JUDITH: Peace and quiet And a good home are worth ...

BELL: But, you've no turn For circuses: your heart's a pipeclayed hearthstone— No ring for hoofs to trample to the clang Of cymbals, blare of trumpets, rattle of drums: No dash of brandy in your stirabout: Porridge in peace, with a door 'twixt you and the weather; A sanded floor; and the glow and smother of peat: But I'd rather be a lean pig, running free, Than the fattest flitch of bacon on the rafters.

JUDITH: And yet, you've kept ...

BELL: Ay: but my fingers have itched Sorely to fire the peatstack in a west wind, That flames might swarm walls and rooftree, and Krindlesyke, Perishing in a crackle and golden flare-up, Tumble a smoking ruin of blackened stone.

JUDITH: Yet, you've kept house ...

BELL: Ay, true enough; I've been Cook, slut, and butler here this fifteen-year, As thrang as Throp's wife when she hanged herself With her own dishclout. Needs must, the fire will burn, Barred in the grate: burn—nay, I've only smouldered Like sodden peat. Ay, true, I've drudged; and yet, What could I do against that old dead witch, Lying in wait for me the day I came? Her very patience was a kind of cunning That challenged me, hinting I'd not have grit To stand her life, even for a dozen years. What could I do, but prove I could stick it out? If I'd turned tail, she'd have bared her toothless gums To grin at me: and how could I go through life, Haunted by her dead smile? But now the spell Is snapt: I've proved her wrong: she cannot hold me. I've served my sentence: the cell-door opens: and yet, You would have done that fifteen-years-hard willingly? Some folk can only thrive in gaol—no nerve To face the risks outside; and never happy Till lagged for life: meals punctual and no cares: And the king for landlord. While I've eaten my head off, You've been a galled jade, fretting for the stable. Tastes differ: but it's just that you're not my sort Puzzles me why you gave yourself to Jim.

JUDITH: There are no whys and wherefores, when you love.

BELL: I gave myself to Peter, with a difference. You'd have wed Jim: I just let Peter travel With me, to keep the others from pestering; And scooted him when Michael could manage the sheep.

JUDITH: You never loved him. I loved Jim ...

BELL: A deal Of difference that's made!

JUDITH: More than you can guess.

BELL: Peter stuck longer, tangled in the brambles.

JUDITH: I loved Jim; so, I trusted him.

BELL: But when You found him out?

JUDITH: If you had loved, you'd ken That finding out makes little difference. There are things in this life you don't understand, For all your ready tongue.

BELL: Ay: men and women I've given up—just senseless marionettes, Jigging and bobbing to the twitching strings: Though I like to fancy I pick my steps, and choose The tunes I dance to; happen, that's my pride; But, choose or not, we've got to pay the piper.

JUDITH: Ay: in your pride, you think you've the best of life. You're missing more than you reckon, the best of all.

BELL: Well, I've no turn for penal servitude. But, have you never gabbed to keep your heart up? What are hats for, if not for talking through? Pride—we've both pride; yours, hot and fierce, and mine Careless and cold: yet, both came the same cropper— Not quite ... for you were hurt to death almost: While I picked myself up, scatheless; not a scratch; Only my skirt torn; and it always draggled.

JUDITH: You never cared: I couldn't have borne myself, If I'd not cared: I'd hate myself as much As I've hated Jim, whiles, when I thought of all. They're mixter-maxter, hate and love: and, often, I've wondered if I loathed, or loved, Jim most. I understand as little as you, it seems: Yet, it's only caring counts for anything In this life; though it's caring's broken me.

BELL: It stiffens some. But, why take accidents So bitterly? It's all a rough-and-tumble Of accidents, from the accident of birth To the last accident that lays us out— A go-as-you-please, and the devil take the hindmost. It's pluck that counts, and an easy seat in the saddle: Better to break your neck at the first ditch, Than waste the day in seeking gates to slip through: Cold-blooded crawlers I've no sort of use for. You took the leap, and landed in the quickset: But, at least, you leapt sky-high, before you tumbled: And it's silly to lie moaning in the prickles: Best pick yourself up sharp, and shake the thorns out, Else the following hoofs will bash you. Give life leave To break your heart, 'twill trample you ...

JUDITH: Leave, say you? Life takes French-leave: your heart's beneath the hoofs Before ...

BELL: But grin, and keep yourself heartwhole; And you'll find the fun of the fair's in taking chances: It's the uncertainty makes the race—no sport In putting money on dead-certainties. I back the dark horse; stake my soul against The odds: and I'll not grouse if life should prove A welsher in the end: I'll have had my fling, At least: and yet talk's cheap ...

JUDITH: Ay, cheap.

BELL: Dirt-cheap: Three-shots-a-penny; and it's not every time You hit Aunt Sally and get a good cigar, Or even pot a milky coconut: And, all this while, life's had the upper hand: I slipt, the day I came; and lost my grip: Life got me by the scruff of the neck, and held My proud nose to the grindstone. My turn, now— I'll be upsides with life, and teach it manners, Before death gets the stranglehold: I'll have The last laugh, though it choke me. And what's death, To set us twittering? I'll be no frightened squirrel: Scarting and scolding never yet scared death: When he's a mind to crack me like a nut, I'd be no husk: still ripe and milky, I'd have him Swallow the kernel, and spit out the shell, Before all's shrivelled to black dust. But, tombstones, What's turned my thoughts to death? It's these white walls, After a day in the open. When I came, At first, these four walls seemed to close in on me, As though they'd crush the life out: and I felt I'd die between them: but, after all ... And yet, Who kens what green sod's to be broken for him? Queer, that I'll lie, like any innocent Beneath the daisies; but the gowans must wait. Sore-punished, I'm not yet knocked out: life's had My head in chancery; but I'll soon be free To spar another round or so with him, Before he sends me spinning to the ropes. And life would not be life, without the hazards.

JUDITH: Too many hazards for me.

BELL: Ay: so it seems: But you're too honest for the tricky game. I've a sort of honesty—a liar and thief In little things—I'm honesty itself In the things that matter—few enough, deuce kens: But your heart's open to the day; while mine's A pitchy night, with just a star or so To light me to cover at the keeper's step. You're honest, to your hurt: your honesty's A knife that cuts through all; and will be cutting— Hacking and jabbing, and thirsting to draw blood; And turning in the wound it makes—a gulley, To cut your heart out, if you doubted it: And so, you're faithful, even to a fool; While I would just be faithful to myself. You thrive on misery.

JUDITH: Nay: I've only asked A little happiness of life: I've starved For happiness, God kens.

BELL: What's happiness? You've got a sweet-tooth; and don't relish life: You want run-honey, when it's the honeycomb That gives the crunch and flavour. Would you be As happy as a maggot in a medlar, Swelling yourself in sweet deliciousness, Till the blackbird nips you? None escapes his crop. You'd quarrel with the juiciest plum, because Your teeth grit on the stone, instead of cracking The shell, and savouring the bitter kernel. Nigh all the jests life cracks have bitter kernels.

JUDITH: Ay, bitter enough to set my teeth on edge.

BELL: What are teeth for, if we must live on pap? The sweetest marrow's in the hardest bone, As you've found with Ruth, I take it.

JUDITH: Ay: and still, You have been faithful, Bell.

BELL: A faithful fool, Against the grain, this fifteen-year: my son And that dead woman were too strong for me: They turned me false to my nature; broke me in Like a flea in harness, that draws a nutshell-coach. Till then I'd jumped, and bit, at my own sweet will. Oh! amn't I the wiseacre, the downy owl, Fancying myself as knowing as a signpost? And yet, there's always some new twist to learn. Life's an old thimblerigger; and, it seems, Can still get on the silly side of me, Can still bamboozle me with his hanky-panky: He always kens a trick worth two of mine; Though he lets me spot the pea beneath the thimble Just often enough to keep me in good conceit. And he's kept you going, too, with Ruth to live for.

JUDITH: If it hadn't been for Ruth ...

BELL: He kens, he kens: As canny as he's cute, for his own ends, He's a wise showman; and doesn't overfeed The living skeleton or let the fat lady starve: And so, we're each kept going, in our own kind, Till we've served our turn. Mine's talking, you'll have gathered!

JUDITH: Ay, you've a tongue.

BELL: It rattles in my head Like crocks in a mugger's cart: but I've had few To talk with here; and too much time for brooding, Turning things over and over in my own mind, These fifteen years.

JUDITH: True: neighbours, hereabouts, Are few, and far to seek.

BELL: The devil a chance I've ever had of a gossip: and, as for news, I've had to fall back on the wormy Bible That props the broken looking-glass: so, now I've got the chance of a crack, my tongue goes randy; And patters like a cheapjack's, or a bookie's Offering you odds against the favourite, life: Or, wasn't life the dark horse? I have talked My wits out, till I'm like a drunken tipster, Too milled to ken the dark horse from the favourite. My sharp tongue's minced my very wits to words.

JUDITH: Ay, it's been rattling round.

BELL: A slick tongue spares The owner the fag of thinking: it's the listeners Who get the headache. And yet, I could talk At one time to some purpose—didn't dribble Like a tap that needs a washer: and, by carties, It's talking I've missed most: I've always been Like an urchin with a withy—must be slashing— Thistles for choice: and not once, since I came, Have I had a real good shindy to warm my blood.

JUDITH: I'd have thought Ezra ...

BELL: Ay: we fratched, at first; For he'd a tongue of his own; and could use it, too, Better than most menfolk—a bonnie sparrer, I warrant, in his time; but past his best Before I kenned him; little fight left in him: And when his wits went cranky, he just havered— Ground out his two tunes like a hurdygurdy, With most notes missing and a creaky handle.

JUDITH: And Michael?

BELL: Michael! The lad will sit mumchance The evening through: he's got a powerful gift Of saying nothing: no sparks to strike off him; Though he's had to serve as a whetstone, this long while, To keep an edge on my tongue.

JUDITH: He's quiet?

BELL: Quiet! A husband born. No need to fear for Ruth: She's safe with Michael, safe for life.

JUDITH: He's steady?

BELL: He's not his mother's son: he banks his money; And takes no hazards; never risks his shirt: As canny as I'm spendthrift, he's the sort Can pouch his cutty, half-smoked, ten minutes after I've puffed away my pipeful. Ay: Ruth's safe. His peatstacks never fire: he'll never lose A lamb, or let a ewe slip through his hands, For want of watching; though he go for nights Without a nap. The day of Ezra's funeral, A score of gimmers perished in the snow, But not a ewe of Michael's: his were folded Before the wind began to pile the drifts: He takes no risks.

JUDITH: Ruth needs a careful man: For she's the sort that's steady with the steady, And a featherhead with featherheads. She's sense: And Michael ...

BELL: Michael's sense itself—a cob Too steady to shy even at the crack of doom: He'll keep the beaten track, the road that leads To four walls, and the same bed every night. Talk of the devil—but he's coming now Up Bloodysyke: ay, and there's someone with him— A petticoat, no less!

JUDITH: Mercy! It's Ruth: Yet I didn't leave, till she was safely off To work ...

BELL: Work? Michael, too, had business In Bellingham this morning, oddly enough. Doubtless, they helped each other; and got through The job the quicker, working well together: And a parson took a hand in it for certain, If I ken Michael: likes things proper, he does; And always had a weakness for black lambs. But, who'd have guessed he'd ... Surely, there's a strain Of Haggard in the young limb, after all: No Haggard stops to ask a parent's leave, Even should they happen to ken the old folk by sight: My own I knew by hearsay. But, what luck You're here to welcome the young pair.

JUDITH: No! They'll wonder ... I bring no luck to weddings ... I must go ...

BELL: You can't, without being spotted: but you can hide Behind the door, till I speak with them.

JUDITH: No! No! Not that door ... I can't hide behind that door Again.

BELL: That door? Well, you ken best what's been Between that door and you. It's crazy and old, But, it looks innocent, wooden-faced humbug: yet I don't trust doors myself; they've got a knack Of shutting me in. But you'll be snug enough In the other room: I'd advise you to lie down, And rest; you're looking trashed: and, come to think, I've a deal to say to the bridegroom, before I go.

JUDITH: Go?

BELL: Quick, this way: step lively, or they'll catch Your skirt-tail whisking round the doorcheek.

(BELL hustles JUDITH into the inner room; closing the door behind her. She then thrusts the orange-coloured kerchief into her pocket; picks up the bracken, and flings it on the fire; seats herself on the settle, with her back to the door; and gazes at the blaze: not even glancing up, as MICHAEL and RUTH enter.)

MICHAEL: Mother!

BELL: Is that you, Prodigal son? You're late, to-day, As always when you've business in Bellingham. That's through, I trust: those ewes have taken a deal Of seeing to: and I'm lonely as a milestone, When you're away.

MICHAEL: I've taken the last trip, mother: That job's through: and I've made the best of bargains. You'll not be lonely, now, when I'm not here: I've brought you a daughter to keep you company.

BELL (turning sharply): I might have known you were no Prodigal son: He didn't bring home even a single sausage, For all his keeping company with swine. But, what should I do with a daughter, lad? Do you fancy, if I'd had a mind for daughters, I couldn't have had a dozen of my own? One petticoat's enough in any house: And who are you, to bring your mother a daughter?

MICHAEL: Her husband. Ruth's my bride. Ruth Ellershaw She was till ten o'clock: Ruth Barrasford, Till doomsday, now.

BELL: When did I give you leave To bring strange lasses to disturb my peace, Just as I'm getting used to Krindlesyke? To think you'd wed, without a word!

MICHAEL: Leave, say you? You'll always have your jest. I said no word: For words breed words: and I'd not have a swarm Of stinging ants bumming about my lugs For days beforehand.

BELL: Ants? They'd need be kaids, To burrow through your fleece, and prog your skin.

MICHAEL: I'd as lief ask leave of the tricky wind as you: And, leave or not, I'd see you damned, if you tried To part us. None of your games! I'm no young wether, To be let keep his old dam company; Trotting beside her ...

BELL: Cock-a-whoop, my lad! Well done, for you, Ruth, lass; you've kindled him, As I could never do, for all my chaff. I little dreamt he'd ever turn lobstroplous: I hardly ken him, with his dander up, Swelling and bridling like a bubblyjock. If I pricked him now, he'd bleed red blood—not ewe's milk: The flick of my tongue can nettle him at last: His haunches quiver, for all his woolly coat; He'll prove a Haggard, yet. Nay—he said "husband": No Haggard I've heard tell on's been a husband: But, if your taste's for husbands, lass, you're suited, Till doomsday, as he says. He kens his mind: When barely breeched, he chose to bide with sheep; Though he might have travelled with horses: and it's sheep His heart is set on still. But, I've no turn For certainties myself: no sheep for me: Life, with a tossing mane, and clattering hoofs, The chancy life for me—not certain death, With the stink of tar and sheepdip in my nostrils.

MICHAEL: Life, with a clattering tongue, you mean to say.

BELL: Well: you're a bonnie lass, I must admit: And, if I'd fancied daughters, I might have done Much worse than let young Michael pick them for me: He's not gone poseying in the kitchen garden. I never guessed he'd an eye for aught but ewes: As, blind as other mothers, I'd have sworn I'd kenned him, inside-out, since he was—nay! But he was never a rapscallion ripstitch— Always a prim and proper little man, A butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth young sobersides, Since he found his own feet. Yet, the blade that's wed— The jack-knife, turned into a pair of scissors— Without a word, is not the son I thought him. There's something of his mammy, after all, In Michael: and as for you, my lass, you're just Your minney's very spit.

RUTH: You ken my mother?

BELL: Ken Judith Ellershaw? You'll ask me, next, If I'm acquainted with Bell Haggard. Well, Gaping for turnips, Michael?

MICHAEL: I never heard ...

BELL: What have you heard this fifteen-year, except The bleat of sheep, till Ruth's voice kittled your ear? But, Judith sent some message by her daughter?

RUTH: She doesn't ken I've come: nay, doesn't dream I'm married even; though I meant to tell her This morning; but I couldn't: she started so, When I let slip Michael's name; and turned so pale. I don't know why; but I feared some word of hers Might come between us: and I couldn't let Even my mother come between us now: So, I pretended to set out for work As usual: then, when we were married, went back With Michael, to break the news. But the door was locked: And neighbours said she was out—been gone some time: And Michael was impatient to be home: So, I had to come. I can't think what has happened. I hated leaving her like that: I've never In all my life done such a thing.

BELL: Well, Michael Should be relieved to learn it's a first offence.

RUTH: She'd gone without a word ...

BELL: A family failing— And, happen, on like errand to your own.

RUTH: Mother? Nay, she's too old: you said you knew her.

BELL: Ay, well enough to reckon I'm her elder: And who's to tell me I'm too old to marry? A woman is never too old for anything: It's only men grow sober and faint-hearted: And Judith's just the sort whose soul is set On a husband and a hearthstone: I ken that.

RUTH: Nay: mother'll never marry.

BELL: You can speak With all the cock-a-whoop of ignorance: For you're too young to dare to doubt your wisdom. It's a wise man, or a fool, can speak for himself, Let alone for others, in this haphazard life. But give me a young fool, rather than an old— A plucky plunger, than a canny crone Who's old enough to ken she doesn't ken. You're right: for doubting is a kind of dotage: Experience ages and decays; while folk Who never doubt themselves die young—at ninety. Age never yet brought gumption to a ninny: And you cannot reckon up a stranger's wits By counting his bare patches and grey hairs: It's seldom sense that makes a bald head shine: And I'm not partial to Methuselahs. Keep your cocksureness, while you can: too soon, Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie, Naked and skewered, with not a cock-a-doodle, Or flap of the wings to warm your heart again. And so, you quitted your mammy, without a word, When the jockey whistled?

RUTH: Nay: I left a letter: 'Twas all I could do.

BELL: She's lost a daughter; and got A bit of paper, instead: and what have I, For my lost son?

MICHAEL: You've lost no son; but gained A daughter. You'll always live with us.

BELL: Just so. I've waited for you to say that: and it comes pat. You'll think his thoughts; and mutter them in your mind, Before he can give them tongue, Ruth. He's not said An unexpected thing since he grew out Of his first breeches: and, like the most of men, He speaks so slowly, you can almost catch The creaking of his wits between the words.

RUTH: Well: I've a tongue for two: and you, yourself, Don't lack for ...

BELL: So, all's settled: you've arranged The world for your convenience; and have planned Your mothers' lives between you? I'm to be The dear old grannie in the ingleneuk; And hide my grizzled wisps in a mutch with frills? Nay, God forbid! I'm no tame pussycat, To snuggle on the corner of a settle, With one eye open for the chance-thrown titbit, While the good housewife goes about her duties: Me! lapping with blinking eyes and possing paws, The saucer of skim-milk that young skinflint spares me, And purring, when her darlings pull my tail— Great-grandchildren, too, to Ezra, on both sides. Ay: you may gape like a brace of guddled brandling: But that old bull-trout's grandsire to you both; And a double dose of his blue blood will run In the veins of your small fry—if fish have veins.

MICHAEL: You surely never mean to say ...

BELL: I do. More than a little for you young know-alls to learn, When you meet Judith Ellershaw: for havers As it sounds to your young lugs, the world went round, And one or two things happened, before you were born. Yet, none of us kens what life's got up his sleeve: He's played so long: and had a deal of practice, Since he sat down with Adam: he's always got A trump tucked out of sight, that takes the trick. But, son, you've lived with me for all these years; And yet ken me so little? Grannie's mutch-frills! I'd as lief rig myself in widow's weeds For my fancy man, who may have departed this life, For all I ken or care.

MICHAEL: Come, hold your tongue: Enough of shameless talk. I'm master, now: And I'll not have Ruth hear this radgy slack. If you've no shame yourself, I'll find a way To bridle your loose tongue: so mind yourself: I'll have no tinker's tattle.

BELL: The tinker's brat Rides the high-horse now, mounted on prime mutton. Ruth, lass, you're safe, you're safe—if safety's all: He'll never guess your heart, unless you blab. I've never told him mine: I've kept him easy, Till he'd found someone else to victual him, And make his bed, and darn his hose; and you Seem born to take the job out of my hands.

RUTH: But I'd not come between you ...

BELL: Think not, lass? I bear you no ill-will: you set me free. I'm a wildcat, all bristling fur and claws: At Krindlesyke, I've been a wildcat, caged: And Michael never twigged! Son, don't you mind The day we came—was I a tabby then? The day we came here, with no thought to bide, Once we had got the plunder; and were trapped Between these four white walls by a dead woman? She held me—forced my feet into her shoes— Held me for your sake. Ay: there seemed some link 'Twixt your dead grannie and you, too strong for me To break; though it's been strained to the snapping-point, Times out of mind, whenever a hoolet's screech Sang through my blood; or poaching foxes barked On a shiny night to the cackle of wild geese, Travelling from sea to sea far overhead: Or whenever, waking in the quiet dark, The ghosts of horses whinneyed in my heart. Ghosts! Nay, I've been the mare between the limmers Who hears the hunters gallop gaily by; Or, rather, the hunter, bogged in a quaking moss, Fankit in sluthery strothers, belly-deep, With the tune of the horn tally-hoing through her blood, As the field sweeps out of sight.

MICHAEL: Wildcats and hunters— A mongrel breed, eh, Ruth?

BELL: But, now it seems, I can draw my hocks out of the clungy sump I've floundered in so long; and, snuffing the wind, Shew a clean pair of heels to Krindlesyke. A mongrel breed, say you? And who but a man Could have a wildcat-hunter making his bed For him for fifteen-year, and never know it? But, the old wife's satisfied, at last: she should be: She's had my best years: I've grown old and grizzled, And full of useless wisdom, in her service. She's taught me much: for I've had time and to spare, Brooding among these God-forsaken fells, To turn life inside-out in my own mind; And study every thread of it, warp and weft. I'm far from the same woman who came here: And I'll take up my old life with a difference, Now she and you've got no more use for me: You've squeezed me dry betwixt you.

MICHAEL: Dry, do you say? The Tyne's in spate; and we must swim for life, Eh, Ruth? But, you'll soon get used ...

BELL: She's done with me. She'll not be sorry to lose me: I fancy, at times, She felt she'd got more than she'd bargained for— A wasp, rampaging in her spider's web. "Far above rubies" has never been my line, Though I could wag a tongue with Solomon, Like the Queen of Sheba herself: I doubt if she Rose in the night to give meat to her household. She must have been an ancestor of mine: For she'd traik any distance for a crack, The gipsy-hearted ganwife that she was.

MICHAEL: Wildcats and hunters and the Queen of Sheba— A royal family, Ruth, you've married into!

BELL: But now I can kick Eliza's shoes sky-high: Nay—I must shuffle them quietly off; and lay The old wife's shoes decently by the hearth, As I found them when I came—a slattern stopgap— Ready for the young wife to step into. They'll fit her, as they never fitted me: For all her youth, they will not gall her heels, Or give her corns: she's the true Cinderella: The clock has struck for her; and the dancing's done; And the Prince has brought her home—to wash the dishes. But now I'm free: and I'll away to-night. My bones have been restless in me all day long: They felt their freedom coming, before I kenned. I've little time to lose: I'm getting old— Stiff-jointed in my wits, that once were nimble As a ferret among the bobtails, old and dull. A night or so may seem to matter little, When I've already lost full fifteen-year: But I hear the owls call: and my fur's a-tingle: The Haggard blood is pricking in my veins.

(She loosens the string of her apron, which slips to the ground, kilts her skirt to her knee, takes the orange-coloured kerchief from her pocket, and twists it about her head; while MICHAEL and RUTH watch the transformation in amazement.)

MICHAEL: But you don't mean to leave us?

BELL: Pat it comes: You've just to twitch the wire and the bell rings: You'll learn the trick, soon, Ruth. (To MICHAEL) Bat, don't you see I've just put on my nightcap, ready for bed— Grannie's frilled mutch? I leave you, Michael? Son, The time came, as it comes to every man, When you'd to make a choice betwixt two women. You've made your choice: and chosen well: but I, Who've always done the choosing, and never yet Tripped to the beck of any man, or bobbed To any living woman—I'm free to follow My own bent, now that that old witch's fingers Have slackened their cold clutch; and your dead grannie Has gained her ends, and seen you settled down At Krindlesyke: and from this on I, too, Am dead to you. You'll soon enough forget me: The world would end if a man could not forget His mother's deathbed in his young wife's arms— I'm far from corpse-cold yet; and it may be years Before they pluck Bell Haggard's kerchief off, To tie her chin up with, and ripe her pockets Of her last pennies to shut up her eyes. Even then, they'll have to tug the chin-clout tight, To keep her tongue from wagging. Well, my son, So, it's good-bye till doomsday.

MICHAEL: You're not going? I thought you only havered. You can't go. Do you think I'd let you go, and ...

BELL: Hearken, Ruth: That's the true husband's voice: for husbands think, If only they are headstrong and high-handed, They're getting their own way: they charge, head-down, At their own image in the window-glass; And don't come to their senses till their carcase Is spiked with smarting splinters. But I'm your mother, Not your tame wife, lad: and I'll go my gait.

MICHAEL: You shall not go, for all your crazy cackle— My mother, on the road, a tinker's baggage, While I've a roof to shelter her!

BELL: You pull The handle downwards towards you, and the beer Spouts out. No hope for you, Ruth: lass, you're safe— Safe as a linnet in a cage, for life: No need to read your hand, to tell your fortune: No gallivanting with the dark-eyed stranger, Calleevering over all the countryside, When the owls are hooting to the hunter's moon, For the wife of Michael Barrasford. Well, boy, What if I choose to be a tinker's baggage? It was a tinker's baggage mothered you— For tying a white apron round the waist Has never made a housewife of a gipsy— And a tinker's baggage went out of her way To set you well on yours: and now she turns.

MICHAEL: You shall not go, I say. I'm master here: And I won't let you shame me. I've been decent; And have always done my duty by the sheep, Working to keep a decent home together To bring a wife to: and, for all your jeers, There are worse things for a woman than a home And husband and a lawful family. You shall not go. You say I ken my mind ...

BELL: Ay: but not mine. What should a tinker's trollop Do in the house of Michael Barrasford, But bring a blush to his children's cheeks? God help them, If they take after me, if they've a dash Of Haggard blood—for ewe's milk laced with brandy Is like to curdle: or, happen, I should say, God help their father!

MICHAEL: Mother, why should you go? Why should you want to travel the ditch-bottom, When you've a hearth to sit by, snug and clean?

BELL: The fatted calf's to be killed for the prodigal mother? You've not the hard heart of the young cockrobin That's got no use for parents, once he's mated: But I'm, somehow, out of place within four walls, Tied to one spot—that never wander the world. I long for the rumble of wheels beneath me; to hear The clatter and creak of the lurching caravan; And the daylong patter of raindrops on the roof: Ay, and the gossip of nights about the campfire— The give-and-take of tongues: mine's getting stiff For want of use, and spoiling for a fight.

MICHAEL: Nay: still as nimble and nippy as a flea!

BELL: But, I could talk, at one time! There are days When the whole world's hoddendoon and draggletailed, Drooked through and through; and blury, gurly days When the wind blows snell: but it's something to be stirring, And not shut up between four glowering walls, Like blind white faces; and you never ken What traveller your wayside fire will draw Out of the night, to tell outlandish tales, Or crack a jest, or start quarrel with you, Till the words bite hot as ginger on the tongue. Anger's the stuff to loose a tongue grown rusty: And keep it in good fettle for all chances. I'm sick of dozing by a dumb hearthstone— And the peat, with never a click or crackle in it— Famished for news.

MICHAEL: For scandal.

BELL: There's no scandal For those who can't be scandalized—just news: All's fish that comes to their net. I was made For company.

MICHAEL: And you'd go back again To that tag-rag-and-bobtail? What's the use Of a man's working to keep a decent home, When his own mother tries to drag him down?

BELL: Nay: my pernicketty, fine gentleman, But I'll not drag you down: you're free of me: I've slipt my apron off; and you're tied now To your wife's apron-strings: for menfolk seem Uneasy on the loose, and never happy Unless they're clinging to some woman's skirt. I'm out of place in any decent house, As a kestrel in a hencoop. Ay, you're decent: But, son, remember a man's decency Depends on his braces; and it's I who've sewn Your trouser-buttons on; so, when you fasten Your galluses, give the tinker's baggage credit. She's done her best for you; and scrubbed and scoured, Against the grain, for all these years, to keep Your home respectable; though, in her heart, Thank God, she's never been respectable— No dry-rot in her bones, while she's alive: Time and to spare for decency in the grave. So, you can do your duty by the sheep, While I go hunting with the jinneyhoolets— Birds of a feather—ay, and fleece with fleece: And when I'm a toothless, mumbling crone, you'll be So proper a gentleman, 'twill be hard to tell The shepherd from the sheep. Someone must rear The mutton and wool, to keep us warm and fed; But that's not my line: please to step this way For the fancy goods and fakish faldalals, Trinkets and toys and fairings. Son, you say, You're master here: well, that's for Ruth to settle: I'll be elsewhere. I've never knuckled down To any man: and I'll be coffin-cold Before I brook a master; so, good-night, And pleasant dreams; and a long family Of curly lambkins, bleating round the board.

RUTH: Michael, you'll never let her go alone? She's only talking wild, because she's jealous. Mothers are always jealous, when their sons Bring home a bride: though she needn't be uneasy: I'd never interfere ...

BELL: Too wise to put Your fingers 'twixt the cleaver and the block? Jealous—I wonder? Anyhow, it seems, I've got a daughter, too. Alone, you say? However long I stayed, I'd have to go Alone, at last: and I'd as lief be gone, While I can carry myself on my two pins. Being buried with the Barrasfords is a chance I've little mind to risk a second time: I'm too much of a Haggard, to want to rise, At the last trump, among a flock of bleaters. If I've my way, there'll be stampeding hoofs About me, startled at the crack of doom.

MICHAEL: When you've done play-acting ...

BELL: Play-acting? Ay: I'm through: Exit the villain: ring the curtain down On the happy ending—bride and bridegroom seated On either side the poor, but pious, hearth.

MICHAEL: I'd as soon argue with a weathercock As with a woman ...

BELL: Yet the weathervanes Are always cocks, not hens.

MICHAEL: You shall not go.

BELL: Your naked hurdles cannot hold the wind.

MICHAEL: Wind? Ay, I'm fairly tewed and hattered with words: And yet, for all your wind, you shall not go.

BELL: While you've a roof to shelter me, eh, son? You mean so well; and understand so little. Yours is a good thick fleece—no skin that twitches When a breath tickles it. Sheep will be sheep, And horses, horses, till the day of judgment.

MICHAEL: Better a sound tup than a spavined nag.

BELL: Ay, Ruth, you've kindled him! Good luck to you: And may your hearthfire warm you to the end.

(To MICHAEL.)

You've been a good son to me, in your way: Only, our ways are different; and here they part. For all my blether, there's no bitterness On my side: I've long kenned 'twas bound to come: And, in your heart, you know it's for the best, For your sake, and for Ruth's sake, and for mine. I couldn't obey, where I have bid; nor risk My own son's fathering me in second childhood: And you'd not care to have me like old Ezra, A dothering haiveril in your chimney corner, Babbling of vanished gold? I read my fortune In the flames just now: and I'll not rot to death: It's time enough to moulder, underground. My death'll come quick and chancy, as I'd have had Each instant of life: but still there are risky years Before me, and a sudden, unlooked-for ending. And I'll not haunt you: ghosts enough, with Ezra, Counting his ghostly sovereigns all night long, And old Eliza, darning ghostly stockings. My ghost will ride a broomstick....

(As she speaks, the inner door opens, and RUTH and MICHAEL, turning sharply at the click of the latch, gaze, dumbfounded, at JUDITH ELLERSHAW, standing in the doorway.)

BELL: Fee-fo-fum! The barguest bays; and boggles, brags, and bo-los Follow the hunt. How's that for witchcraft, think you? Hark, how the lych-owl screeches!

RUTH (running to her mother's arms): Mother, you!

BELL: Now there's a sweet, domestic picture for you! My cue's to vanish in a puff of smoke And reek of brimstone, like the witch I am. I'm coming, hoolet, my old cat with wings! It's time I was away: there never yet Was room for two grandmothers in one house. I'm through with Krindlesyke. Good-bye, old gaol!

(While MICHAEL still gazes at RUTH and her mother in amazement, BELL HAGGARD slips out of the door, unnoticed, and away through the bracken in the gathering dusk. An owl hoots.)



PART III

A wet afternoon in May, six years later. The table is already set for tea. JUDITH ELLERSHAW sits, knitting, by the hearth; a cradle with a young baby in it by her side. The outer door is closed, but unlatched. Presently the unkempt head of a man appears furtively at the window; then vanishes. The door is pushed stealthily open: and JIM BARRASFORD, ragged and disreputable (and some twenty years older than when he married PHOEBE MARTIN) stands on the threshold a moment, eyeing JUDITH's unconscious back in silence: then he speaks, limping towards her chair.

JIM: While the cat calleevers the hills of Back-o'-Beyont, The rats make free of the rick: and so, you doubled, As soon as my hurdies were turned on Krindlesyke, And settled yourself in the ingle?

JUDITH (starting up, and facing him): Jim!

JIM: Ay, Jim— No other, Judith. I'll be bound you weren't Just looking to see me: you seem overcome By the unexpected pleasure. Your pardon, mistress, If I intrude. By crikes! But I'm no ghost To set you adither: you don't see anything wrong— No, no! What should you see? I startled you. Happen I look a wee bit muggerishlike— A ragtag hipplety-clinch: but I've been travelling Mischancy roads; and I'm fair muggert-up. Yet, why should that stagnate you? Where's the sense Of expecting a mislucket man like me To be as snod and spruce as a young shaver? But I'm all right: there's naught amiss with Jim, Except too much of nothing in his belly. A good square meal, and a pipe, and a decent night's rest, And I'll be fit as a fiddle. I've hardly slept ... Well, now I'm home, I'll make myself at home.

(He seizes the loaf of bread from the table; hacks off a hunch with his jack-knife; and wolfs it ravenously.)

JUDITH: Home? You've come home, Jim?

JIM: Nay, I'm my own fetch! God's truth! there's little else but skin and bone Beneath these tatters: just a two-legged boggart, With naught but wind to fill my waim—small wonder You're maiselt, to see a scarecrow stottering in— For plover's eggs and heather-broth don't sleek A wrinkled hide or swell a scrankit belly. But still, what should there be to flabbergast you About a man's returning to his home? Naught wrong in coming home, I hope? By gox, A poor lad can't come home, but he's cross-questioned, And stared at like ... Why do you stare like that? It's I should be agape, to find you here: But no, I'm not surprised: you can't surprise me: I'm a travelled man: I've seen the world; and so, Don't look for gratitude. My eyes were opened, Once and for all, by Phoebe and you, that day— Nigh twenty-year since: and they've not been shut ... By gum, that's so! it seems like twenty-year Since I'd a wink of sleep ... And, anyway, I've heard the story, all the goings-on; And a pretty tale it is: for I'd a drink, A sappy-crack with that old windywallops, Sep Shanks, in a bar at Bellingham: and he let out How you'd crawled back to Krindlesyke with your daughter— Our daughter, I should say: and she, no less, Married to Peter's son: though how the deuce You picked him up, is more that I can fashion. Sep had already had his fill of cheerers, Before I met him; and that last rum-hot Was just the drop too much: and he got fuddled. Ay, Sep was mortal-clay, the addled egg: And I couldn't make head or tail of his hiccuping, Though he tried to make himself plain: he did his best, Did Sep: I'll say that for him—tried so hard To make himself plain, he got us both chucked out: And I left him in the gutter, trying still.

JUDITH: You've come from Bellingham hiring?

JIM: I couldn't stand The dindum: felt fair-clumpered in that cluther— Such a hubblyshew of gowks and flirtigigs, Craking and cackling like a gabble of geese: And folk kept looking: I might have been a bizen, The way they gaped: so I thought I'd just win home For a little peace and quiet. Where's my daughter, And this young cuckoo, calls himself my nephew, And has made himself free and easy of my nest? Ay, but you've fettled things nicely, the lot of you, While I tramped the hungry roads. He's pinched my job: But I bear no grudge: it's not a job I'm after, Since I've a married daughter I can live with. I've seen the world, a sight too much: and I mean To settle down, and end my days in peace In my old home.

JUDITH: Your home? But you can't stay here.

JIM: You'll see! Now that I'm home, I mean to clag Like a cleaver to a flagstone: they'll have to lift The hearth, to get me out of Krindlesyke. I've had enough of travelling the turnpike, Houffling and hirpling like a cadging faa: And, but for you and your brat, I'd settled down, A respectable married man, this twenty-year. But you shan't drive me from my home again.

JUDITH: We drove you?

JIM: You began it, anyway— Made me an April-gowk and laughing-stock, Till I couldn't face the neighbours' fleers. By joes! You diddled me out of house and home, among you: And settled yourselves couthily in my calfyard, Like maggots in a muckheap, while I went cawdrife. But I've had my fill of it, Judith, Hexham-measure: I'm home for good: and isn't she my daughter? You stole her from me once, when you made off With hoity-toity Phoebe—ay, I ken She died: I learned it at the time—you sneaked My only bairn: I cannot mind her name, If ever I heard it: you kept even that From me, her dad. But, anyway, she's mine: I've only her and you to turn to now: A poor, lone widower I've been any time This twenty-year: that's what's been wrong with me, Though it hadn't entered my noddle till this minute. But where's the canny couple?

JUDITH: Ruth and Michael Are at the hiring.

JIM: Well, I'll not deny That suits my book. I'd a notion, Judith lass, I'd find you alone, and make my peace with you, Before I tackled the young folk. Poor relations Aren't made too welcome in this ungrateful world— Least so, by those who've taken the bread from their mouths, And beggared them of bit and brat: and so I thought 'twould be more couthy-like with you, Just having a crack and talking old times over, Till I was more myself. I don't like strangers, Not even when they're my own flesh and blood: They've got a trick of staring at a man: And all I want is to be let alone— Just let alone ... By God, why can't they let me Alone! But you are kind and comfortable: And you won't heckle me and stare at me: For I'm not quite myself: I'll own to that— I'm not myself ... Though who the devil I am I hardly ken ... I've been that hunted and harried.

JUDITH: Hunted?

JIM: Ay, Judith—in a manner of speaking, Hunted's the word: and I'm too old for the sport. I'm getting on in years: and you're no younger Than when I saw you last—you mind the day, My wedding-day? A fine fligarishon You made of it between you, you and Phoebe: And wasn't she the high and mighty madam, The niffy-naffy don't-come-nigh-me nonesuch? But I've forgiven her: I bear no malice.

JUDITH: You bear no malice: and she died of it!

JIM: Ay, ay: she showed some sense of decency In that, at least: though she got her sting in first Like an angry bee. But, Judith, doesn't it seem We two are tokened to end our days together? Nothing can keep us parted, seemingly: So let bygones be bygones.

(Catching sight of the cradle.)

What, another! Have you always got a brat about you, Judith? Last time you sprang a daughter on me, and now ... But I'm forgetting how the years have flitted. Don't tell me I'm a grandfather?

JUDITH: The boy Is Ruth's.

JIM: Well, I've come into a family, And no mistake—a happy family: And I was born to be a family-man. They'll never turn against their bairn's granddad: And I'm in luck.

JUDITH: You cannot bide here, Jim.

JIM: And who the hell are you, to say me nay?

JUDITH: The boy's grandmother.

JIM: Ay: and so the grandam's To sit in the ingleneuk, while granddad hoofs it?

JUDITH: When you left Krindlesyke, you quitted it For good and all.

JIM: And yet, I'm here again, Unless I'm dreaming. It seems we all come back To Krindlesyke, like martins to the byre-baulks: It draws us back—can't keep away, nohow. Ay, first and last, the old gaol is my home. You're surely forgetting ...

JUDITH: I'm forgetting nothing. It's you've the knack of only recollecting What you've a mind to. How could you have come If you remembered all these walls have seen?

JIM: So walls have eyes as well as ears? I can't Get away from eyes ... But they'll not freeze my blood, Or stare me out of countenance: they've no tongues To tittle-tattle: they're no tell-tale-tits, No slinking skeadlicks, nosing and sniffing round, To wink and nod when I turn my back, colloguing, With heads together, to lay me by the heels. Nay: I'm not fleyed of a bit of whitewashed plaister. But you're a nice one to welcome home a traveller With "cannots" and clavers of eyes. Why can't you let Things rest, and not hark back, routing things out, And casting them in my teeth? Why must you lug The dead to light—dead days? ... I'm not afraid Of corpses: the dead are dead: their eyes are shut: Leastways, they cannot glower when once the mould's Atop of them: though they follow a chap round the room, Seeking the coppers to clap them to ... dead eyes Can't wink: and twopence shuts their bravest stare. So, ghosts won't trouble my rest at Krindlesyke. I vowed that I'd sleep sound at Krindlesyke, When I ...

JUDITH: You cannot bide.

JIM: I bear no malice. Why can't you let bygones be bygones? But that's A woman all over; must be raking up The ashes into a glow, and puffing them red, To roast a man for what he did, or didn't, Twenty-year syne. Why should you still bear malice?

JUDITH: I bear no malice: but you cannot bide.

JIM: Why do you keep cuckooing "cannot, cannot"? And who's to turn me out of Krindlesyke, Where I was born and bred, I'd like to ken? You can't gainsay it's my home.

JUDITH: Not your home now.

JIM: Then who the devil's home ...

JUDITH: It's Ruth's and Michael's.

JIM: My daughter's and her man's: their home's my home.

JUDITH: You shall not stay.

JIM: It's got to "shall not" now? The cuckoo's changed his tune; but I can't say I like the new note better: it's too harsh: The gowk's grown croupy. But, lass, I never thought You'd be harsh with me: yet even you've turned raspy ... First "cannot," then ...

JUDITH: Nay! I'll not have their home Pulled down about their ears by any man; And least of all by you—the home they've made ...

JIM: Stolen, I'd say.

JUDITH: Together, for themselves And their three boys.

JIM: Jim, granddad three times over? It's well you broke it piecemeal: the old callant's A waffly heart; and any sudden joy Just sets it twittering: but the more the merrier!

JUDITH: You shall not wreck their happiness. I'd not dreamed Such happiness as theirs could be in this world. Since it was built, there's not been such a home At Krindlesyke: it's only been a house ...

JIM: 'Twas just about as homely as a hearse In my young days: but my luck's turned, it seems.

JUDITH: It takes more than four walls to make a home, And such a home as Michael's made for Ruth. Though she's a fendy lass; she's too like me, And needs a helpmate, or she'll waste herself; And, with another man, she might have wrecked, Instead of building. She's got her man, her mate: Husband and father, born, day in, day out, He works to keep a home for wife and weans. There's never been a luckier lass than Ruth: Though she deserves it, too; and it's but seldom Good lasses are the lucky ones; and few Get their deserts in this life.

JIM: True, egox!

JUDITH: Few, good or bad. But Ruth has everything— A home, a steady husband, and her boys. There never were such boys.

JIM: A pretty picture: It takes my fancy: and the dear old grannie, Why do you leave her out? And there's a corner For granddad in it, surely—an armchair On the other side of the ingle, with a pipe And packet of twist, and a pot of nappy beer, Hot-fettled four-ale, handy on the hob? Ay: there's the chair: I'd best secure it now.

(As he seats himself, with his back to the door, the head of BELL HAGGARD, in her orange-coloured kerchief, peeps round the jamb: then slowly withdraws, unseen of JIM or JUDITH.)

JIM: Fetch up the swipes and shag. I can reach the cutty ...

(He takes down MICHAEL's pipe from the mantel-shelf; and sticks it between his teeth: but JUDITH snatches at it, breaking the stem, and flings the bowl on the fire.)

JUDITH: And you, to touch his pipe!

(JIM stares at her, startled, as she stands before him, with drawn face and set teeth: then, still eyeing her uneasily, begins to bluster.)

JIM: You scarting randy! I'll teach you manners. That's a good three-halfpence Smashed into smithereens: and all for nothing. I've lammed a wench for less. I've half a mind To snap you like the stopple, you yackey-yaa! De'il rive your sark! It's long since I've had the price Of a clay in my pouch: and I'm half-dead for a puff. What's taken you? What's set you agee with me? You used to like me; and you always seemed A menseful body: and I lippened to you. But you're just a wheepie-leekie weathercock Like the lave of women, when a man's mislucket, Moidart and mismeaved and beside himself. I fancied I'd be in clover at Krindlesyke, With you and all: but, sink me, if I haven't Just stuck my silly head into a bee-bike! What's turned you vicious? I only want to smoke A cutty in peace: and you go on the rampage. I mustn't smoke young master's pipe, it seems— His pipe, no less! Young cock-a-ride-a-roosie Is on the muckheap now; and all the hens Are clucking round him. I ken what it is: The cockmadendy's been too easy with you. It doesn't do to let you womenfolk Get out of hand. It's time I came, i' faiks, To pull you up, and keep you in your place. I'll have no naggers, narr-narring all day long: I'll stand no fantigues. If the cull's too soft ...

JUDITH: Soft, did you say? I've seen him hike a man, And a heftier man than you, over a dyke, For yarking a lame beast. That drover'll mind— Ay, to his dying day, he'll not forget He once ran into something hard.

JIM: Ay—ay ... He's that sort, is he? My luck is out again. I want a quiet life, to be let alone: And Krindlesyke won't be a bed of roses, With that sort ramping round. (Starting uneasily.) What's that? I thought ... There's no one in the other room, is there? I've a feeling in my bones somebody's listening. You've not deceived me, Judith? You've not trapped ... I'm all a-swither, sweating like a brock. I little dreamt you'd turn against me, Judith: But even here I don't feel safe now.

JUDITH: Safe?

JIM: So you don't know? I fancied everyone kenned. Else why the devil should they stare like that? And when you, too, looked ... Nay, how could you learn? I'm davered, surely: Seppy Shank's rum Has gone to my noddle: drink's the very devil On an empty waim: and I never had a head. What have I done? Ay, wouldn't you like to ken, To holler on the hounds?

JUDITH: Jim!

JIM: But what matter Whether you ken or not? You've done for me Already, dang you, with your hettle-tongue: You've put the notion in my head, the curs Are on my scent: and now, I cannot rest. Happen, they're slinking now up Bloodysyke, Like adders through the bent ... Nay, they don't yelp, The hounds that sleuth me: it's only in my head I hear the yapping: they're too cunning to yelp. The sleichers slither after me on their bellies, As dumb and slick as adders ... But I'm doitered, And doting like a dobby. I want to sleep ... A good night's rest would pull my wits together. I swore I'd sleep ... but I couldn't close an eye, now Since ...

JUDITH: Jim, what ails you? Tell me what you've done. I'm sorry, Jim ...

JIM: I swear I never set out To do it, Judith; and the thing was done, Before I came to my senses: that's God's truth: And may hell blast ... You're sorry? Nay, but Jim's Too old a bird to be caught with chaff. You're fly: But, Jim's fly, too. No: mum's the word.

JUDITH: O Jim, You, surely, never think I'd ...

JIM: I don't know. A man in my case can't tell who to trust, When every mongrel's yowling for his carcase. Mum's my best friend, the only one ... though, whiles, It's seemed even he had blabbered out my secrets, And hollered them to rouse the countryside, And draw all eyes on me. But, I must mizzle.

JUDITH: You're going, Jim?

JIM: I'll not be taken here, Like a brock in his earth: I'll not be trapped and torn ... Yet, I don't know. Why should I go? No worse To be taken here than elsewhere: and I'm dead beat: I'm all to rovers, my wit's all gone agate: And how can I travel in these boots? A week since The soles bid a fond farewell to the uppers: I've been Hirpling it, barefoot—ay, kind lady, barefoot. You'd hardly care to be in my shoes, Judith? While you've been sitting doose ...

JUDITH: I've known the road: I've trudged it, too, lad: and your feet are bleeding. I'll bathe them for you, Jim, before you go: And you shall have a pair of Michael's boots.

JIM: So, I may have young master's cast-off boots, Since he's stepped into my shoes—a fair swap! And tug my forelock, like a lousy tinker; And whine God bless the master of this house, Likewise the mistress, too ... By gox, I've come To charity—Jim Barrasford's come to mooch For charity at Krindlesyke! Shanks's mare's A sorry nag at best; and lets you down, Sooner or later, for certain—the last straw, When a man can't trust his feet, and his own legs Give under him, in his need, and bring him down A devasher in the ditch as the dogs are on him! You're sorry? I don't know. How can I tell? You're sly, you faggit; but don't get over Jim With jookery-pawkry, Judith: I may be maiselt, But I've a little rummelgumption left: I still ken a bran from a brimmer—bless your heart! It suits you to get rid of me; and you judge It's cheaply done at the price of a pair of tackities. Nay: I'll be taken here.

JUDITH: You cannot stay.

JIM: Do you take me for a cangling cadger, to haggle ... Forgimety! I cannot ... God's truth, I dare not! You've got me on the hop; and I must hirple; But if I go, I will not go alone: I've a mind to have a partner for this polka.

JUDITH: Alone? And who do you think that ...

JIM: Who but you?

JUDITH: I!

JIM: If I've got to take the road again, You've got to pad it with me: for I'm tired Of travelling lonesome: I've a mind to have My doxy with me. By crikes! I'm fleyed to face The road again, alone. You'll come ...

JUDITH: I cannot. How could I leave ...

JIM: Then I'll be taken here: You'll be to blame.

JUDITH: But, Jim, how could I leave ...

JIM: The sooner it's over, the better I'll be pleased.

JUDITH: You mustn't stop: and yet, I cannot go. How could I leave the bairn?

JIM: The brat's asleep.

JUDITH: It won't sleep long.

JIM: Its mammy'll soon be home.

JUDITH: Not for three hours, at earliest.

JIM: Then I'll wait Till then: they can't be on my track so soon: And when its dad and mammy come back ...

JUDITH: Nay, nay: They mustn't find you here.

JIM: Judith, you're right: For they might blab. I'd best be hooking it. I'll go: but, mind, you're not yet shot of me.

(As he is speaking, BELL HAGGARD appears in the doorway, and stands, with arms akimbo, watching them; but JIM has his back to the door, and JUDITH, gazing into the fire, doesn't see her either.)

JIM: I'll wait for you beneath the Gallows Rigg, Where the burn skirts the planting, in the slack We trysted in, in the old days—do you mind?

JUDITH: I mind.

JIM: Trust you for that! And I'll lie low: It's a dry bottom: and when the family's snoring You'll come to me. Just whicker like a peesweep Three times, and I'll be with you in a jiffy. We'll take the road together, bonnie lass; For we were always marrows, you and I. If only that flirtigig, Phoebe, hadn't come Between me and my senses, we'd have wed, And settled down at Krindlesyke for life: But now we've got to hoof it to the end. My sang! 'twill be a honeymoon for me, After the rig I've run. But, hearken, Judith: If you don't turn up by ten o'clock, I'll come And batter on that door to wake the dead: I'll make such a rumpus, such a Bob-'s-adying, Would rouse you, if you were straked. I'll have you with me, If I've got to carry you, chested: sink my soul! And for all I care, that luggish slubberdegullion May lounder my hurdies; and go to Hecklebarney! I'm desperate, Judith ... and I don't mind much ... But, you'll come, lass?

JUDITH: I'll come.

JIM: Well, if you fail, They'll take me here, as sure as death.

BELL (stepping forward): That's so.

JIM (wheeling round): The devil!

BELL: Nay: not yet: all in good time. But I question they'll wait till ten o'clock: they seemed Impatient for your company, deuce kens why: But then, what's one man's meat ...

JIM: What's that you say?

BELL: They seemed dead-set ... You needn't jump like that: I haven't got the bracelets in my pocket.

JIM: And who the hell are you? and what do you mean?

BELL: You've seen my face before.

JIM: Ay—ay ... I've seen it: But I don't ken your name. You dog my heels: I've seen your face ... I saw it on that night— That night ... and sink me, but I saw it last In the bar at Bellingham: your eyes were on me. Ay, and I've seen that phisgog many times: And it always brought ill-luck.

BELL: It hasn't served Its owner so much better: yet it's my fortune, Though I'm no peachy milkmaid. Ay: I fancied 'Twas you they meant.

JIM: Who meant?

BELL: How should I know? You should ken best who's after you, and what You're wanted for? They might be friends of yours, For all I ken: though I've never taken, myself, To the little boy-blues. But, carties, I'd have fancied 'Twould make your lugs burn—such a gillaber about you. They talked.

JIM: Who talked?

BELL: Your friends.

JIM: Friends? I've no friends.

BELL: Well: they were none of mine. Last night I slept 'Neath Winter's Stob ...

JIM: What's that to do with me?

BELL: I slept till midnight, when a clank of chains Awakened me: and, looking up, I saw A body on the gibbet ...

JIM: A body, woman? No man's hung there this hundred-year.

BELL: I saw A tattered corpse against the hagging moon, Above me black.

JIM: You didn't see the face?

BELL: I saw its face—before it disappeared, And left the gibbet bare.

JIM: You kenned the face?

BELL: I kenned the face.

JIM: Whose face? ...

BELL: Best not to ask.

JIM: O Christ!

BELL: But we were talking of your friends: Quite anxious about you, they seemed.

JIM (limping towards BELL HAGGARD with lifted arm): You cadger-quean! You've set them on. I'll crack you over the cruntle— You rummel-dusty ... You muckhut ... You windyhash! I'll slit your weazen for you: I'll break your jaw— I'll stop your gob, if I've to do you in! You'll not sleep under Winter's Stob to-night.

BELL (regarding him, unmoved): As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb?

JIM (stopping short): Hanged?

BELL: To be hanged by the neck till you are dead. That bleaches you? But you'll look whiter yet, When you lie cold and stiffening, my pretty bleater.

JIM (shrinking back): You witch ... You witch! You've got the evil eye. Don't look at me like that ... Come, let me go!

BELL: A witch? Ay, wise men always carry witch-bane When they've to do with women. Witch, say you? Eh, lad, but you've been walking widdershins: You'd best turn deazil, crook your thumbs, my callant, And gather cowgrass, if you'd break the spell, And send the old witch skiting on her broomstick. They said that you'd make tracks for Krindlesyke: And they'd cop you here, for certain—dig you out Like a badger from his earth. I left them talking.

JIM: Where, you hell-hag?

BELL: Ah, where? You'd like to learn? It's well to keep a civil tongue with witches, If you've no sliver of rowan in your pocket: Though it won't need any witch, my jackadandy, To clap the clicking jimmies round your wrists. To think I fashed myself to give you warning: And this is all the thanks I get! Well, well— They'll soon be here. As I came up Bloodysyke ...

JIM: Up Bloodysyke: and they were following? I'd best cut over Gallows Rigg. My God, The hunt's afoot ... But it may be a trap— And you ... And you ...

BELL: Nay: but I'm no ratcatcher. You'd best turn tail, before the terriers sight you.

(As JIM bolts past her and through the open door)

Rats! Rats! Good dog! ... And now we're rid of vermin.

JUDITH: Oh, Bell, what has he done? What has he done?

BELL: How should I ken?

JUDITH: And yet you said ...

BELL: I said? You've surely not forgotten Bell Haggard's tongue, After the taste you had of it the last time?

JUDITH: What did you hear?

BELL: A drunken blether-breeks In a bar at Bellingham: and I recognized Peter's own brother, too; and guessed 'twas Jim: And when they gossiped of Krindlesyke ... Oh, I ken Ladies don't listen: but not being a lady Whiles has advantages: and when he left His crony sprawling, splurging in the gutter, I followed him, full-pelt, hot on his heel, Guessing the hanniel was up to little good. But he got here before me: so I waited Outside, until I heard him blustering; And judged it time to choke his cracking-croose. I couldn't have that wastrel making mischief In Michael's house: I didn't quit Krindlesyke That it might be turned into a tinker's dosshouse, Hotching with maggots like a reesty gowdy, For any hammy, halfnabs, and hang-gallows To stretch his lousy carcase in at ease, After I'd slutted to keep it respectable For fifteen-year.

JUDITH: But what do you think he's done— Not murder?

BELL: Murder? Nay: it takes a man To murder.

JUDITH: Ay ... But when you spoke of hanging, He turned like death: and when he threatened you, I saw blue-murder in his eyes.

BELL: At most, 'Twould be manslaughter with the likes of him. I've some respect for murderers: they, at least, Take things into their own hands, and don't wait On lucky chances, like the rest of us— Murderers and suicides ...

JUDITH: But Jim?

BELL: I'd back Cain against Abel, ay, and hairy Esau Against that smooth sneak Jacob. Jim? He's likely Done in some doxy in a drunken sleep: 'Twould be about his measure.

JUDITH: Jim—O Jim!

BELL: Nay: he'll not dangle in a hempen noose.

JUDITH: And yet you saw his body ...

BELL: Dead men's knuckles! You didn't swallow that gammon? Why should I Be sleeping under Winter's Stob? But Jim— I doubt if he'd the guts to stick a porker: You needn't fear for him. But I must go.

JUDITH: Go? You'll not go without a sup of tea, After you've traiked so far? Michael and Ruth ...

BELL: Ay, Judith: I just caught a squint of them Among the cluther outside the circus-tent: But I was full-tilt on Jim's track, then: and so, I couldn't daunder: or I'd have stopped to have A closer look: yet I saw that each was carrying A little image of a Barrasford:

(Looking into the cradle.)

And here's the reckling image, seemingly— The sleeping spit of Michael at the age.

JUDITH: You never saw such laleeking lads: and they All fashion after their father.

BELL: I'm glad I came. Even if I'd not struck Jim, I'd meant to come, And have a prowl round the old gaol, and see How Michael throve: although I hadn't ettled To cross the doorstone—just to come and go, And not a soul the wiser. But it turns out I was fated to get here in the nick of time: It seems the old witch drew me here once more To serve her turn and save the happy home. I judged you'd lost your hold on me, Eliza: But, once a ghost has got a grip of you, It won't let go its clutch on your life until It's dragged you into the grave with it: even then ... Although my ghost should prove a match for any, I'd fancy, with a fair field, and no favour. But ghosts and graves! I'm down-in-the-mouth to-day: I must have supped off toadstools on a tombstone, Or happen the droppy weather makes me dyvous: I never could thole the mooth and muggy mizzle, Seeping me sodden: I'd liefer it teemed wholewater, A sousing, drooking downpour, any time. I'm dowf and blunkit, why, deuce only kens! It seems as if Eliza had me fey: And that old witch would be the death of me: And these white walls ... 'Twould be the queerest start! But, Michael's happy?

JUDITH: He's the best of husbands— The best of fathers: he ...

BELL: I ken, I ken. Well ... He's got what he wanted, anyway.

JUDITH: And you?

BELL: Ay ... I was born to take my luck. But I must go.

JUDITH: You'll not wait for them?

BELL: Nay: I'm dead to them: I've bid good-bye to them Till doomsday: and I'm through with Krindlesyke, This time, I hope—though you can never tell. I hadn't ettled to darken the door again; Yet here I am: and even now the walls Seem closing ... It would be the queerest start If, after all ... But, dod, I've got the dismals, And no mistake! I'm in the dowie dumps— Maundering and moonging like a spancelled cow: It's over dour and dearn for me in this loaning On a dowly day. Best pull myself together, And put my best foot foremost before darkening: And I've no mind to meet them in the road. So long!

(She goes out of the door and makes down the syke.)

JUDITH: Good-bye! If you'd only bide a while ... Come back! You mustn't go like that ... Bell, Bell!

(She breaks off, as BELL HAGGARD is already out of hearing, and stands watching her till she is out of sight; then turns, closing the door, and sinks into a chair in an abstracted fashion. She takes up her knitting mechanically, but sits, motionless, brooding by the fire.)

JUDITH: To think that Jim—and after all these years ... And then, to come like that! I wonder what ... I wish he hadn't gone without the boots.

(She resumes her knitting, musing in silence, until she is roused by the click of the latch. The door opens, and BELL HAGGARD stumbles into the room and sinks to the floor in a heap. Her brow is bleeding, and her dress, torn and dishevelled.)

JUDITH (starting up): Bell! What has happened, woman? Are you hurt? Oh, but your brow is bleeding!

BELL: I'd an inkling There must be blood somewhere: I seemed to smell it.

JUDITH: But what has happened, Bell? Don't say 'twas Jim!

BELL: Nay ... nay ... it wasn't Jim ... I stumbled, Judith: And, seemingly, I cracked my cruntle a bit— It's Jill fell down, and cracked her crown, this journey. I smelt the blood ... but, it's not there, the pain ... It's in my side ... I must have dunched my side Against a stone in falling ... I could fancy A rib or so's gone smash.

JUDITH (putting an arm about her and helping her to rise): Come and lie down, And I'll see what ...

BELL: Nay: but I'll not lie down: I'm not that bad ... and, anyhow, I swore I'd not lie down again at Krindlesyke. If I lay down, the walls would close on me, And scrunch the life out ... But I'm havering— Craitching and craking like a doitered crone. Lightheaded from the tumble ... mother-wit's Jirbled and jumbled ... I came such a flam. I'm not that bad ... I say, I'll not lie down ... Just let me rest a moment by the hearth, Until ...

(JUDITH leads her to a chair, fetches a basin of water and some linen, and bathes the wound on BELL's brow.)

JUDITH: I wish ...

BELL: I'm better here. I'll soon Be fit again ... Bell isn't done for, yet: She's a tough customer—she's always been A banging, bobberous bletherskite, has Bell— No fushenless, brashy, mim-mouthed mealy-face, Fratished and perished in the howl-o'-winter. No wind has ever blown too etherish, Too snell to fire her blood: she's always relished A gorly, gousty, blusterous day that sets Her body alow and birselling like a whinfire. But what a windyhash! My wit's wool-gathering; And I'm waffling like a ... But I'd best be stepping, Before he comes: I've far to travel to-night: And I'm not so young ... And Michael mustn't find His tinker-mother, squatted by the hearth, Nursing a bloody head. But, mind you, Judith: I stumbled; and I hurt my side in falling: Whatever they may say, you stick to that: Swear that I told you that upon my oath— So help me God, and all—my bible-oath. I'm better ... already ... I fancy ... and I'll go Before ... What was I saying? Well, old hob, I little ettled I'd look on you again. The times I've polished you, the elbow-grease I've wasted on you: but I never made You shine like that ... You're winking red eyes at me: And well you may, to see ... I little guessed You'd see me sitting ... I've watched many fires Since last I sat beside this hearth—good fires: Coal, coke, and peat, but wood-fires in the main. There's naught like izles for dancing flames and singing: Birch kindles best, and has the liveliest flames: But elm just smoulders—it's the coffin-wood ... Coffins? Who muttered coffins? Let's not talk Of coffins, Judith ... Shut in a black box! They couldn't keep old Ezra in: the lid Flew off; and old granddaddy sat up, girning ... They had to screw him down ... And Solomon Slept with his fathers ... I wonder he could sleep, After the razzle-dazzle ... Concubines! 'Twould take a pyramid to keep him down! And me ... That tumble's cracked the bell ... not stopt The crazy clapper, seemingly ... But, coffins— Let's talk no more of coffins: what have I To do with coffins? Let us talk of fires: I've always loved a fire: I'd set the world Alow for my delight, if it would burn. It's such a soggy, sodden world to-day, I'm duberous I could kindle it with an izle: It might just smoulder with muckle funeral-plumes Of smoke, like coffin-elder ... And the blaze— The biggest flare-up ever I set eyes on, It was a kind of funeral, you might say— A fiery, flaming, roaring funeral, A funeral such as I ... but no such luck For me in this world—likely, in the next! And anyway, it wouldn't be much fun, If I couldn't watch it, myself ... Ay, Long Nick Salkeld, And his old woman, Zillah, died together, The selfsame day, within an hour or so. 'Twas on Spadeadam Waste we'd camped that time ... And kenning how they loved their caravan, And how they'd hate to leave it, or be parted From one another, even by a foot of earth, We laid them out, together, side by side, In the van, as they'd slept in it, night after night, For hard on fifty-year. We took naught out, And shifted naught: just burnished up the brasses, Till they twinkled as Zillah'd kept them, while she could ... And so, with not a coffin-board betwixt them, At dead of night we fired the caravan ... The flames leapt up; and roaring to the stars, As we stood round ... The flames leapt up, and roaring ... I hear them roaring now ... the flames ... I hear ... Flames roaring in my head ... I hear ... I hear ... And flying izles ... falling sparks ... I hear Flames roaring ... roaring ... roaring ...

(She sways forward, but JUDITH catches her in her arms.)

Where am I? Judith, is that you? How did I come here, honey? But, now I mind— I fell ... He must have hidden in the heather To trip me up ... He kicked me, as I lay— The harrygad!

JUDITH: Jim!

BELL: Nay! What am I saying? I stumbled, Judith: you must stick to that, Whatever they may say ... I stumbled, Judith. Think what would happen if they strung Jim up; Should I ... you can't hang any man alone ... Think what would happen should I ... Don't you see, We cannot let them string up Michael's uncle? Respectable ... it wouldn't be respectable ... And I ... I slutted, fifteen ... I'd an inkling There must be blood, somewhere ... I thought I smelt it ... And it tastes salt on the lips ... It's choking me ... It's fire and salt and candle-light for me This time, and Whinny Muir and Brig-o'-Dread ... I'm done for, Judith ... It's all up with me ... It's been a fine ploy, while it lasted ...

JUDITH: Come ...

BELL: Life with a smack in it: death with a tang ...

JUDITH: I'll help you into bed.

(BELL HAGGARD gazes about her in a dazed fashion, as JUDITH raises her and supports her across the floor towards the inner room.)

BELL: Bed, did you say? Bed, it's not bedtime, is it? To bed, to bed, Says Sleepyhead: tarry awhile, says Slow: Put on the pot, says Greedygut ... I swore I'd not lie down ... You cannot dodge your luck: It had to be ... And I must dree my weird. When first I came to Krindlesyke, I felt These walls ... these walls ... They're closing on me now! Let's sup before we go!

(They pass into the other room, but BELL HAGGARD's voice still sounds through the open door.)

BELL: Nay! not that bed— Eliza's bed! The old witch lay in wait For me ... and now she has me! Well, what odds? Jim called me witch: and the old spaewife and I Should be the doose bedfellows, after all. Early to bed and early to rise ... I've never Turned in, while I could wink an eye, before: I've always sat late ... And I'd sit it out Now ... But I'm dizzy ... And that old witch, Eliza— I little guessed she'd play this cantrip on me: But what a jest—Jerusalem, what a jest! She must be chuckling, thinking how she's done me: And I could laugh, if it wasn't for the pain ... It doesn't do to rattle broken ribs— But I could die of laughing, split my sides, If they weren't split already. Yet my clapper Keeps wagging: and I'm my own passing-bell— They knew, who named me ... Talking to gain time ... It's running out so quick ... And mum's the word: I mustn't rouse her ... She sleeps couthily, Free of the coil of cumber and trouble ... I never Looked on a lonelier face ... The flames ... the flames ... They're roaring to the stars ... roaring ... roaring ... The heather's all turned gold ... and golden showers— Izles and flying embers and falling stars ... Great flakes of fire ... They've set the world alow ... It's all about me ... blood-red in my eyes ... I'm burning ... What have I to do with worms! Burning ... burning ... burning ...

(Her voice sinks to a low moaning, which goes on for some time, then stops abruptly. After a while, JUDITH comes into the living-room, fills a basin of water from a bucket, and carries it into the other room. She returns with BELL's orange-coloured kerchief, which she throws on the fire, where it burns to a grey wisp. She then takes a nightdress and a white mutch from a drawer in the dresser, and carries them into the other room, where she stays for some time. The baby in the cradle wakens, and begins to whimper till JUDITH comes out, shutting the door behind her, and takes it in her arms.)

JUDITH: Whisht, whisht, my canny hinny, my bonnie boy! Your wee warm body's good to cuddle after ... Whisht, whisht! (Gazing in the fire.) First, Phoebe—and then, Bell ... Oh, Jim!

Steps are heard on the threshold, and MICHAEL and RUTH enter, carrying their sleeping sons, NICHOLAS, aged five, and RALPH, aged three. They put down the children on the settle by the hearth, where they sit, dazed and silent, sleepily rubbing their eyes.

RUTH: Well, I'm not sorry to be home again: My arms are fairly broken.

MICHAEL: Ay: they're heavy. The hoggerel you lift up turns a sheep Before you set it down again. Well, Judith, You've had a quiet day of it, I warrant?

JUDITH (in a low voice): Michael, your mother's here.

MICHAEL: My mother here?

RUTH: I always fancied she'd turn up again, In spite of all her raivelling—Michael, you mind, About the mutch with frills, and all thon havers? But where we are to put her I can't think: There's not a bed for her.

JUDITH: She's on my bed.

RUTH: Your bed? But you ...

JUDITH: She's welcome to my bed, As long as she has need. She'll not lie long, Before they lift her.

MICHAEL: Judith!

RUTH: She's not dead?

JUDITH: Ay, son: she breathed her last an hour ago.

RUTH: So, after all, the poor old soul crept back To Krindlesyke to die.

(MICHAEL BARRASFORD, without a word, moves towards the inner room in a dazed manner, lifts the latch, and goes in. After a moment's hesitation, RUTH follows him, closing the door behind her. The boys, who have been sitting staring at the fire, drowsily and unheeding, rouse themselves gradually, stretching and yawning.)

NICHOLAS: Grannie, we saw the circus: And Ralph still says he wants to be a herd, Like dad: but I can't bide the silly baas. When I'm a man I'll be a circus-rider, And gallop, gallop! I'm clean daft on horses.

(An owl hoots piercingly without.)

RALPH: Grannie, what's that?

JUDITH: Only an owl, son.

NICHOLAS: Bo! Fearent of hoolets!

RALPH: I thought it was a bo-lo.

NICHOLAS: Bo-los or horneys or wirrakows can't scare me: And I like to hear the jinneyhoolets scritching: It gives me such a queer, cold, creepy feeling. I like to feel the shivers in my hair. When I'm a man I'll ride the fells by moonlight, Like the mosstroopers, when the owls are skirling. They used to gallop on their galloways, The reivers, dad says ...

(The owl calls again, and is answered by its mate; and then they seem to be flying round and round Krindlesyke, hooting shrilly.)

RALPH: Oh, there it is again! Grannie, I'm freckened ...

JUDITH: Its an ellerish yelling: I never heard ...

RALPH: What's in the other room? I want my dad and mammy.

JUDITH: You're overtired. Come, I'll undress you, and tuck you into bed: And you'll sleep sound, my lamb, as sound and snug As a yeanling in a maud-neuk.

NICHOLAS: I'll ride! I'll ride!



EPILOGUE

Ghosts of my fathers, where you keep On ghostly hills your ghostly sheep, Should you a moment chance to turn The pages of this book to learn What trade your offspring's taken to, Because my exiled heart is true To your Northumbrian fells and you, Forgive me that my flocks and herds Are only barren bleating words.



PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER



KRINDLESYKE

By WILFRID GIBSON

Author of 'Livelihood,' 'Whin,' 'Neighbours,' &c.

Crown 8vo. 6/- Net.

MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED St. Martin's Street, London 1922



Mr. Gibson's new work is a tragic drama in blank verse, concerned with three generations of a family of Northumbrian shepherds. The title, 'Krindlesyke,' is taken from the name of the lonely cottage on the fells where they live and the incidents of the story pass.

While 'Krindlesyke' is not in dialect, it has been flavoured with a sprinkling of local words; but as these are, for the most part, words expressive of emotion, rather than words conveying information, the sense of them should be easily gathered even by the south-country reader.

Some Press Opinions

The Poetry Review.—'A new book by Mr. Wilfrid Gibson must always arouse interest, for his genius has been displayed in such varied forms that one can only wonder what new development, what new blending of his great qualities may appear.... In "Krindlesyke" he may be said to have astounded us all by achieving the seemingly impossible combination of the diverse qualities he has hitherto displayed separately.... Ezra Barrasford and his sons appear, amidst the wreck they have made, wonderfully convincing characters.... The women are no less convincing—good-hearted, toil-worn Eliza, driven to "nagging" by her husband and sons; Bell Haggard, a truly wonderful study; Judith, who has learned much wisdom from bitter experience. As to the language, it is wonderfully true to country life and character.'

The Daily News.—'There is much breadth of vision and much of that bitter wisdom that is yet half beauty in this poem.'

Mr. Laurence Binyon in The Observer.—'"Krindlesyke" is at once the most ambitious and the strongest work that Mr. Wilfrid Gibson has given us. It is a dramatic poem, firmly designed, and carried out with abundant energy and power.'

The Times Literary Supplement.—'The poet of deep and self-forgetful feeling must, we venture to think, survive when mannered muses are forgotten. Mr. Gibson is such a poet.... It is his distinction to belong to the school of Wordsworth in an age which is generally too clever, hasty, and conscious to wait upon "the still sad music of humanity." ... "Krindlesyke" is a notable achievement of the sympathetic imagination.'

Prof. C. H. Herford in The Manchester Guardian.—'Bell's talk is full of salt and vivacity, a brilliant stream in which city slang reinforces rustic idiom, and both are re-manipulated by inexhaustible native wit. She is the most remarkable creation in a gallery where not a single figure is indistinct or conventional.... Mr. Gibson's essay—for there is confessedly something experimental about it—must be reckoned, with those of Mr. Abercrombie, to whom "Krindlesyke" is dedicated, among the most remarkable dramatic poems of our time.'

The Aberdeen Journal.—'"Krindlesyke" is incontestably the best work Mr. Gibson has so far given us. It is amazingly good—vivid, sincere, living, felt in the marrow of his bones and the beat of his heart.... Here are peasants that belong to a world as true and as deeply felt as those of Hardy and Synge. They are provincial only in the sense that Wordsworth's dalesmen and women are provincial; that is, they are, in the true sense, universal.... No recent work is more worth reading.... Mr. Gibson has fashioned for his peasants the rich, racy, coloured, vigorous speech that is essential to them. No thing of book this.... As peasant talk it rings true; its rich tang is a rare delight.'

Other Works by Wilfrid Gibson

Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net LIVELIHOOD Dramatic Reveries

The Times. 'All have the same freedom, vigour, life, tenderness, minute and thoughtful observation, ever-present sense of the interestingness of human beings and their doings and feelings, work and love and play. There is not a dull page in them.'

Katharine Tynan in The Bookman. 'These "Dramatic Reveries" are compact of imagination.... The poems are so much extraordinarily vivid and compelling short stories that they might be read with zest by a man with no poetry in his soul, although that man would miss the beauty of poetry which lies over the tale.'

Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net WHIN Poems

The Observer. 'There are charming things in this little book.... Throughout there is a very cunning use of northern place names that stir the imagination like the sound of the Borderers' riding. "R. L. S." would have liked these names and used them as cunningly.'

Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net NEIGHBOURS Poems

The Westminster Gazette. 'The workmanship of these heart-breaking little studies is, as we should expect from Mr. Gibson, honest and exact. Their grim view of human destiny, its all-pervading greyness, is presented with appropriate austerity; and this restraint and detachment increase their vividness and force.... The beautiful sonnets in the section called "Home" show that he, too, is capable of delight.'

The Spectator. 'Mr. Gibson's skill is most admirable when we consider that it is allied to poetic feeling of the utmost simplicity and depth.'



LONDON: MACMILLAN & Co., Ltd.



BY THE SAME WRITER

NEIGHBOURS 1920 WHIN 1918 LIVELIHOOD 1917 FRIENDS 1916 BATTLE 1915 BORDERLANDS 1914 THOROUGHFARES 1914 FIRES 1912 DAILY BREAD 1910 STONEFOLDS 1907



KRINDLESYKE



Macmillan and Co., Limited London . Bombay . Calcutta . Madras Melbourne

The Macmillan Company New York . Boston . Chicago Dallas . San Francisco

The Macmillan Co. of Canada, Ltd. Toronto

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Errata:

Unusual spellings are assumed to be intentional unless there is strong reason to believe otherwise. The use of parentheses in stage directions is as in the original.

You mustn't heed him, Phoebe, lass text reads "musn't," but all other occurrences of the word are spelled "mustn't"

thon regional variant of "yon" used several times in the text. The pronoun "thou" does not occur.

THE END