As ADAM lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee.
But Adam did not need it,
Nor the plough he would not speed it,
Singing:—“Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in bud.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee.
But Adam would not take 'em,
Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,
Singing:—“Water, Earth and Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in leaf.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee.
But Adam did not crave it,
Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,
Singing:—“Air and Water, Earth and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in bloom.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he.
But he wished a fire and made it,
And in Adam's heart he laid it,
Singing.—“Fire, fire, burning Fire,
Stand up and reach your heart's desire!”
(The Apple Blossom's set.)
As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,
He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
And out of black disaster
He arose to be the master
Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)
A DEAL IN COTTON
Long and long ago, when Devadatta was King of Benares, I wrote some tales concerning Strickland of the Punjab Police (who married Miss Youghal), and Adam, his son. Strickland has finished his Indian Service, and lives now at a place in England called Weston-super-Mare, where his wife plays the organ in one of the churches. Semi-occasionally he comes up to London, and occasionally his wife makes him visit his friends. Otherwise he plays golf and follows the harriers for his figure's sake.
If you remember that Infant who told a tale to Eustace Cleever the novelist, you will remember that he became a baronet with a vast estate. He has, owing to cookery, a little lost his figure, but he never loses his friends. I have found a wing of his house turned into a hospital for sick men, and there I once spent a week in the company of two dismal nurses and a specialist in “Sprue.” Another time the place was full of schoolboys—sons of Anglo-Indians whom the Infant had collected for the holidays, and they nearly broke his keeper's heart.
But my last visit was better. The Infant called me up by wire, and I fell into the arms of a friend of mine, Colonel A.L. Corkran, so that the years departed from us, and we praised Allah, who had not yet terminated the Delights, nor separated the Companions.
Said Corkran, when he had explained how it felt to command a native Infantry regiment on the border: “The Stricks are coming for to-night-with their boy.”
“I remember him. The little fellow I wrote a story about,” I said. “Is he in the Service?”
“No. Strick got him into the Centro-Euro-Africa Protectorate. He's Assistant-Commissioner at Dupé—wherever that is. Somaliland, ain't it, Stalky?” asked the Infant.
Stalky puffed out his nostrils scornfully. “You're only three thousand miles out. Look at the atlas.”
“Anyhow, he's as rotten full of fever as the rest of you,” said the Infant, at length on the big divan. “And he's bringing a native servant with him. Stalky be an athlete, and tell Ipps to put him in the stable room.”