It is one of the privileges of youth that alimentary indulgence is but
rarely penalized, and if either of us next morning was pale and
disinclined for breakfast it was certainly not Tommy.
On the contrary, he seemed cool, and fit, and hungry, and although he
looked at me occasionally in a shy, questioning way, yet he chattered
away much as usual, and made no reference to yesterday's adventures.
Only when the poet called for him and at the window I laid a hand upon
his shoulder to bid him a happy day, he turned to me, impulsively:
"You are a ripper," he said.
There is no sweeter or more genuine praise than a boy's.
I watched them down the lane, and my eyes sought the downs, clear, and
wide, and sunny. I thought of the tawdry inn, and its associations, and
prayed that Tommy might learn a lesson from the contrast.
Says Jasper the gipsy:
"Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"
Hark back to your well-thumbed Lavengro and you will find, if you do not
remember, his reasons.
Nor are they weightier than these:
"Night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, all
sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath."
Deep in the heart of every boy lies something of the gipsy, and even if,
in after life, it grows sick and stifled by reason of much traffic among
crowded streets, yet I doubt if it ever so far vanishes that to it the
wind on the heath shall appeal in vain. Nor was the poet wrong in his
prognosis, for to Tommy, at any rate, it was full of unspoken messages
on this August morning. Wind on the heath--yes, it is always there,
clean, and strong, and happy, lingering with soft wings over furze and
bracken, full of whispered melodies from the harp of God.
Are you in trouble?
Go up and face this wind on the heath. Bare your head to it, open your
lungs to it. Let it steal about your heart, with its messages of
greatness, and futurity, and hope.
Are you listless and discouraged?
Go up and breathe this wind on the heath, and it will sting to life the
ambition and resolve in you, and in it you will hear, if you listen
aright, the saga of victory.
"In sickness, Jasper?"
"There's the sun and stars, brother."
"In blindness, Jasper?"
"There's the wind on the heath, brother: if I could only feel that, I
would gladly live forever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on
the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be
alive, brother."
Tommy and the poet were bound for some ruins which lay across
Becklington common and beyond the downs.
Harvest ruled the world, and the fields in the valley and on the
hillside were dotted with stooks and stacks.
It was a day on which it was good to be alive, and, if a little subdued,
yet they were both in good spirits.
The poet's latest volume, ahead of the autumn rush of poetry and
fiction, had been favourably criticised.
It was stronger, happier, more real, said the critics, than any other
from his pen.
If not great, said they, it was at any rate graceful, and even, in some
places, vigorous. Therefore was the poet happy.
And Tommy--well, there was the sun and the wind, good red blood in his
arteries, and no care in his heart--and though he could not have told
you so, these, no doubt, were strong enough reasons for the buoyancy of
his spirit.
As they climbed the green side of the downs they met a shepherd singing,
a happy, irresponsible fellow, with his coat over his head, and his
sleek flock browsing round him.
And as they passed him with a welcome, the poet remembered some lines
which he repeated to Tommy:
Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you--the song that I would sing.
Wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill,
Little lazy villages, sleeping in the vale,
Greatness overhead
The flock's contented tread
An' trample o' the morning wind adown the open trail.
Bitter storms o' winter-time ringing down the range,
Angel nights above the hill, beautiful with rest,
I would sing o' Life,
O' Enterprise, and Strife,
O' Love along the upland road, an' God beyond the crest.
An' this should be my matin song--magic o' the down,
Mystery, an' majesty, an' wistfulness, an' hope,
I would sing the lay
O' Destiny an' Day,
As morning mounts the hill with me, an' summer storms the slope.
But this would be my vesper song--best at last is Peace
Whispered where the valleys lie, all deep in dying gold,
Stealing through the gloam
To speed the shepherd home
With one last dreamy echo o' the music in the fold.
Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you--the song that I would sing.
"Jolly good," said Tommy, easiest of critics, and the poet smiled.
"Ah, Tommy," he said, "I wish you were a publisher."
Over the crest of the downs rose a thin wisp of blue smoke; and as they
descended on the other side, some dark-eyed children looked out of a
little brown tent.
They reminded the poet of Jasper and his company of Pharaoh's children,
and he repeated to Tommy the conversation I have touched upon.
Tommy's eyes sparkled.
"That's good," he said, approvingly. "Just what a fellow feels, you
know."
They walked on across the green springy turf, and for a time both were
silent.
There was something, too, in the day and its purity that was speaking to
Tommy.
Presently he spoke, hesitatingly.
"I--I was drunk last night, wasn't I?" he asked anxiously.
The poet affected not to have heard the question, but Tommy persisted.
"Yes."
Tommy sighed.
"I say," he said, after a pause, "I--I'd have licked that fellow hollow
if my head hadn't been so jolly queer."
The poet looked at him, curiously.
"I expect you would," he said.
Tommy took a deep breath, and looked straight at the poet.
"I'll never touch it again--never," he said slowly.
They shook hands there on the hillside.
Thus it was, and for this reason, that Tommy took upon himself a vow
that he has to my best belief never broken.
"Ah, but the motive?" you ask.
Well, maybe the shrug of your shoulder is justified, but, after all, the
result was brought about by nature, who seldom errs, and to the poet,
who, in spite of all, was really a simple soul--the result was
abundantly gratifying.
As they walked home in the evening, Tommy turned to the poet.
"I say, what was it that gipsy fellow said--at the end, you know?"
"Dosta, we'll now go to the tent and put on the gloves, and I'll try to
make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."
Tommy looked grimly into the twilight.
"It would be a jolly good thing to teach that fellow at the Grange," he
said, "only I'm blowed if I'll take any gloves."