The other day I went out for a walk. My thoughts circled round my head
like bees in a bonnet, and detached themselves slowly from the loose
white honeycomb of my brain to mirror themselves in my soul, as is
usual with me on such occasions. And, somewhere round the corner, a
voice lurked calling out remarks--what I knew not, only that they were
of a highly personal character. The people I met stared at me, and I
stared at them, for I had a presentiment that they were talking about
me, but I took no notice of them--beyond informing them that they were
cowards and blowflies, and requesting to be informed why they enclosed
their dirty interiors in glass. For I am Young GARNAWAY, and when
I take a walk, I generally exchange amenities of this kind with any
persons I happen to meet.
At the Market Place, my friend the Tallow-chandler sat inside his
shop, dozing under a pale canopy of farthing dips.
"Answer me a question," I begged of him. "Why does one yearn for
the top brick off the chimney when one is a child, and yet feel
dissatisfied when, as a man, one receives it on the top of one's
Sunday tile? Why does the sea bird fly inland in winter to get food
from the towns--only to turn up its beak when presented with a ticket
for soup? Why do we----?"
[Illustration: "A clear and practical illustration."]
My friend the Tallow-chandler answered never a word, but chuckled
foolishly to himself and retired behind a barrier of mottled soap.
When I had gone a piece further I reached a back street, where I
found my friend the Bird-stuffer sitting on his doorstep, playing the
mouth-organ.
"Answer me a question," I besought him. "Suppose you found out that
those who hold the reins of government in our town were educating
large blue-bottle flies to make apricot jam out of your and your
neighbours' pig-wash, would you write to the local paper about it,
even if you knew that the editor would decline to insert your letter?"
My friend answered never a word; he only giggled in embarrassment,
struck up a mazurka on his mouth-organ, and began to dance sheepishly.
But, down in Mud Alley, my friend the Dustcart-man sat at his open
window--a family idyll, wife and six small children, all eating onions
and fried fish.
"Answer me a question," I prayed him. "If a person came to you and
said rudely, 'Better anything else than sitting here with your head
in the domestic halter among the potsherds and puffballs of the old
ideals; rather a jolly good row that ends in a fortnight's "hard"
than fat-headed, elephant-footed dulness here with your buzzing brood
around you!' If a person came to you and said that, what reply would
you give him?"
My friend answered never a word; he was out of the window before I had
time to walk away; and in a very few moments I received a clear and
practical illustration of the sort of reply he would give to such a
question.
As for me, I limped home as well as I could, and, when evening fell,
and I was done up in brown paper and vinegar, both my eyes gleamed in
the evening sun with the iridescent glitter of peacocks' tails.
* * * * *
"FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCH THANKS!"
["Fort Chitral, April 20.--Colonel KELLY'S force from Gilghit
arrived to-day.... Much sickness from bad food, excessive
work, and exposure. Conduct of troops admirable.... The
discipline, devotion, and fortitude displayed by all ranks
under circumstances which required all those qualities are
beyond all praise."--_Dr. Robertson's Summary of the Siege of
Chitral._]
"Small time, but, in that small, most greatly liv'd
This star of England."
_Chorus: King Henry the Fifth_, Act V., Scene 2.
Only one more "little war,"--of course,
Precipitate pluck, and inadequate force--
Such wars as our England wages
At terrible cost in British lives,
And orphan children and widowed wives,
Whereat, though greatly our glory thrives,
Our conscience sometimes rages.
But such little wars may need great hearts,
And the wandering heroes who play their parts
For England, the wide world over;
Fight as well though they fight--and fall--
In a leagured hut, by a shattered wall,
As though the purple of WELLINGTON'S pall
Each death-cold breast should cover.
Devotion, fortitude, discipline? Yes!
They always shine in the perilous press,
Where British soldiers rally.
Shine as bright in the hopeless dark
Of the mad _mêlée_, though there's none to mark
The scattered wreckage ruddy and stark
Of the last brave stand or sally.
We rejoice to hear, though we knew we should,
Chitral's defenders again made good
The glorious old tradition
Of loyalty to the flying flag.
Cynics may dub it the torn red rag,
But our tongues shall laud, whilst those tongues can wag,
That splendid "superstition."
The men who stood, and the men who came
O'er ice-bound ridges with hearts aflame,
To relieve their leagured brothers,
Have all done well; and the tawny skin
Of those who helped us to war and win,--
Well, your little Englander's less akin
To England than those others!
"For this relief, much thanks!" And thanks
To dead, and living, and of all ranks.
Forget their service? Never!
"Small time," indeed, but as brightly shone
"This star of England," as it had done
On that stricken field when the lurid sun
Of the Corsican sank for ever.
* * * * *