King Cole Part 3

Go, find some other ground.

_A Policeman:_

Pa.s.s through the city. You can pitch and play One mile beyond it, after five to-day.

_The Showman:_

One mile beyond, what use is that to me?

_A Policeman:_

Those are the rules, here printed, you can see.

_The Showman:_

But let me see the Mayor, to make sure.

_The Soldiers:_

These are his printed orders, all secure.

Pa.s.s through or back, you must not linger here, Blocking the road with all this circus gear.

Which will you do, then: back or pa.s.s along?

_The Showman:_

Pa.s.s.

_The Soldiers:_

Then away, and save your breath for song, We cannot bother with your right and wrong.

George, guide these waggons through the western gate.

Now, march, d'ye hear? and do not stop to bait This side a mile; for that's the order. March!

The Showman toppled like a broken arch.

The line-squall roared upon them with loud lips.

A green-lit strangeness followed, like eclipse

They pa.s.sed within, but, when within, King Cole Slipped from the van to head the leading team.

He breathed into his flute his very soul, A noise like waters in a pebbly stream, And straight the spirits that inhabit dream Came round him, and the rain-squall roared its last And bright the wind-vane s.h.i.+fted as it pa.s.sed.

And in the rush of sun and glittering cloud That followed on the storm, he led the way, Fluting the sodden circus through the crowd That trod the city streets in holiday.

And lo, a marvellous thing, the gouted clay, Splashed on the waggons and the horses, glowed, They shone like embers as they trod the road.

And round the tired horses came the Powers That stir men's spirits, waking or asleep, To thoughts like planets and to acts like flowers, Out of the inner wisdom's beauty deep: These led the horses, and, as marshalled sheep Fronting a dog, in line, the people stared At those bright waggons led by the bright-haired.

And, as they marched, the spirits sang, and all The horses crested to the tune and stept Like centaurs to a pa.s.sionate festival With s.h.i.+ning throats that mantling criniers swept.

And all the hearts of all the watchers leapt To see those horses pa.s.sing and to hear That song that came like blessing to the ear.

And, to the crowd, the circus artists seemed Splendid, because the while that singing quired Each artist was the part that he had dreamed And glittered with the Power he desired, Women and men, no longer wet or tired From long despair, now shone like queens and kings, There they were crowned with their imaginings.

And with them, walking by the vans, there came The wild things from the woodland and the mead, The red stag, with his tender-stepping dame, Branched, and high-tongued and ever taking heed.

Nose-wrinkling rabbits nibbling at the weed, The hares that box by moonlight on the hill, The bright trout's death, the otter from the mill.

There, with his mask made virtuous, came the fox, Talking of landscape while he thought of meat; Blood-loving weasels, honey-harrying brocks, Stoats, and the mice that build among the wheat, Dormice, and moles with little hands for feet, The water-rat that gnaws the yellow flag, Toads from the stone and merrows from the quag.

And over them flew birds of every kind, Whose way, or song, or speed, or beauty brings Delight and understanding to the mind; The bright-eyed, feathery, thready-legged things.

There they, too, sang amid a rush of wings, With sweet, clear cries and gleams from wing and crest, Blue, scarlet, white, gold plume and speckled breast.

And all the vans seemed grown with living leaves And living flowers, the best September knows, Moist poppies scarlet from the Hilcote sheaves, Green-fingered bine that runs the barley-rows, Pale candylips, and those intense blue blows That trail the porches in the autumn dusk, Tempting the noiseless moth to tongue their musk.

So, tired thus, so tended, and so sung, They crossed the city through the marvelling crowd.

Maids with wide eyes from upper windows hung, The children waved their toys and sang aloud.

But in his van the beaten showman bowed His head upon his hands, and wept, not knowing Aught of what pa.s.sed except that wind was blowing.

All through the town the fluting led them on, But near the western gate King Cole retired; And, as he ceased, the vans no longer shone, The bright procession dimmed like lamps expired; Again with muddy vans and horses tired, And artists cross and women out of luck, The sodden circus plodded through the muck.

The crowd of following children loitered home; Maids shut the windows lest more rain should come; The circus left the streets of flowers and flags, King Cole walked with it, huddling in his rags.

They reached the western gate and sought to pa.s.s.

"Take back this frowsy show to where it was,"

The sergeant of the gateway-sentry cried; "You know quite well you cannot pa.s.s outside."

_The Showman:_

But we were told to pa.s.s here, by the guard.

_The Sergeant:_

Here are the printed orders on the card.

No traffic, you can read. Clear out.

_The Showman:_

But where?

_The Sergeant:_

Where you're not kicked from, or there's room to spare.

Go back and out of town the way you came.

_The Showman:_

I've just been sent from there. Is this a game?

_The Sergeant:_

You'll find it none, my son, if that's your tone.