flinching fright He'd quailed with gooseflesh quivering.... Like tumbling clowns, galravitching Around, grotesque, with painted faces That leered in loony lewd grimaces Which only iced his blood with dread, Thoughts helter-skeltered through his head.... Again he heard those skirling owls; The Death Coach rumbling; and the howls Of the caged beasts.... And now his sight Was dazzled by the lantern light; And once again that ripping yell-- "Say, are we making straight for hell!" Sang through his blood; and the steel-blue Eyes of his father scanned him through. For hell! Well, sure enough, he'd brought Hell to his hapless father, caught And mangled by those fiendish claws And cruel crunching hellmouth jaws.... His father, smoking by the door Of the red van, had heard the roar; And strolled towards the menagerie, Without foreboding, just to see That all was well: when he had found Isaac straiked out upon the ground, Helpless, beneath Old Roarer's paw; And springing, even as he saw, Without a care for his own hide, Like lightning to the lion's side, Flourished a fist and, with a shout, Had socked it on its tender snout To turn it from his son; and then, The pluckiest of plucky men, Had faced the beast's resentful rage, And sought to trounce it to its cage With naked neaves.... And now again The looby clowns in Isaac's brain Lolloped his sick thoughts round and round. Until, no schoolboy now, he found Himself back at Coldknuckles, where, With eyes experience made aware, Bewildered, by his mother's bed, He watched that dream-tormented head Toss on the pillow: and now he knew All that poor Ellen had gone through, To blight her heart with bitterness: And, even in his own distress, Felt for her, sensing all it cost Her love in old days when she'd lost Cold Steel, and learnt she'd got to live Without him. He could nigh forgive Her hardness to himself, now he Could realise her misery, Since he'd lost Cold Steel, too.... Next day, He'd half a mind to break away, To quit the circus, and return To the old cottage by the burn And help his mother ... help to keep... There were worse jobs than minding sheep... Sheep ... sheep.... And now he sank in deep Unfevered and refreshing sleep. And then, in dream, he stood again By the dark turnpike in the rain, As he had stood that fateful night: Yet, now he looked with sheer delight In the black mischief of Kit's eyes; As, grinning at him with surprise, Over the van's half-door she leant.... And then once more into the tent She rode with red wings fluttering, As the wee piebald round the ring Cantered.... Then, through a hoop of flame... That was the red van's door, she came-- As she had come to-day to stand Beside him with a nervous hand Fingering her lips; while dimmed eyes spoke A wordless sympathy.... Then he woke, As daylight streamed into the van-- A lad, no longer, but, a man. THREE I Through the cold crystal of the April sky Great clouds, like clipper-ships, from out the west Swept, dappling rushy slack and craggy crest With swift blue shadows as they billowed by: And Isaac's heart sailed with them, through the clear Noon lift careering; while up the fellroad, Amid a clatter of hoofs, he gaily strode, With the loose ponies bringing up the rear Of the procession; as the circus-train Across the Pennines travelled: and he heard The welcome notes of each familiar bird, Curlew and golden-plover, once again; And those wild voices seemed to utter all The unutterable joy that through his blood Went rioting in a rejoicing flood, Responsive to each mellow fluting call And tingling whistle... while he seemed to see Kit stand, with dark curls drooping round her head, As on that tragic morning by his bed; Her bright eyes dimmed with utter sympathy. For, in a flash he'd known, as she stood there, Something his heart had never known before: And, even when a shadow dusked the door, As, with harsh croak, Molt stumbled up the stair; And, like an evil-eyed old raven stood Behind her; and, with visage sour and black Had glowered at them, bidding Kit get back To work, he'd felt that life might still be good, In spite of all; as he, with heart aflame, Looking into the future with fresh eyes, Let go the past, rejoiced to realise Nothing between them now could be the same. II They camped at sunset out beyond the town Of Casdehaugh: when, as towards the stream With other lads he led the horses down To water them; still in a happy dream Moving, and dazzled by the swirl and gleam, Isaac saw on a nearby grassy rise Kit standing, gazing with abstracted stare Into the glow that kindled her dark eyes And flecked with golden glints her night-black hair; When, as with keen delight he watched her there, He saw Jim join her--Jim, his friend--and now Felt strangely envious, scarcely knowing why, To see them stand, together, on the brow Of the little knoll against the sunset sky. Jim spoke to her; and, laughing in reply, Kit turned to him: and, as her laughter rang Merrily in his ears, through Isaac's breast There shot an instant sharp and searching pang; And through his veins there surged a hot unrest: And, as the colour seeped from out the West, When, with the others, up the stony bank He drove the unwilling horses from their drink, While with swift-dipping disc the red sun sank, His heart within his bosom seemed to sink: And, even when he spied a dark form slink Towards the cheerful couple, and now heard Kit's furious father call her every name He could lay tongue to, though Isaac's heart was stirred At the same instant to uneasy shame, Just yet he could not bring himself to blame The raging parent. Then, in horror, he, Recovering, felt appalled to realise He had given way to silly jealousy Of his best friends, and seemed to sympathise, Even for an instant, with the devilries Of the maniac who made Kit's life a hell, Because his wife, finding wedlock too grim, Had left him. True, you couldn't always tell What Jim was up to: but, anyhow, if Jim Was out for trouble, he could settle him! And Kit, though much too plucky to let on What she'd got to put up with, well he knew In the black van with grim God-fearing John Had little enough for laughter, it was true-- And why, then, grudge the lass a chuckle or two! So, all the horses stabled and rubbed down, He loitered in the shadow of a tent, Until towards the little market-town, With Bible tucked beneath his arm, Molt went, A gawky sombre-visaged figure, bent On playing the prophet, belching out hellfire Over the loafers in the market-square. Then Isaac, urgent for his heart's desire, Made for the black van, trusting to find there Kit, by herself; and though, with casual air Among the lighted tents and vans he strolled, As if he were but idly pottering, Like the fiery white mare none but Kit could hold, Which bore her nowadays around the ring, Within his breast his heart went galloping Towards her; and he knew, at all costs, he Must try his luck and once for all speak out His heart to her, must speak out, even though she Should laugh into his very face and flout His love, or, angrily send him about His business. But, now, on coming there, He found the van in darkness--not a light From door or window glanced, as, by the stair He stayed distracted in the heart of night; And all his eager hopes were put to flight, Fearing that Kit, perhaps... And now again He saw those figures in the sunset gleam; And his hot heart was shot with searing pain, While, in the very nightmare of a dream, His withers wrung, he heard the raucous stream Of Bible-curses; and his bosom burned With furious trouble as he made to go With stumbling steps... But, in a jiffy turned, When from the caravan there came a low And stifled sobbing: and, relieved to know That Kit was there; yet, wondering why she wept Alone there in the darkness, up the stair With one brisk bound he scrambled and then stept Over the half-door of the van: but, there Saw nothing and heard nothing, till the flare, As now he struck a match, suddenly lit The dark interior: when, with eyelids red With weeping, staring at him, he saw Kit Straiked stiffly at full length upon her bed. Then, as his startled eyes from her still head Shifted, he saw now why so rigidly She lay, and that her arms were tightly bound Against her sides by a broad belt; and he Now noticed yet another strap around Her ankles was drawn tight. Without a sound She still stared at him, as impetuously He leapt across the van and, working fast, Undid the buckled bonds and set her free. Yet, even when her limbs were loosed at last. She still lay motionless and mute as he Lighted a candle; and now anxiously Looked down at her: and, when she did not stir Nor speak; and in her eyes no glimmering Of her quick spirit gleamed, he questioned her, Until she roused and in a quivering Fury sat up: then with an angry fling Swung back the tangled locks from her pale face; And for the first time poured into his ears, Speaking with sobbing breath at pelting pace, The gruesome story of her girlish years; While down her cheeks, unchecked, a spate of tears Teemed: and he learnt how, since her mother'd fled, On Kit her father had vented all his spite, And how she'd dwelt with him in constant dread Of his maniacal frenzies day and night, And how, if he so much as caught a sight Of her with any lad, he'd larrup the life Well-nigh out of her body; and, no doubt Fearing she'd try to leave him, like his wife, When after dark he wanted to go out He always bound her to her bed with stout Straps pinioning her. And now that she had done, Isaac, who'd hearkened with a savage grin, Growled "Just you wait till he... "And you, the son Of Cold Steel!" "Just you wait till he comes in! He'll hear from me...." "From you, the child of sin! Do you think he'd even heed a word from you?" Kit gave a troubled smile. "Nay: you'd best go Before he can get back. If he but knew You had been here, he'd do me in; and so, You'd better bunk before he gets to know. There's not a soul in all the world that he Hated like Cold Steel; and if he twigged that I..." "Hobnobbed with Cold Steel's bastard? Ay, I see! And you, yourself, too, likely?" In reply Kit glanced at him: and with a choking cry He caught her to him; and a moment they Were clasped together: and then anxiously Kit struggled free; and, thrusting him away, Cried "Nay! You must clear out before..." But he Smiled down at her, announcing quietly "When I leave, you leave with me." With a stare Of half-incredulous hope and eyes alight Kit gaped at him; then whispered "Ay--but, where-- Where could we make for at this time of night?" Grudgingly he admitted "Ay, you're right! We'll have to set about it cannily And plot things out if we're to get away Without your father kenning, and so that he Can't sleuth us: yet, though you may need to stay A bit before we hook it, the first day We sniff the ghost of a chance of making it In safety, we'll skedaddle at once and take The road, together. Ay, by God, we'll flit At the first inkling, even though it should break Your father's heart!" "Then scoot, for goodness sake, Before he comes and cops you here; unless You're feeling sorry for him and want to wait Till he prowls back from preaching and confess Your sinful schemes, or, it will be too late!" Kit cried: and then she seemed to hesitate; And now, as though reluctantly, she said "Before you quit, it would be well, maybe, To truss me up again upon the bed, And buckle up the straps; or, certainly, He'll guess that someone has been here with me." "To think that I" laughed Isaac, as he drew The straps about her limbs, but, not so tight, "Should aid your father to imprison you!" Then, kissing her again he dowsed the light And over the half-door slept into the night. III He paused an instant by the stair, Breathing the fresh and glittering air: For now the risen moon with still Enchantment lustred heath and hill; And seemed to light his very blood As through his body the full flood Of joyful passion surged, now he Knew Kit was his--that he and she Should face life with a single heart, Together.... Then he gave a start And in his bosom his heart leapt, As someone from the shadow stept: And now he saw that it was Jim Who stood there glowering at him. While Isaac, flummoxed, with a stare Gaped at him, Jim began to square His shoulders and then smartly struck, Mumbling "It seems you've had the luck With Kit, Coldknuckles, at least, so far: But, from now on you'll have to spar To keep it--ay, by hell, you will!" Then as, unruffled, Isaac still Eyed him, Jim paused: and Isaac spoke "I don't much like this sort of joke; But, if you're keen to smash your face Upon my fist, this is no place To set to work. Before we know, Kit's father will be back: and so, If you don't want him butting in Before I even can begin To spoil your phizgog, we must find A quiet spot away behind The whins, where I can in a tick Settle your hash, with just a lick Across your gob, and yark your hide, Till you'll regret you even tried Your tricks on me. A punch or two Should polish off a runt lie you: And, when they swipe you on the snout, Happen, before I've knocked you out, You'll feel my knuckles not so cold." So, Jim, assenting with a bold Defiant swagger, towards the whins Turned, crying "And the best man wins!" And Isaac, following, in the light They faced each other, stript to fight. They faced each other: but, now Jim Daffled as though doubt dothered him; While Isaac still withheld the blow That would have laid his best friend low: And then Jim sighed "I always knew I'd never half a chance with you; For you were always first with Kit: But, if you feel you've got to hit, I'll take my punishment all right: Though, even if I won the fight, 'Twould make no difference with her." But, Isaac, smiling, did not stir: And with a shuddering moan Jim sank All of a heap upon the bank: When Isaac down beside him dropt And waited till the shudders stopt: Then quietly he spoke to him "Come, tell me just what took you, Jim?" And now Jim answered with a groan "Coldknuckles, I have always known That you were much the better man: Yet, when I saw you quit the van Where you had been with Kit, I felt I'd got to give your gob a welt." "Ay, ay, Jim, I quite understand!" Now Isaac laid a kindly hand Upon Jim's shoulder; and began To tell how he within the van Had found poor Kit strapt to her bed.... And Jim, at every word he said, Quivered with anger; and, when he knew What Kit and Isaac planned to do, He sprang up shouting eagerly "You leave God-fearing John to me! And, when you've got all set to go, Just drop a hint and let me know. I'm damned, if I don't find a way To keep him busy all that day! Happen, a Sunday would be best: For Sunday is no Day of Rest With John, if he can find a few Gowks who don't mind being spouted to And told how they will frizzle and fry In hell in the sweet by and by." Now, squatting there in the moonlight, Together, far into the night They talked things over and made plans: Then quietly by the darkened vans, Parting with Jim, Coldknuckles crept Back to the tent where now he slept. IV God-fearing John, to his surprise, Slowly began to realise That he at length had gained, in Jim, Whom he had looked on as a limb Of Satan and the Devil's own, His first disciple. Now, alone, Somehow, he seldom seemed to be; For Jim was always fleechingly Waiting to hearken to each word He uttered, like a new-hatched bird Gaping beneath its parent's bill To gobble up its wormy fill. And when to town, on preaching bent, John went Jim always with him went, John's Bible tucked beneath his arm; And though with something of alarm Jim's folk resented in amaze This sudden queer newfangled craze, And little relished Jim should be So much in John Molt's company, Jim never gave a word away Or let out aught that might betray What he was up to.... Then at last The Sunday dawned that had been cast For the adventure; and Jim strode With thumping heart down the steep road, Resolved, whatever might betide, Never to quit Kit's father's side Or lose sight of God-fearing John Until the lovers were safely gone. V When Molt and Jim were well upon their way, As though just relishing a slacker day, Isaac slouched veering towards the van and stood Bantering Kit: then towards the fresh larchwood Beyond the camp they sauntered, chattering Casually, as though they hadn't got a thing Upon their minds; till they were out of sight Of curious eyes. Now, bearing to the right, They crossed the fells until they struck a road Running due north; when, side by side, they strode With steady pace, determined that by night They'd be some twenty miles upon their flight Towards Coldknuckles; where Isaac hoped to find, If not a welcome, a not too unkind Reception; feeling no one could resist, Save her cracked father with his cranky twist Of woman-hatred, Kit's enticing ways. He reckoned it should take them but three days To reach his old home. Yet, it did not seem, As they kept on together in a dream Of sheer and unbelievable delight-- While all about them in haphazard flight The lapwings flickered over heath and bent-- To matter to him how, or, where they went, So that they went together, friend with friend, Or, even, if their journey had no end, Or, coming to Coldknuckles, what they'd find Awaiting them. It seemed they'd left behind All tribulations; and had now, indeed, Each in the other, all that they could need. They walked awhile in silence, drinking in The sunny April airs that set their skin Tingling and brisked their blood, as on they strode, To kindling streams of careless glee that flowed Through glowing veins from happy hearts that beat In time and tune with their swift-stepping feet. But, when at noon they squatted down to eat The scrumptious sandwiches of bread and meat, Kit had thought on to bring, beside a burn That tumbled down a brae through tawny fern; As they with youth's keen sharpset relish chewed, They seemed to drop into another mood; And both recalled now, as if with one mind, The only things they'd had to leave behind Regretfully; and with a saddened air Kit talked of Snowflake, her beloved mare; And Isaac with slow speech and troubled brow Of all the horses he adored, that now He'd had to trust to other hands to tend, Murmuring their names. But, when he'd reached the end, Kit sat up with a jerk; and now exclaimed, While her black eyes with angry passion flamed, "I'd sooner slit my weasand with your jack-knife Than go back now to that old loathsome life: Nay, not for Snowflake, nor, for anything, Though I was happy riding round the ring, Could I re-live the hellish life I've had To lead since Mother left me to that mad Sword-swallower of a father!" Isaac smiled With lively eyes: and then Kit's eyes grew mild As now she watched the blackface-lambs at play, Scampering about their mothers on the brae With jerky side-leaps and weak waffling cries: And, while she cherished them with fondling eyes, As they frisked scrambling down a rocky steep, She murmured "'Twould be good to live with sheep: Their bleating's soothing, after all the rant I've had to thole; and they, at least, don't cant: And, looking after lambs--if I could be A shepherd, that's the life that would suit me Down to the ground." Now Isaac gaped at her Astounded: then old thoughts began to stir; And he recalled how utterly he'd scorned Sheep--Herdwicks, Cheviots, and even the horned Nimble blackfaces--scorned them, as compared With horses: but, as now afresh he stared At the far-scattered flock that calmly grazed The fell, he looked on ewes and lambs amazed As though he saw them for the first time through Kit's kindly eyes, as something strange and new. Then, glancing round at her with puzzled eyes, He stammered out, much to his own surprise, "A shepherd, ay--happen, when I get back I'll try to get a job with Farmer Black." Now, springing to her feet, Kit softly laughed; And, as they took the road again, she chaffed-- "You, Cold Steel's son--and you may come to keep, Instead of roaring lions, baa-ing sheep! He'd turn within his grave to think what you, The lion-tamer's son, had taken to." But, Isaac, sniffing the fleece-scented breeze With relish, answered her, now more at ease-- "Ay--but, my mother's folk have all been herds." And, as he spoke, it seemed the very words Settled the question for him once for all. And so, they went their way till evenfall; When, bedded on the littered straw within A barn by singing waters of a linn Whose music seemed the voice of spring moonlight, Their love fulfilled, they slumbered through the night, Fagged-out... till Isaac wakened in affright From nightmare; and looked out into the grey Chill glimmer of the dallying dawn of day, Retracing in his mind what he had dreamed, Held in bloodcurdling horror.... He had seemed To stand upon a naked moor alone Beside an old rain-pitted sarsen-stone, When he with apprehensive eyes had seen A figure pledging towards him through the green Thick sluther of the moss: and, as he gazed Upon that floundering fugitive, amazed He realised that it was Jim. And now, With the sweat streaming from his anguished brow, Bogged in the mire waist-deep, Jim seemed to stand Before him; when, as Isaac stretched a hand To haul him out, into the quaggy night Of black peathags Jim disappeared from sight. But now, as Isaac lay uneasily And questioned with a chilled heart what might be The meaning of his dream, Kit turned her head And wakened, smiling. Not a word he said To her anent it: yet, throughout the day Qualms about Jim, as they went on their way, Would cut him to the quick. But, the next night He slept, undreaming; and the sparkling light Of the last morning of their journey seemed To break the spell as the first sunray gleamed And turned to gold their rustling dry straw-bed And kindled glints on Kit's black curly head, While, snuggling by his side, she slumbered still. So, unforeboding, on they fared until, As the hours swiftly drew towards sunset, They reached at length the spot where first they met. Now, Isaac, stopping, clearly saw again The black van drawn up in the drizzling rain, And Kit, just newly tumbled out of bed, Above the half-door perk her tousled head With quizzing grin.... And, with eyes twinkling bright, Chuckling, Kit, too, recalled that fateful night. Then, as they climbed, together, the steep rise And reached the signpost, Isaac with surprise Saw a smart horse and trap were halted there-- The driver greeting them with a fixed stare, As now they crossed the bridge and took the turn Towards Coldknuckles up the Caller Burn. And, when they'd scaled the brae and stood before The cottage threshold, instantly the door Opened and Ellen Bell, with hand on latch, Stood underneath the wind-torn eaves of thatch, Peering with eyes that seemed to pierce them through; Then said "You've come? They're waiting here for you." Startled, they paused, and made as though to turn: But, now they found the driver up the burn Had followed them and close behind them stood, As stolid as a figure carved in wood. And so, they crossed the threshold, wondering What chance had brought them this strange welcoming. Now, as they entered, from the fireside chair Another stranger scanned them with shrewd stare: Then spoke "I take it, you are Isaac Bell And Katherine Molt?--I've got ill news to tell." Adding, as Isaac nodded: then, with head Turned towards Kit, in kinder accents said "The day you left, your father was found dead." And while they stared back at him in stark dread, Went on--"Though Molt was murdered, it may be You two know nothing: that remains to see: But, a young acrobat, a lad called Jim-- And, seemingly, you both were thick with him-- Has given himself up. So, whether or no, You had a hand in it, you've got to go Right back to Castlehaugh for questioning-- Though Jim may be the only one to swing. Come, we had best be gadding." The two men Now closed on Kit and Isaac; and briskly then Past Ellen hustled them towards the door, While she stood, as though fettered to the floor, In a shocked stupor with a witless stare Fixed on them, seeming scarcely half-aware Of what was happening. But, now she broke Her silence: clutching Isaac's arm, she spoke With strangely stuttering tongue "Before you go, Isaac, at least you've got to let me know If all is well with Abe?" As Isaac said, Turning towards her gently "Cold Steel's dead." She loosed her clasp and seemed about to fall; But, steadying herself against the wall, Stared after them until they closed the door; Then slithered, senseless, to the flagstone floor. VI As down the long and empty road That Sunday they together strode, Jim wheedingly kept prattling on, Trying to beguile God-fearing John: But Molt, hunched in a hangdog mood, In wry-mouthed silence seemed to brood Mistrustfully; and now as Jim, Uneasy, glanced askew at him, While on he stumped at stolid pace, Unanswering, in that black-jowled face With worried eyes he seemed to see The threat of some calamity, Some vicious doom that, vague, unknown, Yet chilled him to the marrowbone. But, even while his blood crept cold Within his veins, he kept a hold Of hope--and now with eyes alight He seemed to see his friends in flight Already and well on their way Together into the new day, With all their troubles left behind. Then once again that undefined Dark menace seemed to frustrate all-- Though, safely and beyond recall, Surely, by now they must have gone.... When, with a start he now saw John Abruptly halt and lower down On him with a suspicious frown Wrinkling his low and beetling brow. Then, still without a word, Molt now Swung sharply round and left Jim's side, Back towards the camp with dogged stride Stalking: and in acute concern Jim followed him to the first turn, Uncertainly: for all seemed lost: And then he knew at any cost Molt must be stopt. He called to John: But John still stubbornly kept on Towards the camp and never turned. And now a flare of anger burned Jim's heart to fury and the blood Flushed through his veins in frenzied flood; And with a frantic wild despair He nimbly sprang into the air, As though he leapt to a trapeze: Then with sure acrobatic ease Dropt down on John, with shanks hooked round His neck, and felled him to the ground With a sharp smashing thud. Unhurt, Himself, Jim sprang up, still alert To keep John down: when in dismay He saw that in the dust Molt lay Unstirring, with a bloody head Awry; and knew that he was dead, His lank neck broken by the fall. And, as Jim stooped beside him, all The horror of his reckless rash Demented deed plumped with a crash Upon his young dumfoundered mind, Blacking out all; and stunned and blind He hung beside the body: then, As consciousness seeped back again, In instant frantic panic he, Lugging the limp corpse, flurriedly Buried it deep in roadside fern. Uncertain now which way to turn, He stood there, panting: then, as he About him now glanced furtively, Within the brake, alarmed, he saw A lurking weasel from whose jaw Dangled a dead grass-snake--and knew, Like it, he was a killer, too: Yet, now those sleuthing eyes of jet Seemed in cold accusation set Upon him, and he felt that he Could never dodge discovery Of his hot-headed crime, since those Detective eyes had scanned him close-- That he in vain had sought to hide The murdered corpse by the roadside. With hunted heart, distraught he stood; Then leapt the dyke; and through a wood, Trampling the windflowers and bluebells, He trekked towards the higher fells, Still scarcely knowing where he went Plunging across the tussocked bent; While startled grouse across his track Swerved, clucking out "Go back! Go back!" Or, so it seemed to his scared ears. But, on he forged, hag-rid with fears, Till his feet floundering on the brink Of Hellpit Moss began to sink: And, as he sank, it seemed to Jim That this was the best end for him-- 'Twere better far, if he must die, Beneath the black peathags to lie, Than dangle from a gallows-tree.... When, through his mind flashed vividly The thought of Kit and Isaac--they Were, surely, well upon their way... Were safely... Yet, if Molt were found-- And they were missing! To firm ground He struggled wildly at the thought Of what might chance, should they be caught And charged with murder ... they might swing For him! So, now through bent and ling, The grouse still clucking out "Go back!" Hastily he retraced the track Over the brae; and, stumbling down To the highroad, towards the town He slogged on at impetuous pace Until he reached the market-place. VII While back towards Castlehaugh again They travelled, first by trap, then train, Isaac in dream, still seemed to see His mother staring crazily.... When those dark eyes appeared to turn To steely piercing blue and burn Clean through him; and, without surprise He looked into his father's eyes-- His father, who had died for him, Had died to save him.... And now Jim-- Jim, too, it seemed.... He couldn't guess By what unlucky chance, unless John had turned vicious.... Jim, he knew, Hot-headed as he was, would do For Kit's sake anything short of... Ay! But, this was murder, seemingly: God-fearing John had been found dead; And Jim, so the policeman said, Had given himself up. And they, Kit and himself... In tense dismay He turned his anxious eyes to her, Where mute she sat and did not stir, Bolt-upright in the lamp's dim light, And stared out into the black night That seemed to swallow the swift train. What thoughts were harassing her brain He could but guess. He longed to speak A word or two to her and seek To bring some comfort to her heart: But, they'd been strictly kept apart Since they set out and not allowed To talk: and, even when the crowd Jogged them together as the train Had drawn up, he had tried in vain To get a word with her. If he By some sign could but let her see That 'twas not for themselves he feared! He'd little doubt they would be cleared By Jim's confession. But, 'twould be Jim Kit thought of, what fate threatened him, And not herself. For, even though They went scot-free, what they would owe To Jim, he dared not even think! And now, in dream, he saw Jim sink Into that nightmare moss again; While he, himself, stretched out in vain A helpless hand--his dream, come true-- And nothing, nothing he could do, To rescue Jim from jeopardy, Even should the questioning leave them free-- Free to live out their lives in peace, For which Jim paid--ay, their release Might cost Jim's life. Security Was always charged for, seemingly: And, if life granted happiness, 'Twas at expense of the distress Of someone else. Already Jim, Even though this had not come to him, In losing Kit and lending aid To win them happiness, had paid In his unselfish sacrifice A bitter and heartbreaking price, That, had luck chanced to load the dice Against himself, he felt sure he Would never have paid willingly. Then he recalled what had been said By the Fat Woman, long since dead. Her prophecy had come too true-- Ay, and it seemed his father's, too! So, to the rumble of the train, These thoughts went round and round again A sawdust ring within his brain.... Once more his mother's eyes would burn With hectic glare; and then would turn By some strange magic, ere he knew, To Cold Steel's eyes of stabbing blue Fierce twinkling fire... till, in a daze He drowsed; and saw now in amaze Jim lightly leap, with lively toss Of red locks, from the squelching moss Into the air and swing with ease Across the sky on a trapeze; When, letting go, in soaring flight He vanished in celestial light. VIII Isaac and Kit once more drew near the dyke Where the track branched off up the Callersyke: Then, heavy-hearted, up the brackened brae With weary stumbling steps they took their way; Till, on the threshold, now they stood before Coldknuckles' close-shut warped and weathered door, With eyes that on the worn boards seemed to see Pictured the whole infernal misery Of these last weeks; and Jim, their faithful friend, In clink, awaiting in his cell the end-- The end his loyalty to them had brought. And Isaac winced, galled by the gruelling thought-- If he had not on that November day Opened this very door and stolen away To seek his fortune, even now Jim might Above the circus-ring in aerial flight Be shooting, swallow-like, from one trapeze To another with his old deceptive ease.... Ay, and his father, too, be lording it Among the lions, if only... And yet, Kit-- What would be happening to Kit, if he Had never ventured--would not she still be Her father's victim? If--but, 'twas too late To think of "ifs": and none could dodge their fate; Not even haughty Cold Steel, who at least Appeared to swank it over man and beast With steady eye and stinging tongue. You'd got To take your luck in life, like it, or not. Again he saw the fat witch sitting mum; And heard Abe swagger "What's to come, will come!" And recollected how with his last breath Cold Steel had jested in the jaws of death. And now, as still they gazed at the grey wood, The door half-opened; and a stranger stood, A scrawny wife, eyeing them narrowly; Then sharply spoke "You're Ellen's son, maybe?" And, when he answered "Ay!" she told them all That had occurred. One day she'd chanced to call In passing and, on opening the door-- Her rap, unanswered--slumped down on the floor She had discovered Ellen with her head In a pool of blood; and had taken her for dead; But, found that still she breathed. 'Twould seem that she Had fallen in a fit and helplessly Had lain there, for how long she could not say: And she'd been tending Ellen since that day; Just slipping home at whiles to get things done As best she could contrive. But, now her son Was back, she might trust Ellen to his care, And tackle her own tasks. 'Twas hardly fair, Quitting her family for so long to fend For their own selves. Ellen had been no friend To put yourself out for: since she was young She'd always had a nippy nagging tongue: But, finding her like that, she couldn't well Leave her to die, alone--for, who could tell Whose ghost might haunt you? She'd not raised her head Once, since she had been lifted to her bed; But, lain there, senseless, and had scarcely stirred-- Ay, and she'd never breathed a single word, Not even a complaint, when, from a cup, She now and then would manage to dribble a sup Of soup between her lips. Queer, aught should keep Ellen from grousing; but, she seemed to sleep, Even with open eyes. 'Twas hard to know How long she'd last: but, she, herself, must go, Since she could leave her in his hands: and he, With the young wench, whoever she might be, Should manage to look after her. And now, Sleeking the dank hair back from Ellen's brow She bade good-day to them; and shut the door Behind her: when across the sanded floor Isaac tiptoed towards his mother's bed; And stood there looking down on that still head, Whose blank eyes gazed up at him with a blind Unrecognising stare. 'Twas strange to find His mother mute--so seldom at a loss, Of old, to greet his coming with a cross Cantankerous mutter. But now, startlingly, A light sprang in her eyes, that seemed to see Someone she knew; and, lifting up her head, She whispered "Cold Steel!" and then sank back, dead. IX A year went by; and spring came round again To Coldknuckles; when, dreaming by the peat, Awaiting Isaac, Kit could hear the sleet Slashing in gusty squalls against the pane, And the uproarious brawling of the burn That crashed down by the cottage in full spate. She knew the lambing would keep Isaac late; But, sorely now she longed for his return, To keep her mind from dwelling on the past And the mischancy happenings that had wrought Their still precarious blessings, and had brought Them through such dire distresses home at last. Though life went easy with them now, she knew The horror out of which so desperately They'd snatched their wedded bliss, remorselessly, For all his courage, haunted Isaac, too: And, even when the rapture of desire Drew them together, she would still surprise The pang of recollection in his eyes Blurring the brilliance of their blue fire. Now Isaac's hand unsnecked the rattling door; And, springing up, Kit saw him smiling there, With the wet dripping from his glistening hair And sleet-soused plaid on to the sanded floor: And, as he stood there, while the firelight played On his chilled face, she saw he held a wee Black motherless lamb; that now he tenderly Before the fire on the rag hearthrug laid For her to nurse. Then he looked up at her, Still smiling; and, now chuckling like Cold Steel, Remarked "'Twould seem that you've brought life to heel, To do your bidding, Kit--a well-trained cur! You've got me, minding sheep; and now, as well, A lamb to mother, as you wished the day We guzzled sandwiches upon the brae. So, though I've got to nip back to the stell, To-night you won't be lonesome, with the mite To see to and to keep you company. But, I had best be off, or, there will be More orphans to bring back before daylight." And now Kit filled for him a can of tea To take out to the bield with him, and cut Thick slabs of bread and cheese, that, in the hut, He'd not go hungry; while he patiently Awaited through the night, alert to aid The ewes in labour, helping them to bring New life to birth and ease their suffering. And, when he'd left, as, now no more afraid Of life, with black curls clustered round her head, Kit crouched with the milk-bottle by the peat, And heard the wee beast sucking at the teat, Her thoughts no longer brooded on the dead. [End of Coldknuckles, by Wilfrid Gibson]