Part 14

"Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea; 'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I. You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three; But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by. I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own; I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill: But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone! And even if you canna come -- JUST WRITE AND SAY YOU WILL."

"Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try. It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year. I'm thinking there will be no 'next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer! You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart; But if you'll only SAY you'll come, then will I hope and pray. I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."

The Man Who Knew

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be, And from his dream forthright a picture grew, A painting all the people thronged to see, And joyed therein -- till came the Man Who Knew, Saying: "'Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools! He painteth not according to the schools."

The Dreamer probed Life's mystery of woe, And in a book he sought to give the clue; The people read, and saw that it was so, And read again -- then came the Man Who Knew, Saying: "Ye witless ones! this book is vile: It hath not got the rudiments of style."

Love smote the Dreamer's lips, and silver clear He sang a song so sweet, so tender true, That all the market-place was thrilled to hear, And listened rapt -- till came the Man Who Knew, Saying: "His technique's wrong; he singeth ill. Waste not your time." The singer's voice was still.

And then the people roused as if from sleep, Crying: "What care we if it be not Art! Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep? Come, let us crown him where he sits apart." Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread, His song unsung, they found their Dreamer -- DEAD.

The Logger

In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight, I am sitting by the camp-fire's fading cheer; Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill, And the breakers in the bay are moaning drear. The toilful hours are sped, the boys are long abed, And I alone a weary vigil keep; In the sightless, sullen sky I can hear the night-hawk cry, And the frogs in frenzied chorus from the creek.

And somehow the embers' glow brings me back the long ago, The days of merry laughter and light song; When I sped the hours away with the gayest of the gay In the giddy whirl of fashion's festal throng. Oh, I ran a grilling race and I little recked the pace, For the lust of youth ran riot in my blood; But at last I made a stand in this God-forsaken land Of the pine-tree and the mountain and the flood.

And now I've got to stay, with an overdraft to pay, For pleasure in the past with future pain; And I'm not the chap to whine, for if the chance were mine I know I'd choose the old life once again. With its woman's eyes a-shine, and its flood of golden wine; Its fever and its frolic and its fun; The old life with its din, its laughter and its sin -- And chuck me in the gutter when it's done.

Ah, well! it's past and gone, and the memory is wan, That conjures up each old familiar face; And here by fortune hurled, I am dead to all the world, And I've learned to lose my pride and keep my place. My ways are hard and rough, and my arms are strong and tough, And I hew the dizzy pine till darkness falls; And sometimes I take a dive, just to keep my heart alive, Among the gay saloons and dancing halls.

In the distant, dinful town just a little drink to drown The cares that crowd and canker in my brain; Just a little joy to still set my pulses all a-thrill, Then back to brutish labour once again. And things will go on so until one day I shall know That Death has got me cinched beyond a doubt; Then I'll crawl away from sight, and morosely in the night My weary, wasted life will peter out.

Then the boys will gather round, and they'll launch me in the ground, And pile the stones the timber wolf to foil; And the moaning pine will wave overhead a nameless grave, Where the black snake in the sunshine loves to coil. And they'll leave me there alone, and perhaps with softened tone Speak of me sometimes in the camp-fire's glow, As a played-out, broken chum, who has gone to Kingdom Come, And who went the pace in England long ago.

The Passing of the Year

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, My den is all a cosy glow; And snug before the fire I sit, And wait to FEEL the old year go. I dedicate to solemn thought Amid my too-unthinking days, This sober moment, sadly fraught With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter's chime Will ring the curtain down on you. Your mien is sad, your step is slow; You falter as a Sage in pain; Yet turn, Old Year, before you go, And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere, Let us all read, whate'er the cost: O Maiden! why that bitter tear? Is it for dear one you have lost? Is it for fond illusion gone? For trusted lover proved untrue? O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right So sleek, so prosperously clad! What see you in that aged wight That makes your smile so gay and glad? What opportunity unmissed? What golden gain, what pride of place? What splendid hope? O Optimist! What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom, What find you in that filmy gaze? What menace of a tragic doom? What dark, condemning yesterdays? What urge to crime, what evil done? What cold, confronting shape of fear? O haggard, haunted, hidden One What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit, The countless eyes that stare and stare; Some are with approbation lit, And some are shadowed with despair. Some show a smile and some a frown; Some joy and hope, some pain and woe: Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down! Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go, And I prepare to meet the New: Old Year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I -- I THANK GOD FOR EACH DAY OF YOU; There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

The Ghosts

Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalised his pen; Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then; Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge out, fling Flat in your face a soul-thought -- Bing! Twiddle your heart-strings in his clutch. "Bah!" said Smith, "let my body lie stripped to the buff in swinish shame, If I can blaze in the radiant sky out of adoring stars my name. Sober am I nonentitized; drunk am I more than half a god. Well, let the flesh be sacrificed; spirit shall speak and shame the clod. Who would not gladly, gladly give Life to do one thing that will live?"

Smith had a friend, we'll call him Brown; dearer than brothers were those two. When in the wassail Smith would drown, Brown would rescue and pull him through. When Brown was needful Smith would lend; so it fell as the years went by, Each on the other would depend: then at the last Smith came to die.

There Brown sat in the sick man's room, still as a stone in his despair; Smith bent on him his eyes of doom, shook back his lion mane of hair; Said: "Is there one in my chosen line, writer of forthright tales my peer? Look in that little desk of mine; there is a package, bring it here. Story of stories, gem of all; essence and triumph, key and clue; Tale of a loving woman's fall; soul swept hell-ward, and God! it's true. I was the man -- Oh, yes, I've paid, paid with mighty and mordant pain. Look! here's the masterpiece I've made out of my sin, my manhood slain. Art supreme! yet the world would stare, know my mistress and blaze my shame. I have a wife and daughter -- there! take it and thrust it in the flame."

Brown answered: "Master, you have dipped pen in your heart, your phrases sear. Ruthless, unflinching, you have stripped naked your soul and set it here. Have I not loved you well and true? See! between us the shadows drift; This bit of blood and tears means You -- oh, let me have it, a parting gift. Sacred I'll hold it, a trust divine; sacred your honour, her dark despair; Never shall it see printed line: here, by the living God I swear." Brown on a Bible laid his hand; Smith, great writer of stories, sighed: "Comrade, I trust you, and understand. Keep my secret!" And so he died.

Smith was buried -- up soared his sales; lured you his books in every store; Exquisite, whimsy, heart-wrung tales; men devoured them and craved for more. So when it slyly got about Brown had a posthumous manuscript, Jones, the publisher, sought him out, into his pocket deep he dipped. "A thousand dollars?" Brown shook his head. "The story is not for sale," he said.