Wandering Heath

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE

Now winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.
And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch,
And play at Jack's Alight
With burning torch,
Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring—
While ashen faggots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.
Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail
And welcome—plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.
For though the snows he'll shake
Of winter from his head,
To settle, flake by flake,
On ours instead;
Yet we be wreathed green
Beyond his blight or chill,
Who kissed at seventeen
And worship still.
We know not what he'll bring:
But this we know to-night—
He doth prepare the Spring
For our delight.
With birds he'll comfort us,
With blossoms, balms, and bees,
With brooks, and odorous
Wild breath o' the breeze.
Come then, O festal prime!
With sweets thy bosom fill,
And dance it, dripping thyme,
On Lantick hill.
West wind, awake! and comb
Our garden, blade from blade—
We, in our little home,
Sit unafraid.

Now winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.
And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch,
And play at Jack's Alight
With burning torch,
Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring—
While ashen faggots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.
Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail
And welcome—plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.
For though the snows he'll shake
Of winter from his head,
To settle, flake by flake,
On ours instead;
Yet we be wreathed green
Beyond his blight or chill,
Who kissed at seventeen
And worship still.
We know not what he'll bring:
But this we know to-night—
He doth prepare the Spring
For our delight.
With birds he'll comfort us,
With blossoms, balms, and bees,
With brooks, and odorous
Wild breath o' the breeze.
Come then, O festal prime!
With sweets thy bosom fill,
And dance it, dripping thyme,
On Lantick hill.
West wind, awake! and comb
Our garden, blade from blade—
We, in our little home,
Sit unafraid.

—"Why, I quite like it!" said she.

THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF.

"Yes, sir," said my host the quarryman, reaching down the relics from their hook in the wall over the chimney-piece; "they've hung there all my time, and most of my father's. The women won't touch 'em; they're afraid of the story. So here they'll dangle, and gather dust and smoke, till another tenant comes and tosses 'em out o' doors for rubbish. Whew! 'tis coarse weather."

He went to the door, opened it, and stood studying the gale that beat upon his cottage-front, straight from the Manacle Reef. The rain drove past him into the kitchen, aslant like threads of gold silk in the shine of the wreckwood fire. Meanwhile by the same firelight I examined the relics on my knee. The metal of each was tarnished out of knowledge. But the trumpet was evidently an old cavalry trumpet, and the threads of its parti-coloured sling, though frayed and dusty, still hung together. Around the side-drum, beneath its cracked brown varnish, I could hardly trace a royal coat-of-arms, and a legend running—Per Mare per Terram—the motto of the Marines. Its parchment, though coloured and scented with wood-smoke, was limp and mildewed; and I began to tighten up the straps—under which the drumsticks had been loosely thrust—with the idle purpose of trying if some music might be got out of the old drum yet.

But as I turned it on my knee, I found the drum attached to the trumpet-sling by a curious barrel-shaped padlock, and paused to examine this. The body of the lock was composed of half a dozen brass rings, set accurately edge to edge; and, rubbing the brass with my thumb, I saw that each of the six had a series of letters engraved around it.

I knew the trick of it, I thought. Here was one of those word-padlocks, once so common; only to be opened by getting the rings to spell a certain word, which the dealer confides to you.