
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Coldknuckles
Author: Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson (1878-1962)
Date of first publication: 1947
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Frederick Muller, 1947
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 3 February 2013
Date last updated: 3 February 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1040

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






[Illustration: Cover]




  COLDKNUCKLES


  by

  WILFRID GIBSON




  LONDON
  FREDERICK MULLER LTD
  29 GREAT JAMES STREET W.C.1




  FIRST PUBLISHED BY FREDERICK MULLER LTD.
  IN 1947
  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  THE CAMELOT PRESS LTD.
  LONDON AND SOUTHAMPTON




  by
  Wilfrid Gibson

  _Collected Poems, 1905-1925
  The Golden Room
  Hazards
  Islands
  Fuel
  Coming and Going
  The Alert
  Challenge
  The Searchlights
  The Outpost
  Solway Ford and Other Poems: A Selection
  The Island Stag_




  Coldknuckles




  ONE

  I

  For mooning at his task, kept in,
  Before young Isaac Bell could win
  To the bleak ridge above the town,
  The dank November night closed down:
  And, when he'd passed the last street-lamp,
  He'd still got three mirk miles to tramp
  Across the mizzle-hidden moor,
  Till he'd draw nigh Coldknuckles' door--
  Three miles, ere he might reach again
  The two-roomed cottage, but and ben,
  Where, with his mother, Ellen Bell,
  He dwelt, perched high on Caller Fell.
  Though sturdily the youngster strode
  Along the solitary road,
  And brave and sharp his heelplates rang
  On the hard metal, while he sang
  In little jerks beneath his breath
  The ballad of Cockrobin's death,
  Yet, pit-a-pat the lad's heart went,
  In dread of the skirlnaked bent
  Stretching betwixt him and his seat
  In the snug ingle by the peat.

  How clearly he could see it there
  In the red glow--the battered chair,
  Awaiting him, with broken back
  And slippery seat of shiny black,
  Where he would crouch with nodding head,
  Till, slithering to the floor, to bed
  His mother'd pack him off!  But, he
  Was hungry now: and there'd be tea--
  His cracked blue mug and scrap-heaped plate--
  And mother, vexed that he was late!
  Ay, she'd the nippy tongue to sting
  A lad's wit for woolgathering,
  A hettle tongue and skelping hand...
  At times, he scarce could understand
  What came to her at all, that she
  Should glare at him so huffily
  And mutter to herself, as if
  His face had given her a gliff.
  What was there in his looks at all
  To take a scunner at?  What call
  Had his own mother ... Why, at school,
  Though, odd whiles, teacher'd dub him "fool,"
  His classmates liked him well enough:
  They kenned Coldknuckles was no guff
  At games, or, fighting...
                  But, her tongue,
  He'd not mind that now, though it stung
  As bees when you stirred up their bike.
  'Twas this long road he didn't like--
  This lonesome road he couldn't stand,
  With not a house on either hand
  To show a lad a friendly light
  And keep his heart up this thick night,
  No glisk nor glimmer all the way.
  And he'd to go by Dead Man's Brae,
  Where underneath a ragged wood
  A dour forbidding church had stood;
  And to its soggy burial ground
  Had gathered from the country round
  Forgotten generations in;
  While men of God and men of sin
  Had mouldered in its shadow dank,
  And raised a crop of nettles rank,
  Nurturing with rain-rotted bones
  The weeds that swarmed the cracked headstones,
  As though they strove with all their might
  To screen those kinless names from sight--
  Forgotten by the countryside
  That once was all their love and pride--
  Till nettle, darnel, dock and rush,
  Thistle and sprawling bramble bush,
  Flourishing fat on that sour sod,
  Had buried the grim house of God,
  Whose half-sunk weather-perished stones
  Crumbled above man's crumbling bones.
  Yet, the first nippy night would show
  Those tombstones, naked, row on row,
  Above the nettles stricken black.

  Cold prickles crawled up Isaac's back,
  Bristling his scalp, till, cluttering,
  He would have given anything
  If only he might make a round
  And dodge that spooky burial ground:
  But in such fog he feared to quit
  The road, lest he should stray, and It,
  Through sluthery moss and clungy sump,
  Should track him until the Last Trump--
  The nameless shapeless Dread, that now
  Dogged close at heel; though when, or, how
  The Thing had fallen in behind,
  He could not tell; and, fleyed to find
  His own fetch following, and learn
  His doom of death, he dared not turn
  His eyes to meet that grisly grin
  Which sent cold shivers under his skin,
  As, mimicking the way he walked,
  Stealthily his own spectre stalked,
  Fumbling chill fingers through his hair....
  Then, all at once, the foggy air
  Was ripped with ellerish yells and wails;
  And boggles out of old wives' tales--
  Brag, homey, hobthrush, wirrikow--
  Were flaffering all about him now.
  Skirl after skirl sang through the night,
  Till he was bivvering with fright;
  When, in his lug, more shrill than skreel
  Of pencil on slate, or, piercing squeal
  Of griding drag-locked wagon-wheel,
  Shivered a last nerve-riving shriek.
  He felt a soft wing brush his cheek;
  And knew those eldritch hoots and howls
  Were only cries of hungry owls,
  Chilling his very blood to ice,
  As, quartering the bent for mice,
  They hunted, baffled by blind mist.
  So, now unclasping one clenched fist,
  Whose fingernails had bitten deep
  Into his aching palm to keep
  His courage from quite oozing out,
  He gave a hearty hoyting shout;
  Then, fingers thrust between his teeth.
  After the owls, across the heath
  He sent a mocking whistle shrill,
  Whose echo, tossed from hill to hill,
  Seemed to reply from every art;
  And warmed the cockles of his heart;
  And kept his pecker up a while....
  Yet, when he'd trudged another mile
  And neared the fog-filled burial ground,
  And now could only catch the sound
  Of his own heelplates, as he trod
  The endless turnpike, iron-shod,
  Clat-clat, clat-clatter, heel and toe,
  As if for ever he must go
  Through that unearthly hush, aghast,
  Getting no further, till at last
  He'd drop, deadbeat, he longed to hear
  The hoolets shrieking, shrill and clear:
  Because, far worse than any yell,
  He feared that fogbound eerie fell
  Silence, wherein the Unseen Thing,
  Bristling, with sinews taut to spring,
  If he should stumble in the least,
  Slunk round him like a sleiching beast.

  It seemed he must let out a scream
  To break the spell: when, as in dream,
  Far off and faint, he caught the ring
  Of hoofs and heard the lumbering
  Of wheels; and hope was in his heart
  It might be some belated cart
  Rumbling towards him through the night.
  If only he could see a light,
  Might only change a word or two,
  In passing with some chap he knew--
  "What fettle, Isaac?"--"What cheer, Dick?"--
  He'd scuttle by the graves so slick,
  Before the spryest ghost....
                              His heart
  Stopt dead.  He stood stockstill.  No cart--
  No earthly cart could make the row
  Of hoofs and wheels that he heard now--
  The pattering and clattering,
  The rumbling and the lumbering,
  The hubblyshew and hullabaloo
  Racketing through the night, that drew,
  Slowly and surely nigh and nigher....
  His blood congealed to ice, that fire
  Melted to water in a trice,
  Then in his veins to prickling ice
  Crystalled again in agony.
  That coming Thing could only be
  The Death Coach; and his eye must see
  The headless driver lashing on
  His headless steeds....
                        Now redly shone
  Through thinning mist a wavering light:
  And, rooted to the road with fright,
  He heard a hackle-raising yowl,
  And knew it for the Barguest's howl--
  The hound with eyes of glowing coal
  That hunts the godforsaken soul....
  When, slouching through the drizzle stole
  Two wambling shambling shapes, that strode
  With feet splayed wide across the road,
  Swaying their lean heads, evil-eyed,
  On squirmy necks from side to side....
  Now two huge monsters blocked the way,
  Dark as tarpaulined loads of hay,
  With tails before and tails behind....
  Then, jittering, he seemed struck blind
  By a bright flash; and heard a yell--
  "Say--are we making straight for hell?"



  II

  It seemed a wild wanchancy night,
  Hag-ridden, held him, till the light
  No longer dazzled his scared eyes;
  And now he saw with glad surprise
  Something familiar in the ray
  A lantern shot across the way--
  Ay, horses!--and as brave a pair
  Of greys as ever drew a share
  Up Barebones Ridge; and they stood now
  With steaming flanks, as though the plough
  Had sweltered them, drooked tails and manes
  Dripping in puddles: then the reins,
  Red leather, starred with studs of brass,
  Pranked with half-moons of looking-glass
  Jarbled with raindrops, and headstalls
  And girths, above which gilded balls,
  As big as oranges, floated high,
  Like four suns dangled from the sky,
  Their long black slender stems, unseen,
  Astonished him....
                    Along the sheen
  Of the wet reins his glance slid back
  To the brown hands that held them slack
  And up the bare arms, round which squirmed
  Tattooed blue scaly snakes that wormed
  Under uprolled shirt-sleeves of red,
  To shoot out, each, a flame-tongued head,
  Defiant, on the bare brown chest.
  Then Isaac's dazed eyes came to rest,
  As suddenly he saw a man
  Against a scarlet caravan,
  Picked out with chamfers, newly-gilt,
  Slouched on the limmers, cap, a-tilt,
  And watching him with grinning stare--
  A tall man, sinewy and spare,
  With cold unblinking eyes, the blue
  Of tempered steel, that ran him through,
  Searching his vitals.
                      "So," he said
  "Your wits are homing, gonnerhead?
  Likely, I staggered you a bit."
  Then, pursing up his lips to spit
  Over the off-wheel, he revealed
  The scar of an old gash, long-healed,
  From scalp to jowl, a livid streak,
  As though a knife had slit his cheek,
  Or, some wild beast had chanced to draw
  Through the hale flesh a cruel claw.

  "On such a night, it's hard to tell
  Whether you're heading slap for hell--
  Or, Hexham, son."
                    "You're ganning right
  For Hexham"--flurried still with fright
  Stammered the boy.  With keener stare
  The man's eyes scanned him, with the flare
  Of yellow light full on his face,
  As though his memory sought to trace
  Something familiar in the lean
  Clearcut young features and the clean
  Blue winkers: then his own hard eyes
  Twinkled, as, with amused surprise,
  He drawled "I called you 'son'--by gad!
  What is the name you go by, lad?"

  "Isaac they call me, though I get
  Coldknuckles, oftener," dozzened yet
  By such queer chancings, chirped the boy.

  "Isaac Coldknuckles?  What a ploy!
  Whatever made her ... But, your dad
  Was likely called Coldknuckles, lad?"

  "My dad?  Nay, it's the house where we,
  I and my mother bide."
                        "I see,"
  The stranger said.  "And what may be
  Your mammy's name, son?"
                          "Ellen Bell."

  "Of all the queer starts!  Ay, it's hell!
  Only in hell a man may meet
  Himself, a lad again, and greet
  His own past stottering on two feet,
  The half-forgotten sin he spawned
  Grown to his living spit!"  He yawned;
  Then laughed "'Twould serve God-fearing John
  As a grand text for spouting on."
  Now, over his, a woman's head,
  A tousled mop of frowsy red,
  Was thrust across the van's half-door.

  "Say, Abe, what are you stopping for?"
  She asked, "and who's the poor lost lamb?"

  "Isaac, the son of Abraham."

  "Ay, ay, I heard you call him 'son':
  But, we can't pull up for each one
  Of your mishaps we chance upon;
  Or, we'll not reach Tyne Green to-night."

  "Forgimity!  Redpoll, you're right!"

  "Drive on, drive on!  The lads behind
  Are getting riled."
                    "I've half a mind
  To take the young limb with us."
                                  "Nay!
  Drive on.  You're blocking up the way."

  Then back she ducked into the van
  To soothe her squalling bairn.  Her man
  Grinned, as though Isaac shared his joke;
  And, gathering up the traces, spoke
  "Redpoll, or, black-poll, it's all one:
  She's jealous for your brother, son.
  Well, every she-wolf for her whelp;
  Each mammy, her own brat to skelp!"
  Then, winking one blue eye, he said
  "Coldknuckles, you nip home to bed;
  And, when you've lisped your prayers to-night,
  Before your mam has dowsed the light,
  Give her an extra kiss--from dad."

  He grinned: and now the gaping lad
  Caught from the shadows in the rear
  Hoarse bawlings and shrill whistles clear--
  "Has Jumbo fallen in a fit?"
  "Why can't you put a jerk in it?"
  "What's up with Cold Steel?"
                              "Abraham,
  Get a move on with that red pram!"
  "Is't doomsday that you're waiting for?"

  Then the hair-raising muffled roar
  Of unknown beasts iced Isaac's blood,
  As on the van lurched; and he stood
  Back in the ditch; and watched amazed,
  Still in the clutch of nightmare dazed,
  While caravan on caravan,
  Green, yellow, purple, blue and tan,
  Each with a white black-spotted dog
  Trotting beneath, loomed through the fog;
  And horses, such as made him stare
  With wide delighted eyes--each pair
  A perfect match--cream, chestnut, bay,
  Roan, piebald, skewbald, sorrel, grey,
  Snow-white and jet-black--on they drew
  Through lamplit mist.  And now, anew,
  The long fantastical parade
  Was for another moment stayed,
  As, lank and lantern-jawed, a man
  Dropt from a black funereal van,
  Drawn by black horses, like a hearse;
  And, crouching down, with pious curse,
  Lifted a hirpling hoof and scooped
  A lodged stone out: while, as he stooped,
  Over the half-door grinned a face
  At Isaac with a sly grimace:
  And jetty eyes and curly hair
  Bobbed up; and Isaac saw the bare
  Plump arms and girlish breasts, as white
  As twin moons in enchanted night,
  While over the black half-door hung
  A little lass with out-thrust tongue;
  Till the man lifted up his head,
  And sent her scuttling, as he said
  "To bed, you whore of Babylon!"
  When, in a twinkling, she was gone.
  "What's up?  What's up, God-fearing John?
  And who's the lady-friend, to-night,
  Has charmed your sour mug so polite?"
  Wheezed a fat voice from the next van.
  But, muttering to himself, the man
  Leapt to the limmers: and again
  The caravan in misty rain
  Was lost to sight: and, following then
  Came yellow closed vans, each the den
  Of some wild prisoned beast that snored
  Uneasily, or, wakeful, roared
  Half-scared defiance in the hell
  Of jolting night that in its spell
  Had wampished him and held him fast.
  And now a bunch of ponies passed,
  With startled eyes and nostrils wide,
  Jostling and joggling side by side,
  By those dread yowlings driven half-wild:
  And then a string of wagons, piled,
  Each with its huge tarpaulined load,
  Rumbled and swayed along the road,
  Like mist-clad mountains moving by,
  Toppling beneath the weight of sky.

  Yet, when at length it seemed the last
  Of all those marvels had rolled past--
  The garish dream-procession gone,
  Though, dwindling, one red star still shone
  From the last tailboard, by its light
  He caught a glimpse of something white,
  Shambling alone; and heard the patter
  Of little hoofs, as, clatter-clatter,
  Came a white donkey.  On its back
  A ghoulish figure, gaunt and black,
  Muttering and mumbling, sat astride
  With long legs dangling either side--
  A gaunt black guy without a face,
  Only a grinning fierce grimace
  Of teeth and whites of rolling eyes.
  While Isaac shied in stark surprise,
  The negro groaned as though in pain
  "The goddam rain--the goddam rain!"
  And then again and yet again
  "O Jesus Christ, the goddam rain!"



  III

  As though made fey by the refrain,
  He stood, bewattled, while the insane
  Lamplighted hurly-burly sped,
  Glooming and glancing, through his head;
  And a loud darkness shot with flame
  And laced with scarlet life became--
  No longer the chill cheerless grey
  That was his world of everyday:
  For everyday had died to-night,
  Blindfolded by a beam of light
  And raked and riddled through and through
  By two cold eyes of steely blue.
  As home he turned with kindled mind
  The frightened bairn was left behind;
  And now a fearless callant strode
  With manly stride the ringing road,
  Spellbound, through an enchanted night;
  His quickened heart and brain alight
  With hazardous imaginings
  Of flighty queer outlandish things
  That, flashing, each, an unsheathed knife
  Out of the darkness, through his life
  Jabbed riving wildfires.  In the strife
  Of dreams that like remembrance seemed
  And memories like something dreamed
  Flaunting barbaric visions flared
  Before his eyes; and, now unscared
  By blaring beasts whose yowls had searched
  His midriff, as dark vans had lurched
  And lumbered by him, his roused blood,
  No longer curdled, in a flood,
  A rampant burning torrent, flowed
  Through his young limbs that pulsed and glowed
  With nigh unbearable delight.
  He scarcely noticed that the night
  Had twitched its muffling mist aside
  And now looked down on him clear-eyed;
  Or, how about him far and wide
  Again owls hooted--only owls,
  No horneys now with shrieks and howls!
  And even Dead Man's Brae was passed
  Without a quaver; and at last,
  As in a trice, he'd reached the turn
  Where the road bridged the Caller Burn;
  And he must strike across the moor
  The beast-track to Coldknuckles' door.
  Beneath the signpost's arm of wood,
  No longer swithering, Isaac stood
  Haze-gazing into the clear sky
  Whose constellations spinning by
  In burning fury, seemed to be
  An icy-cold tranquillity
  To his unrealising sight,
  Mazed yet by smoky lantern light.
  After the flaring rattling rout
  Of gaudy van and raucous shout
  That made his senses reel and swim,
  Consoling quiet stole through him
  And cooled the fevers of his heart.
  Somewhere a stoat yelped.  With a start
  He leapt the broken drystone-dyke
  And took the track up Callersyke,
  Where over boulders through brown fern
  Tumbled the singing Caller Burn,
  Whose tinkling treble, cool and clear,
  Had sounded in his baby-ear
  The first notes of awaking life;
  So soon to mingle with harsh strife
  Of raspy words that bit and stung
  From his resentful mother's tongue,
  That wreaked on him the rankling blame
  Because his birth had brought her shame--
  Words, even waters brawling down
  In winter spate could barely drown.
  Onward he plunged through crackling heath
  Until at last he stood beneath
  The hanging eaves of heather-thatch;
  And paused, half-scared to lift the latch,
  And face his mother's wrath, so late.
  He well knew, she'd be in a state,
  A fine fantigue!  He'd have to pay
  For all had fashed her through the day;
  Or, happen, she'd just sit and glower
  At him till bedtime, dern and dour,
  Without a word.  You never knew
  How she'd take on; but, see it through,
  He'd got to.  And he had to-night
  Some news to tell her--ay, it might
  Divert her spleen from him, to hear
  All he'd been seeing.  So, his fear,
  By hunger overcome, at last
  He raised the clicking sneck and passed
  Stealthily in: and then once more
  With wilting courage by the door
  He daffled, seeing his mother there
  Bolt-upright in her straight-backed chair,
  Staring into the fire's dull red.
  She didn't speak, or, turn her head--
  Never let on she knew he'd come;
  But still sat glowering, grim and glum,
  Into the sultry flameless peat.
  Then as he stole with grating feet
  Across the sanded flags, amazed,
  With sinking heart again, half-dazed
  He faltered now, for he could see
  On the bare board no sign of tea.
  When, without turning, Ellen said,
  Tetchily "Why aren't you in bed?
  It's long past bedtime."
                          Desperately
  He blurted out "I want my tea."
  "Your tea?" she sneered, "'twas cleared away
  Three hours ago.  My working-day,
  Ten hours on end of picking stones
  Till I'm a rackle of aching bones,
  Is all too long.  I'll not set to,
  This time of night, to wait on you--
  You needn't think it, my braw lad!
  If you can't come in time, by gad!
  You've got to go without, and learn,
  Till you've the guts to do your turn,
  To mend your mooning feckless ways;
  Not keep me drudging all my days
  To pamper you in idleness.
  So, just look slippy and undress
  And into bed with you."  He stood
  A second, scowling, as his blood,
  Prickling with anger, flushed his cheek:
  But, choking when he strove to speak,
  Bitterness galled his heart; and he,
  Turning to go ben, sullenly,
  Had set his hand upon the latch,
  When, spirting like a kindling match,
  A thought flared in his reckless head;
  And, spluttering spitefully, he said
  "What wild beast gave dad such a claw,
  To scar his face from brow to jaw?"
  His mother started from her chair
  And flounced round with a flustered stare
  And eager questions: but, he said
  No more; and made to go to bed;
  Slipped off his togs, and tumbled in,
  And drew the patched quilt to his chin;
  And lay there, mum, with eyes shut tight;
  Though at the bedfoot half the night,
  A thrawn wild randy, in the dim
  And shadowy room, she heckled him,
  Threatening, or, coaxing, all in vain.
  Something was frozen in his brain;
  And, though he kind of pitied her,
  He couldn't get his tongue to stir:
  So, nattering curses at his head,
  At length she crept away to bed.



  IV

  The raw wind at the windowpane
  Wept, blurring it with blobs of rain,
  As, in the dismal and forlorn
  Dank dusk of the November morn
  Arousing, for a spell he lay
  Half-dreading a new humdrum day.
  Then his dull blinkers suddenly
  Sparkled alive with fiery glee,
  Reviewing with intense delight
  The queer clamjamfry that last night
  Had burst into his life to change
  The world for him, with those chance strange
  Words that had struck his startled ear.
  He heard again the chuckling jeer
  That told him all the truth, unguessed,
  His mother in her bitter breast
  Had kept from him--that he had, too,
  Like every other bairn he knew
  A father, still alive.  No lad,
  Not one of all his schoolmates had
  A dad the like of thon!--with eyes
  Blue as the steel of frosty skies--
  Steel eyes that seemed to pierce you through
  And slice your very heart in two
  And drain it of its blood; and then,
  Twinkling, brought it to life again
  And, with a flutter of delight,
  Set it once more with all its might
  Beating within your breast, until
  It seemed about to burst and spill
  Your life in laughter.  Little he,
  In days that had dragged drearily,
  Since he could mind, had ever known
  Of laughter, dwelling here alone
  With his sour mother, harsh and stern
  As stony fields she picked to earn
  Their livelihood; till, older, he
  Could lend a hand and work, maybe,
  At Farmer Black's and help to keep
  Things going, herding stupid sheep.
  Not, if he knew it!  Sheep--when all
  His heart since he could first recall
  Hankered to live with horses!  Nay:
  Now he could see another way,
  And meant to take it!  Then again
  Passed a procession through his brain;
  But, this time, only cantering
  Horses with manes and tails aswing
  And spanking hoofs--cream chestnut, grey,
  Roan, piebald, skewbald, sorrel, bay,
  Snow-white, jet-black....
                          Now, as the pang
  Of hunger rived his reins, he sprang
  Eagerly out of bed and dressed,
  Quickly and quietly; his breast,
  A hubbub of excitement: then
  Into the but stole from the ben;
  And saw his mother in the grey
  Cold light of the late laggard day
  Still huddled on her tumbled bed;
  Now sleeping, with uneasy head
  Tossing its tangled tousled hair
  Over the grubby pillow, where
  No respite had come to her, till
  Her wrath had smouldered to a chill
  Ashy indifference.  With a look,
  Half-bold, half-fearful, now he took
  Out of the cupboard a stale crust
  And chunk of cheese and slyly thrust
  Them in his pocket.  Gingerly
  He tiptoed to the door; then he
  Lifted the latch; and presently
  Stood safe outside; and nimbly dropt
  Down the steep brae, as the rain stopt,
  And daylight kindled the raw air,
  And flushed the wet fells to a fair
  Welcoming world of glistening green.

  Dazzled by the quicksilver sheen,
  And hearkening to the Caller Burn
  That rushed rain-swollen through dank fern,
  He tarried, blithely drinking deep
  The snell fresh breeze; until a sheep
  Suddenly baa-ed at him; when he,
  Rounding on it, yelped tauntingly
  "Sheep!"--and set off upon his way
  Into the promise of the day;
  Now breaking blue, with billowy white
  Clouds swinging through a lift of light;
  Munching his breakfast, as he went
  Across the shadow-dappled bent.

  The solitude, that overnight
  Had flushed his harried heart with fright,
  No haunt of owls, or, ghouls, now seemed,
  As in the morning light it gleamed
  Like a new world to which his eyes
  Were just awaking in surprise--
  A world, alive with the delights
  Of fresh and spirit-kindling sights--
  A weasel sleeking through the green
  Tussocks of wet ling in its clean
  Spruce chestnut-coloured coat; a slick
  Grass-snake that at a lightning lick
  Whisked underneath a sheltering stone;
  Seemed curious creatures, newly-known;
  And the light-heeled careering hare,
  A beast fantastical and rare;
  A kestrel hovering overhead
  With tawny quivering wings outspread;
  A blackcock, with his queer curled tail,
  Perched, clucking, on a wet fence-rail;
  A hoodie, honking from a pike,
  That set sheep scurrying up the syke;
  And grouse that swerved on whirring wings;
  Seemed freakish unfamiliar things;
  While in his ear the Caller Burn
  Sang a fresh tune at every turn;
  And even the ruined graveyard stones,
  Mounded above the mouldering bones,
  Flourished their nettles in the light,
  Glistered with raindrops, wonder-bright;
  As now again he gaily strode
  With cheerful clatter the highroad,
  Where he had watched in mist and rain
  The passing of the circus-train
  Out of the night into the night;
  And, drawn on by the blue steel-bright
  Strong magnet of his father's eyes,
  Hiked up the slithery rain-wet rise
  With hope-hot heart and racing blood,
  Trailing the wheel tracks through the mud
  Towards Hexham Town, six miles away;
  Where on Tyne Green, beyond the grey
  Towers of the Abbey and Moot Hall,
  He reckoned, surely now, that all
  The caravans had come to rest.
  And, as he topped the stiff hillcrest
  And caught, far off, the silver shine
  Of the swift waters of the Tyne,
  He seemed to see already there
  The preparations for the Fair,
  In fancy, and the big tent's round
  Rising serenely from the ground,
  On the turf gleaming like the white
  Mushroom that springs up overnight;
  Though several miles yet stretched between
  That hilltop and far off Tyne Green.

  Then, entering on the last mile,
  He rested on a wayside stile
  To ease his blistered heels that burned
  Like embers; while his thoughts returned
  Now to Coldknuckles, and saw there
  His mother shake back unkempt hair
  That draggled round her haggish head
  From opening eyes, and slip from bed
  With scowling brows, and cross the floor
  To batter on the shut ben-door
  And rout him from his rest; and heard
  With fearful heart each fratching word
  She uttered, when no answer came.
  He heard her shrilling out his name
  With curses, as, this many a year
  He'd heard her, till his shivering fear,
  Numbed by that nagging nattering spite
  That scarified him day and night
  At length had hardened into ice
  In his young heart.  She called him thrice;
  Then savagely flung the door wide....
  But, when she found no son inside,
  What she would do, he dared not think....

  And now he felt his courage sink
  As he slouched, weary and alone
  And famished, on the stile's cold stone:
  When all at once he seemed to hear
  His father chortle in his ear;
  And see again those eyes of blue
  Twinkle, even as they stabbed him through;
  And his heart felt in closer kin
  With that gay giant, than with his thin
  And shrewish mother, as he rose
  And shrugged himself in his patched clothes:
  Then, in a daze, down Causey Hill
  From Yarridge dropt; and, dreaming still,
  Through Hencotes trudged, and by the Sele
  And Church Flags, clinking 'neath his heel,
  Reached the stall-crowded market place;
  And, crossing it with lagging pace,
  As from the embattled Abbey Tower
  The bell boomed out the noonday hour,
  Down steep Bull Bank, came to the Tyne.
  Then, with a gush, the song and shine,
  The roaring and the white froth-gleam
  Of the rain-swollen tawny stream,
  Whose spate of waters, ridge on ridge,
  Through spanning arches of the bridge
  Swirled crashing, charged his heart anew
  With courage as he slowly drew
  Towards Tyne Green; and saw the wide
  Haugh set about on every side
  With horseless caravans--and then,
  A husky bunch of hefty men,
  Led by his father, hoisting high
  The big-top's king-post to the sky.



  V

  He watched the flagged pole stab the blue of noon,
  Swayed by the tugging of guy-ropes; but, soon
  By Abe and the gaunt gangling nigger gripped
  The post into its iron socket slipped,
  Steadied by taut stays: and his father now,
  Mopping the perspiration from his brow,
  Turned to his glum companion and, with a laugh
  That rippled all his thews, began to chaff
  The surly Sambo: and, as they stood there
  With tawny gold and ebony torsos bare,
  They towered in the wan November light
  Like very images of day and night.
  While as, admiring, Isaac stared, agape,
  Startled he felt sharp fingers tweak his nape;
  And, yanked round, with a yell looked with surprise
  Into the saucy and sloe-coloured eyes
  Of the young hussy who the night before
  Had grinned at him above the low half-door
  Of sour God-fearing John's black caravan.

  "Well, bless me, if it's not the bogieman
  Who dithered by the roadside in a fright
  As if he'd met his own fetch in the night!"
  She tardy clucked, while Isaac, blushing red,
  In dumb annoyance turned away his head
  Just as a lean hand on Kit's shoulder fell
  And gripped it--and "You flirtigig of hell!"
  Rasped out the riled voice of God-fearing John--
  "I might have guessed it, when I found you gone
  And the dinner charred to cinder.  The true whelp
  Of your man-wolfing mother!"
                              With a yelp,
  Skedaddling, from his clutch the lassie slipped;
  And over her scuttling heels her father tripped
  And sprawled upon the turf; while a hot spate
  Of Bible-curses at rampageous rate
  Belched from his lips.
                        "Now, take it easy, John!"
  Abe's voice sang out "or, you'll find them all gone
  And not the mildest mutter of a curse
  Left you when you barge into something worse.
  If I'd a mind to make you eat your words
  You'd find them riskier swallowing than the swords
  You slither down your gullet greedily;
  And far more fatal fare they'd prove to be
  I'll warrant.  Why, because a lightskirt bitch,
  Bolting, deserts the old dog in the ditch,
  Vent pious anger on her helpless pup?"

  Now, thrusting through the throng, Abe hiked John up
  On to his pins; then stopt with a sharp stare
  As now he spotted Isaac gaping there;
  Then grinned, guffawing "So, you've turned up, son,
  For dinner?  Well, there'll be enough for one
  Extra I've little doubt; for Redpoll's got
  A generous fist in filling up the pot.
  But, we had best look sharp, before young Bill,
  Your brother, has a chance to eat his fill
  And gobble up the best, or, we'll just get
  The nipper's leavings.  There's none so sharpset
  Of all my little lot of cats: no whip,
  Nor, even redhot iron could keep the rip
  Back from the stewpot once he'd caught a whiff
  Of cooking collops.  Little doubt that if
  Old Roarer and he should start fair on a feast
  The younker'd snatch the titbits from the beast
  And lick him easily!"
                      With hand upon
  Isaac's proud shoulder, now he steered his son
  Through all the gear that cluttered up the way
  Towards the scarlet caravan.  As they,
  Together, turned to cross the Green, the eye
  Of Sambo lowered at them in slouching by;
  And his low forehead, ruckled with a scowl,
  And the white snarling teeth in that black jowl
  For Isaac held a menace: but, Cold Steel,
  Chuckling at his own notions, close at heel
  Stalked on, indifferently, towards the van,
  As though he took no count of any man.

  So, Isaac rapidly forgot his fear,
  As to the scarlet van they now drew near;
  And Redpoll, ladling out into a dish
  Hot stew, glanced up.
                      "And so, you've had your wish?"
  Grinning at Abe, she gurgled--"one more cub
  To tame?"  She set upon an upturned tub
  The steaming bowl.  "Well, you had best fall to
  Before Bill guzzles all."
                            Sharp eyes of blue,
  Met Isaac's, as the whipper-snapper, Bill,
  Greedily gorging, set to with a will.

  And while Abe supped and munched he murmured now,
  Shaking the yellow hair back from his brow--
  "Another cub--ay, and too old to learn,
  At his advanced age, any circus-turn,
  I take it--too stiff-jointed, and no brat
  Supple enough to make an acrobat.
  If I'm not out of my reckoning, he must be
  Hard upon twelve years old--ay, easily."
  Then Redpoll tittered "Aren't you just the true
  And faithful lover!  Lord--to fancy you
  Should keep an ancient date like that in mind!"
  Abe only grinned.  "Well, anyway, we'll find
  Something to suit.  There's jobs enough to do
  About a circus, if he'll cotton to."
  He turned to Isaac.  "What's the game you had
  In mind when you set out so rashly, lad,
  To track us?  What's your fancy--horses?"
                                            "Ay!"
  Came, gaspingly, the eager boy's reply.
  "Ah well, we'll find out.  But you'd best begin
  To tuck some fodder in that empty skin,
  Young bag-of-bones.  Then you can come with me
  To lend a hand: and, afterwards, we'll see
  What the boss says.  It's time we were away,
  If we're to get the big-top rigged to-day
  And all set going for tomorrow's show.
  Just clear your plate, Coldknuckles, and we'll go."

  Then, as they went, together, they caught a laugh;
  And the fat voice that Isaac had heard chaff
  God-fearing John last night, from a near van
  Rallied them---"Well, Cold Steel, my gallant man,
  You'd seem to have found yourself again all right,
  Begot and born all in a single night,
  Seemingly, though your double's not fullgrown--
  Yet, none too bad for one night's work, I'll own!"
  And Isaac, glancing up, saw lounging there
  A muckle woman in an easy chair
  By the van door, burbling at her own joke,
  With rolls of fat aquiver.  Now she spoke
  More solemnly, while under her smooth brow
  Her small eyes smouldered.  "I spied you just now
  Handling that skunk, John Molt; and hoped, by heck,
  You were about to wring his pious neck:
  But, like a gaumless nowt, you let him go--
  Why, the de'il kens!  Yet, sure as hell, I know
  You missed a grand chance; and may live to rue
  The day you mulled what you were meant to do,
  And spared him still to make his daughter's life
  The Bedlam that it's been since his wise wife,
  Bewalloped till nigh witless, cut her stick.
  Yet, though your fumbling failed to do the trick,
  Or, you were too fainthearted, happen, your son
  One day will finish what you've left undone:
  For, in my bones, I feel Kit Molt and he
  Are tokened for each other."
                              "That may be,"
  Laughed Abe--"But, bones!  Who could have guessed you'd got
  A single bone in all that little lot
  Of lovely flesh?"
                    Now the Fat Women smiled;
  And turned to Isaac.  "Well, let's trust the child
  Has got at least more gumption and more spunk;
  And, bones, or, not, I feel that he won't funk
  When the time comes.  Well, what's to be, will be:
  And, looking into the future, I seem to see
  God-fearing John, a huddled body, He
  With broken neck beneath the open sky."

  Then Cold Steel answered "Though you may be right,
  You're not the only one with second sight:
  I've got bones, too: and, sure as anything,
  I sense my son was never born to swing.
  But, happen, now you'd care to prophesy
  How Isaac's father, too, will come to die?"

  Yet, though her tranced eyes burned with a fey light,
  Now the Fat Woman kept plump lips pursed tight:
  While Cold Steel jeered "The Witch of Endor's dumb
  For once, it seems: but, what's to come, will come."



  VI

  When the thronged day was through at last,
  Within the van with eyes shut fast,
  Famished for sleep that failed to come,
  Young Isaac lay--the throb and thrum
  Of wild thoughts buzzing in his brain,
  Shooting off sparkles as again
  They circled in a crazy way
  About the doings of the day.

  Again he shut Coldknuckles' door
  Behind him; and, almost before
  He'd quit the threshold, seemed to be
  Watching the king-post jerkily
  Jabbing the sky of Winter blue....
  The post that juggled, ere he knew,
  Into a nigger, tall and thin,
  With sweat drops glistening on his skin--
  Drops that changed, even as he stared,
  To blood; while now gaunt Sambo glared
  With goggling eyeballs in his face....
  Then, just as he drew back a pace
  To clasp his father's hand, and hide,
  Someone was giggling by his side;
  And now he looked with hurt surprise
  Into Kit's cute and saucy eyes
  That mocked him till the blood again
  Swilled, scalding, through each burning vein.
  And now there threshed about his ear
  John's curses, crumpling him with fear,
  As the foul flood, in furious spate
  Outpouring, in some dreadful fate
  Seemed to embroil both him and Kit--
  Though what that cheeky little chit
  Could have to do with him--well, he,
  Lord knows, was blest if he could see!
  Yet, he half-pitied her that she
  Should have a dad the like of thon,
  That blatherskite, God-fearing John,
  Instead of Cold Steel.  He'd a man
  For father now: and in a van
  Was bedded--he, who never before
  Had slept outside Coldknuckles' door....
  And now he snoozed--then suddenly
  Stared with wide eyes, half-fearfully,
  Into Old Roarer's gaping jaw,
  While, by the bars, with lifted paw,
  The lion glared and growled, as he,
  Helping his father eagerly
  To feed the beasts, had flung the red
  Raw chunks towards that huge maned head..
  And now he seemed to wince again
  Beside the highroad in the rain,
  And look again with shuddering awe
  On nightmare creatures ... till he saw,
  As drizzle changed to golden dust,
  Those humped, and those trunked beasts were just
  Camels and elephants, who stood,
  Tucking in hay from racks of wood,
  In the great shadowy lamplit tent...
  And now he dozed again, quite spent;
  And saw, in dream, the rumpled bed
  At Coldknuckles--his mother's head
  Tossing in sleep uneasily
  On the crushed pillow....
                            But, even as he
  Looked, that harsh wried familiar face
  By some strange miracle gave place
  To younger features; and he saw there
  The chubby cheeks and curly hair
  Of the sword-swallower's sonsy lass--
  Though, somehow, it had come to pass
  That, even as Kit lay there and smiled
  In sleep, she was no more a child--
  A woman, grown, whose waking eyes
  Looked into his without surprise....

  And now it seemed he strove to keep
  His feet, against a flock of sheep
  That charged him down a slippery steep,
  Till he was buried in a heap
  Of smothering fleeces ... and sank deep
  In quiet dream-unhaunted sleep.



  VII

  Within the big-top the next afternoon,
  Tranced by the razzle-dazzle and the noise,
  Isaac sat glowing 'mid a gang of boys
  At his first circus; while the jigging tune
  The brassband blared set hopping in his breast
  His jolly heart, as, with inane grimaces,
  Leering, in rainbow tints, from chalk-white faces
  Clowns capered, cackling out jest after jest.
  And, as he snuffed the sawdust reek and heard
  The melody and the laughter, that vast tent
  Was paradise to him, as his wits went
  Around it, somersaulting, then were stirred
  To utter bliss, when, like a heavenly dream,
  Suddenly surged into the outer ring
  A torrent of white horses, flourishing
  Long manes and tails, like foam, while, in a stream,
  Keeping time with the music, round and round
  They circled; and young Isaac's heart was whirled
  In the swift maelstrom as it swept and swirled
  And throbbed and thudded to the threshing sound.
  Then turn on startling turn with eyes enthralled
  He watched; and now it seemed his heart with ease
  Swung to the tent-top on a high trapeze,
  To drop into a pit of dread, appalled;
  Then with the youngest acrobat, a boy
  About his own age, a redheaded lad--
  The hot blood coursing through his veins like mad
  Until it seemed his heart must burst with joy--
  He soared again in ever-wilder flights;
  And now with Redpoll on her dappled grey
  He balanced, tiptoe, as, serenely gay
  She rode the ring in natty emerald tights;
  Then pins and needles prickled through his veins
  As grim black-avised John thrust sword and knife
  Down his long gullet, till the very life
  Seemed leaking out of Isaac's own pierced reins:
  But, soon his heart revived when, winged with gauze
  Of tinselled red, Kit pranced in on a plump
  Wee piebald pony; and, at every jump,
  His heart leapt with her, while, to loud applause,
  She flashed through flaming hoops: and now at last,
  After some score of sequin-spangled stars
  Had dazzled him, a ring of iron bars
  Was set up in the centre, while the vast
  And breathless audience awaited in hushed awe
  The grand finale; when from a wheeled cage
  Abe's lions sprang, sullen with thwarted rage,
  On to the sawdust; and now Isaac saw
  His father in a leopard-skin arrayed
  Holding them in subjection with a glance
  From eyes of steel that countered each advance
  They made towards him, starkly undismayed;
  And with smart whip-cracks made those skulkers poise
  On globes and bound through hoops and abjectly
  Cower in the dust, while, calmly smoking, he
  Stood on Old Roarer's skull....
                                  The shattering noise
  Of the applauding audience brattled still
  Through Isaac's noddle as he left the tent,
  Bamboozled; and with lagging footsteps went
  Towards the caravan, to find young Bill,
  Agape, and raking with resentful gaze
  A figure seated on the steps, a black
  Bolt-upright form; and Isaac started back,
  Seeing his mother there, in stunned amaze.



  VIII

  Cowed in numb panic, gasping, he quaked there
  With eyes that shrank to meet the shrivelling glare
  That sapped his vitals; though, as yet, no word
  She spoke, nor, from her rigid posture stirred:
  for that crazed contemplation seemed a chain,
  Shackling his limbs, to haul him back again
  Home to Coldknuckles.  Then she rose at last,
  And clutched him by the arm; and, turning, cast
  A scornful squint at the red caravan
  And sniffed; then shrilled out fiercely "Come, my man,
  It's time to end these cantrips.  I have lost
  A day, already.  You don't count the cost
  Of your calleevering: but, by hell, you'll learn,
  You will, when you've got your own bread to earn
  And thankless mouths to feed, that every bite
  Has to be slaved for, and that it's no light
  Job labouring life-long at picking stones,
  Until I'm just a rackle of aching bones.
  I can't afford to squander another day:
  So, we had best be getting on our way.
  'Twas luck I twigged, from what you splurged at me
  Before you sulked, where you might chance to be."
  She tugged his arm: he struggled to escape;
  But, now her left hand nipped him by the nape
  And held him, while she screeched out savagely
  "You wastrel, you'll not get away from me
  A second time, by God!--though you may be
  Your gangrel of a father's very spit
  And image, ay!--and he was quick to quit
  When he had tricked and cheated me and had
  His sport.  Nay, you'll not follow him, my lad,
  Not, though I've got to lug you by the scruff
  Back to Coldknuckles.  I've had more than enough
  Of being left to struggle on my own
  Till I am wellnigh worn to skin and bone
  Without a hand to help.  If I've my way,
  I reckon to make your father's bastard pay
  For his desertion.  So, you may as well
  Come quietly before I give you hell."

  Desperately Isaac wriggled; when his eye
  Caught sight of Abe and Redpoll standing by
  With arms akimbo, grinning mockingly--
  He, still in his spotted leopard-skin, and she,
  In her green tights: and Ellen, turning, saw
  Those jaunty figures; and, with sagging jaw,
  Taken aback, gaped glowering, as Abe spoke,
  Ironically smiling, "What's the joke?
  What lark has the limb been up to?  What's he done,
  That you should lay your hand upon my son?"

  "Your son?"
              "My son."
                        "And not a jot you've cared
  About your son--and mine!"
                              "Ay, true, we shared
  The game of his begetting!  But, you've had
  More than your due of him since: so, now the lad
  Chooses to let his father have a turn."

  "Ay, now he's growing old enough to earn,
  You'd filch him from me?--the fine father who
  Deserted me and..."
                      "never even knew
  He'd got a son!"
                  "left me to bear the blame
  And bring disgrace upon my parents' name,
  While he went gallivanting through the dirt
  To tag himself to some newfangled skirt."

  "Skirt, say you!  Redpoll, you'd best slip inside
  The van with those bold legs of yours and hide
  Your shame from this chaste madam, and before
  You catch your death of cold.  I've little more
  To say; and, sure enough, I ken no door
  Could keep your ears from snooping all they care
  To eavesdrop."
                  As now, Redpoll climbed the stair,
  Smiling, she glanced at Ellen and said "Maybe,
  Before you leave you'd like a cup of tea?"
  In fury bridling, Ellen turned as though
  To strike her: when Abe spoke again "Let go
  The youngster's arm!"  And, shrinking from the glare
  Of his marrow-piercing liontamer stare,
  Ellen obeyed, as Abe snapped clinchingly
  "My testy termagant, attend to me!
  If we could try the trick of Solomon,
  Then we might, each of us, have half a son;
  But, as we cannot split him, you may as well
  Be hiking back again to your own hell."
  And, while he spoke, Isaac saw with surprise
  Something like admiration fire her eyes,
  As Ellen looked at Cold Steel: then the grey
  Eyes clouded as, downcast, she turned away
  With a low sobbing moan: and, foiled, she went
  Blindly by crowding caravan and tent,
  Stumbling into the cauldrife winter gloam,
  Without him, traiking towards her lonely home.

  And then the fat voice from a nearby van
  Wheezed "Well done, Cold Steel!  Spoken like a man--
  Ay, like a man! for men must have their way
  At all costs, though the woman's left to pay."




  TWO

  I

  His dearest wish, come true--to spend
  His days with horses, and to tend
  Their toilet till he knew each hair
  In their groomed glossy coats, no care
  Now haunted Isaac's happy days;
  As over England by green ways
  The circus roamed from fair to fair.
  As month traipsed after month, and year,
  Stravaiging year, he lost all fear
  Of those unknown and nameless things--
  Uncanny cruel cankerings
  That through his uncouth and unkind
  Upbringing had beset his mind.
  Now cold neglect and nettling stings
  Of nagging spite were clean forgot,
  Since it had fallen to his lot
  To share the generous circus-life
  With his own father and Abe's wife,
  Happy-go-lucky Redpoll, and
  The rest of that odd friendly band
  Of troupers.  Though, at times, the knife
  Of Cold Steel's tongue with caustic fierce
  Stark daggered wit would seem to pierce
  His very vitals, and, afraid,
  He'd shrink from that keen scathing blade;
  Yet, even as he squirmed, the smile
  Lurking in those blue eyes the while
  Would staunch the wound, when he obeyed
  Wholeheartedly his father's will;
  And he would feel again the thrill
  To think that such a man could be
  His parent--one who dauntlessly
  A pride of lions could subdue,
  And, as he put Old Roarer through
  His paces, could lightheartedly
  Outjest the cutest clown of all.
  And, now he'd grown into a tall
  And strapping open-hearted lad,
  Among the company Isaac had
  A host of friends; while only two--
  Rabid John Molt, and Sambo, who
  Would glump for days in rancid mad
  Festering resentment at some jest
  Of Cold Steel's, spurned him: all the rest
  Were ever hail-fellow-well-met with him.
  But he was closest chums with Jim,
  The acrobat of his own age;
  And the two, meeting, would engage
  In friendly tussles, limb with limb
  And tongue with tongue, when they were free
  To court each other's company.

  Jim was a good sort, sure enough,
  Though a hot-headed blade--a tough
  Customer to deal with when he'd got
  A grievance.  But, a nervy lot
  Were all the acrobats: and he
  Would somehow manage usually
  To cool Jim's head, however hot.
  Jim--ay, he never would forget
  His madpash rage the day they met!
  Isaac, cut up at something Kit
  Had squawked, had given back the chit
  As good as she gave; when loony Jim,
  His dander raised, lunged out at him
  And sent him staggering with a hit
  Clean on the jaw.  They'd fought it out;
  And Jim, when Isaac set about
  Him seriously, had given in;
  And yet, somehow had seemed to win
  The battle; for, as he lay there
  With bloody snout and rumpled hair,
  He'd looked up with a friendly grin.

  Even when Kit, though now more shy,
  As, cock-a-hoop, he jaunted by,
  Lashed out some sally that would flick
  His self-conceit, he, now more quick
  Of wit than she, when she let fly,
  Would give her tit for tat.  He held
  No grudge against her now--impelled
  To pity her that she should be
  The victim of the tyranny
  Of vile God-fearing John.  And most
  Of all the many-coloured host
  Of horses that so happily
  He helped to curry every day
  And feed and water--sorrel, grey,
  Cream, chestnut, roan, snow-white, jet-black--
  He loved the pony on whose back
  He'd seen Kit ride into the ring
  With gauzy red wings fluttering--
  The piebald that at every crack
  Of the ringmaster's whip had reared
  And snorted, while Kit lightly cleared
  With easy spring the hoops of flame--
  The skittish beast that none could tame
  Save Kit, herself; and that, like her,
  For all the check of bit and spur,
  To hold its own was always game.
  Yet, sometimes came into his head
  The queer things the Fat Woman said
  That first day about Kit and him.
  And, though she hadn't mentioned Jim--
  Only himself and Molt and Kit--
  Jim somehow seemed involved in it.

  And then his waffled wits would swim
  In dizzy eddies, while cold sweat
  Trickled until his brow was wet....
  When he'd recall how mockingly
  His father'd scorned her prophecy
  About God-fearing John's grim death:
  And now again with easier breath
  He'd think of Kit more happily.



  II

  One night, as, under a clear moonlit sky,
  With hands in pockets, Isaac sauntered by
  The shadowy booths and caravans alone;
  Dribbling with dawdling feet a rounded stone
  Before him, harking back, he called to mind
  The time when he'd seen Sambo jog behind
  The circus-train that dwindled out of sight
  Down the dark fell road into the wet night,
  A rammelly figure, like a faceless clown,
  On his white ass with long legs dangling down.
  Softly he chuckled as he heard again
  That sour voice muttering "The goddam rain!
  O Jesus Christ, the goddam rain!"  But, now
  A vague dread troubled him, recalling how
  Sambo would glower at his father's back
  When Cold Steel, passing him, would chance to crack
  Some joke at his expense; even though his face
  Strained in a smirking wide white-toothed grimace
  While Abe's eyes still were on him: and a cold
  Shudder went through him, when, as now he strolled
  By the big tent of the menagerie,
  The canvas door-flap lifted furtively
  And he saw Sambo stealthily sneak out.
  He wondered what the devil he'd been about,
  What mischief he'd been up to: for he'd got
  No business there, well Isaac knew; and not
  A soul was ever allowed inside the tent
  While the beasts slept.  Then, as the moocher went
  Slinking into the shadows of the night,
  Halted, uncertain, in the full moonlight,
  Isaac, still rattled, heard a stunning roar
  As a huge beast burst out through the tent-door
  With tossing mane and, gnashing, pawed the ground;
  While his moon-kindled eyes ranged all around,
  To fix themselves on Isaac with a glare,
  As, jellied in cold terror, he quaked there.
  Then in a flash the brute towards him sprang;
  And Isaac winced to see each separate fang
  In that great gaping hellmouth of a jaw,
  As, pinning him to earth with clamping paw,
  Old Roarer snarled above him where he lay....
  But, even as he seemed to pass away,
  He caught his father's voice; and a clenched fist
  Crashed on the monster's muzzle....
                                      Then a mist
  Smothered his senses, blanketing him in night....
  And he knew nothing of the desperate fight
  'Twixt man and beast that raged in the moonlight
  About his body and how Cold Steel fought
  With naked fists; till he at last was caught--
  Just as, with iron bars and brands of flame,
  To rescue him his circus-comrades came--
  And crushed beneath those fatal pounding paws
  And mauled and mangled by those steel-tanged claws....
  Till, next day Isaac wakened in his bed
  At length, to learn that Abraham was dead;
  And how, even as he writhed, with gasping breath
  He'd gibed into the very face of death,
  Deriding, "Though the fat witch wouldn't tell
  What she foresaw, it seems she knew too well!
  But, anyhow, God-fearing John can spout
  Above my corpse--'Your sins will find you out!'"



  III

  That night as in his bunk he lyy
  His wits in fevered disarray;
  While, worn with weeping, Redpoll slept
  With worried breathing; Isaac kept
  Going over and over in his brain
  Again, again, and yet again,
  All that had happened since the night
  By the fell road in flinching fright
  He'd quailed with gooseflesh quivering....
  Like tumbling clowns, galravitching
  Around, grotesque, with painted faces
  That leered in loony lewd grimaces
  Which only iced his blood with dread,
  Thoughts helter-skeltered through his head....
  Again he heard those skirling owls;
  The Death Coach rumbling; and the howls
  Of the caged beasts....  And now his sight
  Was dazzled by the lantern light;
  And once again that ripping yell--
  "Say, are we making straight for hell!"
  Sang through his blood; and the steel-blue
  Eyes of his father scanned him through.
  For hell!  Well, sure enough, he'd brought
  Hell to his hapless father, caught
  And mangled by those fiendish claws
  And cruel crunching hellmouth jaws....

  His father, smoking by the door
  Of the red van, had heard the roar;
  And strolled towards the menagerie,
  Without foreboding, just to see
  That all was well: when he had found
  Isaac straiked out upon the ground,
  Helpless, beneath Old Roarer's paw;
  And springing, even as he saw,
  Without a care for his own hide,
  Like lightning to the lion's side,
  Flourished a fist and, with a shout,
  Had socked it on its tender snout
  To turn it from his son; and then,
  The pluckiest of plucky men,
  Had faced the beast's resentful rage,
  And sought to trounce it to its cage
  With naked neaves....
                        And now again
  The looby clowns in Isaac's brain
  Lolloped his sick thoughts round and round.
  Until, no schoolboy now, he found
  Himself back at Coldknuckles, where,
  With eyes experience made aware,
  Bewildered, by his mother's bed,
  He watched that dream-tormented head
  Toss on the pillow: and now he knew
  All that poor Ellen had gone through,
  To blight her heart with bitterness:
  And, even in his own distress,
  Felt for her, sensing all it cost
  Her love in old days when she'd lost
  Cold Steel, and learnt she'd got to live
  Without him.  He could nigh forgive
  Her hardness to himself, now he
  Could realise her misery,
  Since he'd lost Cold Steel, too....
                                      Next day,
  He'd half a mind to break away,
  To quit the circus, and return
  To the old cottage by the burn
  And help his mother ... help to keep...
  There were worse jobs than minding sheep...
  Sheep ... sheep....
                      And now he sank in deep
  Unfevered and refreshing sleep.

  And then, in dream, he stood again
  By the dark turnpike in the rain,
  As he had stood that fateful night:
  Yet, now he looked with sheer delight
  In the black mischief of Kit's eyes;
  As, grinning at him with surprise,
  Over the van's half-door she leant....
  And then once more into the tent
  She rode with red wings fluttering,
  As the wee piebald round the ring
  Cantered....  Then, through a hoop of flame...
  That was the red van's door, she came--
  As she had come to-day to stand
  Beside him with a nervous hand
  Fingering her lips; while dimmed eyes spoke
  A wordless sympathy....
                          Then he woke,
  As daylight streamed into the van--
  A lad, no longer, but, a man.




  THREE

  I

  Through the cold crystal of the April sky
  Great clouds, like clipper-ships, from out the west
  Swept, dappling rushy slack and craggy crest
  With swift blue shadows as they billowed by:
  And Isaac's heart sailed with them, through the clear
  Noon lift careering; while up the fellroad,
  Amid a clatter of hoofs, he gaily strode,
  With the loose ponies bringing up the rear
  Of the procession; as the circus-train
  Across the Pennines travelled: and he heard
  The welcome notes of each familiar bird,
  Curlew and golden-plover, once again;
  And those wild voices seemed to utter all
  The unutterable joy that through his blood
  Went rioting in a rejoicing flood,
  Responsive to each mellow fluting call
  And tingling whistle...
              while he seemed to see
  Kit stand, with dark curls drooping round her head,
  As on that tragic morning by his bed;
  Her bright eyes dimmed with utter sympathy.
  For, in a flash he'd known, as she stood there,
  Something his heart had never known before:
  And, even when a shadow dusked the door,
  As, with harsh croak, Molt stumbled up the stair;
  And, like an evil-eyed old raven stood
  Behind her; and, with visage sour and black
  Had glowered at them, bidding Kit get back
  To work, he'd felt that life might still be good,
  In spite of all; as he, with heart aflame,
  Looking into the future with fresh eyes,
  Let go the past, rejoiced to realise
  Nothing between them now could be the same.



  II

  They camped at sunset out beyond the town
  Of Casdehaugh: when, as towards the stream
  With other lads he led the horses down
  To water them; still in a happy dream
  Moving, and dazzled by the swirl and gleam,
  Isaac saw on a nearby grassy rise
  Kit standing, gazing with abstracted stare
  Into the glow that kindled her dark eyes
  And flecked with golden glints her night-black hair;
  When, as with keen delight he watched her there,
  He saw Jim join her--Jim, his friend--and now
  Felt strangely envious, scarcely knowing why,
  To see them stand, together, on the brow
  Of the little knoll against the sunset sky.
  Jim spoke to her; and, laughing in reply,
  Kit turned to him: and, as her laughter rang
  Merrily in his ears, through Isaac's breast
  There shot an instant sharp and searching pang;
  And through his veins there surged a hot unrest:
  And, as the colour seeped from out the West,
  When, with the others, up the stony bank
  He drove the unwilling horses from their drink,
  While with swift-dipping disc the red sun sank,
  His heart within his bosom seemed to sink:
  And, even when he spied a dark form slink
  Towards the cheerful couple, and now heard
  Kit's furious father call her every name
  He could lay tongue to, though Isaac's heart was stirred
  At the same instant to uneasy shame,
  Just yet he could not bring himself to blame
  The raging parent.  Then, in horror, he,
  Recovering, felt appalled to realise
  He had given way to silly jealousy
  Of his best friends, and seemed to sympathise,
  Even for an instant, with the devilries
  Of the maniac who made Kit's life a hell,
  Because his wife, finding wedlock too grim,
  Had left him.  True, you couldn't always tell
  What Jim was up to: but, anyhow, if Jim
  Was out for trouble, he could settle him!
  And Kit, though much too plucky to let on
  What she'd got to put up with, well he knew
  In the black van with grim God-fearing John
  Had little enough for laughter, it was true--
  And why, then, grudge the lass a chuckle or two!

  So, all the horses stabled and rubbed down,
  He loitered in the shadow of a tent,
  Until towards the little market-town,
  With Bible tucked beneath his arm, Molt went,
  A gawky sombre-visaged figure, bent
  On playing the prophet, belching out hellfire
  Over the loafers in the market-square.
  Then Isaac, urgent for his heart's desire,
  Made for the black van, trusting to find there
  Kit, by herself; and though, with casual air
  Among the lighted tents and vans he strolled,
  As if he were but idly pottering,
  Like the fiery white mare none but Kit could hold,
  Which bore her nowadays around the ring,
  Within his breast his heart went galloping
  Towards her; and he knew, at all costs, he
  Must try his luck and once for all speak out
  His heart to her, must speak out, even though she
  Should laugh into his very face and flout
  His love, or, angrily send him about
  His business.
                But, now, on coming there,
  He found the van in darkness--not a light
  From door or window glanced, as, by the stair
  He stayed distracted in the heart of night;
  And all his eager hopes were put to flight,
  Fearing that Kit, perhaps...
                              And now again
  He saw those figures in the sunset gleam;
  And his hot heart was shot with searing pain,
  While, in the very nightmare of a dream,
  His withers wrung, he heard the raucous stream
  Of Bible-curses; and his bosom burned
  With furious trouble as he made to go
  With stumbling steps...
                          But, in a jiffy turned,
  When from the caravan there came a low
  And stifled sobbing: and, relieved to know
  That Kit was there; yet, wondering why she wept
  Alone there in the darkness, up the stair
  With one brisk bound he scrambled and then stept
  Over the half-door of the van: but, there
  Saw nothing and heard nothing, till the flare,
  As now he struck a match, suddenly lit
  The dark interior: when, with eyelids red
  With weeping, staring at him, he saw Kit
  Straiked stiffly at full length upon her bed.
  Then, as his startled eyes from her still head
  Shifted, he saw now why so rigidly
  She lay, and that her arms were tightly bound
  Against her sides by a broad belt; and he
  Now noticed yet another strap around
  Her ankles was drawn tight.  Without a sound
  She still stared at him, as impetuously
  He leapt across the van and, working fast,
  Undid the buckled bonds and set her free.
  Yet, even when her limbs were loosed at last.
  She still lay motionless and mute as he
  Lighted a candle; and now anxiously
  Looked down at her: and, when she did not stir
  Nor speak; and in her eyes no glimmering
  Of her quick spirit gleamed, he questioned her,
  Until she roused and in a quivering
  Fury sat up: then with an angry fling
  Swung back the tangled locks from her pale face;
  And for the first time poured into his ears,
  Speaking with sobbing breath at pelting pace,
  The gruesome story of her girlish years;
  While down her cheeks, unchecked, a spate of tears
  Teemed: and he learnt how, since her mother'd fled,
  On Kit her father had vented all his spite,
  And how she'd dwelt with him in constant dread
  Of his maniacal frenzies day and night,
  And how, if he so much as caught a sight
  Of her with any lad, he'd larrup the life
  Well-nigh out of her body; and, no doubt
  Fearing she'd try to leave him, like his wife,
  When after dark he wanted to go out
  He always bound her to her bed with stout
  Straps pinioning her.
                        And now that she had done,
  Isaac, who'd hearkened with a savage grin,
  Growled "Just you wait till he...
                                    "And you, the son
  Of Cold Steel!"
                "Just you wait till he comes in!
  He'll hear from me...."
                          "From you, the child of sin!
  Do you think he'd even heed a word from you?"
  Kit gave a troubled smile.  "Nay: you'd best go
  Before he can get back.  If he but knew
  You had been here, he'd do me in; and so,
  You'd better bunk before he gets to know.
  There's not a soul in all the world that he
  Hated like Cold Steel; and if he twigged that I..."

  "Hobnobbed with Cold Steel's bastard?  Ay, I see!
  And you, yourself, too, likely?"
                                  In reply
  Kit glanced at him: and with a choking cry
  He caught her to him; and a moment they
  Were clasped together: and then anxiously
  Kit struggled free; and, thrusting him away,
  Cried "Nay!  You must clear out before..."
                                            But he
  Smiled down at her, announcing quietly
  "When I leave, you leave with me."
                                    With a stare
  Of half-incredulous hope and eyes alight
  Kit gaped at him; then whispered "Ay--but, where--
  Where could we make for at this time of night?"
  Grudgingly he admitted "Ay, you're right!
  We'll have to set about it cannily
  And plot things out if we're to get away
  Without your father kenning, and so that he
  Can't sleuth us: yet, though you may need to stay
  A bit before we hook it, the first day
  We sniff the ghost of a chance of making it
  In safety, we'll skedaddle at once and take
  The road, together.  Ay, by God, we'll flit
  At the first inkling, even though it should break
  Your father's heart!"
                        "Then scoot, for goodness sake,
  Before he comes and cops you here; unless
  You're feeling sorry for him and want to wait
  Till he prowls back from preaching and confess
  Your sinful schemes, or, it will be too late!"
  Kit cried: and then she seemed to hesitate;
  And now, as though reluctantly, she said
  "Before you quit, it would be well, maybe,
  To truss me up again upon the bed,
  And buckle up the straps; or, certainly,
  He'll guess that someone has been here with me."

  "To think that I" laughed Isaac, as he drew
  The straps about her limbs, but, not so tight,
  "Should aid your father to imprison you!"
  Then, kissing her again he dowsed the light
  And over the half-door slept into the night.



  III

  He paused an instant by the stair,
  Breathing the fresh and glittering air:
  For now the risen moon with still
  Enchantment lustred heath and hill;
  And seemed to light his very blood
  As through his body the full flood
  Of joyful passion surged, now he
  Knew Kit was his--that he and she
  Should face life with a single heart,
  Together....
              Then he gave a start
  And in his bosom his heart leapt,
  As someone from the shadow stept:
  And now he saw that it was Jim
  Who stood there glowering at him.
  While Isaac, flummoxed, with a stare
  Gaped at him, Jim began to square
  His shoulders and then smartly struck,
  Mumbling "It seems you've had the luck
  With Kit, Coldknuckles, at least, so far:
  But, from now on you'll have to spar
  To keep it--ay, by hell, you will!"
  Then as, unruffled, Isaac still
  Eyed him, Jim paused: and Isaac spoke
  "I don't much like this sort of joke;
  But, if you're keen to smash your face
  Upon my fist, this is no place
  To set to work.  Before we know,
  Kit's father will be back: and so,
  If you don't want him butting in
  Before I even can begin
  To spoil your phizgog, we must find
  A quiet spot away behind
  The whins, where I can in a tick
  Settle your hash, with just a lick
  Across your gob, and yark your hide,
  Till you'll regret you even tried
  Your tricks on me.  A punch or two
  Should polish off a runt lie you:
  And, when they swipe you on the snout,
  Happen, before I've knocked you out,
  You'll feel my knuckles not so cold."

  So, Jim, assenting with a bold
  Defiant swagger, towards the whins
  Turned, crying "And the best man wins!"
  And Isaac, following, in the light
  They faced each other, stript to fight.
  They faced each other: but, now Jim
  Daffled as though doubt dothered him;
  While Isaac still withheld the blow
  That would have laid his best friend low:
  And then Jim sighed "I always knew
  I'd never half a chance with you;
  For you were always first with Kit:
  But, if you feel you've got to hit,
  I'll take my punishment all right:
  Though, even if I won the fight,
  'Twould make no difference with her."
  But, Isaac, smiling, did not stir:
  And with a shuddering moan Jim sank
  All of a heap upon the bank:
  When Isaac down beside him dropt
  And waited till the shudders stopt:
  Then quietly he spoke to him
  "Come, tell me just what took you, Jim?"
  And now Jim answered with a groan
  "Coldknuckles, I have always known
  That you were much the better man:
  Yet, when I saw you quit the van
  Where you had been with Kit, I felt
  I'd got to give your gob a welt."
  "Ay, ay, Jim, I quite understand!"
  Now Isaac laid a kindly hand
  Upon Jim's shoulder; and began
  To tell how he within the van
  Had found poor Kit strapt to her bed....
  And Jim, at every word he said,
  Quivered with anger; and, when he knew
  What Kit and Isaac planned to do,
  He sprang up shouting eagerly
  "You leave God-fearing John to me!
  And, when you've got all set to go,
  Just drop a hint and let me know.
  I'm damned, if I don't find a way
  To keep him busy all that day!
  Happen, a Sunday would be best:
  For Sunday is no Day of Rest
  With John, if he can find a few
  Gowks who don't mind being spouted to
  And told how they will frizzle and fry
  In hell in the sweet by and by."

  Now, squatting there in the moonlight,
  Together, far into the night
  They talked things over and made plans:
  Then quietly by the darkened vans,
  Parting with Jim, Coldknuckles crept
  Back to the tent where now he slept.



  IV

  God-fearing John, to his surprise,
  Slowly began to realise
  That he at length had gained, in Jim,
  Whom he had looked on as a limb
  Of Satan and the Devil's own,
  His first disciple.  Now, alone,
  Somehow, he seldom seemed to be;
  For Jim was always fleechingly
  Waiting to hearken to each word
  He uttered, like a new-hatched bird
  Gaping beneath its parent's bill
  To gobble up its wormy fill.
  And when to town, on preaching bent,
  John went Jim always with him went,
  John's Bible tucked beneath his arm;
  And though with something of alarm
  Jim's folk resented in amaze
  This sudden queer newfangled craze,
  And little relished Jim should be
  So much in John Molt's company,
  Jim never gave a word away
  Or let out aught that might betray
  What he was up to....
                       Then at last
  The Sunday dawned that had been cast
  For the adventure; and Jim strode
  With thumping heart down the steep road,
  Resolved, whatever might betide,
  Never to quit Kit's father's side
  Or lose sight of God-fearing John
  Until the lovers were safely gone.



  V

  When Molt and Jim were well upon their way,
  As though just relishing a slacker day,
  Isaac slouched veering towards the van and stood
  Bantering Kit: then towards the fresh larchwood
  Beyond the camp they sauntered, chattering
  Casually, as though they hadn't got a thing
  Upon their minds; till they were out of sight
  Of curious eyes.  Now, bearing to the right,
  They crossed the fells until they struck a road
  Running due north; when, side by side, they strode
  With steady pace, determined that by night
  They'd be some twenty miles upon their flight
  Towards Coldknuckles; where Isaac hoped to find,
  If not a welcome, a not too unkind
  Reception; feeling no one could resist,
  Save her cracked father with his cranky twist
  Of woman-hatred, Kit's enticing ways.
  He reckoned it should take them but three days
  To reach his old home.  Yet, it did not seem,
  As they kept on together in a dream
  Of sheer and unbelievable delight--
  While all about them in haphazard flight
  The lapwings flickered over heath and bent--
  To matter to him how, or, where they went,
  So that they went together, friend with friend,
  Or, even, if their journey had no end,
  Or, coming to Coldknuckles, what they'd find
  Awaiting them.  It seemed they'd left behind
  All tribulations; and had now, indeed,
  Each in the other, all that they could need.

  They walked awhile in silence, drinking in
  The sunny April airs that set their skin
  Tingling and brisked their blood, as on they strode,
  To kindling streams of careless glee that flowed
  Through glowing veins from happy hearts that beat
  In time and tune with their swift-stepping feet.

  But, when at noon they squatted down to eat
  The scrumptious sandwiches of bread and meat,
  Kit had thought on to bring, beside a burn
  That tumbled down a brae through tawny fern;
  As they with youth's keen sharpset relish chewed,
  They seemed to drop into another mood;
  And both recalled now, as if with one mind,
  The only things they'd had to leave behind
  Regretfully; and with a saddened air
  Kit talked of Snowflake, her beloved mare;
  And Isaac with slow speech and troubled brow
  Of all the horses he adored, that now
  He'd had to trust to other hands to tend,
  Murmuring their names.  But, when he'd reached the end,
  Kit sat up with a jerk; and now exclaimed,
  While her black eyes with angry passion flamed,
  "I'd sooner slit my weasand with your jack-knife
  Than go back now to that old loathsome life:
  Nay, not for Snowflake, nor, for anything,
  Though I was happy riding round the ring,
  Could I re-live the hellish life I've had
  To lead since Mother left me to that mad
  Sword-swallower of a father!"
                               Isaac smiled
  With lively eyes: and then Kit's eyes grew mild
  As now she watched the blackface-lambs at play,
  Scampering about their mothers on the brae
  With jerky side-leaps and weak waffling cries:
  And, while she cherished them with fondling eyes,
  As they frisked scrambling down a rocky steep,
  She murmured "'Twould be good to live with sheep:
  Their bleating's soothing, after all the rant
  I've had to thole; and they, at least, don't cant:
  And, looking after lambs--if I could be
  A shepherd, that's the life that would suit me
  Down to the ground."
                      Now Isaac gaped at her
  Astounded: then old thoughts began to stir;
  And he recalled how utterly he'd scorned
  Sheep--Herdwicks, Cheviots, and even the horned
  Nimble blackfaces--scorned them, as compared
  With horses: but, as now afresh he stared
  At the far-scattered flock that calmly grazed
  The fell, he looked on ewes and lambs amazed
  As though he saw them for the first time through
  Kit's kindly eyes, as something strange and new.
  Then, glancing round at her with puzzled eyes,
  He stammered out, much to his own surprise,
  "A shepherd, ay--happen, when I get back
  I'll try to get a job with Farmer Black."

  Now, springing to her feet, Kit softly laughed;
  And, as they took the road again, she chaffed--
  "You, Cold Steel's son--and you may come to keep,
  Instead of roaring lions, baa-ing sheep!
  He'd turn within his grave to think what you,
  The lion-tamer's son, had taken to."
  But, Isaac, sniffing the fleece-scented breeze
  With relish, answered her, now more at ease--
  "Ay--but, my mother's folk have all been herds."
  And, as he spoke, it seemed the very words
  Settled the question for him once for all.

  And so, they went their way till evenfall;
  When, bedded on the littered straw within
  A barn by singing waters of a linn
  Whose music seemed the voice of spring moonlight,
  Their love fulfilled, they slumbered through the night,
  Fagged-out...
               till Isaac wakened in affright
  From nightmare; and looked out into the grey
  Chill glimmer of the dallying dawn of day,
  Retracing in his mind what he had dreamed,
  Held in bloodcurdling horror....
                                  He had seemed
  To stand upon a naked moor alone
  Beside an old rain-pitted sarsen-stone,
  When he with apprehensive eyes had seen
  A figure pledging towards him through the green
  Thick sluther of the moss: and, as he gazed
  Upon that floundering fugitive, amazed
  He realised that it was Jim.  And now,
  With the sweat streaming from his anguished brow,
  Bogged in the mire waist-deep, Jim seemed to stand
  Before him; when, as Isaac stretched a hand
  To haul him out, into the quaggy night
  Of black peathags Jim disappeared from sight.
  But now, as Isaac lay uneasily
  And questioned with a chilled heart what might be
  The meaning of his dream, Kit turned her head
  And wakened, smiling.  Not a word he said
  To her anent it: yet, throughout the day
  Qualms about Jim, as they went on their way,
  Would cut him to the quick.
                             But, the next night
  He slept, undreaming; and the sparkling light
  Of the last morning of their journey seemed
  To break the spell as the first sunray gleamed
  And turned to gold their rustling dry straw-bed
  And kindled glints on Kit's black curly head,
  While, snuggling by his side, she slumbered still.

  So, unforeboding, on they fared until,
  As the hours swiftly drew towards sunset,
  They reached at length the spot where first they met.
  Now, Isaac, stopping, clearly saw again
  The black van drawn up in the drizzling rain,
  And Kit, just newly tumbled out of bed,
  Above the half-door perk her tousled head
  With quizzing grin....  And, with eyes twinkling bright,
  Chuckling, Kit, too, recalled that fateful night.

  Then, as they climbed, together, the steep rise
  And reached the signpost, Isaac with surprise
  Saw a smart horse and trap were halted there--
  The driver greeting them with a fixed stare,
  As now they crossed the bridge and took the turn
  Towards Coldknuckles up the Caller Burn.
  And, when they'd scaled the brae and stood before
  The cottage threshold, instantly the door
  Opened and Ellen Bell, with hand on latch,
  Stood underneath the wind-torn eaves of thatch,
  Peering with eyes that seemed to pierce them through;
  Then said "You've come?  They're waiting here for you."

  Startled, they paused, and made as though to turn:
  But, now they found the driver up the burn
  Had followed them and close behind them stood,
  As stolid as a figure carved in wood.
  And so, they crossed the threshold, wondering
  What chance had brought them this strange welcoming.

  Now, as they entered, from the fireside chair
  Another stranger scanned them with shrewd stare:
  Then spoke "I take it, you are Isaac Bell
  And Katherine Molt?--I've got ill news to tell."
  Adding, as Isaac nodded: then, with head
  Turned towards Kit, in kinder accents said
  "The day you left, your father was found dead."
  And while they stared back at him in stark dread,
  Went on--"Though Molt was murdered, it may be
  You two know nothing: that remains to see:
  But, a young acrobat, a lad called Jim--
  And, seemingly, you both were thick with him--
  Has given himself up.  So, whether or no,
  You had a hand in it, you've got to go
  Right back to Castlehaugh for questioning--
  Though Jim may be the only one to swing.
  Come, we had best be gadding."
                                The two men
  Now closed on Kit and Isaac; and briskly then
  Past Ellen hustled them towards the door,
  While she stood, as though fettered to the floor,
  In a shocked stupor with a witless stare
  Fixed on them, seeming scarcely half-aware
  Of what was happening.  But, now she broke
  Her silence: clutching Isaac's arm, she spoke
  With strangely stuttering tongue "Before you go,
  Isaac, at least you've got to let me know
  If all is well with Abe?"  As Isaac said,
  Turning towards her gently "Cold Steel's dead."
  She loosed her clasp and seemed about to fall;
  But, steadying herself against the wall,
  Stared after them until they closed the door;
  Then slithered, senseless, to the flagstone floor.



  VI

  As down the long and empty road
  That Sunday they together strode,
  Jim wheedingly kept prattling on,
  Trying to beguile God-fearing John:
  But Molt, hunched in a hangdog mood,
  In wry-mouthed silence seemed to brood
  Mistrustfully; and now as Jim,
  Uneasy, glanced askew at him,
  While on he stumped at stolid pace,
  Unanswering, in that black-jowled face
  With worried eyes he seemed to see
  The threat of some calamity,
  Some vicious doom that, vague, unknown,
  Yet chilled him to the marrowbone.
  But, even while his blood crept cold
  Within his veins, he kept a hold
  Of hope--and now with eyes alight
  He seemed to see his friends in flight
  Already and well on their way
  Together into the new day,
  With all their troubles left behind.
  Then once again that undefined
  Dark menace seemed to frustrate all--
  Though, safely and beyond recall,
  Surely, by now they must have gone....
  When, with a start he now saw John
  Abruptly halt and lower down
  On him with a suspicious frown
  Wrinkling his low and beetling brow.
  Then, still without a word, Molt now
  Swung sharply round and left Jim's side,
  Back towards the camp with dogged stride
  Stalking: and in acute concern
  Jim followed him to the first turn,
  Uncertainly: for all seemed lost:
  And then he knew at any cost
  Molt must be stopt.  He called to John:
  But John still stubbornly kept on
  Towards the camp and never turned.
  And now a flare of anger burned
  Jim's heart to fury and the blood
  Flushed through his veins in frenzied flood;
  And with a frantic wild despair
  He nimbly sprang into the air,
  As though he leapt to a trapeze:
  Then with sure acrobatic ease
  Dropt down on John, with shanks hooked round
  His neck, and felled him to the ground
  With a sharp smashing thud.
                              Unhurt,
  Himself, Jim sprang up, still alert
  To keep John down: when in dismay
  He saw that in the dust Molt lay
  Unstirring, with a bloody head
  Awry; and knew that he was dead,
  His lank neck broken by the fall.
  And, as Jim stooped beside him, all
  The horror of his reckless rash
  Demented deed plumped with a crash
  Upon his young dumfoundered mind,
  Blacking out all; and stunned and blind
  He hung beside the body: then,
  As consciousness seeped back again,
  In instant frantic panic he,
  Lugging the limp corpse, flurriedly
  Buried it deep in roadside fern.

  Uncertain now which way to turn,
  He stood there, panting: then, as he
  About him now glanced furtively,
  Within the brake, alarmed, he saw
  A lurking weasel from whose jaw
  Dangled a dead grass-snake--and knew,
  Like it, he was a killer, too:
  Yet, now those sleuthing eyes of jet
  Seemed in cold accusation set
  Upon him, and he felt that he
  Could never dodge discovery
  Of his hot-headed crime, since those
  Detective eyes had scanned him close--
  That he in vain had sought to hide
  The murdered corpse by the roadside.

  With hunted heart, distraught he stood;
  Then leapt the dyke; and through a wood,
  Trampling the windflowers and bluebells,
  He trekked towards the higher fells,
  Still scarcely knowing where he went
  Plunging across the tussocked bent;
  While startled grouse across his track
  Swerved, clucking out "Go back!  Go back!"
  Or, so it seemed to his scared ears.

  But, on he forged, hag-rid with fears,
  Till his feet floundering on the brink
  Of Hellpit Moss began to sink:
  And, as he sank, it seemed to Jim
  That this was the best end for him--
  'Twere better far, if he must die,
  Beneath the black peathags to lie,
  Than dangle from a gallows-tree....
  When, through his mind flashed vividly
  The thought of Kit and Isaac--they
  Were, surely, well upon their way...
  Were safely...
                Yet, if Molt were found--
  And they were missing!
                        To firm ground
  He struggled wildly at the thought
  Of what might chance, should they be caught
  And charged with murder ... they might swing
  For him!
          So, now through bent and ling,
  The grouse still clucking out "Go back!"
  Hastily he retraced the track
  Over the brae; and, stumbling down
  To the highroad, towards the town
  He slogged on at impetuous pace
  Until he reached the market-place.



  VII

  While back towards Castlehaugh again
  They travelled, first by trap, then train,
  Isaac in dream, still seemed to see
  His mother staring crazily....
  When those dark eyes appeared to turn
  To steely piercing blue and burn
  Clean through him; and, without surprise
  He looked into his father's eyes--
  His father, who had died for him,
  Had died to save him....  And now Jim--
  Jim, too, it seemed....  He couldn't guess
  By what unlucky chance, unless
  John had turned vicious....  Jim, he knew,
  Hot-headed as he was, would do
  For Kit's sake anything short of...  Ay!
  But, this was murder, seemingly:
  God-fearing John had been found dead;
  And Jim, so the policeman said,
  Had given himself up.  And they,
  Kit and himself...
                    In tense dismay
  He turned his anxious eyes to her,
  Where mute she sat and did not stir,
  Bolt-upright in the lamp's dim light,
  And stared out into the black night
  That seemed to swallow the swift train.
  What thoughts were harassing her brain
  He could but guess.  He longed to speak
  A word or two to her and seek
  To bring some comfort to her heart:
  But, they'd been strictly kept apart
  Since they set out and not allowed
  To talk: and, even when the crowd
  Jogged them together as the train
  Had drawn up, he had tried in vain
  To get a word with her.  If he
  By some sign could but let her see
  That 'twas not for themselves he feared!
  He'd little doubt they would be cleared
  By Jim's confession.  But, 'twould be Jim
  Kit thought of, what fate threatened him,
  And not herself.  For, even though
  They went scot-free, what they would owe
  To Jim, he dared not even think!

  And now, in dream, he saw Jim sink
  Into that nightmare moss again;
  While he, himself, stretched out in vain
  A helpless hand--his dream, come true--
  And nothing, nothing he could do,
  To rescue Jim from jeopardy,
  Even should the questioning leave them free--
  Free to live out their lives in peace,
  For which Jim paid--ay, their release
  Might cost Jim's life.  Security
  Was always charged for, seemingly:
  And, if life granted happiness,
  'Twas at expense of the distress
  Of someone else.  Already Jim,
  Even though this had not come to him,
  In losing Kit and lending aid
  To win them happiness, had paid
  In his unselfish sacrifice
  A bitter and heartbreaking price,
  That, had luck chanced to load the dice
  Against himself, he felt sure he
  Would never have paid willingly.

  Then he recalled what had been said
  By the Fat Woman, long since dead.
  Her prophecy had come too true--
  Ay, and it seemed his father's, too!

  So, to the rumble of the train,
  These thoughts went round and round again
  A sawdust ring within his brain....
  Once more his mother's eyes would burn
  With hectic glare; and then would turn
  By some strange magic, ere he knew,
  To Cold Steel's eyes of stabbing blue
  Fierce twinkling fire...
              till, in a daze
  He drowsed; and saw now in amaze
  Jim lightly leap, with lively toss
  Of red locks, from the squelching moss
  Into the air and swing with ease
  Across the sky on a trapeze;
  When, letting go, in soaring flight
  He vanished in celestial light.



  VIII

  Isaac and Kit once more drew near the dyke
  Where the track branched off up the Callersyke:
  Then, heavy-hearted, up the brackened brae
  With weary stumbling steps they took their way;
  Till, on the threshold, now they stood before
  Coldknuckles' close-shut warped and weathered door,
  With eyes that on the worn boards seemed to see
  Pictured the whole infernal misery
  Of these last weeks; and Jim, their faithful friend,
  In clink, awaiting in his cell the end--
  The end his loyalty to them had brought.
  And Isaac winced, galled by the gruelling thought--
  If he had not on that November day
  Opened this very door and stolen away
  To seek his fortune, even now Jim might
  Above the circus-ring in aerial flight
  Be shooting, swallow-like, from one trapeze
  To another with his old deceptive ease....
  Ay, and his father, too, be lording it
  Among the lions, if only...
                             And yet, Kit--
  What would be happening to Kit, if he
  Had never ventured--would not she still be
  Her father's victim?
                      If--but, 'twas too late
  To think of "ifs": and none could dodge their fate;
  Not even haughty Cold Steel, who at least
  Appeared to swank it over man and beast
  With steady eye and stinging tongue.  You'd got
  To take your luck in life, like it, or not.
  Again he saw the fat witch sitting mum;
  And heard Abe swagger "What's to come, will come!"
  And recollected how with his last breath
  Cold Steel had jested in the jaws of death.

  And now, as still they gazed at the grey wood,
  The door half-opened; and a stranger stood,
  A scrawny wife, eyeing them narrowly;
  Then sharply spoke "You're Ellen's son, maybe?"
  And, when he answered "Ay!" she told them all
  That had occurred.
                    One day she'd chanced to call
  In passing and, on opening the door--
  Her rap, unanswered--slumped down on the floor
  She had discovered Ellen with her head
  In a pool of blood; and had taken her for dead;
  But, found that still she breathed.  'Twould seem that she
  Had fallen in a fit and helplessly
  Had lain there, for how long she could not say:
  And she'd been tending Ellen since that day;
  Just slipping home at whiles to get things done
  As best she could contrive.  But, now her son
  Was back, she might trust Ellen to his care,
  And tackle her own tasks.  'Twas hardly fair,
  Quitting her family for so long to fend
  For their own selves.  Ellen had been no friend
  To put yourself out for: since she was young
  She'd always had a nippy nagging tongue:
  But, finding her like that, she couldn't well
  Leave her to die, alone--for, who could tell
  Whose ghost might haunt you?  She'd not raised her head
  Once, since she had been lifted to her bed;
  But, lain there, senseless, and had scarcely stirred--
  Ay, and she'd never breathed a single word,
  Not even a complaint, when, from a cup,
  She now and then would manage to dribble a sup
  Of soup between her lips.  Queer, aught should keep
  Ellen from grousing; but, she seemed to sleep,
  Even with open eyes.  'Twas hard to know
  How long she'd last: but, she, herself, must go,
  Since she could leave her in his hands: and he,
  With the young wench, whoever she might be,
  Should manage to look after her.
                                  And now,
  Sleeking the dank hair back from Ellen's brow
  She bade good-day to them; and shut the door
  Behind her: when across the sanded floor
  Isaac tiptoed towards his mother's bed;
  And stood there looking down on that still head,
  Whose blank eyes gazed up at him with a blind
  Unrecognising stare.  'Twas strange to find
  His mother mute--so seldom at a loss,
  Of old, to greet his coming with a cross
  Cantankerous mutter.
            But now, startlingly,
  A light sprang in her eyes, that seemed to see
  Someone she knew; and, lifting up her head,
  She whispered "Cold Steel!" and then sank back, dead.



  IX

  A year went by; and spring came round again
  To Coldknuckles; when, dreaming by the peat,
  Awaiting Isaac, Kit could hear the sleet
  Slashing in gusty squalls against the pane,
  And the uproarious brawling of the burn
  That crashed down by the cottage in full spate.
  She knew the lambing would keep Isaac late;
  But, sorely now she longed for his return,
  To keep her mind from dwelling on the past
  And the mischancy happenings that had wrought
  Their still precarious blessings, and had brought
  Them through such dire distresses home at last.
  Though life went easy with them now, she knew
  The horror out of which so desperately
  They'd snatched their wedded bliss, remorselessly,
  For all his courage, haunted Isaac, too:
  And, even when the rapture of desire
  Drew them together, she would still surprise
  The pang of recollection in his eyes
  Blurring the brilliance of their blue fire.

  Now Isaac's hand unsnecked the rattling door;
  And, springing up, Kit saw him smiling there,
  With the wet dripping from his glistening hair
  And sleet-soused plaid on to the sanded floor:
  And, as he stood there, while the firelight played
  On his chilled face, she saw he held a wee
  Black motherless lamb; that now he tenderly
  Before the fire on the rag hearthrug laid
  For her to nurse.  Then he looked up at her,
  Still smiling; and, now chuckling like Cold Steel,
  Remarked "'Twould seem that you've brought life to heel,
  To do your bidding, Kit--a well-trained cur!
  You've got me, minding sheep; and now, as well,
  A lamb to mother, as you wished the day
  We guzzled sandwiches upon the brae.
  So, though I've got to nip back to the stell,
  To-night you won't be lonesome, with the mite
  To see to and to keep you company.
  But, I had best be off, or, there will be
  More orphans to bring back before daylight."

  And now Kit filled for him a can of tea
  To take out to the bield with him, and cut
  Thick slabs of bread and cheese, that, in the hut,
  He'd not go hungry; while he patiently
  Awaited through the night, alert to aid
  The ewes in labour, helping them to bring
  New life to birth and ease their suffering.

  And, when he'd left, as, now no more afraid
  Of life, with black curls clustered round her head,
  Kit crouched with the milk-bottle by the peat,
  And heard the wee beast sucking at the teat,
  Her thoughts no longer brooded on the dead.




[End of Coldknuckles, by Wilfrid Gibson]
