of the Children of the Zodiac--the war-whoop of the young Gods who are
afraid of nothing. At first he dragged the song along unwillingly, and
then the song dragged him, and his voice rolled across the fields, and
the Bull stepped to the tune and the cultivator banged his flanks out
of sheer light-heartedness, and the furrows rolled away behind the
plough more and more swiftly. Then the Girl came across the fields
looking for Leo and found him singing in the cane. She joined her voice
to his, and the cultivator’s wife brought her spinning into the open
and listened with all her children round her. When it was time for the
nooning, Leo and the Girl had sung themselves both thirsty and hungry,
but the cultivator and his wife gave them rye-bread and milk, and many
thanks, and the Bull found occasion to say: ‘You have helped me to do a
full half-field more than I should have done. But the hardest part of
the day is to come, brother.’
Leo wished to lie down and brood over the words of the Crab. The Girl
went away to talk to the cultivator’s wife and baby, and the afternoon
ploughing began.
‘Help us now,’ said the Bull. ‘The tides of the day are running down.
My legs are very stiff. Sing if you never sang before.’
‘To a mud-spattered villager?’ said Leo.
‘He is under the same doom as ourselves. Are you a coward?’ said the
Bull. Leo flushed and began again with a sore throat and a bad temper.
Little by little he dropped away from the songs of the Children and
made up a song as he went along; and this was a thing he could never
have done had he not met the Crab face to face. He remembered facts
concerning cultivators, and bullocks, and rice-fields, that he had
not particularly noticed before the interview, and he strung them
all together, growing more interested as he sang, and he told the
cultivator much more about himself and his work than the cultivator
knew. The Bull grunted approval as he toiled down the furrows for the
last time that day, and the song ended, leaving the cultivator with a
very good opinion of himself in his aching bones. The Girl came out
of the hut where she had been keeping the children quiet, and talking
woman-talk to the wife, and they all ate the evening meal together.
‘Now yours must be a very pleasant life,’ said the cultivator, ‘sitting
as you do on a dyke all day and singing just what comes into your head.
Have you been at it long, you two--gipsies?’
‘Ah!’ lowed the Bull from his byre. ‘That’s all the thanks you will
ever get from men, brother.’
‘No. We have only just begun it,’ said the Girl; ‘but we are going to
keep to it as long as we live. Are we not, Leo?’
‘Yes,’ said he, and they went away hand-in-hand.
‘You can sing beautifully, Leo,’ said she, as a wife will to her
husband.
‘What were you doing?’ said he.
‘I was talking to the mother and the babies,’ she said. ‘You would not
understand the little things that make us women laugh.’
‘And--and I am to go on with this--this gipsy-work?’ said Leo.
‘Yes, dear, and I will help you.’
There is no written record of the life of Leo and of the Girl, so we
cannot tell how Leo took to his new employment which he detested. We
are only sure that the Girl loved him when and wherever he sang; even
when, after the song was done, she went round with the equivalent of
a tambourine, and collected the pence for the daily bread. There were
times too when it was Leo’s very hard task to console the Girl for the
indignity of horrible praise that people gave him and her--for the
silly wagging peacock feathers that they stuck in his cap, and the
buttons and pieces of cloth that they sewed on his coat. Womanlike,
she could advise and help to the end, but the meanness of the means
revolted.
‘What does it matter,’ Leo would say, ‘so long as the songs make them
a little happier?’ And they would go down the road and begin again on
the old old refrain: that whatever came or did not come the children
of men must not be afraid. It was heavy teaching at first, but in
process of years Leo discovered that he could make men laugh and hold
them listening to him even when the rain fell. Yet there were people
who would sit down and cry softly, though the crowd was yelling with
delight, and there were people who maintained that Leo made them do
this; and the Girl would talk to them in the pauses of the performance
and do her best to comfort them. People would die too, while Leo was
talking, and singing, and laughing, for the Archer, and the Scorpion,
and the Crab, and the other Houses were as busy as ever. Sometimes the
crowd broke, and were frightened, and Leo strove to keep them steady
by telling them that this was cowardly; and sometimes they mocked at
the Houses that were killing them, and Leo explained that this was even
more cowardly than running away.
In their wanderings they came across the Bull, or the Ram, or the
Twins, but all were too busy to do more than nod to each other across
the crowd, and go on with their work. As the years rolled on even that
recognition ceased, for the Children of the Zodiac had forgotten that
they had ever been Gods working for the sake of men. The Star Aldebaran
was crusted with caked dirt on the Bull’s forehead, the Ram’s fleece
was dusty and torn, and the Twins were only babies fighting over the
cat on the doorstep. It was then that Leo said: ‘Let us stop singing
and making jokes.’ And it was then that the girl said: ‘No--’ but she
did not know why she said ‘No’ so energetically. Leo maintained that
it was perversity, till she herself, at the end of a dusty day, made
the same suggestion to him, and he said ‘most certainly not,’ and they
quarrelled miserably between the hedgerows, forgetting the meaning of
the stars above them. Other singers and other talkers sprang up in the
course of the years, and Leo, forgetting that there could never be too
many of these, hated them for dividing the applause of the children of
men, which he thought should be all his own. The Girl would grow angry
too, and then the songs would be broken, and the jests fall flat for
weeks to come, and the children of men would shout: ‘Go home, you two
gipsies. Go home and learn something worth singing!’
After one of these sorrowful shameful days, the Girl, walking by Leo’s
side through the fields, saw the full moon coming up over the trees,
and she clutched Leo’s arm, crying: ‘The time has come now. Oh, Leo,
forgive me!’
‘What is it?’ said Leo. He was thinking of the other singers.
‘My husband!’ she answered, and she laid his hand upon her breast,
and the breast that he knew so well was hard as stone. Leo groaned,
remembering what the Crab had said.
‘Surely we were Gods once,’ he cried.
‘Surely we are Gods still,’ said the Girl. ‘Do you not remember when
you and I went to the house of the Crab and--were not very much afraid?
And since then ... we have forgotten what we were singing for--we sang
for the pence, and, oh, we fought for them!--We, who are the Children
of the Zodiac.’
‘It was my fault,’ said Leo.
‘How can there be any fault of yours that is not mine too?’ said the
Girl. ‘My time has come, but you will live longer, and....’ The look in
her eyes said all she could not say.
‘Yes, I will remember that we are Gods,’ said Leo.
It is very hard, even for a child of the Zodiac, who has forgotten his
Godhead, to see his wife dying slowly and to know that he cannot help
her. The Girl told Leo in those last months of all that she had said
and done among the wives and the babies at the back of the roadside
performances, and Leo was astonished that he knew so little of her who
had been so much to him. When she was dying she told him never to fight
for pence or quarrel with the other singers; and, above all, to go on
with his singing immediately after she was dead.
Then she died, and after he had buried her he went down the road to
a village that he knew, and the people hoped that he would begin
quarrelling with a new singer that had sprung up while he had been
away. But Leo called him ‘my brother.’ The new singer was newly
married--and Leo knew it--and when he had finished singing, Leo
straightened himself and sang the ‘Song of the Girl,’ which he had made
coming down the road. Every man who was married or hoped to be married,
whatever his rank or colour, understood that song--even the bride
leaning on the new husband’s arm understood it too--and presently when
the song ended, and Leo’s heart was bursting in him, the men sobbed.
‘That was a sad tale,’ they said at last, ‘now make us laugh.’ Because
Leo had known all the sorrow that a man could know, including the full
knowledge of his own fall who had once been a God--he, changing his
song quickly, made the people laugh till they could laugh no more. They
went away feeling ready for any trouble in reason, and they gave Leo
more peacock feathers and pence than he could count. Knowing that pence
led to quarrels and that peacock feathers were hateful to the Girl, he
put them aside and went away to look for his brothers, to remind them
that they too were Gods.
He found the Bull goring the undergrowth in a ditch, for the Scorpion
had stung him, and he was dying, not slowly, as the Girl had died, but
quickly.
‘I know all,’ the Bull groaned, as Leo came up. ‘I had forgotten
too, but I remember now. Go and look at the fields I ploughed. The
furrows are straight. I forgot that I was a God, but I drew the plough
perfectly straight, for all that. And you, brother?’
‘I am not at the end of the ploughing,’ said Leo. ‘Does Death hurt?’
‘No, but dying does,’ said the Bull, and he died. The cultivator who
then owned him was much annoyed, for there was a field still unploughed.
It was after this that Leo made the Song of the Bull who had been a God
and forgotten the fact, and he sang it in such a manner that half the
young men in the world conceived that they too might be Gods without
knowing it. A half of that half grew impossibly conceited, and died
early. A half of the remainder strove to be Gods and failed, but the
other half accomplished four times more work than they would have done
under any other delusion.
Later, years later, always wandering up and down and making the
children of men laugh, he found the Twins sitting on the bank of a
stream waiting for the Fishes to come and carry them away. They were
not in the least afraid, and they told Leo that the woman of the House
had a real baby of her own, and that when that baby grew old enough to
be mischievous he would find a well-educated cat waiting to have its
tail pulled. Then the Fishes came for them, but all that the people saw
was two children drowned in a brook; and though their foster-mother was
very sorry, she hugged her own real baby to her breast and was grateful
that it was only the foundlings.
Then Leo made the Song of the Twins, who had forgotten that they were
Gods and had played in the dust to amuse a foster-mother. That song was
sung far and wide among the women. It caused them to laugh and cry and
hug their babies closer to their hearts all in one breath; and some of
the women who remembered the Girl said: ‘Surely that is the voice of
Virgo. Only she could know so much about ourselves.’
After those three songs were made, Leo sang them over and over again
till he was in danger of looking upon them as so many mere words, and
the people who listened grew tired, and there came back to Leo the old
temptation to stop singing once and for all. But he remembered the
Girl’s dying words and persisted.
One of his listeners interrupted him as he was singing. ‘Leo,’ said he,
‘I have heard you telling us not to be afraid for the past forty years.
Can you not sing something new now?’
‘No,’ said Leo, ‘it is the only song that I am allowed to sing. You
must not be afraid of the Houses, even when they kill you.’ The man
turned to go, wearily, but there came a whistling through the air, and
the arrow of the Archer was seen skimming low above the earth, pointing
to the man’s heart. He drew himself up, and stood still waiting till
the arrow struck home.
‘I die,’ he said quietly. ‘It is well for me, Leo, that you sang for
forty years.’
‘Are you afraid?’ said Leo, bending over him.
‘I am a man, not a God,’ said the man. ‘I should have run away but for
your songs. My work is done, and I die without making a show of my
fear.’
‘I am very well paid,’ said Leo to himself. ‘Now that I see what my
songs are doing, I will sing better ones.’
He went down the road, collected his little knot of listeners, and
began the Song of the Girl. In the middle of his singing he felt the
cold touch of the Crab’s claw on the apple of his throat. He lifted his
hand, choked, and stopped for an instant.
‘Sing on, Leo,’ said the crowd. ‘The old song runs as well as ever it
did.’
Leo went on steadily till the end with the cold fear at his heart. When
his song was ended, he felt the grip on his throat tighten. He was old,
he had lost the Girl, he knew that he was losing more than half his
power to sing, he could scarcely walk to the diminishing crowds that
waited for him, and could not see their faces when they stood about
him. None the less, he cried angrily to the Crab:
‘Why have you come for me _now_?’
‘You were born under my care. How can I help coming for you?’ said the
Crab wearily. Every human being whom the Crab killed had asked that
same question.
‘But I was just beginning to know what my songs were doing,’ said Leo.
‘Perhaps that is why,’ said the Crab, and the grip tightened.
‘You said you would not come till I had taken the world by the
shoulders,’ gasped Leo, falling back.
‘I always keep my word. You have done that three times with three
songs. What more do you desire?’
‘Let me live to see the world know it,’ pleaded Leo. ‘Let me be sure
that my songs----’
‘Make men brave?’ said the Crab. ‘Even then there would be one man who
was afraid. The Girl was braver than you are. Come.’
Leo was standing close to the restless insatiable mouth.
‘I forgot,’ said he simply. ‘The Girl was braver. But I am a God too,
and I am not afraid.’
‘What is that to me?’ said the Crab.
Then Leo’s speech was taken from him and he lay still and dumb,
watching Death till he died.
Leo was the last of the Children of the Zodiac. After his death there
sprang up a breed of little mean men, whimpering and flinching and
howling because the Houses killed them and theirs, who wished to live
for ever without any pain. They did not increase their lives but they
increased their own torments miserably, and there were no Children of
the Zodiac to guide them; and the greater part of Leo’s songs were lost.
Only he had carved on the Girl’s tombstone the last verse of the Song
of the Girl, which stands at the head of this story.
One of the children of men, coming thousands of years later, rubbed
away the lichen, read the lines, and applied them to a trouble other
than the one Leo meant. Being a man, men believed that he had made the
verses himself; but they belong to Leo, the Child of the Zodiac, and
teach, as he taught, that whatever comes or does not come we men must
not be afraid.
ENVOY.
Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full--
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love--
Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
For the wind has come to say:
‘You must take me while you may,
If you’d go to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!’
Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o’ that!
Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash, aclear!
Port--port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath her foot,
And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year!
Well, ah fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again--
Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
And it’s time to clear and quit
When the hawser grips the bitt,
So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!
Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
And it’s blowing up for night,
And she’s dropping Light on Light,
And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea.
Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night.
Sick she is and harbour-sick--O sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us--
Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand!
Well, ah fare you well, and it’s Ushant gives the door to us,
Whirling like a windmill on the dirty sand to lea:
Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
And we’re off to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!)
Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at
sea!
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_
MESSRS. MACMILLAN AND CO.’S POPULAR NOVELS.
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
Crown 8vo. 6s. each.
THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. Re-written and considerably enlarged.
_ACADEMY._--“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling; it is the first
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Kipling’s work has innumerable good qualities.”
_GLASGOW HERALD._--“The power and interest are sustained throughout,
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_MANCHESTER COURIER._--“The story is a brilliant one and full of
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PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS.
_SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English
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_DUBLIN EVENING MAIL._--“This is a delightful book.... Mr. Kipling is
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_GLASGOW HERALD._--“That the book will at least be as popular here
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_SCOTTISH REVIEW._--“... Whatever may be Mr. Kipling’s ability in
the higher walks of fiction, his ability as a story-teller or for
narrating such incidents, whether real or fictitious, as are here
put together is beyond question. They are told with ease, force,
and directness. The humorous stories are probably the best, but
whether humorous or grave--and there are both in the volume--they
throw considerable light upon certain phases of European society in
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and somewhat tantalisingly passes over.”
_BROAD ARROW._--“Mr. Kipling is accomplished beyond all recent
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and clever. There is a freshness about them rare in such delicious
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LIFE’S HANDICAP. Stories of Mine own People.
_BLACK AND WHITE._--“‘Life’s Handicap’ contains much of the best
work hitherto accomplished by the author, and taken as a whole is a
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BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD.
New and Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.
A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH
AND IN THE GOLD-FIELDS OF AUSTRALIA.
_GUARDIAN._--“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian
life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.... Altogether it is a
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_SPECTATOR._--“We have nothing but praise for this story. Of
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_WORLD._--“An uncommonly good thing.... The book, in short, has the
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_MORNING POST._--“As a picture of the earlier days of our Australian
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_GRAPHIC._--“That Mr. Boldrewood knows his subject through and
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THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.
THE MINER’S RIGHT.
A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.
_WORLD._--“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity,
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_MANCHESTER EXAMINER._--“The characters are sketched with real life
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A COLONIAL REFORMER.
_ATHENÆUM._--“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of
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_GLASGOW HERALD._--“One of the most interesting books about Australia
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_SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great
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A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
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_ANTI-JACOBIN._--“Thoroughly well worth reading.... A clever book,
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NEVERMORE.
_ACADEMY._--“Is perhaps the best story of the Rolf Boldrewood Series.
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Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN.
KIRSTEEN.
_SCOTSMAN._--“One of the most powerful stories Mrs. Oliphant has ever
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_MURRAY’S MAGAZINE._--“One of the best books which Mrs. Oliphant’s
fertile pen has within recent years produced.”
_WORLD._--“Mrs. Oliphant has written many novels, and many good ones;
but if she has hitherto written one so good as _Kirsteen_, we have
not read it.... It is the highest praise we can give, when we say
that there are passages in it which, as pictures of Scottish life and
character, it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to match out of
Sir Walter’s pages.”
_NATIONAL OBSERVER._--“Seldom, if ever, has Mrs. Oliphant done better
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JOYCE.
_GUARDIAN._--“It has seldom been our lot to fall in with so
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A BELEAGUERED CITY.
_TIMES._--“The story is a powerful one and very original to boot.”
HESTER.