The Glugs of Gosh Part 9

"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!

Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?

Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips, Bright as the smile on her beckoning lips.

Bring out your kettle! 0 kettle or pan!

So I buy me a ribband for Emily Ann."

With his feet in the gra.s.s, and his back to a tree, Merry as only a tinker can be, Busily tinkering, mending a pan, Singing as only a merry man can ...

"Sym!" cried the riders. " 'Tis thus you are styled?"

And he paused in his singing, and nodded and smiled.

Said he: "Last eve, when the sun was low, Down thro' the bracken I watched her go-- Down thro' the bracken, with simple grace-- And the glory of eve shone full on her face; And there on the sky-line it lingered a span, So loth to be leaving my Emily Arm."

With hands to their faces the riders smiled.

"Sym," they said--"be it so you're styled-- Behold, great Splosh, our sorrowing King, Has sent us. .h.i.ther, that we may bring To the palace in Gosh a Glug so named, That he may be honoured and justly famed."

"Yet," said Sym, as he tinkered his can, "What should you know of her, Emily Ann?

Early as c.o.c.k-crow yester morn I watched young sunbeams, newly born, As out of the East they frolicked and ran, Eager to greet her, my Emily Arm."

"King Splosh," said the riders, "is bowed with grief; And the glory of Gosh is a yellowing leaf.

Up with you, Tinker! There's work ahead.

With a King forsaken, and Sw.a.n.ks in dread, To whom may we turn for the salving of man?"

And Sym, he answered them, "Emily Ann."

Said he: "Whenever I watch her pa.s.s, With her skirts so high o'er the dew-wet gra.s.s, I envy every blade the bruise It earns in the cause of her twinkling shoes.

Oh, the dew-wet gra.s.s, where this morn she ran, Was doubly jewelled for Emily Ann."

"But haste!" they cried. "By the palace gates A sorrowing king for a tinker waits.

And what shall we answer our Lord the King If never a tinker hence we bring, To tinker a kingdom so sore amiss?"

But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him this:

'Every eve, when the clock chimes eight, I kiss her fair, by her mother's gate: Twice, all reverent, on the brow- Once for a pray'r, and once for a vow; Twice on her eyes that they may s.h.i.+ne, Then, full on the mouth because she's mine."'

"Calf!" sneered the riders. "O Tinker, heed!

Mount and away with us, we must speed.

All Gosh is agog for the coming of Sym.

Garlands and greatness are waiting for him: Garlands of roses, and garments of red And a chaplet for crowning a conqueror's head."

"Listen," quoth Sym, as he stirred his fire.

"Once in my life have I known desire.

Then, Oh, but the touch of her kindled a flame That burns as a sun by the candle of fame.

And a blessing and boon for a poor tinker man Looks out from the eyes of my Emily Ann."

Then they said to him, "Fool! Do you cast aside Promise of honour, and place, and pride, Gold for the asking, and power o'er men- Working your will with the stroke of a pen?

Vexed were the King if you ride not with us."

But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him thus:

'Ease and honour and leave to live-- These are the gifts that a king may give 'Twas over the meadow I saw her first; And my lips grew parched like a man athirst Oh, my treasure was ne'er in the gift of man; For the G.o.ds have given me Emily Ann."

"Listen," said they, "O you crazy Sym.

Roses perish, and eyes grow dim.

l.u.s.tre fades from the fairest hair.

Who weds a woman links arms with care.

But women there are in the city of Gosh-- Ay, even the daughters of good King Splosh..."

"Care," said Sym, "is a weed that springs Even to-day in the gardens of kings.

And I, who have lived 'neath the tent of the skies, Know of the flowers, and which to prize ...

Give you good even! For now I must jog."

And he whistled him once to his little red dog.

Into the meadow and over the stile, Off went the tinker man, singing the while; Down by the bracken patch, over the hill, With the little red dog at the heel of him still.

And back, as he soberly sauntered along, There came to the riders the tail of his song.

"Kettles and pots! Kettles and pans!

Strong is my arm if the cause it be man's.

But a fig for the cause of a cunning old king; For Emily Ann will be mine in the Spring.

Then nought shall I labour for Splosh or his plans; Tho' I'll mend him a kettle. Ho, kettles and pans!"

XIII. THE LITTLE RED DOG

The Glugs still live in the land of Gosh, Under the rule of the great King Splosh.

And they climb the trees in the Summer and Spring, Because it is reckoned the regular thing.

Down in the valley they live their lives, Taking the air with their aunts and wives.

And they climb the trees in the Winter and Fall, And count it improper to climb not at all.

And they name their trees with a thousand names, Calling them after their Arts and Aims; And some, they climb for the fun of the thing, But most go up at the call of the King.

Some scale a tree that they fear to name, For it bears great blossoms of scarlet shame.

But they eat of the fruit of the nameless tree, Because they are Glugs, and their choice is free.

But every eve, when the sun goes West, Over the mountain they call The Blest, Whose summit looks down on the city of Gosh, Far from the reach of the great King Splosh, The Glugs gaze up at the heights above, And feel vague promptings to wondrous love.

And they whisper a tale of a tinker man, Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann.

A great mother mountain, and kindly is she, Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea.

And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap, Is a little red house with a little straw cap That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high, And a bunch of red roses c.o.c.ked over one eye.

And the eyes of it glisten and s.h.i.+ne in the sun, As they look down on Gosh with a twinkle of fun.

There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate, And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight; For it turns and it twists and it wanders about To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt.

'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth.

And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man With his little red dog and his Emily Arm.

And, once in a while, when the weather is clear, When the work is all over, and even is near, They walk in the garden and gaze down below On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go; Where the houses of Gosh seem so paltry and vain, Like a handful of pebbles strewn over the plain; Where tiny black forms crawl about in the vale, And stare at the mountain they fear them to scale.

And Sym sits him down by his little wife's knee, With his feet in the gra.s.s and his back to a tree; And he looks on the Valley and dreams of old years, As he strokes his red dog with the funny p.r.i.c.k ears.

And he says, "Still they climb in their whimsical way, While we stand on earth, yet are higher than they.

Oh, who trusts to a tree is a fool of a man!

For the wise seek the mountains, my Emily Ann."