Part 32

‘Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back on our ponies again and a half-hour along the home-trail. Then Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, “We will have the Corn-dance this year. There will be no war.” And that was all there was to it.’

Pharaoh stood up as though he had finished.

‘Yes,’ said Puck, rising too. ‘And what came out of it in the long run?’

‘Let me get at my story my own way,’ was the answer. ‘Look! it’s later than I thought. That Shoreham smack’s thinking of her supper.’ The children looked across the darkening Channel. A smack had hoisted a lantern and slowly moved west where Brighton pier lights ran out in a twinkling line. When they turned round The Gap was empty behind them.

‘I expect they’ve packed our trunks by now,’ said Dan. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be home.’

IF--

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master; If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And--which is more--you’ll be a Man, my son!

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

A St Helena Lullaby

How far is St Helena from a little child at play? What makes you want to wander there with all the world between? Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away. (No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)

How far is St Helena from a fight in Paris street? I haven’t time to answer now--the men are falling fast. The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat (If you take the first step you will take the last!)

How far is St Helena from the field at Austerlitz? You couldn’t hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar. But not so far for people who are living by their wits. [‘Gay go up’ means ‘gay go down’ the wide world o’er!)

How far is St Helena from an Emperor of France? I cannot see--I cannot tell--the crowns they dazzle so. The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance. (After open weather you may look for snow!)

How far is St Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar? A longish way--a longish way--with ten year more to run. It’s South across the water underneath a setting star. (What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)

How far is St Helena from the Beresina ice? An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack. But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice. (When you can’t go forward you must e’en come back!)

How far is St Helena from the field of Waterloo? A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon. A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do. (Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)

How far from St Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace? That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will. But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face, And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!

‘A Priest in Spite of Himself’

The day after they came home from the sea-side they set out on a tour of inspection to make sure everything was as they had left it. Soon they discovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-gaps with stakes and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up the hedges where the blackberries were setting.

‘It can’t be time for the gipsies to come along,’ said Una. ‘Why, it was summer only the other day!’

‘There’s smoke in Low Shaw!’ said Dan, sniffing. ‘Let’s make sure!’

They crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue smoke that leaned above the hollow of Low Shaw which lies beside the King’s Hill road. It used to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, and you can look straight down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow.

‘I thought so,’ Dan whispered, as they came up to the fence at the edge of the larches. A gipsy-van--not the show-man’s sort, but the old black kind, with little windows high up and a baby-gate across the door--was getting ready to leave. A man was harnessing the horses; an old woman crouched over the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; and a girl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking, thin dog snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old woman put it carefully in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back inside the van and tossed her a paper parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and they smelt singed feathers.

‘Chicken feathers!’ said Dan. ‘I wonder if they are old Hobden’s.’

Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the girl’s feet, the old woman fanned the fire with her hat, while the man led the horses up to the shafts, They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss.