Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1094 page)
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Authors: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
(Being a Sequel to “The Groom’s Story” in “Songs of Action”)
Not tired of ‘earin’ stories! You’re a nailer,
so you are!
I thought I should ‘ave choked you off with
that ‘ere motor-car.
Well, mister, ‘ere’s another; and, mind you,
it’s a fact,
Though you’ll think perhaps I copped it
out o’ some blue ribbon tract.
It was in the days when farmer men were
jolly-faced and stout,
For all the cash was comin’ in and little
goin’ out,
But now, you see, the farmer men are
‘ungry-faced and thin,
For all the cash is goin’ out and little
comin’ in.
But in the days I’m speakin’ of, before
the drop in wheat,
The life them farmers led was such as
couldn’t well be beat;
They went the pace amazin’, they ‘unted
and they shot,
And this ‘ere Jeremiah Brown the liveliest
of the lot.
‘E was a fine young fellar; the best roun’
‘ere by far,
But just a bit full-blooded, as fine young
fellars are;
Which I know they didn’t ought to, an’ it’s
very wrong of course,
But the colt wot never capers makes a
mighty useless ‘orse.
The lad was never vicious, but ‘e made the
money go,
For ‘e was ready with ‘is “yes,” and back-
ward with ‘is “no.”
And so ‘e turned to drink which is the
avenoo to ‘ell,
An’ ‘ow ‘e came to stop ‘imself is wot’ I
‘ave to tell.
Four days on end ‘e never knew ‘ow ‘e ‘ad
got to bed,
Until one mornin’ fifty clocks was tickin’
in ‘is ‘ead,
And on the same the doctor came, “You’re
very near D.T.,
If you don’t stop yourself, young chap,
you’ll pay the price,” said ‘e.
“It takes the form of visions, as I fear
you’ll quickly know;
Perhaps a string o’ monkeys, all a-sittin’ in
a row,
Perhaps it’s frogs or beetles, perhaps it’s
rats or mice,
There
are
many
sorts
of visions and
there’s none of ‘em is nice.”
But Brown ‘e started laughin’: “No
doctor’s muck,” says ‘e,
“A take-’em-break-’em gallop is the only
cure for me!
They ‘unt to-day down ‘Orsham way.
Bring round the sorrel mare,
If them monkeys come inquirin’ you can
send ‘em on down there.”
Well, Jeremiah rode to ‘ounds, exactly as
‘e said.
But all the time the doctor’s words were
ringin’ in ‘is ‘ead —
“If you don’t stop yourself, young chap,
you’ve got to pay the price,
There are many sorts of visions, but none
of ‘em is nice.”
They found that day at Leonards Lee and
ran to Shipley Wood,
‘Ell-for-leather all
the way, with scent
and weather good.
Never a check to ‘Orton Beck and on
across the Weald,
And all the way the Sussex clay was weed-
in’ out the field.
There’s not a man among them could
remember such a run,
Straight as a rule to Bramber Pool and on
by Annington,
They followed
still
past
Breeding
‘ill
and on by Steyning Town,
Until they’d cleared the ‘edges and were
out upon the Down.
Full thirty mile from Plimmers Style,
without a check or fault,
Full thirty mile the ‘ounds ‘ad run and
never called a ‘alt.
One by one the Field was done until at
Finden Down,
There was no one with the ‘untsman save
young Jeremiah Brown.
And then the ‘untsman ‘
e
was beat. ‘Is
‘orse ‘ad tripped and fell.
“By George,” said Brown, “I’ll go alone,
and follow it to — well,
The place that it belongs to.”
And as ‘e
made the vow,
There broke from right in front of ‘im
the queerest kind of row.
There lay a copse of ‘azels on the border
of the track,
And into this two ‘ounds ‘ad run — them
two was all the pack —
And now from these ‘ere ‘azels there came
a fearsome ‘owl,
With a yappin’ and a snappin’ and a
wicked
snarlin’ growl.
Jeremiah’s blood ran cold — a frightened
man was ‘e,
But he butted through the bushes just
to see what ‘e could see,
And there beneath their shadow, blood
drippin’ from his jaws,
Was an awful creature standin’ with
a
‘ound beneath its paws.
A fox?
Five
foxes
rolled
in
one — a
pony’s weight and size,
A rampin’, ragin’ devil, all
fangs and
‘air and eyes;
Too scared to speak, with shriek on shriek,
Brown galloped from the sight
With just one thought within ‘is mind —
“The doctor told me right.”
That evenin’ late the minister was seated
in his study,
When in there rushed a ‘untin’ man, all
travel-stained and muddy,
“Give me the Testament!” he cried, “And
‘ear my sacred vow,
That not one drop of drink shall ever pass
my lips from now.”
‘E swore it and ‘e kept it and ‘e keeps it to
this day,
‘E ‘as turned from gin to ginger and says ‘e
finds it pay,
You can search the whole o’ Sussex from
‘ere to Brighton Town,
And you wouldn’t find a better man than
Jeremiah Brown.
And the vision — it was just a wolf, a big
Siberian,
A great, fierce, ‘ungry devil from a show-
man’s caravan,
But it saved ‘im from perdition — and I
don’t mind if I do,
I ‘aven’t seen no wolf myself — so ‘ere’s
my best to you!
Squire wants the bay horse,
For it is the best.
Squire holds the mortgage;
Where’s the interest?
Haven’t got the interest,
Can’t raise a sou;
Shan’t sell the bay horse,
Whatever he may do.
Did you see the bay horse?
Such a one to go!
He took a bit of ridin’,
When I showed him at the Show.
First prize the broad jump,
First prize the high;
Gold medal, Class A,
You’ll see it by-and-by.
I bred the bay horse
On the Withy Farm.
I broke the bay horse,
He
broke my arm.
Don’t blame the bay horse,
Blame the brittle bone,
I bred him and I’ve fed him,
And he’s all my very own.
Just watch the bay horse
Chock full of sense!
Ain’t he just beautiful,
Risin’ to a fence!
Just hear the bay horse
Whinin’ in his stall,
Purrin’ like a pussy cat
When he hears me call.
But if Squire’s lawyer
Serves me with his writ,
I’ll take the bay horse
To Marley gravel pit.
Over the quarry edge,
I’ll sit him tight,
If he wants the brown hide,
He’s welcome to the white!
Three women stood by the river’s flood
In the gas-lamp’s murky light,
A devil watched them on the left,
And an angel on the right.
The clouds of lead flowed overhead;
The leaden stream below;
They marvelled much, that outcast three,
Why Fate should use them so.
Said one: “I have a mother dear,
Who lieth ill abed,
And by my sin the wage I win
From which she hath her bread.”
Said one: “I am an outcast’s child,
And such I came on earth.
If me ye blame, for this my shame,
Whom blame ye for my birth?”
The third she sank a sin-blotched face,
And prayed that she might rest,
In the weary flow of the stream below,
As on her mother’s breast.
Now past there came a godly man,
Of goodly stock and blood,
And as he passed one frown he cast
At that sad sisterhood.
Sorely it grieved that godly man,
To see so foul a sight,
He turned his face, and strode apace,
And left them to the night.
But the angel drew her sisters three,
Within her pinions’ span,
And the crouching devil slunk away
To join the godly man.
“Tell me what to get and I will get
it.”
“Then get that picture — that — the
girl in white.”
“Now tell me where you wish that I should
set it.”
“Lean it where I can see it — in the
light.”
“If there is more, sir, you have but to say
it.”
“Then bring
those
letters — those
which lie apart.”
“Here is the packet! Tell me where to
lay it.”
“Stoop over, nurse, and lay it on
my heart.”
“Thanks for
your
silence,
nurse! You
understand me!
And now
I’ll
try
to
manage
for
myself.
But, as you go, I’ll trouble you to hand
me
The small blue bottle there upon the
shelf.
“And so farewell! I feel that I am
keeping
The sunlight from you; may your
walk be bright!
When you return I may perchance be
sleeping,
So, ere you go, one hand-clasp
and good night!”
1902-1909
They recruited William Evans
From the ploughtail and the spade;
Ten years’ service in the Devons
Left him smart as they are made.
Thirty or a trifle older,
Rather over six foot high,
Trim of waist and broad of shoulder,
Yellow-haired and blue of eye;
Short of speech and very solid,
Fixed in purpose as a rock,
Slow, deliberate, and stolid,
Of the real West-country stock.
He had never been to college,
Got his teaching in the corps,
You can pick up useful knowledge
‘Twixt
Saltash and
Singapore.
Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling
Lived just northward of the Vaal,
And he called his white-washed dwelling,
Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.
In his politics unbending,
Stern of speech and grim of face,
He pursued the never-ending
Quarrel with the English race.
Grizzled hair and face of copper,
Hard as nails from work and sport,
Just the model of a Dopper
Of the fierce old fighting sort.
With a shaggy bearded quota
On commando at his order,
He went off with Louis Botha
Trekking for the British border.
When Natal was first invaded
He was fighting night and day,
Then he scouted and he raided,
With De Wet and Delaney.
Till he had a brush with Plumer,
Got a bullet in his arm,
And returned in sullen humour
To the shelter of his farm.
Now it happened that the Devons,
Moving up in that direction,
Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans
Foraging with half a section.
By a friendly Dutchman guided,
A Van Eloff or De Vilier,
They were promptly trapped and hided,
In a manner too familiar.
When the sudden scrap was ended,
And they sorted out the bag,
Sergeant Evans lay extended
Mauseritis in his leg.
So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing,
From the scene of his disaster,
And they left him to the nursing
Of the daughters of their master.
Now the second daughter, Sadie —
But the subject why pursue?
Wounded youth and tender lady,
Ancient tale but ever new.
On the stoep they spent the gloaming,
Watched the shadows on the veldt,
Or she led her cripple roaming
To the eucalyptus belt.
He would lie and play with Jacko,
The baboon from Bushman’s Kraal,
Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco
While she lisped to him in Taal.
Till he felt that he had rather
He had died amid the slaughter,
If the harshness of the father
Were not softened in the daughter.
So he asked an English question,
And she answered him in Dutch,
But her smile was a suggestion,
And he treated it as such.
Now among Rhenoster kopjes
Somewhat northward of the Vaal,
You may see four little chappies,
Three can walk and one can crawl.
And the blue of Transvaal heavens
Is reflected in their eyes,
Each a little William Evans,
Smaller model — pocket size.
Each a little Burgher Piet
Of the hardy Boer race,
Two great peoples seem to meet
In the tiny sunburned face.
And they often greatly wonder
Why old granddad and Papa,
Should have been so far asunder,
Till united by mamma.
And when asked, “Are you a Boer.
Or a little Englishman?”
Each will answer, short and sure,
“I am a South African.”
But the father answers, chaffing,
“Africans but British too.”
And the children echo, laughing,
“Half of mother — half of you.”
It may seem a crude example,
In an isolated case,
But the story is a sample
Of the welding of the race.
So from bloodshed and from sorrow,
From the pains of yesterday,
Comes the nation of to-morrow
Broadly based and built to stay.
Loyal spirits strong in union,
Joined by kindred faith and blood;
Brothers in the wide communion
Of our sea-girt brotherhood.
