Before I tell you the story of what Harry did at the war,

I must carry back to something that happened years before.

And the best prize cows in the county. Fond of his dogs and his sport,

Always his hand in his pocket for trouble of any sort.

Always in Church o’ Sundays, let it blow, or hail, or rain!

And mother she made us curtsy when we met him in the lane.

They wouldn’t do that in our buildings. Oh, no! The folks round me,

Bless you! they’re as important as any Squire could be.

There’s a man called Jobbs at our corner, who’s shifty with his scales,

I’ve heard him saying often he’s as good as the Prince of Wales!

And I’m sure I hope he may be. Though I doubt it—for all his airs—

For only last week he was summoned for knocking his wife downstairs!

But mother she read in the Bible, “Honour to whom honour is due,”

And that was her way of thinking, and it’s my way of thinking, too.

There was never a finer lady than old Squire Lawrence’s wife,

And when my father lay dying, by the mill where he’d worked in life,

She came through the wood to mother, and she nursed him like a friend.

(You couldn’t get nurses in those days even if you’d the money to spend.)

All through the night they watched him, she and my mother alone,

Hearing the wind a wailing, and hearing the mill-sails moan.

And in the grey of the morning mother rose up from her dead,

And turned to the Squire’s lady who was kneeling by the bed—

She could speak like a lady herself, could mother—“Madam,” says she,

“I am poor. I can never repay you, for what you have done for me.

But though I can never repay you, I pray to God that the debt

May be paid by my children’s children to those your sons beget.”

That’s what she said. It was strange like. But mother spoke strange at times.

And old Squire Lawrence died, and they buried him under the limes,

By the chancel wall. And his lady, she died and was buried too.

And their eldest son was Squire, and lived where they used to do.

Mother was took before sixty, but saw me married to Jim.

And saw her grandson, Harry, and was wonderful proud of him!

Had him down to her village out of our London air,

And my son and the son of young Squire played in the meadows there.

Nothing to choose between them, for the boys were boys at nine.

They’d both have swopped a fortune for a top! and a piece of twine!

Young Master Guy thrashed Harry. And Harry thrashed him back!

Till they made it up with bird’s eggs! and fishing round for jack!

Then their paths in life went different. And years passed us wondrous quick.

Harry shot up like a hop-pole. You never saw such a stick!

Oh! but he filled out, handsome! And we were proud of our son

When he ’listed for a soldier. He’d always wished to be one.

The regiment sailed for Egypt, to fight its way to Khartoum—

For ’twas back in the time when Gordon was at bay in his living tomb—

I remember the very first letter that Harry wrote to me.

They might have been playing football! “We’re as merry as herrings,” says he.

That’s how our men face danger! That’s how they take their share

Of hardship, heat, dust of the desert, foul water, and pestilent air.

God bless the brave hearts in their bodies! “And Mother,” he wrote—“here’s fun!

Who do you think is my officer? Master Guy! our own Squire’s son!”

And funny enough! but it was so! And side by side they fought

From Korti up to Gubat. (I can’t give the names as I ought,

But I know them when Jim’s a reading!) And officer and man

They faced red death together in the wilds of the Soudan.

Through eighty miles of desert, fevered by thirst, and parched;

And as they got near water, by the banners they could see

That Arab hosts were holding the Wells of Abu Klea.

And by the Wells they fought them.

                        Our men were formed in Square,

All of them, lifeguards, gunners, infantry, marshalled fair,

And the camels in the middle. The great Square moved like a wall.

And the enemy charged it, reckless, and never shook it at all.

They came in clouds, in thousands, and our bayonets drove them back.

And again and again in fury they rushed to the attack,

Till at last our Quick Firer . . . jammed! . . . and the cavalry line grew thin . . .

And the Arabs dashed at the corner . . . and broke the Square . . . and got in!

No battle of range and distance, that battle of Abu Klea,

With a far-away dot to tell you where your enemy may be.

It was cut and thrust at close quarters, blade to blade, man to man,

Our swords and sabres clashing on the steel of Kordofan.

Savage for blood were the Arabs, uttering yell upon yell,

And they stabbed on the ground at the wounded like devils out of Hell.

Aye! And that’s war. And young Lawrence, he lay there upon the ground,

Unhorsed, and shot in the shoulder, with a dozen yelling round.

He—the beloved of his mother—the heir of the Hall—and his life

Wasn’t worth the snuff of a candle! for an Arab’s gleaming knife

Was an inch from his throat, when Harry—with a hand-spike in his hand—

Sprang at the man like a leopard and dashed him dead on the sand.

And over his officer’s body at Abu Klea that day

He fought like the Angel of Battle, keeping the bloodhounds at bay.

Fought with the spears at his breast, fought with the blood on his face,

Our son risking his life for the son of the old Squire’s race.

And why the boy lived—I can’t tell you. Why he wasn’t slain—I don’t know.

Speared and pinned like a sand-fly—except that God willed it so.

But he stemmed that tide of slaughter till help came up with a shout,

And the great Square rallied . . . recovered . . . and hurled its enemy out!

Bleeding and fainting they found him, when the English had cheered themselves hoarse,

But he saved the life of young Lawrence, and won the Victoria Cross!

She sits in her chair that natural, she almost seems to speak:

With her sweet eyes gazing tender, and her hand against her cheek.

And the very self-same evening the news came home to me

Of the struggle in the desert by the Wells of Abu Klea.

I stood before her picture and looked in my mother’s face—

“Mother!” I said—“he saved him! The heir of the noble race

You taught us to honour: ’twas Harry—the babe I laid on your knees.

He fought and he saved him! Mother——”

                                  And friends, you may think as you please.

You may say it was nothing but fancy, but as surely as I’m her child,

As I looked at her face in the firelight the eyes of my mother smiled.

And I heard her saying solemn: I heard! . . . and I was not afraid. . . .

“By the hand of my children’s children, thank God, has the debt been paid.”

      We were talking of Saints one Sunday,

        Jim and the children and me;

      For Dickie had noticed the Saints’ days

        Down in the Prayer-book, you see.

And that boy! he takes to questions as a cab-horse takes to beans!

He’s for everlasting asking what this and the other means!

      And I told them then a story

        Of a woman I used to know,

      Who I think was fit to be counted

        With the Saints of long ago:

Though she just was no one and nothing, but lived her plain life out

In the common ruck of people you never think twice about.

      The Saints bore pain without murmuring.

        They bore, for the dear Lord’s sake,

      Life’s trials with a calmness

        That nothing seemed to shake.

They were ready to lay their lives down whenever the Master bid,

Without a flinch or a falter. And that’s what this woman did.

      When I was a girl in service,

        The first place that I took

      Was kitchen-maid at a Parson’s,

        And a Mrs. Coles—was cook.

She’d a home in the town, and two children: but her husband was lamed by a fall,

And couldn’t earn but a trifle, and so she worked for them all.

      Handsome, she was, to look at,

        And ruled her kitchen firm.

      Seventy mouths she cooked for

        Every day in the Term:

For master had the school-house: and in a great house like that,

The cook don’t sit down easy and fold her hands for a chat.

      Early and late she was working,

        And kept us on the run.

      But she loved her work: and she did it

        As well as it could be done.

She did her duty faithful by all that passed her hand,

And you couldn’t say more for a lady! or the highest in the land!

      She taught me to toss a pancake,

        And she taught me to make a stew.

      And she taught me to boil a potato!

        Which every woman can’t do!

And I never knew her scold me: though I reckon she’d cause to rate:

For I was a careless young monkey as ever broke a plate!

      Well. Let me tell the story.

        She was working and going along,

      Just as I’d always known her,

        Bustling, and busy, and strong;

And one day she says to me—“Annie! I’ve a pain like a knife in my breast,”

And I says—“Rub in some goose-grease, and sit you down for a rest.”

      That’s what I said. Ah! it’s nothing

        We know of what’s going to be.

      Just a little while later we waited,

        The mistress herself, and me,

By her side to hear the verdict the surgeons had to give.

And they came and told her, quiet, she had only three weeks to live.

      Oh we know men fall in battle,

        And scarcely dread, or feel,

      In the fury of the fighting,

        The thrust of naked steel.

They face death every moment, and their spirits are gay and bold.

But it’s one thing to die in hot blood, and another to die in cold.

      It’s one thing to die unconscious:

        Mere clay, that is deaf and dumb:

      It’s another to die in your senses,

        Well knowing the end has come:

To meet it with faith so tranquil it’s more Christ’s faith than man’s!

You don’t look for that in a kitchen, somehow, among the pots and pans.

      I’d thought of her as the cook, mind,

        Who’d set me to scour a tin.

      I didn’t know I’d been living

        With a Saint and a Heroine!

But I had! She looked at the doctors. “God’s will be done,” says she.

And she walked into the hospital, bravely and steadily.

      No soldier answered quicker

        His Leader’s call in the strife,

      Than she the call which reached her

        In the very prime of life.

Her work, her home, her husband, the friends she had in our town,

She laid them all from her as calm-like as I’d lay a dish-cloth down.

      She said good-bye to us, cheerful.

        And held her husband’s hand.

      “Tom, dear,” she says. “It’s sudden.

        And hard to understand.

I’d liked to have lived a bit longer till the boys could earn their bread.

But what’s dark to us is light to God. And He knows best,” she said.

      And through the days that followed,

        Black days of mortal pain,

      She never said anything different.

        Never fretted for life again.

I was young, and scared of dying, and I asked her if she knew—

What it was like hereafter, and where she was going to?

      “Annie,” she says, “I know nothin’

        Of what it’s like at the end.

      I only know for certain

        I am goin’ to a friend.

I’ve known Him all my life,” she says; “and He’s with me in this Ward.

I’m naught, my dear, but a sinner: but He is Christ the Lord.

      And He never failed a sinner

        That asked Him to forgive.”

      There’s a truth to nail on our souls, friends,

        For as many years as we live.

She’d been speaking, oh! so simple. And she turned and smiled at me,

“You’re getting on with the cookin’. You keep it up!” says she.

And she died without a falter, or a flinch, or a thought to weep.

And her last words were—“He giveth . . . to His beloved . . . sleep!”

“Oh glory to God for the Hope that girdles the whole world round.”

You have listened to many a story told of a shipwrecked man,

Cast on a desert Island where the painted savages ran,

And the monkeys climbed and chattered: cast there, and lost for years.

And you’ve listened, may be, to ballads, that have filled your eyes with tears,

Of women and little children lost in the sand, or the snow:

Lost on the sea, when the vessel struck on the reefs below.

And the losing of our poor bodies is tragic enough, God knows!

But there are other stories, stranger, wilder, than those.

Tales of souls that are lost. And I come to you this time

With the truth of one such story. A tale of sin and crime,

But one of the most wonderful that ever was told in rhyme.

Dave he was called, or Davey. I didn’t like his eyes.

They used to make me fancy he’d be good at telling lies.

He never looked you straight in the face, and always shuffled his feet:

Though a bigger-made man than he was you couldn’t pass in the street.

He told us he was an orphan: that he hadn’t a human tie

In the world: and that, at starting, was a regular, downright lie!

For we found, a long time after, his parents were both alive!

And his wife!—whom he’d deserted—and a son! of four or five.

He never went to Chapel, nor to Church with Jim and me.

“Why don’t you come? It’s lovely!” I says to him pleasantly.

He turned and swore. He comin’! He’d as lief be hung or be shot

As sit in a place o’ Worship and listen to Parson’s rot.

Devil have this and the other! Did I take him for a saint?

“Well, no,” I says, “I didn’t! But,” I says, “if you aint,

Nor more am I: and maybe, you’ll like it when you’re there.”

But he wasn’t one for preaching: nor for Bible: nor for prayer.

And it made me think of demons to see him about the place,

With his hang-dog eyes, and his shuffles, and his evil-looking face.

Once he fell ill and I nursed him. Well, I take no praise for that.

It was nothing but my duty, and I’d nurse a dog or a cat

That was under my roof, and ailing—but when he was up again,

He never so much as said “Thank you,” though he knew I’d had a strain

To get him little comforts; for at that time we were bent

On saving every penny we could scrape towards the rent.

  As long as there’s back-rent owing you can’t call your soul your own.

That’s how I felt about it. And it wasn’t my feel alone,

For we felt it all together. The children says to me—

“Mother, we don’t mind having no sugar in our tea,

And that will save a little!” And Jim he says, says he—

“I’ll stop my beer and baccy till this blessed debt is through.”

And I says—“Well, I’m shabby!—but not a stitch that’s new

Will I wear . . . till we’ve paid it.” And so our savings grew

Till in my old cracked tea-pot I’d got the whole round sum,

And felt that happy-hearted I could have played the drum!

  The Monday I meant to pay it—it was three o’clock about—

I reached me down the tea-pot to count the money out.

I’d a sovereign on the table, Jim gave me Saturday night—

And as I stood there, counting, to see that all was right,

I heard the door shut softly, and turned my head to see,

And there was Dave, our lodger, standing up close to me.

  Friends! it’s a fearful moment when a soul beneath this sun

Stands face to face, on a sudden, with the power of the Evil One.

The Devil was in that man. And looked at me out of his eyes.

I knew he had come to rob me. And quick as the lightning flies

I knew that I couldn’t stop him! There was none in the house but me.

The children away at school, and Jim at the factory.

“Quick!” he says, “Give me the money! If you move, or lift your hand,

Or speak above a whisper, I’ll brain you where you stand.”

I didn’t move, but I faced him—“Dave!” I says, “I’ve no fear,

I’m not a going to struggle or scream, for there’s none to hear.

You can rob us of our savings. You! that have shared our bread.

But as sure as a God of Justice is watching overhead

You will take a curse with this money that will follow you into Hell . . .”

  And I said no more, for he struck me: a murderous blow, and I fell

Straight down at his feet like a dead thing, and remembered nothing more

Till Jim came in at tea-time and lifted me from the floor.

I was ill for a long time after, with the blow, and the shock, and the pain,

And the sickness of heart at thinking we must save all over again.

For he’d robbed us of every sixpence, and cleared right out of the place,

And though the Police were a searching they never set eyes on his face.

I’ve known bad men, and bad women, but never one worse than him,

For, mind you, he’d been our lodger, living friendly with me and Jim!

He’d known our shifts and our struggles. And yet he was bad, that bad,

He could rob poor folks as we were of the little that we had!

  Well. The full years went over—nine of them, one by one,

Jimmy was Foreman, and working as hard as he’s always done.

We were busy, and hearty, and happy. And I’d ceased to give a thought

To Davey and his doings, or to wonder if he’d been caught.

  The summer was stifling sultry, and one night I pushed my chair

Beside the open window, to get a breath of air.

And as I sat there, dreamy, for a minute in the heat—

The face of the man who had robbed me rose out of the dark of the street.

Only a moment I saw it!—pale!—like a face from the grave.

A moment it stared in my eyes, and was gone! But I knew it was Dave.

And on the impulse I started, and screamed to the others, and ran . . .

And found him lying across our step like a drunken man.

Not drunk. He had fainted. And Jimmy, he lifted and carried him in.

Oh! it’s the truth in the Bible that hard is the service of sin.

We didn’t need words to tell us, as we stood by our enemy,

That he’d done more harm to himself by his crimes than he’d done to we.

The man was a ghost to look on! a wreck! a half-starved hound!

We had to fetch the doctor before we could bring him round.

I sent the others to bed, and through the hush and the gloom

Of that live-long night I watched him, in our little sitting-room.

  Just after midnight he spoke to me, raising a heavy lid—

“You here! . . . I meant to kill you that day . . .” “Yes, I know you did.”

“Listen!” he says! “I must speak——.” And oh! may there never be

In my ears again a voice of such desperate misery.

“I took a curse with that money . . . you said I should . . . you was right.

It’s dragged, it’s hunted me down, it’s followed me, day an’ night.

You wasn’t the last I robbed. I’m dyin’. . . . I knows it well . . .

And I’m lost . . . And that CURSE you spoke of, will follow me . . . into Hell!”

  Friends! It’s not given to many who draw our mortal breath,

To hear a lost soul wailing on the very edge of death.

Thank God, it was given to me! Thank God as I saw him there,

Bad as he’d been, thief—outcast—in the last gasp of despair—

There rushed on my soul the message Christ brought to wrecks like him.

And the glory of that message thrilled me through every limb!

It seemed as if an Angel lifted a golden rod

And showed me the Hope, and Pity, that rolls through the Word of God!

Lost! But the lost may be found! Christ’s truth!

                                I knelt down on the floor.

“Dave, you were lost, but you’re found—found—rescued for evermore.

It’s the truth of the blessed Gospel—I can show you chapter and verse—

The Lord whom you have forgotten will take away the curse.

I know you are black: but never was a man, or a woman, so vile

That the blood of the Lord couldn’t cleanse them. Oh Dave!”—and I couldn’t but smile—

“You’ve nothing to say but—‘Forgive me! . . . I’m sorry! . . . I’ve sinned!’ and at last

The love of the Father can reach you, and blot out your wretched past.

When the wicked man turns to his God—it is writ in the Bible plain—

The sins which he hath committed shall not be mentioned again!”

“Nothing to say but . . . forgive me!”

                            It seemed too much to be true.

He stared at me unbelieving.

                        “And can you forgive me? You!

That I robbed . . . and struck?” “Forgive you! Poor soul,” I says, “I do.

If forgiveness of mine will show you the forgiveness of God more clear,

I’ll forgive you every day and every night in the year!”

    Oh friends! The wonder of it! I looked and I saw on his face

A look there must be on the faces of those in the Happy Place.

It came in a blaze to him! Pardon! Hope! Mercy! for him—the defiled!

He’d not shed a tear for thirty year, but he sobbed like a little child.

    He didn’t die. He recovered. He was granted another span

Of life in this world, was Davey. And he lived it—an altered man.

 

I could show you a little cottage, to-day, in a Surrey lane,

Where the clematis and roses climb round the window pane,

And the birds sing in the summer. A man lives there, with his wife,

And his son—whom he’d deserted:—and he’s living an honest life.

That’s him! That’s Dave! They’re happy. He’s working at a trade.

And he looks you full in the face now: eyes steady, and straight as a blade.

We were friends, all friends together, in London, before they went.

And he’s paid us back that money. Every penny! every cent!

 

O Glory to God for the Hope that girdles the whole world round.

The sinner may be forgiven. And the lost, the LOST—can be Found!

          This is a little story,

            Of nothing . . . you may say.

          Yet it filled my heart with sunshine

            One dull, dark winter day.

And if it cheers another who is sad, as I was then,

It’s worth my while to tell it, to women—or to men!

          We were living in Flower Alley

            (That hadn’t a flower to show!)

          And the fog hung cold as grave-clothes.

            And though it’s years ago,

I can feel its chill upon me as I hurried down the street,

Knowing I’d left my children with scarce a crumb to eat.

          I was worrying about them

            When I reached the lady’s door.

          ’Twas a splendid house she lived in.

            I hadn’t been there before.

I was asked to wait in a passage: and I sat me down in a chair,

With a sort of arch before me—as it might be, over there!

          And through the arch was a staircase,

            All flooded in golden light.

          And as I sat there, waiting,

            I saw the prettiest sight

You ever could imagine. Three children came down the stairs.

I’ve seen cherub heads in pictures, but never none sweeter than theirs.

          Such darling rosy faces!

            Such hair! all wave and shine.

          All dresses of lace and velvet,

            So rich! and dainty! and fine!

Three. Just the same as my children! A girl and two little boys.

Laughing . . . and stepping careful . . . with their arms full of lovely toys.

          The little girl held a dolly,

            As big as herself, very near!

          And a boy just the size of Harry,

            Had a helmet! and sword! and spear!

And the other boy had a trumpet! and a Noah’s Ark! and a drum!

“Let us go and show them to mother!”—they said, as I watched them come.

          And they passed down the great wide staircase,

            All three! And I saw them no more.

          Though the chime of their happy laughter

            Followed me out at the door.

It’s pleasant now to recall it. But that day, in my distress,

It filled my breast with a passion of envy and bitterness

          For I thought of my wretched young ones

            Waiting for me in the gloom,

          By the farthing dip, where I’d left them

            In our poor living-room.

Tired: and maybe, crying: in the dreary evening shades.

And the laughter of those rich children stabbed me like dagger blades.

          I’d never coveted money,

            But I grudged and coveted then.

          It made me mad to be thinking,

            That the children of working-men,

Were to have life’s tears and sadness, and the others have all the joys.

“It’s easy for them to be laughing, with their clothes, and their beautiful toys!”

          Thinks I, as I reached our Alley,

            Squalid, and dismal, and wet.

          And trailed up our steps, and stood . . . rooted!

            By a sound I shall never forget.

Peals of the merriest laughter that ever rang out on the air!

Peal after peal! Sweet as music! . . . where did it come from? Where?

          Never from my poor children!

            I gasped . . . and I opened the door . . .

          There were my three youngsters,

            Sitting down on the floor.

Sitting and shouting together, in the guttering candle flame,

Laughing their little heads off, over some wonderful game.

          There they were. Poor of the poorest.

            Bubbling with laughter and fun!

          “Let’s go an’ show ’em to mother,” says Dickie,

            Just as the rich ones had done!

And they brought me their toys and treasures . . . Some bits of orange peel!

And bits of a broken tea-pot! And an empty cotton-reel!

          And an oyster shell! And a hairpin!

            And an old boot, burst to shreds! . . .

          They were playing at shop, they told me.

            Oh blessings on their young heads!

They didn’t know why I was crying: why I kissed them so warm and fast.

But the fog had turned to sunshine, and my bitterness was past.

          It’s God’s free gift, like summer,

            For the rich, and the poor, to find.

          And all the money that’s minted

            Won’t buy a contented mind!

And all the money that’s minted will never hold or sway

The happy-hearted laughter where little children play.

There are two ways of looking at most things: a gloomy, and a bright.

And to always see the gloomy is neither wise nor right.

And so I’ve said to Mullins, who would sit in our front room

And talk that dull and dreary he depressed you to the tomb!

  “The country’s going under,” he says one day to me.

“We’ve boasted of our greatness and our Empire of the Sea!

But mark me, Mrs. Hyde,” he says, “the country’s doomed to fall!”

“That’s false!” I says, “Mr. Mullins. It isn’t doomed at all.”

“Ah, there’re wars, and rumours of wars,” he says, “and we shall go

The way Rome went before us.” And he groans. And I says—“No!

There may be wars to try us, but if we all stand true

To the Christian Faith we were reared in, the nation will battle through.

If we’re true to the Open Bible our forefathers died to gain

The whole world shall rise up against us, and rise against us in vain!

That’s truth,” I says, “Mr. Mullins.” “Oh,” says he with his face askew—

“But nobody reads the Bible.” “Oh yes,” I says, “they do

There’s millions and millions read it. We’re not all, you know, like you!

And the Bible-reading millions are the salt of our land this day,

And the solid rock we’re built on, no matter what you say.

And wherever our flag has floated, over black or yellow skin,

We have taken the Bible with us——” “Wrong!!” he snaps, “we’ve taken GIN!!”

  That beat me for a minute. “Well,” I says, “that is true.

We have taken the Living Gospel. And we’ve taken the Drink-trade too.

And that’s SIN for which we must answer, rulers, and people, alike.

But though the Sword of Judgment may leap from its sheath—may strike—

If we turn to the Lord in earnest, and humble ourselves, and amend,

Great Britain’s star will be shining more brightly in the end.”

“There’re a lot of IFS in your talkin’,” says he with the frightfulest sneer.

“You needn’t stand a chanting about Great Britain here.

The race is changed, it’s corrupted, it’s Ruined!” he says, “with Gold!

We’ve lost the pluck, the courage, we had in the days of old.

It’s all Self-love, Self-interest. Manhood is on the shelf.

Men live for making Money”—(he’d made a good bit himself!)

“There used to be British heroes,” he says, “but they’re dying out——”

“Mr. Mullins!” I interrupts him, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.

You’re the dismalest frog,” I tells him, “that ever croaked in a pond.

You sit with your head in a mud-heap, and you never look beyond.

Why!” I says, “there are heroes walking, up and down these Isles of ours—

If you’d only heart to know them—all the days and all the hours!

There are noble deeds a doing, and acts of Charity,

And Love, and Help, and Tenderness, that the angels smile to see.

Now come!” I says. “I can tell you of a British hero straight.

Just a simple chap, a Coastguard, who never knew he was great.

The tale was in our papers, as gallant as ever was read.

And I know it’s true, Mr. Mullins. I know it’s true,” I said.

“For it happened to us! And I call it—The Story of Beachy Head.”

  You know the famous headland that watches Eastbourne town.

Have you ever climbed to the summit, and stood there, and looked down,

Down, at the deep sea-water six hundred feet below?

If you have, I haven’t. And wouldn’t! If you paid me ever so.

I can’t look down from a height: for everything seems to crawl,

And I go that dizzy and giddy, I feel I am going to fall.

And the day me and Jim and the children were up upon Beachy Head,—

Though ’twas really the finest outing we’d had since we were wed,—

Though we’d sausage-rolls in a basket, and a mutton pie, and a tart—

And I’d trimmed up my old bonnet till it looked as smart as smart!

Though the sun was shining lovely—the thought of that fearful height,

And that deadly edge, and the children, and never a rail in sight

To save them from falling over!—it so upset my mind,

“Jim,” I says, “where’s the pleasure? I wish that I’d stayed behind.”

“Mother,” he says, “don’t worry. There’s nothing on earth to fear!”

But I kept tight hold of Sally that she shouldn’t go too near.

While the boys, little Dick, and Harry, they shouted and ran and played,—

Each with the spade we had bought him—not the very least bit afraid!

  I tried my best to enjoy it, for the view was vast and wide,

We saw the great ships sailing far out on the ocean tide.

We saw the Coastguard station, and the flag-mast on the grass.

I stood some minutes, watching, to see a sea-gull pass.

And a little longer, listening, to what the sky-larks said.

For oh! they did sing sweetly up there on Beachy Head!

And when I turned . . . I can feel it . . . the horror that caught my breath.

Jim was a running with Harry, their faces as pale as death.

And in a moment I guessed it . . . and the guessing turned me sick . . .

“Dickie!” I shrieked to them . . . “Dickie! Where is he? Where is Dick?”

And my husband caught me . . . “Annie! . . .” his very lips were stiff.

“Annie,” he says, “we’ve lost him . . . he’s fallen over the cliff!”

O Lord in Heaven! My youngest! My curly-headed son!

 

  We ran to the Coastguard station for help. And there was one,

A splendid-looking Coastguard, a sitting at his tea.

Married, he was, and a father, ’twas afterwards told to me.

He jumped up straight—I can see him—“Mates! Bring a rope!” says he.

He ran to the verge of the headland, and laid himself flat on the turf

And searched for a sign of Dickie, down, down, to the sand and the surf.

But nothing showed, or fluttered, or cried with a human tongue.

“Quick!” he says. “Lower me over!” And over the edge he was swung.

Over the terrible rampart, six hundred feet in height.

I couldn’t watch him swinging . . . I hid my eyes from the sight.

But Jim, he watched with the others: and caught a shout of joy—

A shout that rang up to the summit—“He’s alive! I can see the boy!”

Aye! He could see, but not reach him.

                          Friends! let me tell you, slow,

The facts of as brave a rescue as you will ever know.

            The child had slid, and was standing, on a ledge six inches wide,

Clinging for life to the bare chalk, dumb, helpless, and terrified,

And sheer between him and rescue stretched two hundred feet, or more,

Of the vast white cliff that rose upwards like a white wall from the shore.

If the Coastguard’s nerve had failed him, we had lost our little son.

But the nerve of the man was iron! He saw what had to be done.

He must cross to the boy!—though the crossing looked a task beyond human hope.

Without a thought of the peril he slipped himself OUT of the rope,

And quicker than I can tell it, he got off his boots and his socks,

And clinging naked-footed to the face of those treacherous rocks,

Striking his knife in the crannies and holding on to the hilt!

Sometimes scraping a foothold where the least little slip or tilt

Would have hurled him to destruction! swarming, crawling, along,

From yard to yard of the distance, daring, and cool, and strong,

Like a fly on a wall he crawled over! And the watchers held their breath!

Knowing the man was playing at touch and go with Death!

Crawled between earth and heaven, while the sea-birds screamed and fled

And the sea roared far below him—crawled across Beachy Head!

Got to the boy and caught him! . . . at the very point to drop . . .

And held him safe till the ropes came and drew them both to the top!

    Jim gave him his watch. ’Twas his father’s. ’Twas all he had to give.

I stood there . . . holding Dickie . . . And the longest day I live

I can never tell my feelings. I shook like a shock of wheat.

“If I had the gold of the Indies I would pour it at your feet.

You are married so they tell me . . . and home and child are sweet . . .

And we’re working-folk! We’re strangers! Mere strangers from London way . . .

And you’ve risked your life for my boy’s life, that you never saw till this day! . . .

Man!” I says. “Who was your mother? May she be living to hear

That the son she bore is a Hero! . . .” “She’s livin’,” he says, “never fear!

And a good mother too. But Lord love you! Don’t call me a hero!” says he.

“Every Jack o’ my mates here standin’ would have done it as well as me,

And better maybe. Now young ’un,” and he patted Dickie’s head,

“No more of these larks!”—as I’m living that’s what that Coastguard said!

And he handed the watch back to Jimmy, and says he, a flushing red,

“I’d as lief not keep it, Mister, thank you kindly all the same.”

And was turning off to leave us, us, that didn’t know his name!

And yet owed him a debt so mighty! so mighty! . . .

                                      I burst into tears.

“Oh wait . . . we could never repay you though we tried for a hundred years.

But as sure as the prayers of a mother can call down a blessing from Heaven,

As I kneel by this child you have rescued that blessing to you will be given.”

He turned round as simple as nothing!

                        “Now don’t you take on,” says he.

“ ’Twas in the day’s work, and a pleasure. And I’m off now to finish my tea!”

  I don’t know what Mullins was thinking, but he gave a cough and a sneeze.

And wiped his eyes for a wonder. And sat as mum as you please.

“It’s well,” I said, “with the country that can breed such men as these!”

 

  Thank God! for the hero spirit that lives where the British tread.

Thank God! for the brave hearts beating in the Coastguards of Beachy Head.

          The war is over and done with:

            And the never-ending roar

          Of our toiling life in London

            Sweeps on as it did before.

But let no one say we’ve forgotten! Our hearts are throbbing yet,

And our eyes are dimmed with memories we never can forget.

          I’ve reason to remember,

            For I sent out a son.

          Him that won the Queen’s Cross in Egypt,

            And stands over six-feet-one!

He was infantry when he ’listed, and he’s served with the cavalry since.

He’s a Lancer Troop Sergeant Major, and his mother thinks him—a Prince!

          But it’s not of Harry, exactly,

            That this tale is going to be.

          It’s about his chum, his comrade,

            A chap called Johnny Lee.

The men called him “Bones,” and “Skinny,” because he was slight and thin,

And laughed at him for a Lancer, and said he’d been smuggled in!

          “Johnny” sounds softish, somehow.

            And he was a bit soft, in a way.

          He was pious-like, and quiet,

            Didn’t smoke, or joke, or play,

Or care for a lark off duty: though set him across a horse!

And not a man could ride better, or keep a straighter course.

          Still while they were quartered in London,

            He was just the butt of the troop!

          They hid his belt, and his breeches!

            And put mustard in his soup!

And played all the games you can fancy—till one day the play got rough,

And Harry turned round in Barracks and said the boy’d had enough.

          “I’ll break the neck of the bully

            Who touches that lad again,”

          He says. And the others dropped it,

            For just to put it plain—

When a man’s a V.C. and a giant, who can shake you out limp and blue,

His comrades pay attention if he makes a remark or two!

          And after that, young Johnny,

            He worshipped him, very near.

          And then came the news of Colenso . . .

            Terrible news to hear!

Shall we ever forget Colenso? The wires had flashed “defeat.”

“Captur’ o’ British Cannon!” screamed the urchins down our street.

          And me and Jim sat staring,

            And the neighbours gathered in.

          And some said the Generals had blundered,

            And some said war was a sin,

And we’d better give in, and surrender. And Mrs. Crump says—“Oh!

You may take it the fighting’s finished, and your boy won’t have to go,

          And that will be a blessin’ . . .”

            She meant it sort of kind.

          Jim laid his hand on the paper.

            And I knew what was in his mind

By the tremble of his fingers. “Not go!” he says—“If he stayed,

He’d be no son of ours. Give in! while a bullet or blade

          Or man is left in the country.

            Give in! when the war is just.

          Never!” he says. “I’m no soldier

            But fight I will, if I must,

And the Mother here would send me!”——“Aye! that I would,” says I——

And as we spoke . . . there stood Johnny . . . waiting to say Goodbye!

          Their orders had come down sudden.

            “Don’t cry!” he says to me.

          “I love Harry like a brother.

            I’ll take care of him,” says he.

“I’ll take care of him, I promise.” And I smiled! for he looked so small!

But how he kept the promise I’m going to tell you all.

          You may think the work sounds easy,

            But it’s not the pleasantest thing

          In cold blood to walk your horses

            Where every rock may ring

To the cracking of a rifle, where every bush may screen

Some of the surest marksmen the world has ever seen.

          All at once, from a farm in the distance,

            Waved a signal of distress.

          They could tell ’twas a woman waving

            Most-like a bit of her dress.

“It’s a Boer woman in trouble,” says Harry’s Captain then,

“We must ride across to help her.” And they went. Like Englishmen.

          I’m not here to judge our foemen.

            We shall both be judged at God’s Throne.

          I prayed for the Boer widows,

            Through the war, as I prayed for our own.

There was many a Boer as honest and straight as a man can be.

But in this tale I’m telling was the foulest treachery.

          Scarce had they reached the farmhouse,

            When—hid by the stable shed—

          Up sprang an ambush of thirty,

            And poured out a volley of lead.

“Trapped!” shouts the Captain. “Get back, boys!” And they wheeled and rode for their lives.

And the Boers swarmed after them, mounted, like a rush of bees from the hives.

          Five hundred yards at full gallop,

            And the Captain’s horse fell dead.

          Harry was back like a rocket—

            “Up, Sir! behind me!” he said.

He’d have died to save his Captain—“Spring! Lay hold of my belt!”

And a thousand yards, at full gallop, they thundered across the veldt.

          Down on the right dropped a trooper,

            Shot through the heart, like a hare.

          Down on the left dropped another—

            And then, with a plunge in the air,

Harry’s charger rolled headlong, dead, with its double load,

And my boy and his Captain together ran on the open road.

          Back to their aid swept two Lancers,

            Marshall, and Johnny Lee—

          Straight in the teeth of the fire

            That followed them murderously.

Marshall took up the Captain. And Johnny—Johnny, took up my son!

When Harry reeled down from the saddle! “They’ve got me . . .” he says. “I’m done!

          Gallop! and save yourself, Johnny . . .”

            The butt of the Troop stood still.

          Unwounded, fleet horse, and bold rider,

            And safety lay over the hill!

’Twas his life for a shake of his bridle! But he leapt down to Harry’s side—

“I can carry you into shelter . . . there’s a rock just ahead . . .” he cried,

          And he strained and he struggled to do it,

            And he hadn’t the strength for the weight . . .

          “Shelter yourself, lad,” gasped Harry,

            “Leave me . . . before it’s too late!”

“Never alive!” rang his answer. And the Boers came up to the bend:

Like a young lion he faced them, standing over his friend.

          Three he brought down with his carbine . . .

            And then he was shot to death . . .

          Shielding his wounded comrade

            To his last dying breath.

          Greater love hath no man

            Than this, the Scripture saith.

 

My son is living—was living . . . when they brought up the ambulance cart:

Because the brave, broken body—of Johnny . . . lay over his heart.

The story I’m going to tell you, is truth from beginning to end.

It didn’t come under my notice. It was told me by a friend,

A relation, the wife of my brother. And the saddest part that’s true

Appeared in the Daily Papers, as dozens such stories do.

  Tom had saved a bit of money, and he took it out of a bag,

And put it into a Public, that was called ‘The Lamb and Flag.’

I’d have called it ‘The Net and Fishes,’ or ‘The Spider and the Fly’—

Those are rare good names for Publics—but the Sign was swinging high

Before Tom and Rachel went there. A Lamb with a Flag of gold,

Glittering above the customers, most dazzling to behold!

A setting out the tea-cups, as cheerful as could be,

“You spend too much on spirits, and not enough on food.

I’ve watched you and your children. You’re doing yourself no good.

Give it up! and turn teetotal!” “My very heart and life!”

Gasps the woman. “Turn teetotal! And you a Publican’s wife!”

“A Publican’s wife I may be, but NOT,” says Rachel Dale,

“A Vampire sucking life-blood! My husband sells his ale,

And has to make his profit. And I wish with all my soul,

That he was paid a salary, and got his money whole

And free from the sale of liquor:—but we sell drink, nevertheless,

For honest thirst, remember, and not for drunkenness.

We’ve got a heart and conscience! Do you think I can see you drift

Here at our Bar, to ruin, and never so much as lift

A hand to try and stop you!——”

                            And the woman was so upset,

And touched, and fair astounded, she cried her apron wet.

“It’s true,” she says a sobbing. “I’m doing myself no good.

I’d give it up to-morrow, if I could: if I only could!

But Oh! the craving’s awful! You don’t know what it is to feel

The Public Houses drawing you, inside, with cords of steel.

If I didn’t pass them constant, and catch the smell of beer,

Maybe I’d lose the craving. But, Mrs. Dale, round here,

They seem to meet you all ways! We live next door to you—

‘The Lamb and Flag.’ And behind us, we’ve got ‘The Wooden Shoe,’

And ‘The King’s Head’ at the corner. I can stand outside our door

And count—‘The Cape,’ ‘The Magpie,’ ‘The Crown,’ ‘The Plough,’ that’s four!

And you know there are others handy,” And Rachel knew it well.

  She tried to help that woman. It’s a funny thing to tell

Of a Publican’s wife—but she did this:—She went to a lady near,

Who worked amongst the people. And for over half a year

They visited the Hameses, till they got them to sign the Pledge.

Then to help them to keep steady, to drag them from the edge

Of the Pit that’s swallowed millions—they advised them, for their good,

To take another lodging in a different neighbourhood.

And man and wife were willing. And they tried to find a place

Where the open doors of Publics wouldn’t stare them in the face

At every turn and corner: a lodging near Hames’ work,

And not above his rental . . . Friends! I’m not going to shirk

The facts . . . They couldn’t find one. They couldn’t find a street

In the whole of that wide district—nor would they, I repeat,

In the length and breadth of London—a street where the poor could bide,

Without a beershop, beckoning, on this or the other side!

  And we call this Christian England! For the sake of gold, of gain,

We take our poor weak children, drink-cursed in body and brain,

And we swamp them with Temptation! We roll the barrels down,

Till they sink in drink, like drenched flies, and we watch them—while they drown!

            But I mustn’t talk in this way. I’ve got to tell the tale.

The Hameses stayed, and struggled, till the sight and smell of ale,

And stout, and rum, and whiskey, and everlasting gin,

Broke down their resolutions: lured the poor wretches in:

Back to more desperate drinking: back to more reckless sin.

  One evening in the Spring-time. The holiest time o’ year.

When Love and Peace seem calling to those who have ears to hear.

Rachel heard children screaming, so wild, she ran outside—

And the ragged little Hameses, three of them, terrified,

Clung to her, sobbing—“Mother! Oh come to Mother! Quick!”

And Rachel went with the children, and saw . . . what turned her sick,

And dumb with helpless horror. . . .

                            In a room with scarce a stick

Of furniture inside it, save a bed and a broken chair,

Sat the man—the husband—tipsy! And near him, fallen there,

On the floor, before the window, where the Spring light touched her head

With its pure and radiant glory . . . lay the wife—the woman—DEAD!

In a pool of blood, that trickled, and dyed the bare boards red.

  There was Coroner and Inquest. And Hames gave evidence.

They had to wait a little before they could get at sense

Out of his fuddled fancies, and sottish sulks and qualms.

His wife had been out drinking, he said, at ‘The Stanley Arms.’

And he had been out drinking, he owned, at ‘The Holly Bush.’

When they came back she struck him, and he gave her “a little push”—

“No more than he’d often given”—and she caught her foot in her gown,

And cracked her head on the fender, he thought, as she tumbled down.

That was all he knew about it, he’d swear, with his dying breath—

And the Jury gave a verdict of “Accidental Death.”

  And so they did! Why, bless you! They opened a splendid place,

And called it the “Jolly Sandboys.” When Thomas ran a race

He knew the way to win it!——I’ve seen a Coffee House

Looking that dull and cheerless it wouldn’t tempt a mouse,

Much less a thirsty workman! There’s one I could show you straight—

With a stale loaf in the window! and one herring on a plate,

That’s been there a week to my knowledge!—some sugar full of flies!

A jug with nothing in it! And two mouldy-looking pies,

On dirty bits of paper! You can wait there till you’re old,

And when you get the Coffee, it’s always thick . . . and cold!

  Now go to the “Jolly Sandboys,” and you get it quick and hot!

The Bar a perfect picture. Food ready on the spot.

Iced drinks in the heat of summer. Hot soup on the winter days.

And the money they turn over! in a twelvemonth! would amaze

Those who think Coffee Houses can never pay their way.

Why! Tom has eggs for breakfast, and rashers, every day!

  But just a word to finish. That “Accidental Death”

Was not Accident, but Murder. A fight—a blow—. The breath

Dashed from a tipsy woman, in a moment. Yet—think clear—

Not Murder born of Malice, but Murder born of Beer.

Don’t judge Hames. Judge the Nation. For what doth Scripture say?—

“Woe to those who put stumbling-blocks across a brother’s way.”

Well may we cower and tremble, lest at the Judgment Day

We answer as a nation for the wealth which we have made

Out of our brother’s stumbling! out of this piteous Trade!

  Yet the time is surely coming, when the country shall be free

From drink-born crime and madness, and bare-foot poverty,

And the dead weight of Temptation. Oh! pray for it! Pray, and pray!

Till our noble England, rising, rolls her Reproach away

And leads her sober People, nourished, and clothed, and shod,

Out of the dark of Evil into the Light of God!

          I was talking to Mr. Weeding,

            Whose wife is a friend of mine:

          Their eldest lad had started

            As Fireman, on the line:

And says I—“If Jack’s teetotal, he’ll get on well, you’ll see.”

And Weeding bawls out—“Gammon! That’s where we

don’t agree!

          Jack’s got to face wind and weather,

            And never know funk nor fear,

          And work like a man—not a baby,

            And he wants his reg’lar beer!

I like a boy with muscle, an’ GRIT, an’ pluck, an’ go!

And you can’t grow that on water! as your Temperance Milksops show!”

          He’s rough with his tongue is Weeding,

            But his wife is a friend o’ mine,

          And I didn’t want to quarrel.

            Though I might have said—It’s fine

For you to talk in that way when if you’d drop your beer

You could pay my Jim the money you’ve owed him since last year!

          When a man pours the fourth of his wages

            Each week down the Public-house sink,

          You might suppose he’d be thankful

            If his son gave up the drink

And helped to feed his mother! And buy his sisters boots!

But I didn’t want to quarrel: so I says—“Judge a tree by its fruits.

          You talk of Temperance Milksops.

            Now I’ll you a tale of one,

          And what he did upon water.

            I don’t make it up for fun,

Or for fancy, Mr. Weeding. I happen to know it’s true.

The story has some GRIT in it: and some pluck, and muscle, too.”

          And this is what I told him:—

            Jim’s sister, Mrs. Moore,

          A nice woman, and a widow,

            Whose husband had left her poor—

Had a handsome boy, her Teddy, as straight as a two-foot rule,

At Greenwich, down the river, in the Royal Hospital School

          Training to be a sailor.

            And I’ll say as I go along,

          That in that splendid School-house

            Where they muster a thousand strong,

Every boy is a pledged teetotaler. And that’s a finer thing

For our Navy to be proud of, than of all the shells they fling

          From the battle-ships and gun-boats.

            You may laugh at Temperance “fads,”

          But the hope of England’s future

            Rests on her Temperance lads.

And the battle to free this country from Drink’s black slavery,

Will be the mightiest battle ever fought upon land or sea!

          Teddy came down to see us

            When he had turned fourteen,

          And though he is our nevvy,

            I doubt if you’ve ever seen

A smarter lad than he was. Sturdy and strong on his feet.

A rare one to sleep. And for eating!—I tell you that boy could eat!

          Always the first in mischief.

            Always the last at chaff,

          Mad for a joke. And for laughing!—

            Lord! how that boy did laugh!

I never met his equal for sauciness and play.

And there! you couldn’t scold him, he had such a coaxing way!

          Times have I started at it.

            And meant to scold him, too!

          And he’d catch me round and kiss me!

            Before I was half-way through.

“You’re so handsome when you’re angry,” says that monkey! when I stares!

But he had a heart, had Teddy: and he always said his prayers:

          And he didn’t know what fear was.

            But of course, as schoolboys will,

          When he went back to Greenwich

            He must go and catch a chill—

(For care was molly-coddling!) and the cold struck home like a knife,

And for weeks that boy lay sinking, and drifting out of life.

          Ah! Jim’s poor widowed sister,

            How she prayed for the life of her son!

          “Annie,” she says, “if I lose him

            I can say, ‘Thy Will be done.’

But, oh! may the Lord have mercy! . . .” And, friends, it turned to cure,

And they pulled him through! And now listen! to the story of Teddy Moore.

          When he was getting better,

            Still as pale as a strip o’ foam,

          They sent him down to Sandgate

            To a Convalescent Home.

And it happened when he got there, a storm had roared all night,

Which set the breakers rolling, and churned the green sea, white.

 

          And the first hour he crawled out, mind,

            As shaky as he could be,—

          A fisherman, in the open,

            Pitched over into the sea.

He’d gone to tie up a cutter, and the rope he was hauling—broke!

And the man went down like a lead-line, for he couldn’t swim a stroke.

          Went down in the raging water.

            And the people who heard his cries—

          Crowds on the shore a-watching—

            Thought he’d drown before their eyes:

And they screamed and ran, in a panic—but drowned he’d have been, for sure,

If a boy hadn’t plunged to his rescue, and that boy was Teddy Moore.

          Daft, you may say, to attempt it,

            And he fresh from a hospital bed!

          But funk, or a fear for himself,

            Never entered his heart or his head.

He saw the man was sinking, and he thought of nothing on earth

But to tear off his boots and his jacket and swim for all he was worth!

          Talk of grit! and go! and muscle!

            He breasted those furious waves

          Every nerve in his brave young body

            Braced with the pluck that saves.

And he saved him. Boy though he was. Held him up with the strength of four.

Till they got a boat over the breakers and brought them both ashore!

          He got the medal for it.

            And his mother cried like a fool,

          When ’twas pinned upon his jacket

            Before the whole Naval School.

Now he’s serving King and country, and is drafted into the Fleet,

As hearty and strong a young sailor as you could wish to meet.”

          “Well!” says Weeding, speaking ponderous,

            “I couldn’t ha’ done it myself.”

          Now he’s just the shape, is Weeding,

            Of a beer-jug on the shelf.

And laugh I did! “No! YOU couldn’t. That’s where we can agree.

But you are not a teetotaler. And Teddy WAS, you see!!”

It was Holy Week, I remember: the week before Easter Day.

They were ringing the bells for service, in the churches round our way,

So peaceful-like, and quiet, when Jim brought home to me

The news of an awful shipwreck out in the Channel sea.

The wreck of the steamer Stella. Maybe you remember it plain.

But the tale can’t be told too often, and so I tell it again.

And may it be told by our children, when we are under the sod—

In the Memory of a Woman, and to the glory of God!

I’ve never been to Jersey, and I never shall go there—

For I’ve never been on a steamer. And if you paid my fare,

And gave me something over, I shouldn’t want to go!

Many’s the time Jim has asked me! and I’ve said always, “No.

While I can have an outing on a bit of solid land,

I won’t be rolled topsy-turvy!” And I never can understand

How other folks enjoy it! Yet there on the ship that day,

Men, women, and little children, were merry at heart and gay,

All of them looking forward to holiday and rest.

The Stella was strong and steady. Her crew were of the best.

And no one thought of danger, till swiftly, over the sea,

Like a cloud of smoke a-rolling—the fog came, suddenly!

Fogs are bad enough in London. They’re the terror of the wave.

I’ve heard that sailors hate them, and fear them like the grave.

They steal across the ocean, faster than rain-scuds run,

And muffle the wind into silence, and blot out the light of the sun.

Like the mouth of some grim sea-monster rising with teeth a-drip,

The jaws of the Sea-fog opened . . . and swallowed up the ship!

Into the deadly vapour that hides the reefs and shoals,

The Stella passed—with her cargo of nigh on two hundred souls!

Did she stop? or “slow” her engines? Did she creep along the sea

Like a snail? like a lame duck paddling? for that’s how it ought to be

When fog is on the water—No! ’Tis a mortal crime

For ships in these days of Hurry to fail to keep their time.

The Captain didn’t slacken. He steamed full speed ahead.

Peace to his soul! He is sleeping: till the sea gives up her dead.

But, Woe! to the great rich Companies, for whom such things are done.

As I say to Jim, I’d try them—for MANSLAUGHTER! every one!

On rushed the Stella blindfold, laden with human life.

Father and mother and brother, sister and husband and wife.

Helpless, poor souls, as dummies shut in a wooden box—

Till the keel of the flying vessel crashed on the Casquet Rocks!

O Lord! those sharp rock-hatchets! They hewed her and hacked her in two:

Ripped up her strong steel plating, as I’d cut butter through:

Rent her and wrenched her asunder, and tore away plank from plank . . .

In six, mad, awful minutes, the twin-screw steamer sank.

Sank! . . . can you think of them minutes? . . . and yet there were deeds done then

That will shine to the endless honour of Christian women and men.

Deeds done, and last words spoken—Glorious! Wonderful! True!

Though it’s only of just one woman that I want to speak to you.

The Stewardess, Mrs. Rogers. She’d served for years at sea:

And she wanted to retire, and had said that this would be

Her last run with the Stella, for she meant to settle down

With her children, at Southampton: she’d a little home in the town.

I know no more about her, except that I’ve been told

That she was nice to look at: and wasn’t very old:

And went about her duties in a pleasant sort of way,

Like scores of quiet women who pass us any day.

When the vessel struck, she was helping the sick folk down below.

They clung to her, poor creatures! as I should have clung, I know—

And she spoke to them brave and steady: and through the shock of wreck

She held them back from panic, and brought them out on deck

And bound the life-belts round them. One lady stood alone

Without a belt. The Stewardess unstrapped her own . . . her own!

And forced it on the stranger. “Quick, madam! You can’t choose!

You’re my charge!” she says, “You must have it! There isn’t a second to lose.”

And she took the lady, and pushed her into the crowded boat.

“Get in yourself!” roared the sailors—though they scarce could keep afloat—

“Jump in for your life, Mrs. Rogers!” . . . One thought of the English shore,

One thought of the children waiting for her step at the cottage door.

One look at that choking boat-load . . . “No!” came her answer high,

“You are full enough. I should sink you. Good-bye to you all. Good-bye!”

And she turned towards death as fearless as I’d walk down the street.

“Lord, take me!” they heard her saying. And the ship sank under her feet.

The body of Mary Rogers went down to its deep sea-grave.

But if ever a Crown was waiting for the faithful and the brave! . . . . . . . . .

If ever the Angels were ready to carry a soul away,

They carried the soul of that woman to Paradise that day.

’Twas the faith of little children who turn to the friends they trust.

’Twas the faith of a whole life, hidden—where never moth, or rust,

Or thief, could corrupt or steal it. O tell it out abroad

This story of Mary Rogers to the Glory of the Lord.

In a world where we shrink from dying with the fear of craven curs,

It’s just a glimpse of Heaven! to hear of a death like hers.

Speak to the Unbelievers, and when they deny and deride,

Tell them the tale of the Stella, and how the Stewardess died.

      “She neither begged, nor stole,

Nor lied, nor whined, nor tippled.”

          We all like to hear a story,

            All of us, young and old.

          And here is one, a true one,

            That should be writ in gold.

And I’ll tell it you as nearly as ’twas told me, long ago,

By a poor old organ-woman who lived at Walthamstow.

          She was nothing of a beggar.

            But a dear old honest soul

          As ever earned a living.

            She neither begged, nor stole,

Nor lied, nor whined, nor tippled: but mornings and afternoons

You’d see her with her organ, playing her little tunes

          In every sort of weather.

            I’ve seen her in driving sleet!

          Smiling, and playing cheerful,

            At the corner of the street:

Wrapped up, like the queerest bundle—in every rag she had:

For she got ‘the rummy-tizam,’ as she called it, very bad!

          Her name was Mrs. Pettinger,

            But we called her ‘Grannie,’ or ‘Gran.’

          She had ‘beats’ half over London.

            And there wasn’t a woman, or man,

Who knew her—but spoke friendly, and would pass the time of day

When they met her, trudging steady, in her independent way.

          I could talk a lot about Grannie,

            But it wouldn’t be in place.

          I only wish you had known her.

            She had such a sweet old face!

She was such a brave old body! working, and living alone.

Her husband dead and buried: and no children of her own.

          Well. This is what she told me.

            She was going home one night:

          And carrying her organ

            Which wasn’t over light:

And when she left the station—she had come by the midnight train—

A sudden storm was blowing, of wind, and hail, and rain.

          And she looked about for shelter.

            In that part of Walthamstow

          There was building-ground: and houses—

            A dozen in a row—

Finished and standing empty, with porches built of wood:

And she made for one of these porches as fast as ever she could.

          It was pitchy-dark, she told me.

            And as she got inside,

          A man jumped up and seized her!

            And she thought she should have died

Of fright, as he growled savage that he’d crack her head in two

If she didn’t crouch down quiet, and hide herself from view!

          “O Lord! O dear!” gasped Grannie

            As he gripped her by the arm.

          “I’m only a poor old woman.

            Don’t ’ee do me any harm!”

“Than don’t yer start a squealin’,” says he with an ugly oath.

“Do I want the Bobby’s lantern to come and spy us both?”

          “There was never a policeman

            That I was afeared to see!”

          Says Grannie—“Then it’s different,

            Old card,” he snorts, “with me.

Do yer think I’m such a green fool that I wants to be nabbed again?

Bide still!”—so they crouched in silence: and listened to the rain.

          But presently, she told me—

            They began to talk a bit.

          He’d been in prison for stealing,

            And wasn’t proud of it:

But the man was cold, and hungry, and despairing in his mind:

And he meant to rob them houses to see what he could find.

          “But deary me,” says Grannie,

            “Ye can’t rob an empty house!

          There’s nothing in it, bless ye,

            That would satisfy a mouse!”

“Oh,” says he, “when a cove is desperate he can find a thing or two.

There’s the taps. And the brass fittin’s. And the doorknobs. They’ll be new.

          I can raise a trifle on ’em.”——

            “But ye’ll never get along,

          Poor heart!” says Grannie Pettinger,

            “By doing what is wrong.

Surely some friend will help ye? . . .” “Friend!” he sneers, “that’s a word

As it’s easy to say! But who’s likely to be friends with a prison bird?

          Who’s goin’ to act the friendly

            To a chap as has slid down hill?”

          And Grannie thinks a minute.

            “Man,” she says . . . “The Bible will.

There’s a message in the Bible that—was—written—there—for—you!”

“Well, then,” he grunts, “let’s ’ear it: for I guess the Bible’s true.”

          “Let him that stole . . . that be you, mind.

            Let him steal . . . it says, . . . no more!

          But rather let him labour

            That he may have in store

To give to him that needeth . . . Aye! that’s cheerin’, man,” says she.

“There’s hope in that! There’s honour! There’s a life of honesty!

          Now go and act upon it!

            Look! I’ll lend ’ee half-a-crown——”

          And she pulled it out of the pocket

            Under her old stuff gown.

“To-day I took three shillin’s, as near as I can tell,

And I can do with sixpence, for a little, very well.

          And this half-crown will start ye,

            And ye can buy a broom,

          And stand near a railway station,

            And ye’ll find there’s always room

For a man to sweep a crossing if he aint afeared of wet.

Man!” she says, “Go and try it! And never mind the debt.

          And as sure as our Father in Heaven

            Has always took care o’ me,

          He’ll take care o’ you, if you struggle

            To do your best,” says she.

She could scarce see his face in the darkness, but he answered gruff and plain,

“I’ll take the money, mother. And I’ll pay it back again.

          If I don’t, as my name’s Sam Bridges,

            May I hang, or die in a ditch.”

          Then he carried the organ for her

            Down the road as black as pitch.

And when they reached her cottage, she let him sleep on the floor,

And gave him a bit of breakfast, and then she saw him no more.

          When one day as she was walking.

            Very slow, through a London square,

          Where painters were painting the house-fronts

            With ladders high in the air,

She heard a shout behind her! and when she made a stand,

A man ran down a ladder with a paint-brush in his hand.

          And there was her friend! that altered

            She wouldn’t have known him again.

          So smart! and so respectable!

            He was on his legs, ’twas plain!

And he told her what had happened since she had seen him last:

And it shows God’s sun is shining when the sky seems overcast.

          He’d got the broom and the crossing,

            And was doing fair, he said;

          When an accident knocked him senseless,

            And he woke in an Hospital bed:——

Now, before he’d been sent to prison, he’d worked at an honest trade

As Painter and Decorator. And was worth the wage they paid.

          And there—when he looked about him,

            And ‘took stock,’ as the saying is—

          Who should he find a lying

            In the very next bed to his!

(Out of all the trades in London—you scarce could think ’twas true)

But a man, a Master Painter, in the very old trade he knew!

          There they lay beside each other,

            Both under the surgeon’s knife:

          And trouble made them comrades,

            For they both had a fight for life.

And when they were getting better, Sam told his story square:

Hid nothing, and shirked nothing: but told out full and fair,

          Of his meeting with Grannie Pettinger

            And what he had meant to do.

          And the Master Painter listened,

            And, says he—when Sam was through—

“If a poor old organ-woman could give you a helping hand,

I can. And I will. When we leave here, you shall come and take your stand

          Along of my men. I’ll employ you.

            You shall work at your trade again.”

          “So now!” says the man to Grannie,

            “Thank God for that storm o’ rain!

And the words yer spoke! and yer money!” And he gave her the half-crown back.

And another half-crown with it. And bless you! they made a tack

          For an eating-house; and he gave her

            A right-down jolly good feed!

          And bought her some tea and sugar.

            “My dear! he did indeed!”

Says Grannie when she told me——“and a shawl! a lovely plaid!

To keep off the rummy-tizam that I has so very bad!”

“I sat like a frozen woman,”

His little face blazed scarlet. He’d sweep ’em all away!

That’s what he’d do to Employers! And he’d sweep up all they’d got!

Old Mother Prince and her young ’uns, he jolly well hated the lot!

He’d chuck her out of her carriage: and her brat—as went ridin’ by,

Cocked up on his Shetland pony—he’d just like to black his eye!

                It set me all of a tremble! I didn’t know where to turn!

I couldn’t tell starch from treacle! “Dickie!”—I looked at him stern.

“I’ve taught you your Catechism——”

                          “Oh!” he says “that’s all rot!”

“What!!” I says—“You! my youngest! And to speak as you ought NOT!

You’ll just walk out this minute!”

                        And he saw I meant it. And went.

But I stood and shook all over, with fear, and astonishment.

I couldn’t laugh about it. I knew where he’d learnt such talk.

There were boys I didn’t care for, who followed a man who’d walk,

And shout, in the Park on Sundays. An idle, frothy fool,

Who raved against Law and Religion. And ever since Dick left school,

And was started out at errands, these boys made a chum of him.

And because I knew their mothers, and their fathers worked ’longside Jim,

I thought ’twould be unfriendly, and unneighbourly, to make

Our son give up their friendship:——but I made a great mistake.

  If a boy has Small-pox near us, we parents know what to say.

We warn our children of it. We make them keep away.

But the Small-pox of Bad Companions is deadlier, any day,

And we take that—very easy. We think it seems unkind

To avoid this man, or that woman. And we’re wrong, my friends, you’ll find.

“Come out, and be ye separate!” says the Bible. If we’re sure

A companionship is dangerous, whether we’re rich or poor,

We should guard our children from it, as we’d guard them from the Plague!

I know about what I’m talking. My words are not light, or vague.

  ’Twas three days after Dick’s outburst, that Mrs. Prince drove through

Our side street, to the Factory, as she often used to do.

And riding behind her carriage, in his little coat and cap,

Was her eldest—Master Charlie: the nicest little chap

That ever had a mother: not more than eight years old:

And the Factory “hands” adored him, to a man, so we were told.

  As he passed an open corner—I could see it from the back,

Where I was pegging clothes out—a shadow sprang up, black!

Against the light!—and a brickbat whizzed heavy through the air

And struck him on the forehead, just past the temple, there,

And he fell from his saddle, headlong, on the road, like a lump of lead,

And lay with the blood a-streaming—and I thought . . . the child . . . was dead!

And I couldn’t . . . speak . . . in answer

                         When they took the child away—

(He was stunned, not killed, not MURDERED! Thank God for His love that day)—

I sat like a frozen woman. I could neither sob nor pray:——

Why was I dumb in her presence?——Because I knew the one

Who had done that deed of horror . . . was my Own . . . my youngest son.

  I’d recognised the Shadow that hurled the heavy brick.

Trust a mother to know her children. ’Twas Dick, I knew ’twas Dick!

And no one else had seen him! Strange! And yet it was true!

As the hours crept on, I learnt it. Not another creature knew.

Only me! his mother. His Mother!! O Lord! what must I do . . .

Speak the truth? Give him up to Justice? See him stand in the Court? in the Dock?

Send my boy to prison . . . Prison! . . . hear the neighbours jeer and mock,

Pointing him out as a jail-bird . . . Could I live through the shame and pain?

Could I ever hold my head up, could I ever be happy again?

  I panted—there—in the darkness——and outside the house, the rain

Rustled and hissed like a serpent, licking the window-pane.

Serpents and devils all round me, strangling my inmost soul——

Then . . . was it vision or fancy? . . . through the rain came a sudden roll

Of solemn Organ music: and a strain of melody

Like angels’ harps in Heaven . . . and words! . . . I could hear them! “He

That loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.”

  I might have been shot . . . Christ in Heaven! The words were so old! so new!

I had known them, and heard them, and read them, and so have you!——and you!

But there’re moments when words of the Bible pierce like a sword—a knife—

And we understand their meaning for the first time in our life!

  I told it all to my husband. Ah! there’re not many wives

Who have such a Guide, and Leader, and Helper, through their lives

As I have got in Jimmy! Why, half the wives I know

Are better than their husbands! And ’twas never meant to be so.

Now Jimmy is, and was always, a thousand times better than me.

  When I’d told the tale, he says slowly—as simple as can be—

“We must do our duty, Annie: there’re no two ways about that.”

  We had Dick in before us. And he owned to it, plain and flat.

We were thankful he did. It was something—that our boy didn’t shuffle and lie.

And I think he was frightened and sorry, though there wasn’t a tear in his eye.

  We wrote to the Master, and told him, that we had found the one

Who flung the murderous brickbat that struck his little son.

And . . . we’d bring him . . . Saturday evening. We walked there. Jim and me,

And Dick walked in between us. Oh! the grief and the misery!

Of that silent walk.

              We were taken to a room where the Master sat

Behind a great oak table. There were lights, I think, but that

I couldn’t tell you surely. All I could look at there,

Were two . . . two tall Policemen! standing behind his chair.

When Dick looked up and saw them, he turned as white as a sheet.

I began to speak to the Master, but my heart so shook and beat,

It seemed nothing but a whisper:—

                      “Sir!” I says, “ ’Twouldn’t be right

That we should try to deceive you. The boy we’ve brought to-night,

Is our son, Sir . . . and he did it. It’s our fault, as you may say.

He’s got with bad companions, and we’ve let them lead him astray,

When we should have stopped it——” I struggled, to speak as I ought to do.

“You helped us when we were in trouble—you, and your Lady too.

I’ve not forgotten that Christmas. And this—I know it’s true—

Is a black return for your kindness. I’ve nothing, Sir, to say.

I don’t know any reason why the Police shouldn’t take him away . . .

Only . . . his father’s honest . . . we are poor, but there’s never been

Disgrace brought on our family . . . Sir! I’m not trying to screen

My boy: he did it—on purpose: I say it, though he’s my son.

He ought to bear his punishment . . . only, Sir! . . . he’s my youngest one! . . .

He was good when he was little. He’s said his prayers at my knee

Ever since he could speak. And I love him! I love him the best of my three!—

God forgive me if it’s wicked!—and I’d rather see him lie

In his coffin, in his coffin, and the funeral goin’ by,

Than I’d see him sent to—Prison—— I would, Sir——” And suddenly

The room and the lights went round me. I couldn’t see Mr. Prince.

I’d never done it before, and I’ve never done it since,

But I fainted—— Sank down senseless, on the floor, before them all . . . . . . . .

                      When I came to myself, Jim was with me, and I was out in the hall

With the night-wind blowing fresh-like. Jim’s face was so pale! so pale!

“Jimmy,” I whispered, “Jimmy! Have they sent our boy to jail?”

“No!” he says. “No! They forgive him. And I’m kept on just the same.

The boy is to have a flogging. But they’ve spared us and him, the shame

Of the dock and the prison, Annie.”

                                Oh! no one could ever tell,

But one who was drowning, slowly, at the bottom of a well,

And was drawn up to light and safety, what I felt as I heard him speak!

No. I could never tell you: if I tried for a day, or a week.

And many things have happened since then, of joy and woe,

To me as a wife and a mother. But I never shall know again

Such a night as that night of struggle—when outside the house, the rain

Rustled and hissed like a serpent, licking the window-pane.

“According to your faith be it unto you.”

          I see folks start a-smiling

            When I give this title out.

          They think I’m going to tell them

            How a quarrel came about!

They think there must be quarrels, an’ snap, an’ scratch, an’ claw,

When a woman tells a story about her daughter-in-law.

          Maybe it’s that way sometimes,

            With some, but this I know—

          When my son, Harry, married,

            I never found it so.

For Nettie, Harry’s sweetheart, Nettie, my son’s wife,

Is the best and bravest woman I’ve known in all my life!

          And there’s someone—Bella Tyson,

            Smart—is her married name,

          Who thinks of her as I do,

            And loves her just the same.

And how she came to love her I’ll tell you, for it’s true:

Though strange as any story you’ve ever listened to!

          I remember the scene at the station

            The day they went away.

          What Nettie was like all through it

            No words could ever say.

Strong, I had always guessed her, and good, without a doubt:

But you don’t know a woman’s mettle till trouble brings it out.

          I tried, I tried to be brave.

            But, oh! I couldn’t speak.

          “Grannie,” she says, “No crying!”

            And she stooped and kissed my cheek.

“You’re the Mother of a soldier!” And she held up her handsome head—

“And I am his Wife. God bless him!” And never a tear she shed.

          There was drinking on the platform.

            Horrible! Yet it’s true.

          The people were “treating” the soldiers.

            And men, aye! and women, too,

Were reeling, and shouting, and dancing, too tipsy to know their shame.

It was never so in the old days: may it never again be the same:

But the very memory of it scorches the mind like flame.

            Bella was there with the wildest.

              Screaming as if she was mad.

            More crazy with excitement

              Than meaning to be bad.

She held out a glass of whiskey to her sweetheart, Johnny Lee.

“Drink it to keep up your courage! to keep up your pluck!” says she.

            And Nettie caught her arm back!

              “Do you want to cloud his brain?

            For God’s sake part from him sober.

              You never may see him again.

When English courage is Whiskey!” she says, “May our soldiers fail!”

And she swept the glass out of her hand and smashed it on the rail!

            And yet she’s the gentlest creature.

              “Oh, Bella!” I heard her say,

            “Have a last word with him, quiet.

              Tell him you’ll think . . . and pray.

He’ll be gone in another minute.” And that minute the whistle blew!

Harry caught up his youngest, and the babe began to coo,

            And lay her little fingers

              On the straps of his kharki coat.

            He couldn’t bless his children

              For the sudden sob in his throat.

But his wife . . . She stood up and kissed him, with a face as bright as the day.

“Into the Keeping of God,” she said. And so she sent him away.

            Well. I must hurry the story.

              The war raged fierce and hot.

            And Harry, my son, was wounded.

              And Johnny Lee . . . was shot!

And Bella thought she was sorry: and said it would break her heart:

And four months after, or sooner, she married Albert Smart.

            I’ve nothing to say against him.

              He’d a head just like a mop.

            But he owned an honest character,

              And served in a Butcher’s shop.

They’d a pretty home at starting, not far from Nettie’s door.

And Nettie saw them constant for eighteen months or more,

            And stayed with Bella, and nursed her,

              When her little baby came.

            She was up and out in a fortnight,

              And seemed to be much the same

As ever she’d been. When one day, as Nettie chanced to go

Past the Public at the corner they called “The Barley Mow,”

            Who should come out but Bella!

              And Nettie gave a start,

            And stared at her astonished—

              “What!” she says—“Bella Smart!

You to come out of a Public!” And Bella tossed her head.

“Only something to keep my strength up, now baby’s here,” she said.

            And Nettie spoke to her, soft-like.

              “My dear,” she says, “my dear,

            There’s no strength for a mother

              In spirits, nor yet in beer.

It’s milk you want when you’re nursing. Why,” she says, “Look at me!

I’m a teetotal mother. And stronger I couldn’t be!”

(Nettie stands five feet seven. And is like a rose to see!)

            And then she says to her, serious.

              “Forgive me for speaking so.

            But inside the door of a Public

              No woman should ever go.

It’s bad enough to see men there. For a woman it’s sheer disgrace.”

And Bella flew in a temper. And insulted her to her face.

And told her to mind her business, and keep her tongue in its place.

            What happened after that meeting

              Perhaps you scarce could think:

            Unless you know the power

              The wicked power of Drink.

’Twas the wretchedest thing, and the saddest, that ever came to pass

In the life of a young married woman. And yet it’s as common as grass.

            There’s a wonderful verse in the Bible

              For one as understands.

            “The wise woman buildeth her house, and the foolish

              Plucketh it down with her hands.”

Bella was one of the foolish, and she plucked it down brick by brick.

And the English People helped her: for they set the beer-shops thick

            As peas about her pathway.

              She might struggle main and might,

            But whenever she crossed her threshold

              She was tempted left and right.

And she didn’t know how to struggle, for she didn’t know how to pray.

And when the devil met her, she was nothing but so much hay,

            Or stubble, for the burning.

              It’s pitiful to tell

            How she pulled her home to pieces.

              How she pawned what she couldn’t sell.

How she drank up her husband’s wages. How, when he tried to stop

From giving her his money, she went outside the shop

            And bawled and swore—till the master

              Said he couldn’t have such scenes!

            And though sorry to do it—dismissed him!

              And you know what dismissal means.

The man went home that evening, and heard a choking sound.

And there was his twelve-month baby, a lying on the ground,

            With its little mouth a-bleeding

              And a needle across it’s throat!

            The mother was drunk, and had left it,

              And taken no more note,

Of what would happen to it than if it had been a fly

A crawling on the carpet! ’Twas a marvel it didn’t die!

            He ran with the child to Nettie.

              Half crazed, poor chap, no doubt.

            And with her fingers, and a tea-spoon,

              They got the needle out.

Then he took himself and his baby, to his mother’s, near Salisbury Plain,

And wrote to his wife and told her he’d never come home again.

            Nettie heard she’d got the letter,

              And she went to see her straight.

            What the place was like you can’t fancy!

              There wasn’t a cup, a plate,

That Bella hadn’t broken! Not a pane of glass, not one,

That she hadn’t smashed to shivers when her drunken fits were on.

            She was sober then, poor creature,

              As Nettie called her name.

            Crouched by the empty cradle

              In an agony of shame.

“I’ve lost my child and my husband,” she says, “and I want to die.”

And Nettie knelt beside her—and I know she spoke tenderly—

            “Bella!” she says, “you may want to,

              But I don’t at all think you will.

            Drink’s quick enough to rob you.

              It’s very slow to kill.

You’ve got to live: and live different.” And Bella wrung her hands—

“Oh, help me, Nettie, help me. I’m held down with iron bands . . .

          I can’t resist the craving . . .

            For Christ’s sake, set me free!

          I love my home and my husband,

            And my little babe,” says she,

“It’s the Drink that made me wicked, made me leave my pretty lamb . . .”

And Nettie says, “Are you in earnest?” And she sobs, “I am! I am!”

          “Then,” says Nettie—“I WILL help you.”

 

            Friends. You have heard it said,

          It’s harder to rescue a woman

            Who drinks, than to wake the dead.

Meaning the task is hopeless. I come to tell this tale

Of what one woman did for another, that none may ever fail

In Faith, and Hope, and Courage, when facing desperate odds

In the battle against liquor. For the fight is not our’s, but God’s!

          My daughter-in-law took Bella

            To live with her, that day.

          She could manage it, she told me,

            As her husband was still away

On service in South Africa. ’Twas a noble thing to do!

She removed her from bad companions, and kept her close in view.

And Bella turned teetotal for quite a month or two.

          And then came one of those outbursts

            That mark the disease of Drink.

          That must be met, and CONQUERED,

            Or the victim’s doomed to sink.

And then it was Nettie helped her, in the hour of her sorest need,

With a Courage more than human, and a Faith that was Faith indeed!

          The two were working together

            In Nettie’s little back-room.

          ’Twas lovely summer weather,

            And the back-yard was a-bloom

With flowers: when through the window—as the wind had set that way—

Instead of the scent of roses, and honeysuckle spray,

          Came a whiff of beer and spirits

            From the tap-room of “The Bell.”

          Bella turned round, and smelt it,

            And it acted as a spell!

          It reached and fired her senses

            Like a messenger from Hell!

The craving woke within her: the horrible raging thirst—

Thank the Lord that you’ve never known it—and as swift as ever she durst

She laid her work by—crafty! and sidled towards the door:

“Bella!” says Nettie, quickly, “What are you going for?”

She guessed the truth in a second—Bella was past her chair—

“I’m going for BEER!” she flung out—“and you stop me if you dare!”

          Nettie sprang to the door and locked it,

            And took away the key.

          The woman leapt like a tigress,

            Savagely, furiously.

She’d tear the key from her pocket! she’d tear the clothes from her back!

She’d get at the drink or do murder! . . . her face went wild and black,

          And Nettie stood there, stedfast;

            And it’s often seemed to me,

          Her face must have looked like an Angel’s

            In its beautiful bravery.

“Bella!” she says, “you can’t hurt me. Your strength is nothing to mine.

I’ve the strength of ten thousand women,” she says,— “for it’s strength Divine!

          I’ll guard you from your enemy.

            You shall never pass this door.

          Good is stronger than evil,

            And shall be, for evermore!

You are armed with the power of the devil—who would drag you under the sod.

But I stand, and I face you, Bella, in the Power of the Spirit of God!

          And you can do nothing against me.”

            The woman tore her gown.

          For a minute they grappled together.

            But Nettie held her down,

As she writhed, and foamed, and cursed her. ’Twas a terrible sight to see

While the paroxysm lasted: for as it was told to me,

          The poor soul rolled in a frenzy,

            And beat her head on the floor!

          In her madness to get at liquor . . .

            And after an hour or more

She was thanking her deliverer with her tears a streaming down,

Like some glad rescued creature snatched from a ruined town

When an earthquake wrecks the houses. And marvellous to say

From ruin she was rescued, in very truth, that day!

The force of the craving was broken. And it slowly died away!

  “Oh, mother!” says my Sally, as she sat and sipped her tea,

“May little Daisy Peglar come to Sunday School with me?”

“Surely,” says I, without thinking: for the child was lone and lorn,

And had never known her mother—who died when she was born—

And I thought ’twould be a pleasure and would cheer the little thing

To hear the Bible stories, and learn the hymns, and sing.

But I reckoned without her father! when I gave her leave to go.

And the very next evening, Monday, he came and told us so!

 

“Well!” he says, “we send Sally where there ain’t no rubbish taught:

Naught but the simple Bible——” He cut Jim pretty short.

That was just the mischief of it. He’d not row in the Parson’s boat.

He wouldn’t have the Bible shoved down his daughter’s throat.

He’d never been the better for the Bible he could swear,

And he’d train his child without it.

                              I got up from my chair.

“Sir!” I says, “Mr. Peglar. You’re our Foreman, I’m aware.

And I’ve no wish to insult you, for civility’s our rule,

  And likewise you’re a neighbour——but,” I says, “you’re a FOOL!

Is your child to learn her duty to her home, herself, and you?

Do you want her good? and happy?”—“Yes!” he says. “Of course I do.

And she’ll BE that without the Bible.”—“No!” I says. “She will NOT!

You’re our Foreman, Mr. Peglar, but you’re talking . . . simple rot!

You might as well sow tin-tacks, and expect a row of peas,

As preach such one-eyed doctrines and think that out of these

There’s happiness a-coming! To keep God’s Word away

Is to keep your child in a cellar from the air and the light of day.

What does the Psalm say? Listen! ‘Thy Word is a Lamp to my feet.’

And a Lamp it is: and a Lantern: as we jostle in Life’s dark street.

All honesty, all honour, all truth, all purity.

Is found in the Holy Bible, God’s Message to you and me.

I’m nothing at all to boast of,” I says, “but this is true:—

There’s not a spark of goodness in anything I do,

Not a kind act to a neighbour, not so much as a pleasant look,

That I don’t owe to the teaching I’ve drawn from that sacred Book,

And I’d die for what I’m saying. And though hearing it makes you wild,

If you dare to keep back the Bible from the soul of your motherless child,

You will rue the day you do it in your stubbornness and pride,

As sure as your name is Peglar, and as sure as my name is Hyde!”

            And then I said “Good evening:” for I did feel that upset

I couldn’t stay there longer. No. And I shan’t forget

How the children cried about it when they heard they couldn’t go

To Sunday School together. And Sally brought her row

Of Sunday cards for Daisy, and picked her out the best.

’Twas the picture of a Shepherd with a lamb upon His breast:

And the old sweet words—“Come unto Me and I will give you rest.”

                              Now me and Jim, you know,

Don’t make acquaintance that way; and we told Sally so.

“But he gave me a brooch,” says Sally, “and he’s given Daisy, six!

And he says he could make her a lady.” And Jim says, “Fiddlesticks!

Could he make her an honest woman? It’s come out pretty clear

He don’t earn his living honest. Now Sally,” he says, “my dear,

You’re to drop him from this minute. So do as you are bid.

And I’ll give a hint to Peglar, to warn him.” And he did.

And Peglar spoke to Daisy, and forbade her to walk or speak

With this flashy Jack-a-dandy she’d barely known a week.

And he sat like a man with the palsy.

                                And I durstn’t speak a word

I felt that sorry for him. But I think he must have heard

A Voice which rolled in thunder out of the Word of God——

“Fathers . . . bring up your children in the nurture of the Lord.”

And the fruit of Bible training was our Sally, sitting there,

Sweet and safe, with her sewing, in her Grannie’s rocking-chair.

And we laid her in her coffin, with that picture on her breast.

        This tale’s not easy telling, but it ends more happily.

There’s a sight I often witness in a house near our Factory,

When I look in of an evening. An old man sits in his chair,

And his Grandson stands beside him. A little chap, with hair

The colour of his mother’s, and his mother’s lovely eyes.

And he spells out a Psalm from the Bible in a way that’s a surprise!

And when the reading’s over James Peglar looks at me—

As he gives the child a penny and sets him on his knee—

“It’s better late than never: it’s better by far,” says he!

          It’s funny how Time passes!

            It seems but yesterday,

          That Harry was a toddle

            A-tumbling everyway!

And now there are Harry’s children climbing about my knees,

And searching in my pockets for Goodies! if you please!

          It isn’t many I give them.

            I don’t hold with suck, suck, suck,

          It paves the way—to my thinking—

            For sucking Gin, and muck,

When they have grown a bit older. And it wastes the pennies too.

Still I keep some sweets for bed-time! as Grannies always do!

          “What has you dot in you’s pottet?”

            Says Harry’s little son:

          Smiling at me, that artful!

            With his brown eyes full of fun.

That was when he was three, and a Beauty! A Picture to see, and to praise!

And we called him Harry the Second, for he’d just his father’s ways!

          Jim says I’m the vainest Grannie

            He ever come across.

          And I say I’m only truthful!

            Because you know, of course,

The boy is a perfect wonder! he is the most splendid child

That ever was seen or heard of! And I’m not a talking wild,

          For I’ll tell you a thing that happened

            When he was only four:

          And his father, my son, was fighting

            In the Boer and British war.

The day the Lancers started—we were back by the Engine shed—

Harry lifted the boy in his arms and stroked his little dark head,

          (They cropped him like a soldier)

            And says to him—“You must be good.

          And take care of Mother for Daddy.”

            And that baby understood,

For he gazed at his father, and nodded, as solemn as a book.

And when we left the station, and scarce knew where to look

          To hide our tears from each other,

            He hopped at his mother’s side.

          And patted her hand, important,

            Quite happy and satisfied.

(He was wonderful fond of his mother). And says he—“I wants a sword.

I wants a sword lite father.” Just of his own accord!

          “So I can ‘tect’ you, Mummy!”

            ‘Protect’ he meant. And he made

          Me and his mother buy one.

            And every night he laid

The little tin toy by his bed-side: and sometimes his chubby hand

Would be grasping the hilt of it firmly, as he entered slumber-land.

          And all the street was silent.

            When suddenly—wild and clear—

          The most awful screams of horror

            That ever filled her ear,

Rang out across the stillness! Terrible ghastly cries,

Echoing over the house-tops, under the quiet skies.

          She started up in a panic.

            Where was it? What was it for?

          Her first thought was her children——

            She rushed to the open door,

And at that very second she caught another note,

Her little Harry shouting at the top of his baby throat——

          “Don’t you be fy’ightened, Mummy!

            I’se tumming! I’se tumming down!

          I’se tumming to tect you, Mummy!” . . .

            And clutching his little gown,

Holding his toy sword, valiant, in one uplifted arm,

All in a startled hurry to save his mother from harm,

          Into the room he tumbled!

            And there! . . . as Nettie said—

          As she picked him up and hugged him

            And carried him back to bed,

You never saw anything like it! He’d been wakened by the screams,

And had scrambled over his cot-rail, as you may say—in his dreams,

          To go and take care of his mother!

            “Was it the Boers?” says he,

          As she tucked him up in the blankets

            And kissed him tenderly.

But what it was, or wasn’t, they don’t know to this day.

For as sudden as it started the screaming died away.

          It might have been drunken brawling,

            Or a wounded dog, or a cat.

          But as I says to Nettie,

            What does it matter for that!

It’s the heart of the child that matters! Did you ever know such a one?

There’s a boy to be proud of! And there’s a Soldier’s Son!

And I passed him a slice of tea-cake that was toasted a lovely brown—

And he looked across at the window (there was just a touch of fog)

“Here’s weather!” he says. “Here’s weather! ’Tisn’t fit for a cat or a dog,

Much less a human being!” We only smiled, because

He would always sit and grumble whatever the weather was.

It was either too dry, or too rainy, or else too cold, or too hot.

“We’re so happy,” I says, “we don’t notice, if the weather is foggy or not.

And you’d be the same, Mr. Mullins, if you didn’t live all alone

Without a creature to speak to——.” “Yes!” says Jim, “You’ve a house of your own.

Why don’t you get married, Mullins?”

                              It’s just like Jim, you know,

To blurt things out in that way! And Mullins answers slow,

Sort of sour and sarcastic—“Not me! You don’t catch me,

Giving up my independence for a wife and family.

The game aint worth the candle!——meaning no offence to you.”

“Not worth it, Mr. Mullins. Come!” I says, “that isn’t true.

Think of a tidy woman who’d make the house look bright,

And give you a smiling welcome when you went home at night.

She MIGHT have a bit of money! And that’s not bad in a wife——.”

“And she MIGHT,” he snaps, “have a Temper! and a tongue like a carving-knife!”

“Well: she might: but it isn’t likely. And think of the joys of life.

Think of the children’s laughter, to cure you of the dumps——.”

“Yes!” he says, “think of Measles! And Chicken-pox! And Mumps!

And Croup! And Scarlatina!——.” “But goodness gracious, man!

They don’t have them all together!!” “Well,” he sighs, “I think they can.

And do! And then there’s schoolin’. And findin’ them a trade.

Oh, no! I wouldn’t marry. No. Not if I was paid!”

And he shakes his head that mournful, ’twas as good as any play!

“Ah!” I says, “Mr. Mullins: you’ll change your mind some day.”

And Jim puts in quite solemn—— “When all is said and done,

You’ll find it’s truth in Scripture, that two are better than one.

That’s how I’ve found it, Mullins. It’s wonderful to share

The rough and the smooth together: the black days and the fair.

And it’s wonderful, I tell you, when you are growing old,

And see your children’s children, to find you still can hold

The dear brave hand that helped you through all life’s toil and strain.”

And he looked at me so loving, I nearly cried again!

And Mullins sits there, silent, a-stirring of his tea.

Then all of a sudden he gulps it! as hasty as can be!

And walks out . . . never giving a look at Jim or me!

  “Jim!” I said, “something tells me, that Mullins ought to wed.

And ’twould be an act of mercy to find him a wife,” I said.

And Jim laughed—“Annie! Annie! you women are all alike.

You love to make a match up! But you’ll find this match won’t strike!

And you’d better by half not try it . . . though I guess you will!” And I did!

And I’ll tell you all about it.

                           I was lifting my copper lid,

Early, the very next morning, when I thought of Fairy Crump.

Her mother called her Fairy—though the girl was as heavy a lump

As ever sat and said nothing! But that was her mother’s way.

A silly-minded woman as you’d meet in a summer’s day!

Still she and me were neighbours. And Fairy, she could cook:

And starch and iron splendid: so I thought she’d do. And I took

A mortal lot of trouble to get Mullins and her to meet.

(You can go for years without meeting though you live in the self-same street.)

We got them to tea one Sunday. And the like you’ve never heard!

They sat each side our table, and they never spoke one word!

Me and Jim did all the talking! Fairy stared down on the floor.

And Mullins stared up at the ceiling. When they’d gone, and we’d shut the door,

Jim said it was worse than a funeral! An’ me . . . what with smiling about . . .

And trying to keep things going . . . I was fairly tired out!

      Still I wouldn’t be discouraged, so I had another try.

I knew a widow person of the name of Mrs. Rye,

Who kept a little toy-shop. She wasn’t over young.

But then—no more was Mullins! And I knew she’d a merry tongue,

And wouldn’t sit mum like Fairy. But when she and Mullins met,

The pace at which she chattered I never shall forget!

We couldn’t get words in edgeways. And when she went away,

Says Mullins——“I’ve met talkers, and clappers, in my day.

But before I’d marry that woman . . .” and he gives a hollow groan . . .

“I’d marry a mowing-machine: or the bell of a telephone!”

“Perhaps,” I says, “Mr. Mullins, Mrs. Rye wouldn’t marry you.”

For I felt a trifle nettled to find it wouldn’t do!

“She won’t be asked,” he answers. And then we said no more.

But when I tried another, ’twas a failure as before.

              I was thinking I must drop it, for my patience was growing thin,

When one day, ’twas a Monday—Mrs. Rye comes running in,

Most nervous and excited—“Oh Mrs. Hyde,” says she

“Have you heard what’s happened to Mullins?” It came like a shock to me!

“No!” I says. “What has happened?” “He was crossing of the street

And a tram-car tipped him over: right off his poor dear feet! . . .”

And she waves her apron rapid—“They’ve sent for the parish nurse,

And she’s nothing but a stranger. And if he’s taken worse,

It’s as like as not to kill him . . .” I waited to hear no more,

But tied down my old bonnet, and ran to Mullins’ door.

The nurse was a new appointment. We hadn’t met before.

They said she was in with Mullins, in the parlour that he had:

And ’twas nothing but a shaking: and he wasn’t very bad.

  I mind I went in softly. And there sat this stranger nurse:

A pleasant-looking body: may I never see a worse—

There she sat, in the pretty apron that is always to my taste:

And Mullins sat beside her, with his arm around her waist!

  Talk of being knocked down with a feather! . . . I nearly fainted away!

But the look on his face I can see now, and shall, to my dying day.

Old! He was young and handsome! And he spoke with dignity:—

“Mrs. Hyde,” he says, “this lady is going to marry me,

Though we haven’t seen each other since I was twenty-three.

I knew her as a boy,” he says, “and I’ve loved her all my life.

And I vowed no other woman should ever be my wife.

We were sweethearts at seventeen in the village where I was born,

And others came between us——” “Yes!” says she with a smile like the morn,

“It was all a mistake. But that’s over. It’s cleared up for evermore.

Though I little thought to meet him when I reached old England’s shore.

I’ve been nursing in Australia: away in foreign climes——”

“Why!” says I. “You might have married!” “Yes,” she says, “Many times.

But I never meant to marry, for I never loved none but him.”

  I couldn’t speak for a minute, and my eyes began to swim.

“God bless you both,” I faltered. And I ran to tell my Jim.

Judge nobody, is the lesson: for you can never tell,

When you call folks crabs, and such like, what there is inside the shell.

And never say a bachelor won’t marry: (as one expects:)

For after the End of Mullins you can’t say who’ll go next!!