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Fables
By
Robert Louis Stevenson
Cont=
ents
IV.--THE
SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN.
V.--THE
DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER.
XII.--THE
CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER.
XIII.--THE
DISTINGUISHED STRANGER.
XIV.--THE
CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE.
XV.--THE
TADPOLE AND THE FROG.
XVII.--FAITH,
HALF FAITH AND NO FAITH AT ALL.
After the 32nd chapter of _Treasure Island_, t=
wo
of the puppets strolled out to have a pipe before business should begin aga=
in,
and met in an open place not far from the story."Good-morning,
Cap'n," said the first, with a man-o'-war salute, and a beaming
countenance."Ah, Silver!" grunted the other. "You're in a bad way,
Silver.""Now, Cap'n Smollett," remonstrated Silver, "do=
oty
is dooty, as I knows, and none better; but we're off dooty now; and I can't=
see
no call to keep up the morality business.""You're a damned rogue,=
my
man," said the Captain."Come, come, Cap'n, be just," returned
the other. "There's no call t=
o be angry
with me in earnest. I'm on'y a cha=
ra'ter
in a sea story. I don't really
exist.""Well, I don't really exist either," says the Captain,
"which seems to meet that.""I wouldn't set no limits to what=
a
virtuous chara'ter might consider argument," responded Silver. "But I'm the villain of this tale,=
I am;
and speaking as one sea-faring man to another, what I want to know is, what=
's
the odds?""Were you never taught your catechism?" said the
Captain. "Don't you know ther=
e's
such a thing as an Author?""Such a thing as a Author?" retur=
ned
John, derisively. "And who be=
tter'n
me? And the p'int is, if the Autho=
r made
you, he made Long John, and he made Hands, and Pew, and George Merry--not t=
hat
George is up to much, for he's little more'n a name; and he made Flint, what
there is of him; and he made this here mutiny, you keep such a work about; =
and
he had Tom Redruth shot; and--well, if that's a Author, give me
Pew!""Don't you believe in a future state?" said Smollett. "Do you think there's nothing but =
the
present story-paper?""I don't rightly know for that," said
Silver; "and I don't see what it's got to do with it, anyway. What I know is this: if there is sich a=
thing
as a Author, I'm his favourite chara'ter.
He does me fathoms better'n he does you--fathoms, he does. And he likes doing me. He keeps me on deck mostly all the time,
crutch and all; and he leaves you measling in the hold, where nobody can't =
see
you, nor wants to, and you may lay to that! If there is a Author, by thunde=
r,
but he's on my side, and you may lay to it!""I see he's giving yo=
u a
long rope," said the Captain.
"But that can't change a man's convictions. I know the Author respects me; I feel i=
t in my
bones; when you and I had that talk at the blockhouse door, who do you thin=
k he
was for, my man?""And don't he respect me?" cried Silver.
"Sir," said the first lieutenant,
bursting into the Captain's cabin, "the ship is going
down.""Very well, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain; "but t=
hat
is no reason for going about half-shaved.
Exercise your mind a moment, Mr. Spoker, and you will see that to the
philosophic eye there is nothing new in our position: the ship (if she is t=
o go
down at all) may be said to have been going down since she was
launched.""She is settling fast," said the first lieutenant,=
as
he returned from shaving."Fast, Mr. Spoker?" asked the Captain. "The expression is a strange one, =
for
time (if you will think of it) is only relative.""Sir," said=
the
lieutenant, "I think it is scarcely worth while to embark in such a
discussion when we shall all be in Davy Jones's Locker in ten minutes."=
;"By
parity of reasoning," returned the Captain gently, "it would neve=
r be
worth while to begin any inquiry of importance; the odds are always overwhe=
lming
that we must die before we shall have brought it to an end. You have not
considered, Mr. Spoker, the situation of man," said the Captain, smili=
ng,
and shaking his head."I am much more engaged in considering the positi=
on
of the ship," said Mr. Spoker."Spoken like a good officer,"
replied the Captain, laying his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.On deck t=
hey
found the men had broken into the spirit-room, and were fast getting
drunk."My men," said the Captain, "there is no sense in
this. The ship is going down, you =
will
tell me, in ten minutes: well, and what then?
To the philosophic eye, there is nothing new in our position. All our lives long, we may have been ab=
out to
break a blood-vessel or to be struck by lightning, not merely in ten minute=
s,
but in ten seconds; and that has not prevented us from eating dinner, no, n=
or
from putting money in the Savings Bank.
I assure you, with my hand on my heart, I fail to comprehend your
attitude."The men were already too far gone to pay much heed."Thi=
s is
a very painful sight, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain."And yet to t=
he
philosophic eye, or whatever it is," replied the first lieutenant,
"they may be said to have been getting drunk since they came aboard.&q=
uot;"I
do not know if you always follow my thought, Mr. Spoker," returned the=
Captain
gently. "But let us
proceed."In the powder magazine they found an old salt smoking his
pipe."Good God," cried the Captain, "what are you about?&quo=
t;"Well,
sir," said the old salt, apologetically, "they told me as she wer=
e going
down.""And suppose she were?" said the Captain. "To the philosophic eye, there wou=
ld be
nothing new in our position. Life,=
my
old shipmate, life, at any moment and in any view, is as dangerous as a sin=
king
ship; and yet it is man's handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to wear
indiarubber over- shoes, to begin vast works, and to conduct himself in eve=
ry
way as if he might hope to be eternal.
And for my own poor part I should despise the man who, even on board=
a
sinking ship, should omit to take a pill or to wind up his watch. That, my friend, would not be the human
attitude.""I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Spoker. "But what is precisely the differe=
nce
between shaving in a sinking ship and smoking in a powder magazine?"&q=
uot;Or
doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances?" cried the Cap=
tain. "Perfectly conclusive; give me a
cigar!"Two minutes afterwards the ship blew up with a glorious detonat=
ion.
One day there was a traveller in the woods in
California, in the dry season, when the Trades were blowing strong. He had ridden a long way, and he was ti=
red
and hungry, and dismounted from his horse to smoke a pipe. But when he felt in his pocket he found=
but
two matches. He struck the first, =
and it
would not light."Here is a pretty state of things!" said the
traveller. "Dying for a smoke=
; only
one match left; and that certain to miss fire!
Was there ever a creature so unfortunate? And yet," thought the traveller, &=
quot;suppose
I light this match, and smoke my pipe, and shake out the dottle here in the
grass--the grass might catch on fire, for it is dry like tinder; and while I
snatch out the flames in front, they might evade and run behind me, and sei=
ze upon
yon bush of poison oak; before I could reach it, that would have blazed up;
over the bush I see a pine tree hung with moss; that too would fly in fire =
upon
the instant to its topmost bough; and the flame of that long torch--how wou=
ld
the trade wind take and brandish that through the inflammable forest! I hear this dell roar in a moment with =
the
joint voice of wind and fire, I see myself gallop for my soul, and the flyi=
ng
conflagration chase and outflank me through the hills; I see this pleasant
forest burn for days, and the cattle roasted, and the springs dried up, and=
the
farmer ruined, and his children cast upon the world. What a world hangs upon this
moment!"With that he struck the match, and it missed fire."Thank
God!" said the traveller, and put his pipe in his pocket.
There was once a sick man in a burning house, =
to
whom there entered a fireman."Do not save me," said the sick
man. "Save those who are
strong.""Will you kindly tell me why?" inquired the fireman,=
for
he was a civil fellow."Nothing could possibly be fairer," said the
sick man. "The strong should =
be
preferred in all cases, because they are of more service in the world."=
;The
fireman pondered a while, for he was a man of some philosophy. "Grante=
d,"
said he at last, as apart of the roof fell in; "but for the sake of
conversation, what would you lay down as the proper service of the
strong?""Nothing can possibly be easier," returned the sick =
man;
"the proper service of the strong is to help the weak."Again the
fireman reflected, for there was nothing hasty about this excellent
creature. "I could forgive you
being sick," he said at last, as a portion of the wall fell out, "=
;but
I cannot bear your being such a fool."
And with that he heaved up his fireman's axe, for he was eminently j=
ust,
and clove the sick man to the bed.
Once upon a time the devil stayed at an inn, w=
here
no one knew him, for they were people whose education had been neglected. He was bent on mischief, and for a time=
kept
everybody by the ears. But at last=
the innkeeper
set a watch upon the devil and took him in the fact.The innkeeper got a rop=
e's
end."Now I am going to thrash you," said the innkeeper."You =
have
no right to be angry with me," said the devil. "I am only the devil, and it is my
nature to do wrong.""Is that so?" asked the
innkeeper."Fact, I assure you," said the devil."You really
cannot help doing ill?" asked the innkeeper."Not in the
smallest," said the devil; "it would be useless cruelty to thrash=
a
thing like me.""It would indeed," said the innkeeper.And he =
made
a noose and hanged the devil."There!" said the innkeeper.
A man met a lad weeping. "What do you weep for?" he
asked."I am weeping for my sins," said the lad."You must have
little to do," said the man.The next day they met again. Once more the lad was weeping. "Why do you weep now?" asked =
the
man."I am weeping because I have nothing to eat," said the
lad."I thought it would come to that," said the man.
In a certain city there lived a physician who =
sold
yellow paint. This was of so singu=
lar a
virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to heel was set free from =
the
dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and the fear of death for ever. "This is really amazing. Well, well; perhaps, if you had not been
painted, you would have been more frightened still."
soon as the child began to speak, the gyve was
riveted; and the boys and girls limped about their play like convicts. Doubtless it was more pitiable to see an=
d more
painful to bear in youth; but even the grown folk, besides being very unhan=
dy
on their feet, were often sick with ulcers.About the time when Jack was ten
years old, many strangers began to journey through that country. These he beheld going lightly by on the=
long
roads, and the thing amazed him. &=
quot;I
wonder how it comes," he asked, "that all these strangers are so
quick afoot, and we must drag about our fetter?""My dear boy,&quo=
t;
said his uncle, the catechist, "do not complain about your fetter, for=
it
is the only thing that makes life worth living.
None are happy, none are good, none are respectable, that are not gy=
ved
like us. And I must tell you, besides, it is very dangerous talk. If you grumble of your iron, you will h=
ave no
luck; if ever you take it off, you will be instantly smitten by a
thunderbolt.""Are there no thunderbolts for these strangers?"
asked Jack."Jupiter is longsuffering to the benighted," returned =
the
catechist."Upon my word, I could wish I had been less fortunate,"
said Jack. "For if I had been=
born
benighted, I might now be going free; and it cannot be denied the iron is
inconvenient, and the ulcer hurts.""Ah!" cried his uncle,
"do not envy the heathen! The=
irs is
a sad lot! Ah, poor souls, if they but knew the joys of being fettered! Poor souls, my heart yearns for them. But the truth is they are vile, odious,=
insolent,
ill-conditioned, stinking brutes, not truly human--for what is a man withou=
t a
fetter?--and you cannot be too particular not to touch or speak with
them."After this talk, the child would never pass one of the unfettere=
d on
the road but what he spat at him and called him names, which was the practi=
ce of
the children in that part.It chanced one day, when he was fifteen, he went =
into
the woods, and the ulcer pained him. It
was a fair day, with a blue sky; all the birds were singing; but Jack nursed
his foot. Presently, another song =
began;
it sounded like the singing of a person, only far more gay; at the same tim=
e there
was a beating on the earth. Jack p=
ut
aside the leaves; and there was a lad of his own village, leaping, and danc=
ing
and singing to himself in a green dell; and on the grass beside him lay the
dancer's iron."Oh!" cried Jack, "you have your fetter
off!""For God's sake, don't tell your uncle!" cried the
lad."If you fear my uncle," returned Jack "why do you not fe=
ar
the thunderbolt"?"That is only an old wives' tale," said the
other. "It is only told to ch=
ildren. Scores of us come here among the woods =
and
dance for nights together, and are none the worse."This put Jack in a
thousand new thoughts. He was a gr=
ave
lad; he had no mind to dance himself; he wore his fetter manfully, and tend=
ed
his ulcer without complaint. But he
loved the less to be deceived or to see others cheated. He began to lie in wait for heathen
travellers, at covert parts of the road, and in the dusk of the day, so tha=
t he
might speak with them unseen; and these were greatly taken with their waysi=
de
questioner, and told him things of weight.
The wearing of gyves (they said) was no command of Jupiter's. It was the contrivance of a white-faced
thing, a sorcerer, that dwelt in that country in the Wood of Eld. He was one like Glaucus that could chan=
ge his
shape, yet he could be always told; for when he was crossed, he gobbled lik=
e a
turkey. He had three lives; but the
third smiting would make an end of him indeed; and with that his house of
sorcery would vanish, the gyves fall, and the villagers take hands and dance
like children."And in your country?" Jack would ask.But at this t=
he
travellers, with one accord, would put him off; until Jack began to suppose
there was no land entirely happy. =
Or, if
there were, it must be one that kept its folk at home; which was natural en=
ough.But
the case of the gyves weighed upon him.
The sight of the children limping stuck in his eyes; the groans of s=
uch
as dressed their ulcers haunted him. And
it came at last in his mind that he was born to free them.There was in that
village a sword of heavenly forgery, beaten upon Vulcan's anvil. It was never used but in the temple, an=
d then
the flat of it only; and it hung on a nail by the catechist's chimney. Early one night, Jack rose, and took the
sword, and was gone out of the house and the village in the darkness.All ni=
ght
he walked at a venture; and when day came, he met strangers going to the
fields. Then he asked after the Wo=
od of
Eld and the house of sorcery; and one said north, and one south; until Jack=
saw
that they deceived him. So then, w=
hen he
asked his way of any man, he showed the bright sword naked; and at that the
gyve on the man's ankle rang, and answered in his stead; and the word was s=
till
_Straight on_. But the man, when h=
is
gyve spoke, spat and struck at Jack, and threw stones at him as he went awa=
y;
so that his head was broken.So he came to that wood, and entered in, and he=
was
aware of a house in a low place, where funguses grew, and the trees met, and
the steaming of the marsh arose about it like a smoke. It was a fine house, and a very ramblin=
g;
some parts of it were ancient like the hills, and some but of yesterday, and
none finished; and all the ends of it were open, so that you could go in fr=
om
every side. Yet it was in good rep=
air,
and all the chimneys smoked.Jack went in through the gable; and there was o=
ne
room after another, all bare, but all furnished in part, so that a man could
dwell there; and in each there was a fire burning, where a man could warm
himself, and a table spread where he might eat.
But Jack saw nowhere any living creature; only the bodies of some
stuffed."This is a hospitable house," said Jack; "but the gr=
ound
must be quaggy underneath, for at every step the building quakes."He h=
ad
gone some time in the house, when he began to be hungry. Then he looked at the food, and at firs=
t he
was afraid; but he bared the sword, and by the shining of the sword, it see=
med
the food was honest. So he took the
courage to sit down and eat, and he was refreshed in mind and body."Th=
is
is strange," thought he, "that in the house of sorcery there shou=
ld be
food so wholesome."As he was yet eating, there came into that room the
appearance of his uncle, and Jack was afraid because he had taken the
sword. But his uncle was never more
kind, and sat down to meat with him, and praised him because he had taken t=
he
sword. Never had these two been mo=
re
pleasantly together, and Jack was full of love to the man."It was very
well done," said his uncle, "to take the sword and come yourself =
into
the House of Eld; a good thought and a brave deed. But now you are satisfied; and we may g=
o home
to dinner arm in arm.""Oh, dear, no!" said Jack. "I am not satisfied
yet.""How!" cried his uncle.
"Are you not warmed by the fire?
Does not this food sustain you?""I see the food to be
wholesome," said Jack; "and still it is no proof that a man should
wear a gyve on his right leg."Now at this the appearance of his uncle
gobbled like a turkey."Jupiter!" cried Jack, "is this the
sorcerer?"His hand held back and his heart failed him for the love he =
bore
his uncle; but he heaved up the sword and smote the appearance on the head;=
and
it cried out aloud with the voice of his uncle; and fell to the ground; and=
a
little bloodless white thing fled from the room.The cry rang in Jack's ears,
and his knees smote together, and conscience cried upon him; and yet he was
strengthened, and there woke in his bones the lust of that enchanter's
blood. "If the gyves are to
fall," said he, "I must go through with this, and when I get home=
I
shall find my uncle dancing."So he went on after the bloodless thing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the way, he met the appearance of his
father; and his father was incensed, and railed upon him, and called to him
upon his duty, and bade him be home, while there was yet time. "For you can still," said he,
"be home by sunset; and then all will be forgiven.""God
knows," said Jack, "I fear your anger; but yet your anger does no=
t prove
that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg."And at that the appear=
ance
of his father gobbled like a turkey."Ah, heaven," cried Jack,
"the sorcerer again!"The blood ran backward in his body and his
joints rebelled against him for the love he bore his father; but he heaved =
up
the sword, and plunged it in the heart of the appearance; and the appearance
cried out aloud with the voice of his father; and fell to the ground; and a
little bloodless white thing fled from the room.The cry rang in Jack's ears,
and his soul was darkened; but now rage came to him. "I have done what I dare not think
upon," said he. "I will =
go to
an end with it, or perish. And whe=
n I
get home, I pray God this may be a dream, and I may find my father
dancing."So he went on after the bloodless thing that had escaped; and=
in
the way he met the appearance of his mother, and she wept. "What have you done?" she
cried. "What is this that you=
have
done? Oh, come home (where you may=
be by
bedtime) ere you do more ill to me and mine; for it is enough to smite my
brother and your father.""Dear mother, it is not these that I have
smitten," said Jack; "it was but the enchanter in their shape.
Four reformers met under a bramble bush. They were all agreed the world must be
changed. "We must abolish
property," said one."We must abolish marriage," said the sec=
ond."We
must abolish God," said the third."I wish we could abolish
work," said the fourth."Do not let us get beyond practical
politics," said the first.
"The first thing is to reduce men to a common level.""=
;The
first thing," said the second, "is to give freedom to the
sexes.""The first thing," said the third, "is to find o=
ut
how to do it.""The first step," said the first, "is to
abolish the Bible.""The first thing," said the second, "=
;is
to abolish the laws.""The first thing," said the third, &quo=
t;is
to abolish mankind."
A man quarrelled with his friend."I have =
been
much deceived in you," said the man.And the friend made a face at him =
and
went away.A little after, they both died, and came together before the great
white Justice of the Peace. It beg=
an to
look black for the friend, but the man for a while had a clear character and
was getting in good spirits."I find here some record of a quarrel,&quo=
t;
said the justice, looking in his notes.
"Which of you was in the wrong?""He was," said t=
he
man. "He spoke ill of me behi=
nd my
back.""Did he so?" said the justice. "And pray how did he speak about y=
our neighbours?""Oh,
he had always a nasty tongue," said the man."And you chose him for
your friend?" cried the justice.
"My good fellow, we have no use here for fools."So the man=
was
cast in the pit, and the friend laughed out aloud in the dark and remained =
to
be tried on other charges.
"I never read such an impious book,"
said the reader, throwing it on the floor."You need not hurt me,"
said the book; "you will only get less for me second hand, and I did n=
ot
write myself.""That is true," said the reader. "My quarrel is with your
author.""Ah, well," said the book, "you need not buy his
rant.""That is true," said the reader. "But I thought him such a cheerful=
writer.""I
find him so," said the book."You must be differently made from
me," said the reader."Let me tell you a fable," said the
book. "There were two men wre=
cked upon
a desert island; one of them made believe he was at home, the other admitte=
d--""Oh,
I know your kind of fable," said the reader. "They both died.""And so=
they
did," said the book. "No=
doubt
of that. And everybody else."=
"That
is true," said the reader.
"Push it a little further for this once. And when they were all dead?""=
;They
were in God's hands, the same as before," said the book."Not much=
to
boast of, by your account," cried the reader."Who is impious
now?" said the book.And the reader put him on the fire. The coward crouches from the rod, And loathes the iron face of God.
"Look round you," said the citizen.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "This is the largest market in the=
world.""Oh,
surely not," said the traveller."Well, perhaps not the largest,&q=
uot;
said the citizen, "but much the best.""You are certainly wro=
ng
there," said the traveller. &=
quot;I
can tell you . . ."They buried the stranger at the dusk.
Once upon a time there came to this earth a
visitor from a neighbouring planet. And
he was met at the place of his descent by a great philosopher, who was to s=
how
him everything.First of all they came through a wood, and the stranger look=
ed
upon the trees. "Whom have we
here?" said he."These are only vegetables," said the
philosopher. "They are alive,=
but not
at all interesting.""I don't know about that," said the
stranger. "They seem to have =
very good
manners. Do they never
speak?""They lack the gift," said the philosopher."Yet I
think I hear them sing," said the other."That is only the wind am=
ong
the leaves," said the philosopher.
"I will explain to you the theory of winds: it is very
interesting.""Well," said the stranger, "I wish I knew =
what
they are thinking.""They cannot think," said the
philosopher."I don't know about that," returned the stranger: and
then, laying his hand upon a trunk: "I like these people," said
he."They are not people at all," said the philosopher. "Come along."Next they came t=
hrough
a meadow where there were cows."These are very dirty people," said
the stranger."They are not people at all," said the philosopher; =
and
he explained what a cow is in scientific words which I have
forgotten."That is all one to me," said the stranger. "But why do they never look up?&qu=
ot;"Because
they are graminivorous," said the philosopher; "and to live upon =
grass,
which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to business =
that
they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the scenery, or keep
themselves clean.""Well," said the stranger, "that is o=
ne
way to live, no doubt. But I prefe=
r the
people with the green heads."Next they came into a city, and the stree=
ts
were full of men and women."These are very odd people," said the
stranger."They are the people of the greatest nation in the world,&quo=
t;
said the philosopher."Are they indeed?" said the stranger. "They scarcely look so."
Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were
brought to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddle-horse to run free=
on
the island. They were rather afrai=
d to go
near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and supposed he would not spe=
ak
to them. Now the saddle-horse had =
never
seen creatures so big. "These=
must
be great chiefs," thought he, and he approached them civilly. "Lady and gentleman," said he,
"I understand you are from the colonies.
I offer you my affectionate compliments, and make you heartily welco=
me
to the islands."The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with
each other."Who can he be?" said the gelding."He seems
suspiciously civil," said the mare."I do not think he can be much
account," said the gelding."Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka,&q=
uot;
said the mare.Then they turned to him."Go to the devil!" said the
gelding."I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our
quality!" cried the mare.The saddle-horse went away by himself. "I was right," said he, "=
;they
are great chiefs."
"Be ashamed of yourself," said the
frog."When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.""Just what I
thought!" said the tadpole."You never were a tadpole."
The natives told him many tales. In particular, they warned him of the h=
ouse
of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it became
instantly the prey of Akaanga, and was handed on to him by Miru the ruddy, =
and
hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the
eaters of the dead."There is nothing in it," said the
missionary.There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; =
but,
by the native saying, it was death to bathe there. "There is nothing in that," s=
aid
the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming. Presently an eddy
took him and bore him towards the reef.
"Oho!" thought the missionary, "it seems there is
something in it after all." A=
nd he swam
the harder, but the eddy carried him away.
"I do not care about this eddy," said the missionary; and =
even
as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above the sea; it was
built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with another, and the whole bound wi=
th
black sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the house hung
calabashes. He had never seen such=
a
house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the ladder. "This is singular," said the
missionary, "but there can be nothing in it." And he laid hold of the ladder and went
up. It was a fine house; but there=
was
no man there; and when the missionary looked back he saw no island, only the
heaving of the sea. "It is st=
range
about the island," said the missionary, "but who's afraid? my sto=
ries
are the true ones." And he la=
id
hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities. Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the
calabash than that which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, bu=
rst
like a bubble and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and =
the
meshes of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish."A body would thi=
nk
there was something in this," said the missionary. "But if these
tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!"Now the flaming of Akaan=
ga's
torch drew near in the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the meshes =
of
the net; and they took the missionary between the finger and the thumb, and
bore him dripping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of
Miru. And there was Miru, ruddy in=
the
glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and made the kava of t=
he
dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of the living, dripping a=
nd
lamenting.This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men. But of all who ever came there, the
missionary was the most concerned; and, to make things worse, the person ne=
xt
him was a convert of his own."Aha," said the convert, "so you
are here like your neighbours? And=
how about
all your stories?""It seems," said the missionary, with burs=
ting
tears, "that there was nothing in them."By this the kava of the d=
ead
was ready, and the daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner of
singing. "Gone are the green
islands and the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million star=
s,
and life and love and hope. Hencef=
orth
is no more, only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends
devoured; for life is a deceit, and the bandage is taken from your
eyes."Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the
bowl. Desire of that kava rose in the missionary's bosom; he lusted for it =
like
a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out h=
is
hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk.
And then he remembered, and put it back."Drink!" sang the
daughter of Miru."There is no kava like the kava of the dead, and to d=
rink
of it once is the reward of living.""I thank you. It smells excellent," said the
missionary. "But I am a blue-=
ribbon
man myself; and though I am aware there is a difference of opinion even in =
our
own confession, I have always held kava to be excluded.""What!&qu=
ot;
cried the convert. "Are you g=
oing
to respect a taboo at a time like this?
And you were always so opposed to taboos when you were alive!"&=
quot;To
other people's," said the missionary.
"Never to my own.""But yours have all proved wrong,&q=
uot;
said the convert."It looks like it," said the missionary, "a=
nd I
can't help that. No reason why I s=
hould
break my word.""I never heard the like of this!" cried the
daughter of Miru. "Pray, what=
do
you expect to gain?""That is not the point," said the
missionary. "I took this pled=
ge for
others, I am not going to break it for myself."The daughter of Miru was
puzzled; she came and told her mother, and Miru was vexed; and they went and
told Akaanga. "I don't know w=
hat to
do about this," said Akaanga; and he came and reasoned with the
missionary."But there _is_ such a thing as right and wrong," said=
the
missionary; "and your ovens cannot alter that.""Give the kav=
a to
the rest," said Akaanga to the daughters of Miru. "I must get rid of this sea-lawyer
instantly, or worse will come of it."The next moment the missionary ca=
me
up in the midst of the sea, and there before him were the palm trees of the
island. He swam to the shore gladl=
y, and
landed. Much matter of thought was=
in
that missionary's mind."I seem to have been misinformed upon some
points," said he. "Perha=
ps there
is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it after all. Let me be glad of that."And he ran=
g the
bell for service.MORAL. The sticks break, the stones crumble, The eternal
altars tilt and tumble, Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist About the ama=
zed
evangelist. He stands unshook from age to youth Upon one pin-point of the
truth.
In the ancient days there went three men upon
pilgrimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third =
was
an old rover with his axe.As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds =
of
faith."We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,"
said he, and beat his breast."That is true," said the virtuous
person."The peacock has a scrannel voice," said the priest, "=
;as
has been laid down always in our books.
How cheering!" he cried, in a voice like one that wept. "How comforting!""I requ=
ire no
such proofs," said the virtuous person."Then you have no reasonab=
le
faith," said the priest."Great is the right, and shall prevail!&q=
uot;
cried the virtuous person. "There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, ther=
e is
loyalty in the mind of Odin.""These are but playings upon
words," returned the priest.
"A sackful of such trash is nothing to the peacock."Just t=
hen
they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on a rail; and=
the
bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a nightingale."Where =
are
you now?" asked the virtuous person.
"And yet this shakes not me!
Great is the truth, and shall prevail!""The devil fly away
with that peacock!" said the priest; and he was downcast for a mile or
two.But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer performed
miracles."Ah!" said the priest, "here are the true grounds of
faith. The peacock was but an
adminicle. This is the base of our
religion."And he beat upon his breast, and groaned like one with colic=
."Now
to me," said the virtuous person, "all this is as little to the p=
urpose
as the peacock. I believe because =
I see
the right is great and must prevail; and this Fakeer might carry on with his
conjuring tricks till doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man like
me."Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that his hand trembled;
and, lo! in the midst of a miracle the cards fell from up his
sleeve."Where are you now?" asked the virtuous person. "And yet it shakes not me!"&q=
uot;The
devil fly away with the Fakeer!" cried the priest. "I really do not see the good of g=
oing
on with this pilgrimage.""Cheer up!" cried the virtuous
person. "Great is the right, =
and
shall prevail!""If you are quite sure it will prevail," says=
the
priest."I pledge my word for that," said the virtuous person.So t=
he
other began to go on again with a better heart.At last one came running, and
told them all was lost: that the powers of darkness had besieged the Heaven=
ly
Mansions, that Odin was to die, and evil triumph."I have been grossly
deceived," cried the virtuous person."All is lost now," said=
the
priest."I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the devil?"
said the virtuous person."Oh, I hope not," said the priest. "And at any rate we can but try. But what are you doing with your axe?&q=
uot;
says he to the rover."I am off to die with Odin," said the rover.=
The King was a man that stood well before the
world; his smile was sweet as clover, but his soul withinsides was as littl=
e as
a pea. He had two sons; and the yo=
unger
son was a boy after his heart, but the elder was one whom he feared. It befell one morning that the drum sou=
nded
in the dun before it was yet day; and the King rode with his two sons, and =
a brave
array behind them. They rode two h=
ours,
and came to the foot of a brown mountain that was very steep."Where do=
we
ride?" said the elder son."Across this brown mountain," said=
the
King, and smiled to himself."My father knows what he is doing," s=
aid
the younger son.And they rode two hours more, and came to the sides of a bl=
ack
river that was wondrous deep."And where do we ride?" asked the el=
der
son."Over this black river," said the King, and smiled to
himself."My father knows what he is doing," said the younger son.=
And
they rode all that day, and about the time of the sunsetting came to the si=
de
of a lake, where was a great dun."It is here we ride," said the K=
ing;
"to a King's house, and a priest's, and a house where you will learn
much."At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them; and=
he
was a grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and she was as fair as =
the morn,
and one that smiled and looked down."These are my two sons," said=
the
first King."And here is my daughter," said the King who was a
priest."She is a wonderful fine maid," said the first King, "=
;and
I like her manner of smiling,""They are wonderful well-grown
lads," said the second, "and I like their gravity."And then =
the
two Kings looked at each other, and said, "The thing may come
about".And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the maid, and the=
one
grew pale and the other red; and the maid looked upon the ground
smiling."Here is the maid that I shall marry," said the elder. "There it is, and look in it."=
;So
the elder brother looked in the mirror, and he was sore amazed; for he was =
an
old man, and his hair was white upon his head; and he sat down in the hall =
and
wept aloud."Now," said the younger brother, "see what a fool=
's
part you have played, that ran over all the world to seek what was lying in=
our
father's treasury, and came back an old carle for the dogs to bark at, and
without chick or child. And I that=
was
dutiful and wise sit here crowned with virtues and pleasures, and happy in =
the
light of my hearth.""Methinks you have a cruel tongue," said=
the
elder brother; and he pulled out the clear pebble and turned its light on h=
is
brother; and behold the man was lying, his soul was shrunk into the smallne=
ss
of a pea, and his heart was a bag of little fears like scorpions, and love =
was
dead in his bosom. And at that the=
elder
brother cried out aloud, and turned the light of the pebble on the maid, an=
d,
lo! she was but a mask of a woman, and withinside's she was quite dead, and=
she
smiled as a clock ticks, and knew not wherefore."Oh, well," said =
the
elder brother, "I perceive there is both good and bad. So fare ye all as well as ye may in the=
dun;
but I will go forth into the world with my pebble in my pocket."
There was a man in the islands who fished for =
his
bare bellyful, and took his life in his hands to go forth upon the sea betw=
een
four planks. But though he had muc=
h ado,
he was merry of heart; and the gulls heard him laugh when the spray met
him. And though he had little lore=
, he
was sound of spirit; and when the fish came to his hook in the mid-waters, =
he blessed
God without weighing. He was bitte=
r poor
in goods and bitter ugly of countenance, and he had no wife.It fell in the =
time
of the fishing that the man awoke in his house about the midst of the
afternoon. The fire burned in the =
midst,
and the smoke went up and the sun came down by the chimney. And the man was aware of the likeness o=
f one
that warmed his hands at the red peats."I greet you," said the ma=
n,
"in the name of God.""I greet you," said he that warmed=
his
hands, "but not in the name of God, for I am none of His; nor in the n=
ame
of Hell, for I am not of Hell. For I am but a bloodless thing, less than wi=
nd
and lighter than a sound, and the wind goes through me like a net, and I am
broken by a sound and shaken by the cold.""Be plain with me,"
said the man, "and tell me your name and of your nature.""My
name," quoth the other, "is not yet named, and my nature not yet =
sure. For I am part of a man; and I was a par=
t of
your fathers, and went out to fish and fight with them in the ancient
days. But now is my turn not yet c=
ome;
and I wait until you have a wife, and then shall I be in your son, and a br=
ave
part of him, rejoicing manfully to launch the boat into the surf, skilful to
direct the helm, and a man of might where the ring closes and the blows are
going.""This is a marvellous thing to hear," said the man;
"and if you are indeed to be my son, I fear it will go ill with you; f=
or I
am bitter poor in goods and bitter ugly in face, and I shall never get me a
wife if I live to the age of eagles.""All this hate I come to rem=
edy,
my Father," said the Poor Thing; "for we must go this night to the
little isle of sheep, where our fathers lie in the dead-cairn, and to-morro=
w to
the Earl's Hall, and there shall you find a wife by my providing."So t=
he
man rose and put forth his boat at the time of the sunsetting; and the Poor
Thing sat in the prow, and the spray blew through his bones like snow, and =
the
wind whistled in his teeth, and the boat dipped not with the weight of
him."I am fearful to see you, my son," said the man. "For methinks you are no thing of
God.""It is only the wind that whistles in my teeth," said t=
he
Poor Thing, "and there is no life in me to keep it out."So they c=
ame
to the little isle of sheep, where the surf burst all about it in the midst=
of
the sea, and it was all green with bracken, and all wet with dew, and the m=
oon
enlightened it. They ran the boat =
into a
cove, and set foot to land; and the man came heavily behind among the rocks=
in
the deepness of the bracken, but the Poor Thing went before him like a smok=
e in
the light of the moon. So they cam=
e to
the dead-cairn, and they laid their ears to the stones; and the dead compla=
ined
withinsides like a swarm of bees: "Time was that marrow was in our bon=
es, and
strength in our sinews; and the thoughts of our head were clothed upon with
acts and the words of men. But now=
are
we broken in sunder, and the bonds of our bones are loosed, and our thoughts
lie in the dust."Then said the Poor Thing: "Charge them that they=
give
you the virtue they withheld".And the man said: "Bones of my fath=
ers,
greeting! for I am sprung of your loins.
And now, behold, I break open the piled stones of your cairn, and I =
let
in the noon between your ribs. Cou=
nt it
well done, for it was to be; and give me what I come seeking in the name of
blood and in the name of God."And the spirits of the dead stirred in t=
he
cairn like ants; and they spoke: "You have broken the roof of our cairn
and let in the noon between our ribs; and you have the strength of the
still-living. But what virtue have=
we?
what power? or what jewel here in the dust with us, that any living man sho=
uld
covet or receive it? for we are less than nothing. But we tell you one thing, speaking wit=
h many
voices like bees, that the way is plain before all like the grooves of
launching: So forth into life and fear not, for so did we all in the ancient
ages." And their voices passe=
d away
like an eddy in a river."Now," said the Poor Thing, "they ha=
ve
told you a lesson, but make them give you a gift. Stoop your hand among the bones without
drawback, and you shall find their treasure."So the man stooped his ha=
nd,
and the dead laid hold upon it many and faint like ants; but he shook them =
off,
and behold, what he brought up in his hand was the shoe of a horse, and it =
was
rusty."It is a thing of no price," quoth the man, "for it is
rusty.""We shall see that," said the Poor Thing; "for i=
n my
thought it is a good thing to do what our fathers did, and to keep what they
kept without question. And in my t=
hought
one thing is as good as another in this world; and a shoe of a horse will
do."Now they got into their boat with the horseshoe, and when the dawn=
was
come they were aware of the smoke of the Earl's town and the bells of the K=
irk
that beat. So they set foot to sho=
re;
and the man went up to the market among the fishers over against the palace=
and
the Kirk; and he was bitter poor and bitter ugly, and he had never a fish to
sell, but only a shoe of a horse in his creel, and it rusty."Now,"
said the Poor Thing, "do so and so, and you shall find a wife and I a
mother."It befell that the Earl's daughter came forth to go into the K=
irk
upon her prayers; and when she saw the poor man stand in the market with on=
ly the
shoe of a horse, and it rusty, it came in her mind it should be a thing of
price."What is that?" quoth she."It is a shoe of a horse,&qu=
ot;
said the man."And what is the use of it?" quoth the Earl's
daughter."It is for no use," said the man."I may not believe
that," said she; "else why should you carry it?""I do
so," said he, "because it was so my fathers did in the ancient ag=
es;
and I have neither a better reason nor a worse."Now the Earl's daughter
could not find it in her mind to believe him. "Come," quoth she,
"sell me this, for I am sure it is a thing of price.""Nay,&q=
uot;
said the man, "the thing is not for sale.""What!" cried=
the
Earl's daughter. "Then what m=
ake
you here in the town's market, with the thing in your creel and nought
beside?""I sit here," says the man, "to get me a
wife.""There is no sense in any of these answers," thought t=
he
Earl's daughter; "and I could find it in my heart to weep."By came
the Earl upon that; and she called him and told him all. And when he had heard, he was of his
daughter's mind that this should be a thing of virtue; and charged the man =
to
set a price upon the thing, or else be hanged upon the gallows; and that was
near at hand, so that the man could see it."The way of life is straight
like the grooves of launching," quoth the man. "And if I am to be hanged let me be
hanged.""Why!" cried the Earl, "will you set your neck
against a shoe of a horse, and it rusty?""In my thought," sa=
id
the man, "one thing is as good as another in this world and a shoe of a
horse will do.""This can never be," thought the Earl; and he=
stood
and looked upon the man, and bit his beard.And the man looked up at him and
smiled. "It was so my fathers=
did
in the ancient ages," quoth he to the Earl, "and I have neither a
better reason nor a worse.""There is no sense in any of this,&quo=
t;
thought the Earl, "and I must be growing old." So he had his daughter on one side, and=
says
he: "Many suitors have you denied, my child. But here is a very strange matter that =
a man
should cling so to a shoe of a horse, and it rusty; and that he should offe=
r it
like a thing on sale, and yet not sell it; and that he should sit there see=
king
a wife. If I come not to the botto=
m of
this thing, I shall have no more pleasure in bread; and I can see no way, b=
ut either
I should hang or you should marry him.""By my troth, but he is bi=
tter
ugly," said the Earl's daughter.
"How if the gallows be so near at hand?""It was not
so," said the Earl, "that my fathers did in the ancient ages. I am
like the man, and can give you neither a better reason nor a worse. But do =
you,
prithee, speak with him again."So the Earl's daughter spoke to the
man. "If you were not so bitt=
er ugly,"
quoth she, "my father the Earl would have us marry.""Bitter =
ugly
am I," said the man, "and you as fair as May. Bitter ugly I am, and what of that? It was so my fathers--""In th=
e name
of God," said the Earl's daughter, "let your fathers
be!""If I had done that," said the man, "you had never =
been
chaffering with me here in the market, nor your father the Earl watching wi=
th
the end of his eye.""But come," quoth the Earl's daughter,
"this is a very strange thing, that you would have me wed for a shoe o=
f a
horse, and it rusty.""In my thought," quoth the man, "o=
ne
thing is as good--""Oh, spare me that," said the Earl's
daughter, "and tell me why I should marry." "Listen and
look," said the man.Now the wind blew through the Poor Thing like an
infant crying, so that her heart was melted; and her eyes were unsealed, and
she was aware of the thing as it were a babe unmothered, and she took it to=
her
arms, and it melted in her arms like the air."Come," said the man,
"behold a vision of our children, the busy hearth, and the white
heads. And let that suffice, for i=
t is
all God offers.""I have no delight in it," said she; but with
that she sighed."The ways of life are straight like the grooves of
launching," said the man; and he took her by the hand."And what s=
hall
we do with the horseshoe?" quoth she."I will give it to your
father," said the man; "and he can make a kirk and a mill of it f=
or
me." It came to pass in time that the Poor Thing was born; but memory =
of
these matters slept within him, and he knew not that which he had done. But he was a part of the eldest son;
rejoicing manfully to launch the boat into the surf, skilful to direct the
helm, and a man of might where the ring closes and the blows are going.
The King of Duntrine had a daughter when he was
old, and she was the fairest King's daughter between two seas; her hair was
like spun gold, and her eyes like pools in a river; and the King gave her a
castle upon the sea beach, with a terrace, and a court of the hewn stone, a=
nd
four towers at the four corners. H=
ere
she dwelt and grew up, and had no care for the morrow, and no power upon the
hour, after the manner of simple men.It befell that she walked one day by t=
he
beach of the sea, when it was autumn, and the wind blew from the place of
rains; and upon the one hand of her the sea beat, and upon the other the de=
ad
leaves ran. This was the loneliest=
beach
between two seas, and strange things had been done there in the ancient
ages. Now the King's daughter was =
aware
of a crone that sat upon the beach. The
sea foam ran to her feet, and the dead leaves swarmed about her back, and t=
he
rags blew about her face in the blowing of the wind."Now," said t=
he
King's daughter, and she named a holy name, "this is the most unhappy =
old
crone between two seas.""Daughter of a King," said the crone,
"you dwell in a stone house, and your hair is like the gold: but what =
is
your profit? Life is not long, nor=
lives
strong; and you live after the way of simple men, and have no thought for t=
he
morrow and no power upon the hour.""Thought for the morrow, that I
have," said the King's daughter; "but power upon the hour, that h=
ave
I not." And she mused with
herself.Then the crone smote her lean hands one within the other, and laugh=
ed like
a sea-gull. "Home!" cried
she. "O daughter of a King, h=
ome to
your stone house; for the longing is come upon you now, nor can you live an=
y more
after the manner of simple men. Ho=
me,
and toil and suffer, till the gift come that will make you bare, and till t=
he
man come that will bring you care."The King's daughter made no more ad=
o,
but she turned about and went home to her house in silence. And when she was come into her chamber =
she called
for her nurse."Nurse," said the King's daughter, "thought is
come upon me for the morrow, so that I can live no more after the manner of
simple men. Tell me what I must do=
that
I may have power upon the hour."Then the nurse moaned like a snow
wind. "Alas!" said she,
"that this thing should be; but the thought is gone into your marrow, =
nor
is there any cure against the thought.
Be it so, then, even as you will; though power is less than weakness,
power shall you have; and though the thought is colder than winter, yet sha=
ll
you think it to an end."So the King's daughter sat in her vaulted cham=
ber
in the masoned house, and she thought upon the thought. Nine years she sat; and the sea beat up=
on the
terrace, and the gulls cried about the turrets, and wind crooned in the
chimneys of the house. Nine years =
she
came not abroad, nor tasted the clean air, neither saw God's sky. Nine years she sat and looked neither t=
o the
right nor to the left, nor heard speech of any one, but thought upon the th=
ought
of the morrow. And her nurse fed h=
er in silence,
and she took of the food with her left hand, and ate it without grace.Now w=
hen
the nine years were out, it fell dusk in the autumn, and there came a sound=
in
the wind like a sound of piping. A=
t that
the nurse lifted up her finger in the vaulted house."I hear a sound in=
the
wind," said she, "that is like the sound of piping.""It=
is
but a little sound," said the King's daughter, "but yet is it sou=
nd
enough for me."So they went down in the dusk to the doors of the house,
and along the beach of the sea. An=
d the
waves beat upon the one hand, and upon the other the dead leaves ran; and t=
he
clouds raced in the sky, and the gulls flew widdershins. And when they came to that part of the =
beach
where strange things had been done in the ancient ages, lo, there was the c=
rone,
and she was dancing widdershins."What makes you dance widdershins, old
crone?" said the King's daughter; "here upon the bleak beach, bet=
ween
the waves and the dead leaves?""I hear a sound in the wind that is
like a sound of piping," quoth she. "And it is for that that I da=
nce
widdershins. For the gift comes th=
at will
make you bare, and the man comes that must bring you care. But for me the morrow is come that I ha=
ve
thought upon, and the hour of my power.""How comes it, crone,&quo=
t;
said the King's daughter, "that you waver like a rag, and pale like a =
dead
leaf before my eyes?""Because the morrow has come that I have tho=
ught
upon, and the hour of my power," said the crone; and she fell on the b=
each,
and, lo! she was but stalks of the sea tangle, and dust of the sea sand, and
the sand lice hopped upon the place of her."This is the strangest thing
that befell between two seas," said the King's daughter of Duntrine.But
the nurse broke out and moaned like an autumn gale. "I am weary of the wind," quo=
th
she; and she bewailed her day.The King's daughter was aware of a man upon t=
he
beach; he went hooded so that none might perceive his face, and a pipe was
underneath his arm. The sound of h=
is
pipe was like singing wasps, and like the wind that sings in windlestraw; a=
nd
it took hold upon men's ears like the crying of gulls."Are you the
comer?" quoth the King's daughter of Duntrine."I am the corner,&q=
uot;
said he, "and these are the pipes that a man may hear, and I have power
upon the hour, and this is the song of the morrow." And he piped the song of the morrow, an=
d it
was as long as years; and the nurse wept out aloud at the hearing of
it."This is true," said the King's daughter, "that you pipe =
the
song of the morrow; but that ye have power upon the hour, how may I know
that? Show me a marvel here upon t=
he
beach, between the waves and the dead leaves."And the man said, "=
Upon
whom?""Here is my nurse," quoth the King's daughter. "She is weary of the wind. Show me a good marvel upon her."An=
d, lo!
the nurse fell upon the beach as it were two handfuls of dead leaves, and t=
he
wind whirled them widdershins, and the sand lice hopped between."It is
true," said the King's daughter of Duntrine, "you are the comer, =
and
you have power upon the hour. Come=
with
me to my stone house."So they went by the sea margin, and the man piped
the song of the morrow, and the leaves followed behind them as they went.Th=
en
they sat down together; and the sea beat on the terrace, and the gulls cried
about the towers, and the wind crooned in the chimneys of the house. Nine years they sat, and every year whe=
n it
fell autumn, the man said, "This is the hour, and I have power in
it"; and the daughter of the King said, "Nay, but pipe me the son=
g of
the morrow". And he piped it,=
and
it was long like years.Now when the nine years were gone, the King's daught=
er
of Duntrine got her to her feet, like one that remembers; and she looked ab=
out
her in the masoned house; and all her servants were gone; only the man that
piped sat upon the terrace with the hand upon his face; and as he piped the=
leaves
ran about the terrace and the sea beat along the wall. Then she cried to him with a great voic=
e,
"This is the hour, and let me see the power in it". And with that the wind blew off the hoo=
d from
the man's face, and, lo! there was no man there, only the clothes and the h=
ood
and the pipes tumbled one upon another in a corner of the terrace, and the =
dead
leaves ran over them.And the King's daughter of Duntrine got her to that pa=
rt
of the beach where strange things had been done in the ancient ages; and th=
ere
she sat her down. The sea foam ran=
to
her feet, and the dead leaves swarmed about her back, and the veil blew abo=
ut
her face in the blowing of the wind. And
when she lifted up her eyes, there was the daughter of a King come walking =
on
the beach. Her hair was like the s=
pun
gold, and her eyes like pools in a river, and she had no thought for the mo=
rrow
and no power upon the hour, after the manner of simple men.