Young Adventure Part 10

The Fiddling Wood

G.o.ds, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron, Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked Over the rough crest of the hairy wood In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked, Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ The trees with magic. All the wood was still --

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose, Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth -- Enchantment's days were over -- s.h.!.+ -- Suppose That crouching log there, where the white light stipples Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" -- I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled, Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger!

And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.

His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.

And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly -- He swept his beaver in a rush of wings!

Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened, Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted, Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny, He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips hard on A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted.

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud, From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster, Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming, The music wailed unutterable disaster; Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud, Dead, choking moans from hearts once n.o.bly dreaming.

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away Upon one minor chord, and was resumed In anguish; fell again to a low cry, Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed, Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay, Hurling mad, broken legions down to die

Through everlasting h.e.l.ls -- The tears were salt Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind The fury of the player, all the trees Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind, Sweeping mad bows to music without fault, Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim -- Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust -- Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim, Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!

Portrait of a Boy

After the whipping he crawled into bed, Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.

How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!

He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed, Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright, The crooked constellations of the South; Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars, The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.

Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen, Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again, Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold, A black chest bore the skull and bones in white Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames, Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite, Hailing their fellows with outrageous names, The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.

"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"

Portrait of a Baby

He lay within a warm, soft world Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled, Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red, Wave upon wave that broke and whirled To vanish in the grey-green gloom, Perspectiveless and shadowy.

A bulging world that had no walls, A flowing world, most like the sea, Compa.s.sing all infinity Within a shapeless, ebbing room, An endless tide that swells and falls...

He slept and woke and slept again.

As a veil drops Time dropped away; s.p.a.ce grew a toy for children's play, Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense -- He lay in naked impotence; Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls Heavily up brown, light-baked walls, To fall in wreck, her task undone, Yet somehow striving toward the sun.

So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter, Shut in the old way of the fighter, His feet curled up to grip the ground, His muscles tautened for a bound; And though he felt, and felt alone, Strange brightness stirred him to the bone, Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep Buried the hope, the call, the leap; A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark.

He was absorbed into the dark.

He woke again and felt a surge Within him, a mysterious urge That grew one hungry flame of pa.s.sion; The whole world altered shape and fas.h.i.+on.

Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn, He scourged the heavens with his scorn, Lifting a bitter voice to cry Against the eternal treachery -- Till, suddenly, he found the breast, And ceased, and all things were at rest, The earth grew one warm languid sea And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept Throughout him. He was quenched and slept.

So, while the moon made broad her ring, He slept and cried and was a king.

So, worthily, he acted o'er The endless miracle once more.

Facing immense adventures daily, He strove still onward, weeping, gaily, Conquered or fled from them, but grew As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do.

Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect.

He gripped the air and stood erect And splendid. With immortal rage He entered on man's heritage!

The General Public

"Ah, did you once see Sh.e.l.ley plain?" -- Browning.

"Sh.e.l.ley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"

The old man said. A dry smile creased his face With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!

That one of Browning's! Sh.e.l.ley? Sh.e.l.ley plain?

The time that I remember best is this --

A thin mire crept along the rutted ways, And all the trees were harried by cold rain That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased, Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist Over the school. The walks were like blurred gla.s.s.

The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh Against the deepening darkness of the sky; And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon, Filling the s.p.a.ce about with golden motes, And making all things larger than they were.

One yellow halo hung above a door, That gave on a black pa.s.sage. Round about Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell, Pus.h.i.+ng and jostling like a stormy sea, With shouting faces, turned a pasty white By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods, Or slimy b.a.l.l.s of mud. A few gripped stones.

And there, his back against the battered door, His pile of books scattered about his feet, Stood Sh.e.l.ley while two others held him fast, And the clods beat upon him. 'Sh.e.l.ley! Sh.e.l.ley!'

The high shouts rang through all the corridors, 'Sh.e.l.ley! Mad Sh.e.l.ley! Come along and help!'

And all the crowd dug madly at the earth, Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud, And fouled each other and themselves. And still Sh.e.l.ley stood up. His eyes were like a flame Set in some white, still room; for all his face Was white, a whiteness like no human color, But white and dreadful as consuming fire.

His hands shook now and then, like slender cords Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.

So I saw Sh.e.l.ley plain."

"And you?" I said.

"I? I threw straighter than the most of them, And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."

Road and Hills