Wandering Heath Part 7

"Right it is," says the woman aloft. "'Tis easy seen you're a hurler. But what shall us do for a cradle? Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty!"

"Ma'am to _you_," says my grandfather.

"If you've the common feelings of a gentleman, I'll ask you kindly to turn your back; I'm going to take off my stocking."

So my grandfather stared the other way very politely; and when he was told he might look again, he saw she had tied the stocking to the line and was running it out like a cradle into the dead waste of the night.

"Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!"

Before he could answer, plump! a man's leg came tumbling past his ear and scattered the ashes right and left.

"Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!"

This time 'twas a great white arm and hand, with a silver ring sunk tight in the flesh of the little finger.

"Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Warm them limbs!"

My grandfather picked them up and was warming them before the fire, when down came tumbling a great round head and bounced twice and lay in the firelight, staring up at him. And whose head was it but Archelaus Rowett's, that he'd run away from once already, that night?

"Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!"

This time 'twas another leg, and my grandfather was just about to lay hands on it, when the woman called down:

"Hendry Watty! catch it quick! It's my own leg I've thrown down by mistake!"

The leg struck the ground and bounced high, and Hendry Watty made a leap after it. . . .

And I reckon it's asleep he must have been: for what he caught was not Mrs. Rowett's leg, but the jib-boom of a deep-laden brigantine that was running him down in the dark. And as he sprang for it, his boat was crushed by the brigantine's fore-foot and went down under his very boot-soles. At the same time he let out a yell, and two or three of the crew ran forward and hoisted him up to the bowsprit and in on deck, safe and sound.

But the brigantine happened to be outward-bound for the River Plate; so that, what with one thing and another, 'twas eleven good months before my grandfather landed again at Port Loe. And who should be the first man he sees standing above the cove but William John Dunn?

"I'm very glad to see you," says William John Dunn.

"Thank you kindly," answers my grandfather; "and how's Mary Polly?"

"Why, as for that," he says, "she took so much looking after, that I couldn't feel I was keeping her properly under my eye till I married her, last June month."

"You was always one to over-do things," said my grandfather.

"But if you was alive an' well, why didn' you drop us a line?"

Now when it came to talk about "dropping a line" my grandfather fairly lost his temper. So he struck William John Dunn on the nose-- a thing he had never been known to do before--and William John Dunn hit him back, and the neighbours had to separate them. And next day, William John Dunn took out a summons against him.

Well, the case was tried before the magistrates: and my grandfather told his story from the beginning, quite straightforward, just as I've told it to you. And the magistrates decided that, taking one thing with another, he'd had a great deal of provocation, and fined him five s.h.i.+llings. And there the matter ended. But now you know the reason why I'm William John Dunn's grandson instead of Hendry Watty's.

JETSOM.

Where Gerennius' beacon stands High above Pendower sands; Where, about the windy Nare, Foxes breed and falcons pair; Where the gannet dries a wing Wet with fishy harvesting, And the cormorants resort, Flapping slowly from their sport With the fat Atlantic shoal, Homeward to Tregeagle's Hole-- Walking there, the other day, In a bight within a bay, I espied amid the rocks, Bruis'd and jamm'd, the daintiest box, That the waves had flung and left High upon an ivied cleft.

Striped it was with white and red, Satin-lined and carpeted, Hung with bells, and shaped withal Like the queer, fantastical Chinese temples you'll have seen Pictured upon white Nankin, Where, a.s.sembled in effective Head-dresses and odd perspective, Tiny dames and mandarins Expiate their egg-sh.e.l.l sins By reclining on their drumsticks, Waving fans and burning gum-sticks.

Land of poppy and pekoe!

Could thy sacred artists know-- Could they distantly conjecture How we use their architecture, Ousting the indignant Joss For a pampered Flirt or Floss, Poodle, Blenheim, Skye, Maltese, Lapped in purple and proud ease-- They might read their G.o.d's reproof Here on blister'd wall and roof; Scaling lacquer, dinted bells, Floor befoul'd of weed and sh.e.l.ls, Where, as erst the tabid Curse Brooded over Pelops' hea.r.s.e, Squats the sea-cow, keeping house, Sibylline, gelatinous.

Where is Carlo? Tell, O tell, Echo, from this fluted sh.e.l.l, In whose concave ear the tides Murmur what the main confides Of his compa.s.s'd treacheries!

What of Carlo? Did the breeze Madden to a gale while he, Curl'd and cus.h.i.+on'd cosily, Mixed in dreams its angry breathings With the tinkle of the tea-things In his mistress' cabin laid?

--Nor dyspeptic, nor dismay'd, Drowning in a gentle snore All the menace of the sh.o.r.e Thunder'd from the surf a-lee.

Near and nearer horribly,-- Scamper of affrighted feet, Voices cursing sail and sheet, While the tall s.h.i.+p shook in irons-- All the peril that environs Vessels 'twixt the wind and rock Clawing--driving? Did the shock, As the sunk reef split her back, First arouse him? Did the crack Widen swiftly and deposit Him in homeless night?

Or was it, Not when wave or wind a.s.sail'd, But in waters dumb and veil'd, That a looming shape uprist Sudden from the Channel mist, And with cras.h.i.+ng, rending bows Woke him, in his padded house, To a world of alter'd features?

Were these panic-ridden creatures They who, but an hour agone, Ran with biscuit, ran with bone, Ran with meats in lordly dishes, To antic.i.p.ate his wishes?

But an hour agone! And now how Vain his once compelling bow-wow!

Little dogs are highly treasured, Petted, patted, pamper'd, pleasured: But when s.h.i.+ps go down in fogs, No one thinks of little dogs.

Ah, but how dost fare, I wonder, Now thine Argo splits asunder, Pouring on the wasteful sea All her precious bales, and thee?

Little use is now to rave, Calling G.o.d or saint to save; Little use, if choked with salt, a Prayer to holy John of Malta.

Patron John, he hears thee not.

Or, perchance, in dusky grot Pale Persephone, repining For the fields that still are s.h.i.+ning, s.h.i.+ning in her sleepless brain, Calling "Back! come back again!"

Fain of playmate, fain of pet-- Any drug to slay regret, Hath from h.e.l.l upcast an eye On thy fatal symmetry; And beguiled her sooty lord With his brother to accord For this black betrayal.

Else Nereus in his car of sh.e.l.ls Long ago had cleft the waters With his natatory daughters To the rescue: or Poseidon Sent a fish for thee to ride on-- Such a steed as erst Arion Reached the mainland high and dry on.

Steed appeareth none, nor pilot!

Little dog, if it be thy lot To essay the dismal track Where Odysseus half hung back, How wilt thou conciliate That grim mastiff by the gate?

Sure, 'twill puzzle thee to fawn On his muzzles three that yawn Antrous; or to find, poor dunce, Grace in his six eyes at once-- Those red eyes of Cerberus.

Daughters of Ocea.n.u.s, Save our darling from this hap!

Arethusa, spread thy lap, Catch him, and with pinky hands Bear him to the coral sands, Where thy sisters sit in school Carding the Milesian wool:-- Clio, Spio, Beroe, Opis and Phyllodoce,-- Pa.s.s by these, and also pa.s.s Yellow-haired Lycorias; Pa.s.s Ligea, shrill of song-- All the dear surrounding throng; Lay him at Cyrene's feet There, where all the rivers meet: In their waters crystalline Bathe him clean of weed and brine, Comb him, wipe his pretty eyes, Then to Zeus who rules the skies Call, a.s.sembling in a round Every fish that can be found-- Whale and merman, lobster, cod, t.i.ttlebat and demiG.o.d:-- "Lord of all the Universe, We, thy finny pensioners, Sue thee for the little life Hurried hence by Hades' wife.

Sooner than she call him her dog, Change, O change him to a mer-dog!

Re-inspire the vital spark; Bid him wag his tail and bark, Bark for joy to wag a tail Bright with many a flas.h.i.+ng scale; Bid his locks refulgent twine, Hyacinthian, hyaline; Bid him gambol, bid him follow Blithely to the mermen's 'holloa!'

When they call the deep-sea calves Home with wreathed univalves.

Softly shall he sleep to-night, Curled on couch of stalagmite, Soft and sound, if slightly moister Than the sh.e.l.l-protected oyster.

Grant us this, Omnipotent, And to Hera shall be sent One black pearl, but of a size That shall turn her rivals' eyes Greener than the greenest snake Fed in meadow-gra.s.s, and make All Olympus run agog-- Grant for this our darling dog!"

Musing thus, the other day, In a bight within a bay, I'd a sudden thought that yet some Purpose for this piece of jetsom Might be found; and straight supplied it.

On the turf I knelt beside it, Disengaged it from the boulders, Hoisted it upon my shoulders, Bore it home, and, with a few Tin-tacks and a pot of glue, Mended it, affix'd a ledge; Set it by the elder-hedge; And in May, with horn and kettle, Coax'd a swarm of bees to settle.

Here around me now they hum; And in autumn should you come Westward to my Cornish home, There'll be honey in the comb-- Honey that, with clotted cream (Though I win not your esteem As a bard), will prove me wise, In that, of the double prize Sent by Hermes from the sea, I've Sold the song and kept the bee-hive.

WRESTLERS.

As Boutigo's Van (officially styled the "Vivid") slackened its already inconsiderable pace at the top of the street, to slide precipitately down into Troy upon a heated skid, the one outside pa.s.senger began to stare about him with the air of a man who compares present impressions with old memories. His eyes travelled down the inclined plane of slate roofs, glistening in a bright interval between two showers, to the masts which rocked slowly by the quays, and from thence to the silver bar of sea beyond the harbour's mouth, where the outline of Battery Point wavered unsteadily in the dazzle of sky and water. He sniffed the fragrance of pilchards cooking and the fumes of pitch blown from the s.h.i.+p-builders' yards; and scanned with some curiosity the men and women who drew aside into doorways to let the van pa.s.s.

He was a powerfully made man of about sixty-five, with a solemn, hard-set face. The upper lip was clean-shaven and the chin decorated with a square, grizzled beard--a mode of wearing the hair that gave prominence to the ugly lines of the mouth. He wore a Sunday-best suit and a silk hat. He carried a blue band-box on his knees, and his enormous hands were spread over the cover. Boutigo, who held the reins beside him, seemed, in comparison with this mighty pa.s.senger, but a trivial accessory of his own vehicle.

"Where did you say William Dendle lives?" asked the big man, as the van swung round a sharp corner and came to a halt under the signboard of "The Lugger."

"Straight on for maybe quarter of a mile--turn down a court to the right, facin' the toll-house. You'll see his sign, 'W. Dendle, Block and Pump Manufacturer.' There's a flight o' steps leadin' 'ee slap into his workshop."