Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (614 page)

‘And yet, what else could I have done?’ he said. ‘The sheep are the people.’

‘It is a very old tale,’ Puck answered. ‘I have heard the like of it not only on the Naked Chalk, but also among the Trees — under Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.’

The afternoon shadows filled all the quiet emptiness of Norton Pit. The children heard the sheep-bells and Young jim’s busy bark above them, and they scrambled up the slope to the level.

‘We let you have your sleep out,’ said Mr Dudeney, as the flock scattered before them. ‘It’s making for tea-time now.’

‘Look what I’ve found, said Dan, and held up a little blue flint arrow-head as fresh as though it had been chipped that very day.

‘Oh,’ said Mr Dudeney, ‘the closeter you be to the turf the more you’re apt to see things. I’ve found ‘em often. Some says the fairies made ‘em, but I says they was made by folks like ourselves — only a goodish time back. They’re lucky to keep. Now, you couldn’t ever have slept — not to any profit — among your father’s trees same as you’ve laid out on Naked Chalk — could you?’

‘One doesn’t want to sleep in the woods,’ said Una.

‘Then what’s the good of ‘em?’ said Mr Dudeney. ‘Might as well set in the barn all day. Fetch ‘em ‘long, Jim boy!’

The Downs, that looked so bare and hot when they came, were full of delicious little shadow-dimples; the smell of the thyme and the salt mixed together on the south-west drift from the still sea; their eyes dazzled with the low sun, and the long grass under it looked golden. The sheep knew where their fold was, so Young Jim came back to his master, and they all four strolled home, the scabious-heads swishing about their ankles, and their shadows streaking behind them like the shadows of giants.

Song of the Men’s Side

     Once we feared The Beast — when he followed us we ran,

     Ran very fast though we knew

     It was not right that The Beast should master Man;

     But what could we Flint-workers do?

     The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears —

     Grinned at the hammers that we made;

     But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife —

     And this is the Buyer of the Blade!

          Room for his shadow on the grass — let it pass!

          To left and right — stand clear!

          This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!

          This is the great God Tyr!

     Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan,

     For he knew it was not right

     (And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;

     So he went to the Children of the Night.

     He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.

     When he begged for the Knife they said:

     ‘The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!’

     And that was the price he paid.

          Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead — run ahead!

          Shout it so the Women’s Side can hear!

          This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!

          This is the great God Tyr!

     Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,

     As far as we can see them and beyond.

     We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep

     Tally at the shearing-pond.

     We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,

     We can sleep after meals in the sun;

     For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,

     Feet-in-the-Night have run!

     Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!),

     Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!

     Then:

          Room for his shadow on the grass — let it pass!

          To left and right — stand clear!

          This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!

          This is the great God Tyr!

BROTHER SQUARE-TOES

Philadelphia

   If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,

   You mustn’t take my stories for a guide.

   There’s little left indeed of the city you will read of,

   And all the folk I write about have died.

   Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand,

   Or remember what his cunning and his skill did.

   And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zinnendorf,

   Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded.

        It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis

        (Never say I didn’t give you warning).

        In Seventeen Ninety-three ‘twas there for all to see,

        But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

   If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,

   You mustn’t go by everything I’ve said.

   Bob Bicknell’s Southern Stages have been laid aside for ages,

   But the Limited will take you there instead.

   Toby Hirte can’t be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen,

   North Second Street — no matter when you call;

   And I fear you’ll search in vain for the wash-house down the lane

   Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball.

        It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden

        (Never say I didn’t give you warning).

        In Seventeen Ninety-four ‘twas a famous dancing-floor —

        But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

   If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning,

   You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel.

   You needn’t try your luck at Epply’s or the ‘Buck,’

   Though the Father of his Country liked them well.

   It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos,

   Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed — so

   You must treat as out-of-date the story I relate

   Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so.

        He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Luther

        (Never say I didn’t give you warning).

        In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) alive,

        But he’s not in Philadelphia this morning.

   If you’re off to Philadelphia this morning,

   And wish to prove the truth of what I say,

   I pledge my word you’ll find the pleasant land behind

   Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way.

   Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the cat-bird sings his tune;

   Still Autumn sets the maple-forest blazing.

   Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-compelling musk;

   Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing.

        They are there, there, there with Earth immortal

        (Citizens, I give you friendly warning).

        The things that truly last when men and times have passed,

        They are all in Pennsylvania this morning!

Brother Square-Toes

It was almost the end of their visit to the seaside. They had turned themselves out of doors while their trunks were being packed, and strolled over the Downs towards the dull evening sea. The tide was dead low under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled waves grieved along the sands up the coast to Newhaven and down the coast to long, grey Brighton, whose smoke trailed out across the Channel.

They walked to The Gap, where the cliff is only a few feet high. A windlass for hoisting shingle from the beach below stands at the edge of it. The Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an old ship’s figurehead of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall. ‘This time tomorrow we shall be at home, thank goodness,’ said Una. ‘I hate the sea!’

‘I believe it’s all right in the middle,’ said Dan. ‘The edges are the sorrowful parts.’

Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, levelled his telescope at some fishing-boats, shut it with a click and walked away. He grew smaller and smaller along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of white chalk every few yards show the path even on the darkest night. ‘Where’s Cordery going?’said Una.

‘Half-way to Newhaven,’said Dan. ‘Then he’ll meet the Newhaven coastguard and turn back. He says if coastguards were done away with, smuggling would start up at once.’

A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing:

     ‘The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye —

     On Telscombe Tye at night it was —

     She saw the smugglers riding by,

     A very pretty sight it was!’

Feet scrabbled on the flinty path. A dark, thin-faced man in very neat brown clothes and broad-toed shoes came up, followed by Puck.

     ‘Three Dunkirk boats was standin’ in!’

the man went on. ‘Hssh!’ said Puck. ‘You’ll shock these nice young people.’

‘Oh! Shall I? Mille pardons!’ He shrugged his shoulders almost up to his ears — spread his hands abroad, and jabbered in French. ‘No comprenny?’ he said. ‘I’ll give it you in Low German.’ And he went off in another language, changing his voice and manner so completely that they hardly knew him for the same person. But his dark beady-brown eyes still twinkled merrily in his lean face, and the children felt that they did not suit the straight, plain, snuffy-brown coat, brown knee-breeches, and broad-brimmed hat. His hair was tied ‘in a short pigtail which danced wickedly when he turned his head.

‘Ha’ done!’ said Puck, laughing. ‘Be one thing or t’other, Pharaoh — French or English or German — no great odds which.’

‘Oh, but it is, though,’ said Una quickly. ‘We haven’t begun German yet, and — and we’re going back to our French next week.’

‘Aren’t you English?’ said Dan. ‘We heard you singing just now.’

‘Aha! That was the Sussex side o’ me. Dad he married a French girl out o’ Boulogne, and French she stayed till her dyin’ day. She was an Aurette, of course. We Lees mostly marry Aurettes. Haven’t you ever come across the saying:

     ‘Aurettes and Lees,

     Like as two peas.

     What they can’t smuggle,

     They’ll run over seas’?

‘Then, are you a smuggler?’ Una cried; and, ‘Have you smuggled much?’said Dan.

Mr Lee nodded solemnly.

‘Mind you,’ said he, ‘I don’t uphold smuggling for the generality o’ mankind — mostly they can’t make a do of it — but I was brought up to the trade, d’ye see, in a lawful line o’ descent on’ — he waved across the Channel — ’on both sides the water. ‘Twas all in the families, same as fiddling. The Aurettes used mostly to run the stuff across from Boulogne, and we Lees landed it here and ran it up to London Town, by the safest road.’

‘Then where did you live?’ said Una.

‘You mustn’t ever live too close to your business in our trade. We kept our little fishing smack at Shoreham, but otherwise we Lees was all honest cottager folk — at Warminghurst under Washington — Bramber way — on the old Penn estate.’

‘Ah!’ said Puck, squatted by the windlass. ‘I remember a piece about the Lees at Warminghurst, I do:

     ‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst

     That wasn’t a gipsy last and first.

I reckon that’s truth, Pharaoh.’

Pharaoh laughed. ‘Admettin’ that’s true,’ he said, ‘my gipsy blood must be wore pretty thin, for I’ve made and kept a worldly fortune.’

‘By smuggling?’ Dan asked. ‘No, in the tobacco trade.’

‘You don’t mean to say you gave up smuggling just to go and be a tobacconist!’ Dan looked so disappointed they all had to laugh.

‘I’m sorry; but there’s all sorts of tobacconists,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘How far out, now, would you call that smack with the patch on her foresail?’ He pointed to the fishing-boats.

‘A scant mile,’ said Puck after a quick look.