{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_sha256": "0cfdd9af13fca205c411b90d6b0df874a1a4c371ff6e5630abaa06ff9573a9ed", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/12_01/bmtnaav_1914-12_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/12_01/bmtnaav_1914-12_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[152]", "page_fin": "[152]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of", "titre_sommaire": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[152]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 53, "fin_caractere_exclue": 167, "texte": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of\nJohn Drink water\nRupert Brooke\nLascelles Abercrombie\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "153", "page_fin": "163", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "THE CARVER IN STONE", "titre_sommaire": "THE CARVER IN STONE", "signature_source": "John Drinkwater", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n(To E. M.)\nHe was a man with wide and patient eyes,\nGray, like the drift of twitch-fires blown in June,\nThat, without fearing, searched if any wrong\nMight threaten from your heart. Gray eyes he had\nUnder a brow was drawn because he knew\nSo many seasons to so many pass\nOf upright service, loyal, unabased\nBefore the world seducing, and so, barren\nOf good words praising and thought that mated his.\nHe carved in stone. Out of his quiet life\nHe watched as any faithful seaman charged\nWith tidings of the myriad faring sea,\nAnd thoughts and premonitions through his mind\nSailing as ships from strange and storied lands\nHis hungry spirit held, till all they were\nFound living witness in the chiselled stone.\nSlowly out of the dark confusion, spread\nBy life's innumerable venturings\nOver his brain, he would triumph into the light\nOf one clear mood, unblemished of the blind\nLegions of errant thought that cried about\nHis rapt seclusion : as a pearl unsoiled,\nNay, rather washed to lonelier chastity,\nIn gritty mud. And then would come a bird,\nA flower, or the wind moving upon a flower,\nA beast at pasture, or a clustered fruit,\nA peasant face as were the saints of old,\nThe leer of custom, or the bow of the moon\nSwung in miraculous poise—some stray from the world\nOf things created by the eternal mind"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1243, "texte": "In joy articulate. And his perfect mood\nWould dwell about the token of God's mood,\nUntil in bird or flower or moving wind\nOr flock or shepherd or the troops of heaven\nIt sprang in one fierce moment of desire\nTo visible form.\nThen would his chisel work among the stone,\nPersuading it of petal or of limb\nOr starry curve, till risen anew there sang\nShape out of chaos, and again the vision\nOf one mind single from the world was pressed\nUpon the daily custom of the sky\nOr field or the body of man.\nHis people\nHad many gods for worship. The tiger-god,\nThe owl, the dewlapped bull, the running pard,\nThe camel and the lizard of the slime,\nThe ram with quivering fleece and fluted horn,\nThe crested eagle and the doming bat\nWere sacred. And the king and his high priests\nDecreed a temple, wide on columns huge,\nShould top the cornlands to the sky's far line.\nThey bade the carvers carve along the walls\nImages of their gods, each one to carve\nAs he desired, his choice to name his god. . . .\nAnd many came ; and he among them, glad\nOf three leagues' travel through the singing air\nOf dawn among the boughs yet bare of green,\nThe eager flight of the spring leading his blood\nInto swift lofty channels of the air,"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1275, "texte": "Proud as an eagle riding to the sun. . . .\nAn eagle, clean of pinion—there's his choice.\nDaylong they worked under the growing roof,\nOne at his leopard, one the staring ram,\nAnd he winning his eagle from the stone,\nUntil each man had carved one image out,\nArow beyond the portal of the house.\nThey stood arow, the company of gods,\nCamel and bat, lizard and bull and ram,\nThe pard and owl, dead figures on the wall,\nFigures of habit driven on the stone\nBy chisels governed by no heat of the brain\nBut drudges of hands that moved by easy rule.\nProudly recorded mood was none, no thought\nPlucked from the dark battalions of the mind\nAnd throned in everlasting sight. But one\nGod of them all was witness of belief\nAnd large adventure dared. His eagle spread\nWide pinions on a cloudless ground of heaven,\nGlad with the heart's high courage of that dawn\nMoving upon the ploughlands newly sown,\nDead stone the rest. He looked, and knew it so.\nThen came the king with priests and counsellors\nAnd many chosen of the people, wise\nWith words weary of custom, and eyes askew\nThat watched their neighbour face for any news\nOf the best way of judgment, till, each sure\nNone would determine with authority,\nAll spoke in prudent praise. One liked the owl"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 38, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1303, "texte": "Because an owl blinked on the beam of his barn.\nOne, hoarse with crying gospels in the street,\nPraised most the ram, because the common folk\nWore breeches made of ram's wool. One declared\nThe tiger pleased him best,—the man who carved\nThe tiger-god was halt out of the womb—\nA man to praise, being so pitiful.\nAnd one, whose eyes dwelt in a distant void,\nWith spell and omen pat upon his lips,\nAnd a purse for any crystal prophet ripe,\nA zealot of the mist, gazed at the bull—\nA lean ill-shapen bull of meagre lines\nThat scarce the steel had graved upon the stone—\nSaying that here was very mystery\nAnd truth, did men but know. And one there was\nWho praised his eagle, but remembering\nThe lither pinion of the swift, the curve\nThat liked him better of the mirrored swan.\nAnd they who carved the tiger-god and ram,\nThe camel and the pard, the owl and bull,\nAnd lizard, listened greedily, and made\nHumble denial of their worthiness,\nAnd when the king his royal judgment gave\nThat all had fashioned well, and bade that each\nRe-shape his chosen god along the walls\nTill all the temple boasted of their skill,\nThey bowed themselves in token that as this\nNever had carvers been so fortunate.\nOnly the man with wide and patient eyes\nMade no denial, neither bowed his head."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1337, "texte": "Already while they spoke his thought had gone\nFar from his eagle, leaving it for a sign\nIvoyally wrought of one deep breath of life,\nAnd played about the image of a toad\nThat crawled among his ivy leaves. A queer\nPuff-bellied toad, with eyes that always stared\nSidelong at heaven and saw no heaven there,\nWeak-hammed, and with a throttle somehow twisted\nBeyond full wholesome draughts of air, and skin\nOf wrinkled lips, the only zest or will\nThe little flashing tongue searching the leaves.\nAnd king and priest, chosen and counsellor,\nBabbling out of their thin and jealous brains,\nSeemed strangely one; a queer enormous toad\nPanting under giant leaves of dark,\nSunk in the loins, peering into the day.\nTheir judgment wry he counted not for wrong\nMore than the fabled poison of the toad\nStriking at simple wits; how should their thought\nOr word in praise or blame come near the peace\nThat shone in seasonable hours above\nThe patience of his spirit's husbandry ?\nThey foolish and not seeing, how should he\nSpend anger there or fear—great ceremonies\nEqual for none save great antagonists ?\nThe grave indifference of his heart before them\nWas moved by laughter innocent of hate,\nChastising clean of spite, that moulded them\nInto the antic likeness of his toad\nBidding for laughter underneath the leaves."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1328, "texte": "He bowed not, nor disputed, but he saw\nThose ill-created joyless gods, and loathed,\nAnd saw them creeping, creeping round the walls,\nDeath breeding death, wile witnessing to wile,\nAnd sickened at the dull iniquity\nShould be rewarded, and for ever breathe\nContagion on the folk gathered in prayer.\nHis truth should not be doomed to march among\nThis falsehood to the ages. He was called,\nAnd he must labour there; if so the king\nWould grant it, where the pillars bore the roof\nA galleried way of meditation nursed\nSecluded time, with wall of ready stone\nIn panels for the carver set between\nThe windows—there his chisel should be set,—\nIt was his plea. And the king spoke of him,\nScorning, as one lack-fettle, among all these\nKager to take the riches of renown ;\nOne fearful of the light or knowing nothing\nOf light's dimension, a witling who would throw\nHonour aside and praise spoken aloud\nAll men of heart should covet. him go\nGrubbing out of the sight of these who knew\nThe worth of substance; there was his proper trade.\nA squat and curious toad indeed. . . . The eyes,\nPatient and grey, were dumb as were the lips,\nThat, fixed and governed, hoarded from them all\nThe larger laughter lifting in his heart.\nStraightway about his gallery he moved,\nMeasured the windows and the virgin stone,"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1275, "texte": "Till all was weighed and patterned in his brain.\nThen first where most the shadow struck the wall,\nUnder the sills, and centre of the base,\nFrom floor to sill out of the stone was wooed\nMemorial folly, as from the chisel leapt\nHis chastening laughter searching priest and king—\nA huge and wrinkled toad, with legs asplay,\nAnd belly loaded, leering with great eyes\nBusily fixed upon the void.\nAll days\nHis chisel was the first to ring across\nThe temple's quiet; and at fall of dusk\nPassing among the carvers homeward, they\nWould speak of him as mad, or weak against\nThe challenge of the world, and let him go\nIyonely, as was his will, under the night\nOf stars or cloud or summer's folded sun,\nThrough crop and wood and pastureland to sleep.\nNone took the narrow stair as wondering\nHow did his chisel prosper in the stone,\nUnvisited his labour and forgot.\nAnd times when he would lean out of his height\nAnd watch the gods growing along the walls,\nThe row of carvers in their linen coats\nTook in his vision a virtue that alone\nCarving they had not nor the thing they carved.\nKnowing the health that flowed about his close\nImagining, the daily quiet won\nFrom process of his clean and supple craft,\nThose carvers there, far on the floor below,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1297, "texte": "Would haply be transfigured in his thought\nInto a gallant company of men\nGlad of the strict and loyal reckoning\nThat proved in the just presence of the brain\nEach chisel-stroke. How surely would he prosper\nIn pleasant talk at easy hours with men\nSo fashioned if it mightbband his eyes\nWould pass again to those dead gods that grew\nIn spreading evil round the temple walls;\nAnd, one dead pressure made, the carvers moved\nAlong the wall to mould and mould again\nThe self-same god, their chisels on the stone\nTapping in dull precision as before,\nAnd he would turn, back to his lonely truth.\nHe carved apace. And first his people's gods,\nAbout the toad, out of their sterile time,\nUnder his hand thrilled and were recreate.\nThe bull, the pard, the camel and the ram,\nTiger and owl and bat—all were the signs\nVisibly made body on the stone\nOf sightless thought adventuring the host\nThat is mere spirit; these the bloom achieved\nBy secret labour in the flowing wood\nOf rain and air and wind and continent sun. . . .\nHis tiger, lithe, immobile in the stone,\nA swift destruction for a moment leashed,\nSprang crying from the jealous stealth of men\nOpposed in cunning watch, with engines hid\nOf torment and calamitous desire.\nHis leopard, swift on lean and paltry limbs,"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 38, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1282, "texte": "Was fear in flight before accusing faith.\nHis bull, with eyes that often in the dusk\nWould lift from the sweet meadow grass to watch\nHim homeward passing, bore on massy beam\nThe burden of the patient of the earth.\nHis camel bore the burden of the damned,\nBeing gaunt, with eyes aslant along the nose.\nHe had a friend, who hammered bronze and iron\nAnd cupped the moonstone on a silver ring,\nOne constant like himself, would come at night\nOr bid him as a guest, when they would make\nTheir poets touch a starrier height, or search\nTogether with unparsimonious mind\nThe crowded harbours of mortality.\nAnd there were jests, wholesome as harvest ale,\nOf homely habit, bred of hearts that dared\nJudgment of laughter under the eternal eye:\nThis frolic wisdom was his carven owl.\nHis ram was lordship on the lonely hills,\nAlert and fleet, content only to know\nThe wind mightily pouring on his fleece,\nWith yesterday and all unrisen suns\nPoorer than disinherited ghosts. His bat\nWas ancient envy made a mockery,\nCowering below the newer eagle carved\nAbove the arches with wide pinion spread,\nHis faith's dominion of that happy dawn.\nAnd so he wrought the gods upon the wall,\nIyiving and crying out of his desire,\nOut of his patient incorruptible thought,"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1277, "texte": "Wrought them in joy was wages to his faith.\nAnd other than the gods he made. The stalks\nOf bluebells heavy with the news of spring,\nThe vine loaded with plenty of the year,\nAnd swallows, merely tenderness of thought\nBidding the stone to small and fragile flight;\nleaves, the thin relics of autumnal boughs,\nOr massed in June. . . .\nAll from their native pressure bloomed and sprang\nUnder his shaping hand into a proud\nAnd governed image of the central man,—\nTheir moulding, charts of all his travelling.\nAnd all were deftly ordered, duly set\nBetween the windows, underneath the sills,\nAnd roofward, as a motion rightly planned,\nTill on the wall, out of the sullen stone,\nA glory blazed, his vision manifest,\nHis wonder captive. And he was content.\nAnd when the builders and the carvers knew\nTheir labour done, and high the temple stood\nOver the cornlands, king and counsellor\nAnd priest and chosen of the people came\nAmong a ceremonial multitude\nTo dedication. And, below the thrones\nWhere king and archpriest ruled above the throng,\nHighest among the ranked artificers\nThe carvers stood. And when, the temple vowed\nTo holy use, tribute and choral praise\nGiven as was ordained, the king looked down\nUpon the gathered folk, and bade them see"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 517, "texte": "The comely gods fashioned about the walls,\nAnd keep in honour men whose precious skill\nCould so adorn the sessions of their worship,\nGravely the carvers bowed them to the ground.\nOnly the man with wide and patient eyes\nStood not among them; nor did any come\nTo count his labour, where he watched alone\nAbove the coloured throng. He heard, and looked\nAgain upon his work, and knew it good,\nSmiled on his toad, passed down the stair unseen,\nAnd sang across the teeming meadows home."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "164", "page_fin": "164", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "THE TREASURE", "titre_sommaire": "THE TREASURE", "signature_source": "Rupert Brooke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 568, "texte": "THE TREASURE\nRupert Brooke\nWhen colour goes home into the eyes,\nAnd lights that shine are shut again\nWith dancing girls and sweet birds' cries\nBehind the gateways of the brain;\nAnd that no-place which gave them birth, shall close\nThe rainbow and the rose:—\nStill may Time hold some golden space\nWhere 111 unpack that scented store\nOf song and flower and sky and face,\nAnd count, and touch, and turn them o'er,\nMusing upon them; as a mother, who\nHas watched her children all the rich day through,\nSits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,\nWhen children sleep, ere night."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "165", "page_fin": "169", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 20, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "1914", "titre_sommaire": "1914", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 15, "fin_caractere_exclue": 715, "texte": "1914\nI\nPEACE\nNow, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,\nAnd caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,\nWith hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,\nTo turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,\nGlad from a world grown old and cold and weary,\nLeave the sick hearts that honour could not move,\nAnd half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,\nAnd all the little emptiness of love !\nOh ! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,\nWhere there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,\nNaught broken save this body, lost but breath;\nNothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there\nBut only agony, and that has ending,\nAnd the worst friend and enemy is but Death."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 20, "fin_caractere_exclue": 690, "texte": "II\nSAFETY\nDear! of all happy in the hour, most blest\nHe who has found our hid security,\nAssured in the dark tides of the world that rest,\nAnd heard our word, \" Who is so safe as we ?\nWe have found safety with all things undying,\nThe winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,\nThe deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,\nAnd sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.\nWe have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.\nWe have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.\nWar knows no power. Safe shall be my going,\nSecretly armed against all death's endeavour ;\nSafe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;\nAnd if these poor limbs die, safest of all."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 20, "fin_caractere_exclue": 657, "texte": "III\nTHE DEAD.\nBlow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!\nThere's none of these so lonely and poor of old,\nBut, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.\nThese laid the world away ; poured out the red\nSweet wine of youth ; gave up the years to be\nOf work and joy, and that unhoped serene,\nThat men call age; and those who would have been,\nTheir sons, they gave, their immortality.\nBlow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,\nHoliness, lacked so long, and L,ove, and Pain.\nHonour has come back, as a king, to earth,\nAnd paid his subjects with a royal wage;\nAnd Nobleness walks in our ways again;\nAnd we have come into our heritage."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 20, "fin_caractere_exclue": 697, "texte": "IV\nTHE DEAD\nThese hearts were woven of human joys and cares,\nWashed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.\nThe years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,\nAnd sunset, and the colours of the earth.\nThese had seen movement, and heard music; known\nSlumber and waking ; loved ; gone proudly friended ;\nFelt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;\nTouched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is]fended\nThere are waters blown by changing winds to laughter\nAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,\nFrost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance\nAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a white\nUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,\nA width, a shining peace, under the night."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 20, "fin_caractere_exclue": 663, "texte": "V\nTHE SOLDIER\nIf I should die, think only this of me :\nThat there's some corner of a foreign field\nThat is for ever England. There shall be\nIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;\nA dust whom Kngland bore, shaped, made aware,\nGave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,\nA body of England's, breathing English air,\nWashed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.\nAnd think, this heart, all evil shed away,\nA pulse in the eternal mind, no less\nGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;\nHer sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;\nAnd laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,\nIn hearts at peace, under an English heaven."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "170", "page_fin": "191", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 42, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "THE STAIRCASE", "titre_sommaire": "THE STAIRCASE", "signature_source": "Lascelles Abercrombie", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1392, "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\nA small room in an empty cottage, without furniture. Stone floor;\ndirty ragged paper on walls. The room is littered with bits of sawn\nwood, shavings, tools ; a joiner's frail lies on the floor. Door to the\nopen air on right; in the back wall an old kitchen range, with a good\nfire burning. A young joiner is alone in the room; he has been\nputting in a new staircase, which is all but finished; the new wood,\nclean and white, shows up amid the dingy room.\nThe Joiner (looking at his work : in a sort of chant)\nHammer and nails, gimlet and screws,\nBradawl, chisel, mallet and plane,\nA will to work, and health in my thews,\nAnd season'd wood of a good clean grain\nShaping under my hands and skill,\nAnd obeying my master-will\n(Speaking)\nAnd I alone: that's the best of it here.—\nThese book-read folks won't beat that song of mine,\nI warrant. I'll have a right tune for it some day:\nHammer and nails, gimlet and screws,\nBradawl, chisel, mallet and plane,\nA will to work\nThe outer door is pusht open, and a woman comes\nin, tired and worn, wet through, with a long shabby\ncloak on her. She stands a moment gazing round the\nroom.\nWoman: Alone ?\nWas it you buzzing to yourself I heard ?\nGrumbling for company ?\nThe young man stares at her and answers mechanically\nJoiner : For company ? lld liever keep to myself.\nWoman : Dreaming aloud, then ?— Ay, cleverest thing"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1137, "texte": "To do against the world, for sure, is dreaming.\nBut it needs shelter.— Well, go on dreaming.\nI'll borrow your warmth awhile ; the drench of the rain\nIs dribbling down my skin inside my clothes\nCold as worms.\nShe sits by the fire, opens her cloak, and shows she\nis holding a baby. She begins to suckle it.\nJoiner : You've got a baby !\nWoman : Well done, young man !\nYou know a thing or two : a baby it is.—\nFinish your job, and I'll keep on at mine.\nJoiner : I'm all but done here now.\nWoman : What were you at ?\nJoiner : Framing the new stairs. Are you travelling ?\nWoman : Travelling and travelling ; still walking.\nJoiner : A strange place for you to be walking, here.\nWoman : I'll swear to that: strange and miserable.\nNot such another road in Christendom\nFor wind that's carrying a cruel rain\nTo get the better of your heart.\nJoiner: I mean,\nThe road goes nowhere, but to these few huts\nThat stick against the hillside.\nWoman : I know that—\nNow I am here I know it.— But at least\nThe road has brought me to your fire. Young man,\nWhy do you stare so ? Do you know my face ?\nYou don't belong here ?"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1303, "texte": "Joiner : Five miles off I live.\nWoman : Ah .... [Her talk seems meant to cover some feeling.\nThey are pretty work, your stairs:\nThey look too white in this curst filthy room;\na mind where the dirty world has lived and slept,\nBut still remembering in midst of the soil\nSome childish morning spent in games and laughter\nUnder a blowing orchard.— he is still silent.\nAy, queer to find fresh work in such a place.\nIs the house set then to a new-comer ?\nWho will first climb your stairs ? A girl, maybe,\nUpon her wedding night. She'll slip away\nFrom off her husband's knees, and dance up swift,\nGiggling shy and happily afraid,\nAnd the house falls quiet of their talk ; and then\nThe old joists creak as she moves in her undressing;\nThen the lad slinks up after, like a robber.\nJoiner : It's strange ! A little while before you came,\nIt was with just that fancy I was idling.\nWoman : I warrant, you yourself were the lad, then.\nJoiner [simply) : Yes.\nWoman : And the girl ?\nJoiner : I don't know—rightly—\nWoman : Which to choose ?\nJoiner : O long ago I made my choice : and yet—\nI have not seen her.\nWoman (after a little pause) : I could dream once myself.—\n[ Then amused at his simplicity :\nBut will you know her — What would you say if I\nWent up those stairs of yours ?"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1065, "texte": "Joiner (startled, staring at her) : You ? You ?\nI did not think you were putting fun upon me.\nWoman (looking back at him with amused bitterness) :\nIndeed, you are in the right:\nI am naught to visit a young man's dreams.\nBut I was gibing at myself, not you :\nI mind my manners : beggars thrive by them.\nJoiner (gently) : Are you begging your way ?\nWoman : Yes ; I want food.\nJoiner: If you'll come home with me—\nWoman : Five miles away !\nNo, I will warm myself, and something dry\nThe heavy moisture that has made my skirts\nRasp the skin off my ankles.—Were the old stairs\nRotten past mending ?\nJoiner: Crumbling into holes.\nNo nature left in the wood but must and dry-rot:\nI knockt 'em into powder. The old man,\nWho lived here by himself, was coming down,\nAnd caught his heel at top ; the tread broke through,\nTript his footing—\nWoman (repressing eagerness) : And he hurt himself ?\nJoiner: Smasht his wicked old back bone.\nWoman : Why, you seem\nTo hate the man.\nJoiner: A gallows snarling tyke.\nWoman : What had you against him ?"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1254, "texte": "Joiner: He would have known what\nIf I'd had chance to bring his wicked blood\nBlushing about his ears.\nWoman : There's a bold fellow ;\nTo wish he could have boxt an old man's ears!\nJoiner: No ; but I would have had such words for him,\nHis wizened heart had been ashamed.\nWoman: Why, then,\nHappen the old man might have boxt your ears !\nJoiner : Ay, have your game with me : but if he'd been\nA giant with a rage like a burning demon's,\nI would have faced his wildness.\nWoman : Well, he's dead,\nAnd talk's an easy thing. But I've heard tell—\nFor on the road, young man, your ears find out\nNoises from every corner in the land—\nI've heard he was a terrible fierce old fellow.\nJoiner : Likely enough.\nYou'ld hear, too, of the scoundrel thing he did\nUpon his daughter : you could scarce miss that;\nThe villainous sound of it must be ranging still.\nWoman: But what seems loud to you among these hills,\nAnd a rough splash in a quiet creek of life,\nWill hardly push a little shaking whisper\nInto the air of the broad troubled world.—\nWas it a pretty wench ?\nJoiner : Why, you'ld be bound,\nIf she were here, to think there's none in all\nThe room of the land could show their beauty off,\nBut only as lighting matches in the sun."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1333, "texte": "Woman : I would be bound to think so !\nJoiner : Yes : she'ld come,\nIvike you, suppose now, out of the windy rain;\nShe'ld have been tussling with its force against her\nlike a young girl laughing with her brother\nBecause he plays mock-ruffian ; and the game\nWould shine still in her eyes as she came in;\nAnd she'ld be walking lightly with the glee\nWould seem to sing in her body, all so thrilled\nFrom the wind's pouring through her dress. It would\nBe strange to see her, a strange and lovely thing\nTo see her coming back here after all.\nWoman (laughing) : This is a wonder! And so she's your fancy,\nThe girl so friendly to your loneliness!\nI'll hurt myself with laughing ! This is the girl\nWho slipt away from whispering in the firelight\nTo run with pretty laughter up your stairs ?\nJoiner : Well, if she is ?\nWoman : Isn't it queer you know\nJust how the girl would look ?\nJoiner : I'ld swear to her !\nWoman : And it's a minute gone, you said your eyes\nHad never lived upon her!—\nJoiner : You've made me a fool now, I suppose. You're welcome.\nBut I was bound to talk so, being so long\nHere in the house, that somehow must, I'm sure,\nRemember her—the timber and the stone\nThat felt the sound of her laughter and her ways—\nWoman : O let's have little of that.—Why did you play\nThis lying game on me ?"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1254, "texte": "Joiner (amazed) : Why did I play— ?\nWoman (standing up) : Iyies ! Iyies ! What were all your lies for ?\n\\\nJoiner (catching her anger) : How will a roadster know the lies\n[from truth,\nWho has to lie for her eating, lie for her lodging,\nAnd the whole gear of her life is lies ?\nWoman : It's true :\nWe lie for needs : you for a fleering scoff.\nJoiner : You've had no harm from me; and let your tongue\nMake sure of this, so long as we're in talk :\nThis girl, and the way the thought of her has grown\nWithin my brain— O, like rivers pouring\nFull from the flooded hills,—\nWoman : You'll lose yourself\nBragging her up so handsome ; I'll help you out:\nThis is the thing you mean ? —\nIt would be like a hand with grimy fingers\nMeddling in the fine make of a clock, to let\nTalk common as mine touch your fancying\nThat goes so smooth and chimes to you so dainty.\nWell, I'll believe 'tis fancies, and not lies :\nBut I must have my laugh at them.\nJoiner : Yes, laugh, laugh ;\nIt's pretty joking.—There's a girl grows up\nBeautiful and sweet hearted : and there comes\nA rogue sneaking into her innocence,\nWheedling and living there; and she, dear fool,\nComforting him; and he blabbing abroad\nThe simple way her love had askt him in."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1288, "texte": "Woman : Did he do that ?\nJoiner : Yes, such a blackguard he was.\nBut how would a girl so happy know his mind\nWas just a muddy puddle ?—She'ld only see\nThe face of her own love there, looking back.—\nWoman : The pitiful fool. Ah, but it's fools you like.\nJoiner : You'ld like the folk who went about to stir\nThat wild brute of anger in her father,\nAnd pitcht their buzzing jeers just loud enough\nTo startle it, and make it savage her.\nThey quickly had him crazed. Soon as he hears\nThe village sniggering its dirty gossip,\nAnd knows his daughter's come to trouble and danger\nWoman : Through being a pitiful fool—\nJoiner : He thrashes her,\nThrashes her, and rails her out of the house,\nChilding as she was : and heavily\nTo trudge after the slinking runagate\nWho fouled her, the poor lass must go alone.—\nFive years ago it would be. O, if I d heard,\nShe need not have gone crying into hiding!\nAnd lightly I learnt the tale of it all at first:\nBut it slipt over my mind like a noosed wire\nThat snares a rabbit's neck, and the peg fails,\nAnd puss goes free : the gin has not left go,\nBut tightens still and cankers into her life.\nJust so the story of how they shamed the girl\nClung like a loop of wire and gnawed its hold\nUpon my mind: whenever I work alone,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1348, "texte": "I'm thinking of the world breaking her spirit,\nAnd turning into misery the heart\nThat was so blithe and singing.\nWell, here's for you to laugh at. Why don't you laugh ?\nWoman : I'm thinking of that old man, left alone\nWith shame upon his age, and dying alone.\nJoiner : And she has none to think of her but me !\nEven the thought of kindness keeps itself\nSafe from a life like hers, as rats will jump\nIn harbour from a boat fierce weather has strained.\nWoman : Somebody told you that too ?—\nYou have the brave life, always among notions !\nBut you're not fair to rats. What have they done\nThat you should liken them to charity ?\nThis would be better: Vermin crawling out\nFrom the clothes of a beggar's corpse, soon as they feel\nThe warmth of their lodging chill. I have not lived\nIn notions, but in seeing things ; that's one :\nCold morning, a white road, and at the side\nA tramp lies dead of starving, and all round him\nUgh ! [Her voice begins to accuse him.\nAnd I've a mind to stop you cockering\nYour halfling blood. What right have you to be\nSo brave and comfortable with your dreams\nOf that lost fool—you always in a house—\nWhile she, the truth of them, goes broad awake\nIn agony ?\nJoiner: Wouldn't I do her all\nThe good a man can think of ? Why must you gibe ?\nIt's only that she's gone, she's never heard of."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1243, "texte": "Woman : She might come back.\nJoiner: Be sure I'll know of it.\nWoman : Yes, I believe you will.\nThen what will you do with her ?\nJoiner : What's that to you ?\nWoman : Why, I should know what you will do with me.\nCome now ; you must have thought it out.\nJoiner : With you ?\nYou mean . . . ? Are you for fooling me again ?\nWoman : And bitter fooling now. lam the girl.\nJoiner : You're not. You can't be. Often I've heard tell—\nWoman : Of pretty looks and laughing ways. Five years\nOf following a tramping labourer\nWill alter that. This baby's not the first,\nThe other two are dead. And I've been chapt,\nAnd I've been tired out, and clemm'd and burnt\nWith walking through the winds and the hot days;\nIt's just a frame I am beneath my clothes.\nYou made your fancy of my spirit breaking;\nThe fancy would have been too wise to live\nIf it had heeded how my body fared\nOut there on the road, ageing and grieving.—\nWonderful, isn't it, how dreams come true ?\nJoiner : You're clever with your wiles. You've tript me up\nOnce already; but I'm not caught this time.\nWoman : Ay, but you are ; you're trapt and floundering.\nIyisten : I'll prove myself. What would bring me here ?\nThe road ends in the nowhere of the hills;"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1356, "texte": "A blind man's feet could tell that from the ruts\nAnd the sward that's all across it. Why should I come\nSuch an unlikely way, with hunger on me\nNo longer anguish, but a load, a load ?\nI came to find my father.— O my pride\nI've eaten long since; and poor meat it was,\nNo stay in it for me or for my bairn.—\nI thought my dad might pay a shilling or two\nFor the sight of me still in my misery;\nOr maybe only a morsel; that would do—\nStop me starving my baby. Nowhere else\nDare we be asking, or chance showing ourselves;\nFor we go cunning as stoats, my man and I:\nAnyone looking at us may be the law.\nJoiner : You're escaping the law ?— It was not you,\nI'll vow, that did the wrong.\nWoman : I did my share.\nYou mind these rick-fires, kept the nights aglow\nFor near a week, until the rain set in?—\nIt might have been the nights they have in the north\nAmong the foundries, where they smelt the iron,\nAnd furnaces keep glaring at the clouds\nTill it's like red hot weather above the darkness.—\nI reckon we had you watching the sky! Bach night\nA blazing rick, ten or twelve miles from the last!—\nHe swore held rouse the land. No one at all\nWould give us jobs—a tramp and his homeless doxy.\nAnd a queer time I had with him and his fists;\nTill the rage seemed to addle in his brain,\nAnd he could think of naught but stacks to fire."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1276, "texte": "But he'll be tried for blood as well as burning,\nIf it's the truth we heard. A shippen caught\nAnd sent the blaze along its thatch to the house;\nAnd in the scare there was a child forgot\nThat slept alone in the attic.— Well, my boy\nIs like to be clemm'd for his death : it's all one,\nHunger and cold, or fire.— I hope the lad\nWas stifled first, though; I've been praying that.\nJoiner : And it's you telling me this, as calm as news\nOf prices at the market!\nWoman : Now do you see ?\nI've put myself clean into your mercy.\nWould I have riskt your mind, without I were\nYour own fine dream rousing you into daylight ?—\nThis takes you down from your fool'd life, I think!\nSo will you give us up, my man and I ?\nHe's known for his talk: there'll be a cry abroad\nAfter us, I'll be bound.— You'll not, I know;\nBecause I am your lovely dream come true.—\nSurely 'tis time you were pleased.\nJoiner: O let me be!\nGive me a little while to breathe myself.\nWoman: Indeed\nIt goes up hill, out of a dream to truth.\nBut I've come down a little; I thought to find\nMy old angry father; and I find you !—\nNow, are we right yet ? Or shall I tell you where\nThe stairs were rotted worst ?— Third from top :\nHalf of it flimsy and soft as blanket, half\nGaping open."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1381, "texte": "Joiner : Ay, there the old brute tript.\nWoman : And with him died our last poor chance of food.\nWe'd best be off now, baby. [But she makes no attempt to go. A\nshort pause ; then she laughs.\nJoiner : Will you forgive me ?\nWoman : What, for making me\nYour fancy game ?— I've had worse things to carry.\nJoiner : O make an end of that talk !—lt's the truth\nI have at last, after all my dreaming.\nWoman : I'll lay, it seems like when they scorch a pig\nAfter a killing!— Rubbish of straw and waste\nFlares high and bold in a wind of golden flame\nAnd streaking sparks—a young man's mind of fancies.\nThen 'tis a mound of smoulder, crumbling in\nTo show parcht awkward trotters sticking up,\nFlap ears and senseless snouted head, and all\nThe poor pig's blacken'd hulk : and there's the truth\nWas hid inside a young man's burning dreams!—\nWell, I am not the sop I was ; there is\nA dry side to me now. So I'll be kind\nAnd take the truth I am out of your sight.\nJoiner : I let you go ? You think that's likely yet ?\nWoman (uneasy) : Are you for doing like the fool shown up\nWho braves his folly out by staying in it ?\nJoiner : You shall stay in it, too !— It goes up hill,\nYou said, the way out of my dream ; uphill\nAnd the sun behind the hill! And now I've climbed\nWhere nothing stops the light, not even dreams.\nWe'll not get higher than this, either of us."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1319, "texte": "If we can't hold now to our meeting here,\nHere on the top of life, where every side\nIs a slope falling, 'tis for both of us\nFrom this on going downward into shadows,\nNever again to be in sight or hail.\nWoman : If I'm not gone quickly, we're both in danger.\nJoiner : Will you not dare believe my meaning ?\nWoman : No.\nI'll only think, \" Suppose, suppose he meant it! \"—\nJoiner : Why, we're awake, and the dream still crying aloud!\nWoman : You close your mind to it. No hurt in dreams;\nBut this that sounds so drawing—safer would be\nA viper hissing. 'Tis the truth of the world\nPersuading you to come into its reach.\nJoiner : And the sound's drawing you !\nWoman : O, I must hear\nEverything I have lost—everything\nThat is not the old cunning torturer,\nThe world's merciless truth!— You Id never keep me\nSafe from the world in hiding of your dreams;\nThe world would come for me, and strike you there.—\nI to be looking for a dream again,\nAnd you for truth to please you like your dreams\nIt would be a wild-hearted game to play !\nJoiner : I did not mean it for a game, the while\nI've been as good to my mind as to the steel\nI work with, all for the sake of finding you :\nRusted metal, you know, may be wrought clean\nAs glass, but the rust lies within, for ever\nSpoiling the finest temper."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1091, "texte": "Woman : Can you not see\nThe rust of the world has eaten to my heart ?\nJoiner : Can you not see that my main life has been\nKnowing of you held by the handl ng world\nAll as it likes, and I the one to wring\nThe vile grasp off from you ? Don't make my life\nBreak its promise to me, so nearly kept!—\nI have gone hungry for this hour.\nWoman: And I,\nHave I not hunger'd ? Thank your God you kept\nYour hunger empty. I famisht, and was fed\nOn filthy poison, worse than being starved.\n— I never thought to have a mind again\nThat need not be ashamed of being alive!—\nYou do not mean I should—love you ?\nJoiner : No, no ;\nWe are not bargaining.\nWoman: I doubt I could not,\nBven if I were wishing to.—\nIvisten to me. Think God is eyeing you,\nAnd tell me fairly, 'tis a man's set mind\nYou have to—help me.\nJoiner : I'll make you another life !\n'Tis your say now.\nWoman : Sometimes it might be,\nIn the hot dusty drouth of afternoon,\nWe'ld pass a byre, and hear the milkers chat,—\nGirls laughing,—and spirted milk r ng in the cans.\nOr plodding stupidly on in windy dark,"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1089, "texte": "Our steps would sound against a cottage wall\nSleeping beside the lane : lld lean on it;\nWarmth would be in it; lld think of a drowzy fire\nInside the house, and hear the crickets chime.\nYoung man, I'll risk you ! Let us be off, quick,\nKlse hell be coming in on us.\nJoiner : He ? Who ?\nWoman : The man that was my man.\nJoiner : He's nothing now.\nWoman : He was my man.\nJoiner: No need to think of him.-\nI've naught to say but—thank you.\nWoman : Thank me ?\nJoiner: Yes!\nNow I've a thing to do at last.\nWoman: But you,\nNever you look to have me thanking you ;\nFor that might set me telling what I've been,\nThe shame I have been, the dirt!— You must not know it.\n(With a gesture) O but if there is something in the world\nThat can do good, and listens when 'tis called,\nI shall be asking it to stay with you;\nYou have made room for me where never again\nI thought to live.— It goes beyond my thanks.\nJoiner: There's stumbling outside, coming up the path.\nWoman : We should have gone before this!—'Tis my man.\nThe Tramp comes in.\nTramp : Now where's the food ?"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1152, "texte": "Woman : My father's dead, they tell me.\nTramp : I don't want your father ; I'm for eating.\nYou said there'ld be food here.\nWoman : 'Tis not my fault;\nHow could I know if he were gone or living ?\nTramp : O, you keep on like a parrot. Food's the thing.\nWoman : A thing you'll have to walk some further for.\nTramp : Why did you turn us here ? To play hot-cockles\nSafe with a lad ?\nJoiner (to the Woman) : You're not to talk with him.\nTramp : Not talk ?—She'll have to talk about the food\nShe made out we'ld be having here. Where is it ?\nWoman : Are you fuddled ? There's none here.\nTramp : None, by God !\nNot a bite ?\nWoman : Not a bite.\nTramp (going towards her) : Then take your lesson!\nYou'll feel my ten commandments now : you'll learn\nThe way of them by heart. [The woman, standing up, instinctively\npicks up the baby and holds it as her\nProtection.\nLay the brat down !\nPut down that bastard, or he'll grow up lame\nAs you'll be when I've done you.\n[She lays the baby down and faces him.\nAy, that's wiser:\nYou mind what came of that trick once ?—And now\nI'll twinge your arm till it crackles.\nWoman : No, not that!"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1233, "texte": "Joiner : I've payed out rope enough. I'll fasten it now\nTaut, and you've hung yourself.—Round on your heels\nAnd out of doors !\nTramp : This isn't your ado ;\nKeep out.\nJoiner : You march now : I'll not bid you again.\nTramp : Have I to down you first before I tan\nMy woman ? Do you call that fair ? It's low.\nI'm hunger-starved and done—just enough heart\nin me for lathering her; and you\nPush in, you with your belly crammed and good:\nIt's low ! Stand off and be an Englishman.\nJoiner : You're too long standing. Will you have your teeth\nSo quaked in your head, you'll never chew again\nHappily ? Off out of this !\nTramp (half whimpering with weakness and anger) : Mate, fair play.\nToo bad it is. She cheats me of a meal\nAnd should be taught right. Ay, and you'ld have seen,\nIf she had kept her word and found me meat,\nI am a man when I'm fed could do for you\nAnd lick her finely as well out of her lies:\nA job for each hand that. But now—\nThere's nothing fair in the world, after this!\nJoiner : You'll have it then ?\nTramp (in a rage) : And empty as Ibe\n111 match you : win or lose, she'll pay me for it\nWhen we're alone.\nWoman {looking out through the open door): Have you been showing\n[yourself ?"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1049, "texte": "Tramp (apprehensive at once) : What is it now ?\nWoman : Three men, mighty cautious,\nAnd almost here.\nTramp : They'll not find me. [Making for the door.\nWoman: You fool,\nThey're right in front.\nTramp : You bitch, you have me trapt!\n0 I will need to go into hard training\nIf I'm to pay you the fair price for this !\nWoman : Ay, shout to them \" Here's your man ! \"\nTramp : What will I do ?—\nUp the stairs and out of a window and off,\nThat's my road. [He goes upstairs.\nWoman : There's the first to take your stairs\nJoiner : And a good use for them ; it quits us of him.\nThree Men come in (1, 2, & 3.)\n1. Ay, there he is !\n2. The man !\n3. The very man !\n1 markt him well, nosing the taproom whiff\nBeside the door, and fearing to go in.\n1. You see his cunning ?\n2. Why, he's washt his face !\n3. 'Tis that! I thought he lookt another man !\n1. But not this way you'll put off eyes like ours.\nWoman : O will they take him ?— I'd not plotted that!\nJoiner : Ay, the thing plans itself, once we can hold\nTheir crazy pother."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1008, "texte": "Woman : Keep them blundering\nA while, a little while !\n2. We'll have to go\nCarefully about him.\n3. Ay, 'tis a face\nWith gallows in it. When I saw him leant\nBeside the taproom door, with his eyes cadging,\nI thought, \" There's a slaughtering visnomy! \"\n1. I've no notion at all of seeing him hanged\nFor murdering me.\n2. Young fellow, own to yourself!\nYou're the rick-burner.\n3. Ay, and he burnt a lad.\nJoiner: Do hold your blathering a bit and hear me.\nOr if you won't, see this. [Holding up a hammer.\n1. He means battery !\n2. Dreadful things can be done with a hammer.\n3. When he\nThat uses it is wild and knows the way\nThrough your skull and into your brain.\nJoiner : Do stop !\nlam the joiner here. Yonder's my work,\nThe staircase. And the man you want has bolted\nUp to the loft, and you have him caged and safe.\n1. Are there weapons upstairs ?\nJoiner: Go on and take him.\nThe room's bare boards and walls, and he's as weak\nWith famishing as a fly.\n2. Well, if you're sure"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1027, "texte": "You're not the man\n3- No, no ; I saw right off\nHe had the look of someone else.\n1. {Marshalling them at the staircase) Now for it!\n2. Mind the reward that's posted for him !\n3- Charge!\n[ They rush up the stairs.\nJoiner : This falls out well. Here's an easy riddance,\nAnd the way smooth from here.\nWoman : Were you not told\nTo break out larger windows in the attics ?\nThey're cruel small!\nJoiner : Cruel and small indeed\nTo one who thinks of squeezing his escape\nThrough one of them.— But I can hear they have him.\n[The three men come down with the Tramp.\n1. The man for certain this time.\nTramp : Copt! Copt!\nWoman : We couldn't flee for ever. Is it far,\nThe way to the jail ? They'll give us food there, likely.\n2 {to the Woman). What, are you coming too ?\nWoman : Yes, I'm coming.\n3. Were you in with his burnings ?\nWoman : They are mine\nAs much as his. I screened his light from draughts.\nJoiner : He made her do it \\—{to the Woman) There's no need for\nTramp : Copt is the word ! [this !"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1004, "texte": "Woman : And I am glad it's over.\nJoiner : It's over right enough ; the whole black time\nIs over now. Must you see him to jail ?\nHow can you make your duty such a thing ?\nWoman : You'll never want a flatterer, young man,\nNot while your own tongue lives. Who said I made\nGoing with him my duty ?\n1. Settle your mind\nAnd choose your man, missis : come on or stay.\nWoman : And you talk civil, mister ! Choose my man !\nJoiner {to the Tramp) : You will not drag her with you ?\nWoman : O, you have\nQueer sense in you ! Who's dragging me at all ?\nJoiner {to the Tramp) : Have you not had enough of injuring her ?\nGo off from her at last!\nTramp : Copt! Fair copt!\nWoman : Thank you for lending me your fire, young man.\n{to the men) Not budging yet ? [They begin to go out.\nBless my wits, I was leaving you the brat!\nIs it still raining ? I must lap him well:\nThere is a trouble in his breath already.\n[When the Joiner is left alone and the door closed,\nthe curtain comes down."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "192", "page_fin": "192", "image_debut": 43, "image_fin": 43, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "THE ORPHANS", "titre_sommaire": "THE ORPHANS", "signature_source": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 642, "texte": "THE ORPHANS\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nAt five o'clock one April morn\nI met them making tracks,\nYoung Benjamin and Abel Horn,\nWith bundles on their backs.\nYoung Benjamin is seventy-five,\nYoung Abel, seventy-seven—\nThe oldest innocents alive\nBeneath that April heaven.\nI asked them why they trudged about\nWith crabby looks and sour—\n\" And does your mother know you're out\nAt this unearthly hour ? \"\nThey stopped: and scowling up at me\nKach shook a grizzled head,\nAnd swore ; and then spat bitterly,\nAs with one voice they said:\n\" Homeless, about the country-side\nWe never thought to roam;\nBut mother, she has gone and died,\nAnd broken up the home.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "193", "page_fin": "193", "image_debut": 44, "image_fin": 44, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "THE PESSIMIST", "titre_sommaire": "THE PESSIMIST", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 23, "fin_caractere_exclue": 395, "texte": "THE PESSIMIST\nHis body bulged with puppies—little eyes\nPeeped out of every pocket, black and bright;\nAnd with as innocent, round-eyed surprise\nHe watched the glittering traffic of the night.\n\" What this world's coming to I cannot tell,\"\nHe muttered, as I passed him, with a whine—\n\" Things surely must be making slap for hell,\nWhen no one wants these little dogs of mine.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "194", "page_fin": "194", "image_debut": 45, "image_fin": 45, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "GIRL'S SONG", "titre_sommaire": "GIRL'S SONG", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 486, "texte": "GIRL'S SONG\nI saw three black pigs riding\nIn a blue and yellow cart—\nThree black pigs riding to the fair\nBehind the old grey dappled mare—\nBut it wasn't black pigs riding\nIn a gay and gaudy cart\nThat sent me into hiding\nWith a flutter in my heart.\nI heard the cart returning,\nThe jolting jingling cart—\nReturning empty from the fair\nBehind the old jog-trotting mare—\nBut it wasn't the returning\nOf a clattering, empty cart\nThat sent the hot blood burning\nAnd throbbing through my heart."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "195", "page_fin": "196", "image_debut": 46, "image_fin": 47, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "THE OLD NAIL-SHOP", "titre_sommaire": "THE OLD NAIL-SHOP", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1104, "texte": "THE OLD NAIL-SHOP\nI dreamt of wings,—and waked to hear\nThrough the low sloping ceiling clear\nThe nesting starlings flutter and scratch\nAmong the rafters of the thatch,\nNot twenty inches from my head;\nAnd lay, half-dreaming, in my bed,\nWatching the far elms, bolt-upright\nBlack towers of silence in a night\nOf stars, square-framed between the sill\nOf the casement and the eaves, until\nI drowsed, and must have slept a wink . . .\nAnd wakened to a ceaseless clink\nOf hammers ringing on the air . . .\nAnd, somehow, only half-aware,\nI'd risen, and crept down the stair,\nBewildered by strange, smoky gloom,\nUntil I'd reached the living-room\nThat once had been a nailshop-shed.\nAnd where my hearth had blazed, instead\nI saw the nail-forge glowing red;\nAnd, through the stife and smoky glare,\nThree dreaming women standing there\nWith hammers beating red-hot wire\nOn tinkling anvils, by the fire,\nTo ten-a-penny nails; and heard—\nThough none looked up or breathed a word—\nThe song each heart sang to the tune\nOf hammers, through a Summer's noon,\nWhen they had wrought in that red glow,\nAlive, a hundred years ago—"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 41, "fin_caractere_exclue": 350, "texte": "The song of girl and wife and crone,\nSung in the heart of each alone . . .\nThe dim-eyed crone with nodding head—\n\" He's dead; and I'll, too, soon be dead.\"\nThe grave-eyed mother, gaunt with need—\n\" Another little mouth to feed! \"\nThe black-haired girl, with eyes alight—\n\"I'll wear the yellow beads to-night.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "197", "page_fin": "203", "image_debut": 48, "image_fin": 54, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "THE SHAFT", "titre_sommaire": "THE SHAFT", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 23, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1331, "texte": "THE SHAFT\nTHE SHAFT\nHe must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould seem\nHe'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit,\nAfter his lamp ... Or was it all a dream\nThat he'd nigh reached the cage—his new lamp lit\nAnd swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad\nTo think the shift was over—when he'd tripped\nAnd stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad\nHis mother called him; and his lamp had slipped\nAnd smashed to smithereens; and left him there\nIn pitchy dark, half-stunned, and with barked shins ?\nHe'd cursed his luck; although he didn't care,\nNot overmuch ; you suffered for your sins ;\nAnd, anyway, he must be nigh the shaft;\nAnd he could fumble his way out somehow,\nIf he were last, and none came by. 'Twas daft\nTo do a trick like thon.\nAnd even now\nHis mother would be waiting. How she'ld laugh\nTo hear about it! She was always game\nFor fun, she was, and such a one for chaff.\nA fellow had no chance. But 'twas the same\nWith women always; you could never tell\nWhat they'ld be at, or after saying next;\nThey'd such queer, tricky tongues; and it was well\nFor men to let them talk when they were vext—\nAlthough, his mother, she was seldom cross.\nBut she'ld be wondering now, ay, that she would—\nHands folded in her apron, at a loss\nTo know what kept him, even now she stood,\nBiting her lips, held warrant. She aye bit"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "Her lips till they were white when things went wrong.\nShe'd never liked his taking to the pit,\nAfter his father'd .. . Ay, and what a song\nShe'ld make . . . and supper cold ! It must be late.\nThe last on the last shift! After to-day\nThe pit was being laid idle. Jack, his mate,\nHad left him tidying, hurrying away,\nTo back . . . And no night-shift . . .\nIf that cursed lamp\nHad not gone out . . . But that was hours ago—\nHow many hours he couldn't tell. The cramp\nWas in his thighs. And what could a lad know\nWho'd crawled for hours upon his hands and knees\nThrough miles on miles of hot, black, dripping night\nOf low-roofed, unfamiliar galleries ?\nHe'ld give a hundred pound to stand upright\nAnd stretch his legs a moment: but, somehow,\nHe'd never reached a refuge, though he'd felt\nThe walls on either hand. He'd bumped his brow\nTill he was dizzy. And the heat would melt\nThe marrow in his bones. And yet he'd gone\nA dozen miles at least, and hadn't found\nEven a crossway. On and on and on\nHe'd crawled, and crawled ; and never caught a sound\nSave water dripping, dripping, or the creak\nOf settling coal. If he could only hear\nHis own voice even; but he dared not speak\nAbove a whisper . . .\nThere was naught to fear;\nAnd he was not afraid of aught, not he !\nHe would come on a shaft, before he knew."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1379, "texte": "He couldn't miss. The longest gallery\nMust end somewhere or other; though 'twas true\nHe hadn't guessed the drift could be so long.\nIf he had not come straight ... If he had turned,\nUnknowing, in the dark ... If he'd gone wrong\nOnce, then why not a dozen times! It burned\nHis very heart to tinder, just to think\nThat he, maybe, was crawling round and round\nAnd round and round, and hadn't caught a blink\nOf light at all, or hadn't heard a sound . . .\n'Twas queer, gey queer . . .\nOr was he going daft,\nAnd only dreaming he was underground\nIn some black pit of hell, without a shaft—\nJust one long gallery that wound and wound,\nWhere he must crawl for ever with the drip\nOf lukewarm water drumming on his back . . .\n'Twas nightmare, surely, had him in its grip.\nHis head was like to split, his spine to crack . . .\nIf he could only call, his mother'ld come\nAnd shake him; and he'ld find himself in bed . . .\nShe'ld joke his fright away . . . But he was dumb,\nAnd couldn't shout to save himself . . . His head\nSeemed full of water, dripping, dripping, dripping . . .\nAnd he, somehow, inside it—huge and dark\nHis own skull soared above him . . . He kept slipping,\nAnd clutching at the crumbling walls ... A spark\nFlared suddenly; and to a blood-red blaze\nHis head was bursting ; and the pain would break . . .\n'Twas solid coal he'd run against, adaze"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1320, "texte": "Coal, sure enough. And he was broad awake,\nAnd crawling still through that unending drift\nOf some old working, long disused. He'd known\nThat there were such. If he could only lift\nHis head a moment; but the roof of stone\nCrushed low upon him. A gey narrow seam\nHe must be in,—and bad to work : no doubt\nThat's why 'twas given up. Held like to scream,\nHis cut knees hurt so sorely; but a shout\nMight bring the crumbling roof down on his head,\nAnd squash him flat.\nIf he could only creep\nBetween the cool white sheets of his own bed,\nAnd turn towards the wall, and sleep, and sleep—\nAnd dream, maybe, of pigeons soaring high,\nTurning and tumbling in the morning light,\nWith wings ashimmer in a cloudless sky.\nHe'ld give the world to see a bonnie flight\nOf his own pigeons rise with flapping wings,\nSoaring and sweeping almost out of sight,\nTill he was dizzy, watching the mad things\nTossing and tumbling at that dazzling height.\nAy, and his homers, too—if they'd come in,\nHe hoped his mother'd fed them. They would be\nFair famished after such a flight, and thin.\nBut she would feed them, sure enough; for she\nLiked pigeons, too—would stand there at the door\nWith arms akimbo, staring at the blue,\nHer black eyes shining as she watched them soar,\nWithout a word, till they were out of view."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1330, "texte": "And how she laughed to hear them scold and pout,\nRuffle and fuss—like menfolk, she would say,\nNobody knowing what 'twas all about,\nAnd least of all themselves. That was her way,\nTo joke and laugh the tantrums out of him.\nHe'ld tie his neckerchief before the glass;\nAnd she'ld call him her pigeon, Peter Prim,\nPreening himself, she'ld say, to meet his lass—\nThough he'd no lass, not he! A scarf well tied,\nNo gaudy colours, just a red or yellow,\nWas what he fancied. What harm if he tried\nTo keep himself respectable! A fellow—\nThough womenfolk might laugh and laugh . . .\nAnd now\nHe wondered if he'ld hear her laugh again\nWith hands on hips and sparkling eyes. His brow\nSeemed clampt with red-hot iron bands; and pain\nShot red-hot needles through his legs—his back,\nA raw and aching spine that bore the strain\nOf all the earth above him: the dead black\nUnending clammy night blinding his brain\nTo a black blankness shot with scarlet streaks\nOf searing lightning; and he scarcely knew\nIf he'd been crawling hours, or days, or weeks . . .\nAnd now the lightning glimmered faintly blue,\nAnd gradually the blackness paled to grey:\nAnd somewhere, far ahead, he caught the gleam\nOf light, daylight, the very light of day,\nDay, dazzling day!\nThank God, it was no dream.\nHe felt a cooler air upon his face;"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1327, "texte": "And scrambling madly for some moments more\nThough centuries it seemed, he reached the place\nWhere through the chinks of the old crumbling door\nOf a disused upcast-shaft, grey ghostly light\nStrained feebly, though it seemed the sun's own blaze\nTo eyes so long accustomed to the night\nAnd peering blindly through that pitchy maze.\nThe door dropped from its hinges—and upright\nHe stood, at last, bewildered and adaze,\nIn a strange dazzling world of flowering white.\nPlumed snowy fronds and delicate downy sprays,\nFantastic as the feathery work of frost,\nDrooped round him from the wet walls of the shaft—\nA monstrous growth of mould, huge mould. And lost\nIn wonder he stood gaping; and then laughed\nTo see that living beauty—quietly\nHe laughed to see it: and awhile forgot\nAll danger. He would tell his mother: she\nWould scarce know whether to believe or not,—\nBut laugh to hear how, when he came on it,\nIt dazzled him. If she could only see\nThat fluffy white—come on it from the pit,\nSnow-white as fantails' feathers, suddenly\nAs he had, she'ld laugh too: she . . .\nIcy cold\nShot shuddering through him, as he stept beneath\nA trickle. He looked up. That monstrous mould\nFrightened him; and he stood with chattering teeth,\nSeeming to feel it growing over him\nAlready, shutting out the fleck of sky"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 33, "fin_caractere_exclue": 495, "texte": "That up the slimy shaft gleamed far and dim.\n'T would flourish on his bones when he should lie\nForgotten in the shaft. Its clammy breath\nWas choking him already. He would die,\nAnd no one know how he'd come by his death. . .\nDank, cold mould growing slowly. By and by\n'Twould cover him; and not a soul to tell . . .\nWith a wild cry he tried to scramble out,\nClutching the wall . . . Mould covered him ... He fell,\nAs, close at hand, there came an answering shout."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[205]", "page_fin": "[205]", "image_debut": 56, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Lascelles Abercrombie", "titre_sommaire": "Lascelles Abercrombie", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "[205]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 58, "fin_caractere_exclue": 132, "texte": "Lascelles Abercrombie\nRupert Brooke\nJohn Drink water\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 58, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "CONTENTS", "titre_sommaire": "CONTENTS", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 757, "texte": "CONTENTS\nLascelles Abercrombie\nEnd of the World No. 2 Page\nInnocents, The No.\nOlympians, The No. 1 » 31\nStaircase, The No. 4 » 170\nRupert Brooke\nA Memory No. 1 PaSe\nGreat Lover, The No. 3 ~ 114\nHauntings No. 3 ~ lis\nheaven No. 2 „ 100\nMutability No. 1 ~ 30\nOne Day No. 1 „ 29\nPeace No. „\nRetrospect iNO- 6 »\nSafety No. 4 „ 166\nSonnet No. 1 ~\nThe Dead ... ... ••• ••• ••• No. 4 ~ 167\nThe Soldier No. 4 „ 169\nThe Treasure No. 4 „ 164\nTiare Tahiti No. 3 ~ 109\nWaikiki ... ••• ••• ••• ••• No. 3 ~117\nJohn Drinkzvater\nA Town Window ... ... ••• ••• No. 1 Page 58\nBoundaries, The ... ••• ••• ••• No. 1 ~ 57\nCarver in Stone, The No. 4 „ 153\nMove's House No. 2 ~ 97\nMemory No. 1 ~ 59\nNew Miracle No. 1 „ 5b\nPoet to His Mistress, The No. 1 „ 55\nStorm, The No. 3 ~ 119"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 22, "fin_caractere_exclue": 389, "texte": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson\nA Catch for Singing No. 2 Page 101\nBix>odybush Edge No. 1 „ 5\nGiri/s Song No. 4 194\nGorse, The No. 2 ~107\nGreeting, The No. 2 „ 103\nHoops No. 3 ~135\n*CE' Ihe No. 2 „ 105\nOld Nail-Shop, The ... No 4 IQS\nOn Hampstead Heath I' No.' 2 104\nOrphans, The No 4 192\nPessimist, The No! 4 193\nShaft, The No 4 IQ7\nTram, The ] No! 2 I 102\nWheei^s No. 3 „ 132"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-12-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 59, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 180, "fin_caractere_exclue": 744, "texte": "Books by the same writers.\nBy LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE\nInterludes and Poems ... 1908.\nMary and the Bramble 1910.\nThe Sale of St. Thomas ... 1911. (out of print)\nEmblems of Love ••• 1912.\nDeborah 1913.\nBy RUPERT BROOKE\nPoems 1911.\nBy JOHN DRINKWATER\nLyrical and Other Poems ... 1908. (out of print)\nPoems of Men and Hours ... 1911.\nCophetua - - - * ••• 1911.\nPoems oi Love and Earth ... 1912.\nCromwell and Other Poems 1913.\nRebellion 1914.\nBy WILFRID WILSON GIBSON\nDaily Bread - - - ••• 1910.\nFires • - ... 1912.\nBorderlands - - - ••• 1914.\nThoroughfares - - ••• 1914."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.1", "texte": "*■;' - - - - ; 1\"•\nA , . ' O*' ' •s, ■ \" , — \" ' J- - , -\n'■ \" r ; \" J\" -* * ,■ - - \" ~ v - v\" \"' -\n.\nVolume I\nrn T 112 M\nNumber 4.\n-\nDecember, 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[151]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.2", "texte": "NEW NUMBERS"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[152]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.3", "texte": "New Numbers\nPUBLISHED AT\nRYTON, DYMOCK, GLOUCESTER.\n\nA Quarterly Publication of the Poems of\nJohn Drink water\nRupert Brooke\nLascelles Abercrombie\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.4", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n(To E. M.)\nHe was a man with wide and patient eyes,\nGray, like the drift of twitch-fires blown in June,\nThat, without fearing, searched if any wrong\nMight threaten from your heart. Gray eyes he had\nUnder a brow was drawn because he knew\nSo many seasons to so many pass\nOf upright service, loyal, unabased\nBefore the world seducing, and so, barren\nOf good words praising and thought that mated his.\nHe carved in stone. Out of his quiet life\nHe watched as any faithful seaman charged\nWith tidings of the myriad faring sea,\nAnd thoughts and premonitions through his mind\nSailing as ships from strange and storied lands\nHis hungry spirit held, till all they were\nFound living witness in the chiselled stone.\nSlowly out of the dark confusion, spread\nBy life's innumerable venturings\nOver his brain, he would triumph into the light\nOf one clear mood, unblemished of the blind\nLegions of errant thought that cried about\nHis rapt seclusion : as a pearl unsoiled,\nNay, rather washed to lonelier chastity,\nIn gritty mud. And then would come a bird,\nA flower, or the wind moving upon a flower,\nA beast at pasture, or a clustered fruit,\nA peasant face as were the saints of old,\nThe leer of custom, or the bow of the moon\nSwung in miraculous poise—some stray from the world\nOf things created by the eternal mind"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.5", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nIn joy articulate. And his perfect mood\nWould dwell about the token of God's mood,\nUntil in bird or flower or moving wind\nOr flock or shepherd or the troops of heaven\nIt sprang in one fierce moment of desire\nTo visible form.\nThen would his chisel work among the stone,\nPersuading it of petal or of limb\nOr starry curve, till risen anew there sang\nShape out of chaos, and again the vision\nOf one mind single from the world was pressed\nUpon the daily custom of the sky\nOr field or the body of man.\nHis people\nHad many gods for worship. The tiger-god,\nThe owl, the dewlapped bull, the running pard,\nThe camel and the lizard of the slime,\nThe ram with quivering fleece and fluted horn,\nThe crested eagle and the doming bat\nWere sacred. And the king and his high priests\nDecreed a temple, wide on columns huge,\nShould top the cornlands to the sky's far line.\nThey bade the carvers carve along the walls\nImages of their gods, each one to carve\nAs he desired, his choice to name his god. . . .\nAnd many came ; and he among them, glad\nOf three leagues' travel through the singing air\nOf dawn among the boughs yet bare of green,\nThe eager flight of the spring leading his blood\nInto swift lofty channels of the air,"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.6", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nProud as an eagle riding to the sun. . . .\nAn eagle, clean of pinion—there's his choice.\nDaylong they worked under the growing roof,\nOne at his leopard, one the staring ram,\nAnd he winning his eagle from the stone,\nUntil each man had carved one image out,\nArow beyond the portal of the house.\nThey stood arow, the company of gods,\nCamel and bat, lizard and bull and ram,\nThe pard and owl, dead figures on the wall,\nFigures of habit driven on the stone\nBy chisels governed by no heat of the brain\nBut drudges of hands that moved by easy rule.\nProudly recorded mood was none, no thought\nPlucked from the dark battalions of the mind\nAnd throned in everlasting sight. But one\nGod of them all was witness of belief\nAnd large adventure dared. His eagle spread\nWide pinions on a cloudless ground of heaven,\nGlad with the heart's high courage of that dawn\nMoving upon the ploughlands newly sown,\nDead stone the rest. He looked, and knew it so.\nThen came the king with priests and counsellors\nAnd many chosen of the people, wise\nWith words weary of custom, and eyes askew\nThat watched their neighbour face for any news\nOf the best way of judgment, till, each sure\nNone would determine with authority,\nAll spoke in prudent praise. One liked the owl"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.7", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkzoater\n\nBecause an owl blinked on the beam of his barn.\nOne, hoarse with crying gospels in the street,\nPraised most the ram, because the common folk\nWore breeches made of ram's wool. One declared\nThe tiger pleased him best,—the man who carved\nThe tiger-god was halt out of the womb—\nA man to praise, being so pitiful.\nAnd one, whose eyes dwelt in a distant void,\nWith spell and omen pat upon his lips,\nAnd a purse for any crystal prophet ripe,\nA zealot of the mist, gazed at the bull—\nA lean ill-shapen bull of meagre lines\nThat scarce the steel had graved upon the stone—\nSaying that here was very mystery\nAnd truth, did men but know. And one there was\nWho praised his eagle, but remembering\nThe lither pinion of the swift, the curve\nThat liked him better of the mirrored swan.\nAnd they who carved the tiger-god and ram,\nThe camel and the pard, the owl and bull,\nAnd lizard, listened greedily, and made\nHumble denial of their worthiness,\nAnd when the king his royal judgment gave\nThat all had fashioned well, and bade that each\nRe-shape his chosen god along the walls\nTill all the temple boasted of their skill,\nThey bowed themselves in token that as this\nNever had carvers been so fortunate.\nOnly the man with wide and patient eyes\nMade no denial, neither bowed his head."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.8", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nAlready while they spoke his thought had gone\nFar from his eagle, leaving it for a sign\nIvoyally wrought of one deep breath of life,\nAnd played about the image of a toad\nThat crawled among his ivy leaves. A queer\nPuff-bellied toad, with eyes that always stared\nSidelong at heaven and saw no heaven there,\nWeak-hammed, and with a throttle somehow twisted\nBeyond full wholesome draughts of air, and skin\nOf wrinkled lips, the only zest or will\nThe little flashing tongue searching the leaves.\nAnd king and priest, chosen and counsellor,\nBabbling out of their thin and jealous brains,\nSeemed strangely one; a queer enormous toad\nPanting under giant leaves of dark,\nSunk in the loins, peering into the day.\nTheir judgment wry he counted not for wrong\nMore than the fabled poison of the toad\nStriking at simple wits; how should their thought\nOr word in praise or blame come near the peace\nThat shone in seasonable hours above\nThe patience of his spirit's husbandry ?\nThey foolish and not seeing, how should he\nSpend anger there or fear—great ceremonies\nEqual for none save great antagonists ?\nThe grave indifference of his heart before them\nWas moved by laughter innocent of hate,\nChastising clean of spite, that moulded them\nInto the antic likeness of his toad\nBidding for laughter underneath the leaves."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.9", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nHe bowed not, nor disputed, but he saw\nThose ill-created joyless gods, and loathed,\nAnd saw them creeping, creeping round the walls,\nDeath breeding death, wile witnessing to wile,\nAnd sickened at the dull iniquity\nShould be rewarded, and for ever breathe\nContagion on the folk gathered in prayer.\nHis truth should not be doomed to march among\nThis falsehood to the ages. He was called,\nAnd he must labour there; if so the king\nWould grant it, where the pillars bore the roof\nA galleried way of meditation nursed\nSecluded time, with wall of ready stone\nIn panels for the carver set between\nThe windows—there his chisel should be set,—\nIt was his plea. And the king spoke of him,\nScorning, as one lack-fettle, among all these\nKager to take the riches of renown ;\nOne fearful of the light or knowing nothing\nOf light's dimension, a witling who would throw\nHonour aside and praise spoken aloud\nAll men of heart should covet. him go\nGrubbing out of the sight of these who knew\nThe worth of substance; there was his proper trade.\nA squat and curious toad indeed. . . . The eyes,\nPatient and grey, were dumb as were the lips,\nThat, fixed and governed, hoarded from them all\nThe larger laughter lifting in his heart.\nStraightway about his gallery he moved,\nMeasured the windows and the virgin stone,"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.10", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nTill all was weighed and patterned in his brain.\nThen first where most the shadow struck the wall,\nUnder the sills, and centre of the base,\nFrom floor to sill out of the stone was wooed\nMemorial folly, as from the chisel leapt\nHis chastening laughter searching priest and king—\nA huge and wrinkled toad, with legs asplay,\nAnd belly loaded, leering with great eyes\nBusily fixed upon the void.\nAll days\nHis chisel was the first to ring across\nThe temple's quiet; and at fall of dusk\nPassing among the carvers homeward, they\nWould speak of him as mad, or weak against\nThe challenge of the world, and let him go\nIyonely, as was his will, under the night\nOf stars or cloud or summer's folded sun,\nThrough crop and wood and pastureland to sleep.\nNone took the narrow stair as wondering\nHow did his chisel prosper in the stone,\nUnvisited his labour and forgot.\nAnd times when he would lean out of his height\nAnd watch the gods growing along the walls,\nThe row of carvers in their linen coats\nTook in his vision a virtue that alone\nCarving they had not nor the thing they carved.\nKnowing the health that flowed about his close\nImagining, the daily quiet won\nFrom process of his clean and supple craft,\nThose carvers there, far on the floor below,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.11", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nWould haply be transfigured in his thought\nInto a gallant company of men\nGlad of the strict and loyal reckoning\nThat proved in the just presence of the brain\nEach chisel-stroke. How surely would he prosper\nIn pleasant talk at easy hours with men\nSo fashioned if it mightbband his eyes\nWould pass again to those dead gods that grew\nIn spreading evil round the temple walls;\nAnd, one dead pressure made, the carvers moved\nAlong the wall to mould and mould again\nThe self-same god, their chisels on the stone\nTapping in dull precision as before,\nAnd he would turn, back to his lonely truth.\nHe carved apace. And first his people's gods,\nAbout the toad, out of their sterile time,\nUnder his hand thrilled and were recreate.\nThe bull, the pard, the camel and the ram,\nTiger and owl and bat—all were the signs\nVisibly made body on the stone\nOf sightless thought adventuring the host\nThat is mere spirit; these the bloom achieved\nBy secret labour in the flowing wood\nOf rain and air and wind and continent sun. . . .\nHis tiger, lithe, immobile in the stone,\nA swift destruction for a moment leashed,\nSprang crying from the jealous stealth of men\nOpposed in cunning watch, with engines hid\nOf torment and calamitous desire.\nHis leopard, swift on lean and paltry limbs,"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.12", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkzvater\n\nWas fear in flight before accusing faith.\nHis bull, with eyes that often in the dusk\nWould lift from the sweet meadow grass to watch\nHim homeward passing, bore on massy beam\nThe burden of the patient of the earth.\nHis camel bore the burden of the damned,\nBeing gaunt, with eyes aslant along the nose.\nHe had a friend, who hammered bronze and iron\nAnd cupped the moonstone on a silver ring,\nOne constant like himself, would come at night\nOr bid him as a guest, when they would make\nTheir poets touch a starrier height, or search\nTogether with unparsimonious mind\nThe crowded harbours of mortality.\nAnd there were jests, wholesome as harvest ale,\nOf homely habit, bred of hearts that dared\nJudgment of laughter under the eternal eye:\nThis frolic wisdom was his carven owl.\nHis ram was lordship on the lonely hills,\nAlert and fleet, content only to know\nThe wind mightily pouring on his fleece,\nWith yesterday and all unrisen suns\nPoorer than disinherited ghosts. His bat\nWas ancient envy made a mockery,\nCowering below the newer eagle carved\nAbove the arches with wide pinion spread,\nHis faith's dominion of that happy dawn.\nAnd so he wrought the gods upon the wall,\nIyiving and crying out of his desire,\nOut of his patient incorruptible thought,"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.13", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nWrought them in joy was wages to his faith.\nAnd other than the gods he made. The stalks\nOf bluebells heavy with the news of spring,\nThe vine loaded with plenty of the year,\nAnd swallows, merely tenderness of thought\nBidding the stone to small and fragile flight;\nleaves, the thin relics of autumnal boughs,\nOr massed in June. . . .\nAll from their native pressure bloomed and sprang\nUnder his shaping hand into a proud\nAnd governed image of the central man,—\nTheir moulding, charts of all his travelling.\nAnd all were deftly ordered, duly set\nBetween the windows, underneath the sills,\nAnd roofward, as a motion rightly planned,\nTill on the wall, out of the sullen stone,\nA glory blazed, his vision manifest,\nHis wonder captive. And he was content.\nAnd when the builders and the carvers knew\nTheir labour done, and high the temple stood\nOver the cornlands, king and counsellor\nAnd priest and chosen of the people came\nAmong a ceremonial multitude\nTo dedication. And, below the thrones\nWhere king and archpriest ruled above the throng,\nHighest among the ranked artificers\nThe carvers stood. And when, the temple vowed\nTo holy use, tribute and choral praise\nGiven as was ordained, the king looked down\nUpon the gathered folk, and bade them see"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.14", "texte": "THE CARVER IN STONE\nJohn Drinkwater\n\nThe comely gods fashioned about the walls,\nAnd keep in honour men whose precious skill\nCould so adorn the sessions of their worship,\nGravely the carvers bowed them to the ground.\nOnly the man with wide and patient eyes\nStood not among them; nor did any come\nTo count his labour, where he watched alone\nAbove the coloured throng. He heard, and looked\nAgain upon his work, and knew it good,\nSmiled on his toad, passed down the stair unseen,\nAnd sang across the teeming meadows home."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.15", "texte": "THE TREASURE\nRupert Brooke\nWhen colour goes home into the eyes,\nAnd lights that shine are shut again\nWith dancing girls and sweet birds' cries\nBehind the gateways of the brain;\nAnd that no-place which gave them birth, shall close\nThe rainbow and the rose:—\nStill may Time hold some golden space\nWhere 111 unpack that scented store\nOf song and flower and sky and face,\nAnd count, and touch, and turn them o'er,\nMusing upon them; as a mother, who\nHas watched her children all the rich day through,\nSits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,\nWhen children sleep, ere night."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.16", "texte": "Rupert Brooke\n\n1914\nI\nPEACE\nNow, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,\nAnd caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,\nWith hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,\nTo turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,\nGlad from a world grown old and cold and weary,\nLeave the sick hearts that honour could not move,\nAnd half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,\nAnd all the little emptiness of love !\nOh ! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,\nWhere there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,\nNaught broken save this body, lost but breath;\nNothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there\nBut only agony, and that has ending,\nAnd the worst friend and enemy is but Death."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.17", "texte": "1914\nRupert Brooke\n\nII\nSAFETY\nDear! of all happy in the hour, most blest\nHe who has found our hid security,\nAssured in the dark tides of the world that rest,\nAnd heard our word, \" Who is so safe as we ?\nWe have found safety with all things undying,\nThe winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,\nThe deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,\nAnd sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.\nWe have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.\nWe have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.\nWar knows no power. Safe shall be my going,\nSecretly armed against all death's endeavour ;\nSafe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;\nAnd if these poor limbs die, safest of all."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.18", "texte": "1914\nRupert Brooke\n\nIII\nTHE DEAD.\nBlow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!\nThere's none of these so lonely and poor of old,\nBut, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.\nThese laid the world away ; poured out the red\nSweet wine of youth ; gave up the years to be\nOf work and joy, and that unhoped serene,\nThat men call age; and those who would have been,\nTheir sons, they gave, their immortality.\nBlow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,\nHoliness, lacked so long, and L,ove, and Pain.\nHonour has come back, as a king, to earth,\nAnd paid his subjects with a royal wage;\nAnd Nobleness walks in our ways again;\nAnd we have come into our heritage."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.19", "texte": "19J4\nRupert Brooke\n\nIV\nTHE DEAD\nThese hearts were woven of human joys and cares,\nWashed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.\nThe years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,\nAnd sunset, and the colours of the earth.\nThese had seen movement, and heard music; known\nSlumber and waking ; loved ; gone proudly friended ;\nFelt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;\nTouched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is]fended\nThere are waters blown by changing winds to laughter\nAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,\nFrost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance\nAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a white\nUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,\nA width, a shining peace, under the night."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.20", "texte": "1914\nRubert Brooke\n\nV\nTHE SOLDIER\nIf I should die, think only this of me :\nThat there's some corner of a foreign field\nThat is for ever England. There shall be\nIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;\nA dust whom Kngland bore, shaped, made aware,\nGave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,\nA body of England's, breathing English air,\nWashed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.\nAnd think, this heart, all evil shed away,\nA pulse in the eternal mind, no less\nGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;\nHer sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;\nAnd laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,\nIn hearts at peace, under an English heaven."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.21", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\nA small room in an empty cottage, without furniture. Stone floor;\ndirty ragged paper on walls. The room is littered with bits of sawn\nwood, shavings, tools ; a joiner's frail lies on the floor. Door to the\nopen air on right; in the back wall an old kitchen range, with a good\nfire burning. A young joiner is alone in the room; he has been\nputting in a new staircase, which is all but finished; the new wood,\nclean and white, shows up amid the dingy room.\nThe Joiner (looking at his work : in a sort of chant)\nHammer and nails, gimlet and screws,\nBradawl, chisel, mallet and plane,\nA will to work, and health in my thews,\nAnd season'd wood of a good clean grain\nShaping under my hands and skill,\nAnd obeying my master-will\n(Speaking)\nAnd I alone: that's the best of it here.—\nThese book-read folks won't beat that song of mine,\nI warrant. I'll have a right tune for it some day:\nHammer and nails, gimlet and screws,\nBradawl, chisel, mallet and plane,\nA will to work\nThe outer door is pusht open, and a woman comes\nin, tired and worn, wet through, with a long shabby\ncloak on her. She stands a moment gazing round the\nroom.\nWoman: Alone ?\nWas it you buzzing to yourself I heard ?\nGrumbling for company ?\nThe young man stares at her and answers mechanically\nJoiner : For company ? lld liever keep to myself.\nWoman : Dreaming aloud, then ?— Ay, cleverest thing"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.22", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nTo do against the world, for sure, is dreaming.\nBut it needs shelter.— Well, go on dreaming.\nI'll borrow your warmth awhile ; the drench of the rain\nIs dribbling down my skin inside my clothes\nCold as worms.\nShe sits by the fire, opens her cloak, and shows she\nis holding a baby. She begins to suckle it.\nJoiner : You've got a baby !\nWoman : Well done, young man !\nYou know a thing or two : a baby it is.—\nFinish your job, and I'll keep on at mine.\nJoiner : I'm all but done here now.\nWoman : What were you at ?\nJoiner : Framing the new stairs. Are you travelling ?\nWoman : Travelling and travelling ; still walking.\nJoiner : A strange place for you to be walking, here.\nWoman : I'll swear to that: strange and miserable.\nNot such another road in Christendom\nFor wind that's carrying a cruel rain\nTo get the better of your heart.\nJoiner: I mean,\nThe road goes nowhere, but to these few huts\nThat stick against the hillside.\nWoman : I know that—\nNow I am here I know it.— But at least\nThe road has brought me to your fire. Young man,\nWhy do you stare so ? Do you know my face ?\nYou don't belong here ?"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.23", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner : Five miles off I live.\nWoman : Ah .... [Her talk seems meant to cover some feeling.\nThey are pretty work, your stairs:\nThey look too white in this curst filthy room;\na mind where the dirty world has lived and slept,\nBut still remembering in midst of the soil\nSome childish morning spent in games and laughter\nUnder a blowing orchard.— he is still silent.\nAy, queer to find fresh work in such a place.\nIs the house set then to a new-comer ?\nWho will first climb your stairs ? A girl, maybe,\nUpon her wedding night. She'll slip away\nFrom off her husband's knees, and dance up swift,\nGiggling shy and happily afraid,\nAnd the house falls quiet of their talk ; and then\nThe old joists creak as she moves in her undressing;\nThen the lad slinks up after, like a robber.\nJoiner : It's strange ! A little while before you came,\nIt was with just that fancy I was idling.\nWoman : I warrant, you yourself were the lad, then.\nJoiner [simply) : Yes.\nWoman : And the girl ?\nJoiner : I don't know—rightly—\nWoman : Which to choose ?\nJoiner : O long ago I made my choice : and yet—\nI have not seen her.\nWoman (after a little pause) : I could dream once myself.—\n[ Then amused at his simplicity :\nBut will you know her — What would you say if I\nWent up those stairs of yours ?"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.24", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner (startled, staring at her) : You ? You ?\nI did not think you were putting fun upon me.\nWoman (looking back at him with amused bitterness) :\nIndeed, you are in the right:\nI am naught to visit a young man's dreams.\nBut I was gibing at myself, not you :\nI mind my manners : beggars thrive by them.\nJoiner (gently) : Are you begging your way ?\nWoman : Yes ; I want food.\nJoiner: If you'll come home with me—\nWoman : Five miles away !\nNo, I will warm myself, and something dry\nThe heavy moisture that has made my skirts\nRasp the skin off my ankles.—Were the old stairs\nRotten past mending ?\nJoiner: Crumbling into holes.\nNo nature left in the wood but must and dry-rot:\nI knockt 'em into powder. The old man,\nWho lived here by himself, was coming down,\nAnd caught his heel at top ; the tread broke through,\nTript his footing—\nWoman (repressing eagerness) : And he hurt himself ?\nJoiner: Smasht his wicked old back bone.\nWoman : Why, you seem\nTo hate the man.\nJoiner: A gallows snarling tyke.\nWoman : What had you against him ?"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.25", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner: He would have known what\nIf I'd had chance to bring his wicked blood\nBlushing about his ears.\nWoman : There's a bold fellow ;\nTo wish he could have boxt an old man's ears!\nJoiner: No ; but I would have had such words for him,\nHis wizened heart had been ashamed.\nWoman: Why, then,\nHappen the old man might have boxt your ears !\nJoiner : Ay, have your game with me : but if he'd been\nA giant with a rage like a burning demon's,\nI would have faced his wildness.\nWoman : Well, he's dead,\nAnd talk's an easy thing. But I've heard tell—\nFor on the road, young man, your ears find out\nNoises from every corner in the land—\nI've heard he was a terrible fierce old fellow.\nJoiner : Likely enough.\nYou'ld hear, too, of the scoundrel thing he did\nUpon his daughter : you could scarce miss that;\nThe villainous sound of it must be ranging still.\nWoman: But what seems loud to you among these hills,\nAnd a rough splash in a quiet creek of life,\nWill hardly push a little shaking whisper\nInto the air of the broad troubled world.—\nWas it a pretty wench ?\nJoiner : Why, you'ld be bound,\nIf she were here, to think there's none in all\nThe room of the land could show their beauty off,\nBut only as lighting matches in the sun."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.26", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : I would be bound to think so !\nJoiner : Yes : she'ld come,\nIvike you, suppose now, out of the windy rain;\nShe'ld have been tussling with its force against her\nlike a young girl laughing with her brother\nBecause he plays mock-ruffian ; and the game\nWould shine still in her eyes as she came in;\nAnd she'ld be walking lightly with the glee\nWould seem to sing in her body, all so thrilled\nFrom the wind's pouring through her dress. It would\nBe strange to see her, a strange and lovely thing\nTo see her coming back here after all.\nWoman (laughing) : This is a wonder! And so she's your fancy,\nThe girl so friendly to your loneliness!\nI'll hurt myself with laughing ! This is the girl\nWho slipt away from whispering in the firelight\nTo run with pretty laughter up your stairs ?\nJoiner : Well, if she is ?\nWoman : Isn't it queer you know\nJust how the girl would look ?\nJoiner : I'ld swear to her !\nWoman : And it's a minute gone, you said your eyes\nHad never lived upon her!—\nJoiner : You've made me a fool now, I suppose. You're welcome.\nBut I was bound to talk so, being so long\nHere in the house, that somehow must, I'm sure,\nRemember her—the timber and the stone\nThat felt the sound of her laughter and her ways—\nWoman : O let's have little of that.—Why did you play\nThis lying game on me ?"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.27", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner (amazed) : Why did I play— ?\nWoman (standing up) : Iyies ! Iyies ! What were all your lies for ?\n\\\nJoiner (catching her anger) : How will a roadster know the lies\n[from truth,\nWho has to lie for her eating, lie for her lodging,\nAnd the whole gear of her life is lies ?\nWoman : It's true :\nWe lie for needs : you for a fleering scoff.\nJoiner : You've had no harm from me; and let your tongue\nMake sure of this, so long as we're in talk :\nThis girl, and the way the thought of her has grown\nWithin my brain— O, like rivers pouring\nFull from the flooded hills,—\nWoman : You'll lose yourself\nBragging her up so handsome ; I'll help you out:\nThis is the thing you mean ? —\nIt would be like a hand with grimy fingers\nMeddling in the fine make of a clock, to let\nTalk common as mine touch your fancying\nThat goes so smooth and chimes to you so dainty.\nWell, I'll believe 'tis fancies, and not lies :\nBut I must have my laugh at them.\nJoiner : Yes, laugh, laugh ;\nIt's pretty joking.—There's a girl grows up\nBeautiful and sweet hearted : and there comes\nA rogue sneaking into her innocence,\nWheedling and living there; and she, dear fool,\nComforting him; and he blabbing abroad\nThe simple way her love had askt him in."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.28", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : Did he do that ?\nJoiner : Yes, such a blackguard he was.\nBut how would a girl so happy know his mind\nWas just a muddy puddle ?—She'ld only see\nThe face of her own love there, looking back.—\nWoman : The pitiful fool. Ah, but it's fools you like.\nJoiner : You'ld like the folk who went about to stir\nThat wild brute of anger in her father,\nAnd pitcht their buzzing jeers just loud enough\nTo startle it, and make it savage her.\nThey quickly had him crazed. Soon as he hears\nThe village sniggering its dirty gossip,\nAnd knows his daughter's come to trouble and danger\nWoman : Through being a pitiful fool—\nJoiner : He thrashes her,\nThrashes her, and rails her out of the house,\nChilding as she was : and heavily\nTo trudge after the slinking runagate\nWho fouled her, the poor lass must go alone.—\nFive years ago it would be. O, if I d heard,\nShe need not have gone crying into hiding!\nAnd lightly I learnt the tale of it all at first:\nBut it slipt over my mind like a noosed wire\nThat snares a rabbit's neck, and the peg fails,\nAnd puss goes free : the gin has not left go,\nBut tightens still and cankers into her life.\nJust so the story of how they shamed the girl\nClung like a loop of wire and gnawed its hold\nUpon my mind: whenever I work alone,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.29", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nI'm thinking of the world breaking her spirit,\nAnd turning into misery the heart\nThat was so blithe and singing.\nWell, here's for you to laugh at. Why don't you laugh ?\nWoman : I'm thinking of that old man, left alone\nWith shame upon his age, and dying alone.\nJoiner : And she has none to think of her but me !\nEven the thought of kindness keeps itself\nSafe from a life like hers, as rats will jump\nIn harbour from a boat fierce weather has strained.\nWoman : Somebody told you that too ?—\nYou have the brave life, always among notions !\nBut you're not fair to rats. What have they done\nThat you should liken them to charity ?\nThis would be better: Vermin crawling out\nFrom the clothes of a beggar's corpse, soon as they feel\nThe warmth of their lodging chill. I have not lived\nIn notions, but in seeing things ; that's one :\nCold morning, a white road, and at the side\nA tramp lies dead of starving, and all round him\nUgh ! [Her voice begins to accuse him.\nAnd I've a mind to stop you cockering\nYour halfling blood. What right have you to be\nSo brave and comfortable with your dreams\nOf that lost fool—you always in a house—\nWhile she, the truth of them, goes broad awake\nIn agony ?\nJoiner: Wouldn't I do her all\nThe good a man can think of ? Why must you gibe ?\nIt's only that she's gone, she's never heard of."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.30", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : She might come back.\nJoiner: Be sure I'll know of it.\nWoman : Yes, I believe you will.\nThen what will you do with her ?\nJoiner : What's that to you ?\nWoman : Why, I should know what you will do with me.\nCome now ; you must have thought it out.\nJoiner : With you ?\nYou mean . . . ? Are you for fooling me again ?\nWoman : And bitter fooling now. lam the girl.\nJoiner : You're not. You can't be. Often I've heard tell—\nWoman : Of pretty looks and laughing ways. Five years\nOf following a tramping labourer\nWill alter that. This baby's not the first,\nThe other two are dead. And I've been chapt,\nAnd I've been tired out, and clemm'd and burnt\nWith walking through the winds and the hot days;\nIt's just a frame I am beneath my clothes.\nYou made your fancy of my spirit breaking;\nThe fancy would have been too wise to live\nIf it had heeded how my body fared\nOut there on the road, ageing and grieving.—\nWonderful, isn't it, how dreams come true ?\nJoiner : You're clever with your wiles. You've tript me up\nOnce already; but I'm not caught this time.\nWoman : Ay, but you are ; you're trapt and floundering.\nIyisten : I'll prove myself. What would bring me here ?\nThe road ends in the nowhere of the hills;"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.31", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nA blind man's feet could tell that from the ruts\nAnd the sward that's all across it. Why should I come\nSuch an unlikely way, with hunger on me\nNo longer anguish, but a load, a load ?\nI came to find my father.— O my pride\nI've eaten long since; and poor meat it was,\nNo stay in it for me or for my bairn.—\nI thought my dad might pay a shilling or two\nFor the sight of me still in my misery;\nOr maybe only a morsel; that would do—\nStop me starving my baby. Nowhere else\nDare we be asking, or chance showing ourselves;\nFor we go cunning as stoats, my man and I:\nAnyone looking at us may be the law.\nJoiner : You're escaping the law ?— It was not you,\nI'll vow, that did the wrong.\nWoman : I did my share.\nYou mind these rick-fires, kept the nights aglow\nFor near a week, until the rain set in?—\nIt might have been the nights they have in the north\nAmong the foundries, where they smelt the iron,\nAnd furnaces keep glaring at the clouds\nTill it's like red hot weather above the darkness.—\nI reckon we had you watching the sky! Bach night\nA blazing rick, ten or twelve miles from the last!—\nHe swore held rouse the land. No one at all\nWould give us jobs—a tramp and his homeless doxy.\nAnd a queer time I had with him and his fists;\nTill the rage seemed to addle in his brain,\nAnd he could think of naught but stacks to fire."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.32", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nBut he'll be tried for blood as well as burning,\nIf it's the truth we heard. A shippen caught\nAnd sent the blaze along its thatch to the house;\nAnd in the scare there was a child forgot\nThat slept alone in the attic.— Well, my boy\nIs like to be clemm'd for his death : it's all one,\nHunger and cold, or fire.— I hope the lad\nWas stifled first, though; I've been praying that.\nJoiner : And it's you telling me this, as calm as news\nOf prices at the market!\nWoman : Now do you see ?\nI've put myself clean into your mercy.\nWould I have riskt your mind, without I were\nYour own fine dream rousing you into daylight ?—\nThis takes you down from your fool'd life, I think!\nSo will you give us up, my man and I ?\nHe's known for his talk: there'll be a cry abroad\nAfter us, I'll be bound.— You'll not, I know;\nBecause I am your lovely dream come true.—\nSurely 'tis time you were pleased.\nJoiner: O let me be!\nGive me a little while to breathe myself.\nWoman: Indeed\nIt goes up hill, out of a dream to truth.\nBut I've come down a little; I thought to find\nMy old angry father; and I find you !—\nNow, are we right yet ? Or shall I tell you where\nThe stairs were rotted worst ?— Third from top :\nHalf of it flimsy and soft as blanket, half\nGaping open."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.33", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner : Ay, there the old brute tript.\nWoman : And with him died our last poor chance of food.\nWe'd best be off now, baby. [But she makes no attempt to go. A\nshort pause ; then she laughs.\nJoiner : Will you forgive me ?\nWoman : What, for making me\nYour fancy game ?— I've had worse things to carry.\nJoiner : O make an end of that talk !—lt's the truth\nI have at last, after all my dreaming.\nWoman : I'll lay, it seems like when they scorch a pig\nAfter a killing!— Rubbish of straw and waste\nFlares high and bold in a wind of golden flame\nAnd streaking sparks—a young man's mind of fancies.\nThen 'tis a mound of smoulder, crumbling in\nTo show parcht awkward trotters sticking up,\nFlap ears and senseless snouted head, and all\nThe poor pig's blacken'd hulk : and there's the truth\nWas hid inside a young man's burning dreams!—\nWell, I am not the sop I was ; there is\nA dry side to me now. So I'll be kind\nAnd take the truth I am out of your sight.\nJoiner : I let you go ? You think that's likely yet ?\nWoman (uneasy) : Are you for doing like the fool shown up\nWho braves his folly out by staying in it ?\nJoiner : You shall stay in it, too !— It goes up hill,\nYou said, the way out of my dream ; uphill\nAnd the sun behind the hill! And now I've climbed\nWhere nothing stops the light, not even dreams.\nWe'll not get higher than this, either of us."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.34", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nIf we can't hold now to our meeting here,\nHere on the top of life, where every side\nIs a slope falling, 'tis for both of us\nFrom this on going downward into shadows,\nNever again to be in sight or hail.\nWoman : If I'm not gone quickly, we're both in danger.\nJoiner : Will you not dare believe my meaning ?\nWoman : No.\nI'll only think, \" Suppose, suppose he meant it! \"—\nJoiner : Why, we're awake, and the dream still crying aloud!\nWoman : You close your mind to it. No hurt in dreams;\nBut this that sounds so drawing—safer would be\nA viper hissing. 'Tis the truth of the world\nPersuading you to come into its reach.\nJoiner : And the sound's drawing you !\nWoman : O, I must hear\nEverything I have lost—everything\nThat is not the old cunning torturer,\nThe world's merciless truth!— You Id never keep me\nSafe from the world in hiding of your dreams;\nThe world would come for me, and strike you there.—\nI to be looking for a dream again,\nAnd you for truth to please you like your dreams\nIt would be a wild-hearted game to play !\nJoiner : I did not mean it for a game, the while\nI've been as good to my mind as to the steel\nI work with, all for the sake of finding you :\nRusted metal, you know, may be wrought clean\nAs glass, but the rust lies within, for ever\nSpoiling the finest temper."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.35", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : Can you not see\nThe rust of the world has eaten to my heart ?\nJoiner : Can you not see that my main life has been\nKnowing of you held by the handl ng world\nAll as it likes, and I the one to wring\nThe vile grasp off from you ? Don't make my life\nBreak its promise to me, so nearly kept!—\nI have gone hungry for this hour.\nWoman: And I,\nHave I not hunger'd ? Thank your God you kept\nYour hunger empty. I famisht, and was fed\nOn filthy poison, worse than being starved.\n— I never thought to have a mind again\nThat need not be ashamed of being alive!—\nYou do not mean I should—love you ?\nJoiner : No, no ;\nWe are not bargaining.\nWoman: I doubt I could not,\nBven if I were wishing to.—\nIvisten to me. Think God is eyeing you,\nAnd tell me fairly, 'tis a man's set mind\nYou have to—help me.\nJoiner : I'll make you another life !\n'Tis your say now.\nWoman : Sometimes it might be,\nIn the hot dusty drouth of afternoon,\nWe'ld pass a byre, and hear the milkers chat,—\nGirls laughing,—and spirted milk r ng in the cans.\nOr plodding stupidly on in windy dark,"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.36", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nOur steps would sound against a cottage wall\nSleeping beside the lane : lld lean on it;\nWarmth would be in it; lld think of a drowzy fire\nInside the house, and hear the crickets chime.\nYoung man, I'll risk you ! Let us be off, quick,\nKlse hell be coming in on us.\nJoiner : He ? Who ?\nWoman : The man that was my man.\nJoiner : He's nothing now.\nWoman : He was my man.\nJoiner: No need to think of him.-\nI've naught to say but—thank you.\nWoman : Thank me ?\nJoiner: Yes!\nNow I've a thing to do at last.\nWoman: But you,\nNever you look to have me thanking you ;\nFor that might set me telling what I've been,\nThe shame I have been, the dirt!— You must not know it.\n(With a gesture) O but if there is something in the world\nThat can do good, and listens when 'tis called,\nI shall be asking it to stay with you;\nYou have made room for me where never again\nI thought to live.— It goes beyond my thanks.\nJoiner: There's stumbling outside, coming up the path.\nWoman : We should have gone before this!—'Tis my man.\nThe Tramp comes in.\nTramp : Now where's the food ?"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.37", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercromhie\n\nWoman : My father's dead, they tell me.\nTramp : I don't want your father ; I'm for eating.\nYou said there'ld be food here.\nWoman : 'Tis not my fault;\nHow could I know if he were gone or living ?\nTramp : O, you keep on like a parrot. Food's the thing.\nWoman : A thing you'll have to walk some further for.\nTramp : Why did you turn us here ? To play hot-cockles\nSafe with a lad ?\nJoiner (to the Woman) : You're not to talk with him.\nTramp : Not talk ?—She'll have to talk about the food\nShe made out we'ld be having here. Where is it ?\nWoman : Are you fuddled ? There's none here.\nTramp : None, by God !\nNot a bite ?\nWoman : Not a bite.\nTramp (going towards her) : Then take your lesson!\nYou'll feel my ten commandments now : you'll learn\nThe way of them by heart. [The woman, standing up, instinctively\npicks up the baby and holds it as her\nProtection.\nLay the brat down !\nPut down that bastard, or he'll grow up lame\nAs you'll be when I've done you.\n[She lays the baby down and faces him.\nAy, that's wiser:\nYou mind what came of that trick once ?—And now\nI'll twinge your arm till it crackles.\nWoman : No, not that!"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.38", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nJoiner : I've payed out rope enough. I'll fasten it now\nTaut, and you've hung yourself.—Round on your heels\nAnd out of doors !\nTramp : This isn't your ado ;\nKeep out.\nJoiner : You march now : I'll not bid you again.\nTramp : Have I to down you first before I tan\nMy woman ? Do you call that fair ? It's low.\nI'm hunger-starved and done—just enough heart\nin me for lathering her; and you\nPush in, you with your belly crammed and good:\nIt's low ! Stand off and be an Englishman.\nJoiner : You're too long standing. Will you have your teeth\nSo quaked in your head, you'll never chew again\nHappily ? Off out of this !\nTramp (half whimpering with weakness and anger) : Mate, fair play.\nToo bad it is. She cheats me of a meal\nAnd should be taught right. Ay, and you'ld have seen,\nIf she had kept her word and found me meat,\nI am a man when I'm fed could do for you\nAnd lick her finely as well out of her lies:\nA job for each hand that. But now—\nThere's nothing fair in the world, after this!\nJoiner : You'll have it then ?\nTramp (in a rage) : And empty as Ibe\n111 match you : win or lose, she'll pay me for it\nWhen we're alone.\nWoman {looking out through the open door): Have you been showing\n[yourself ?"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.39", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nTramp (apprehensive at once) : What is it now ?\nWoman : Three men, mighty cautious,\nAnd almost here.\nTramp : They'll not find me. [Making for the door.\nWoman: You fool,\nThey're right in front.\nTramp : You bitch, you have me trapt!\n0 I will need to go into hard training\nIf I'm to pay you the fair price for this !\nWoman : Ay, shout to them \" Here's your man ! \"\nTramp : What will I do ?—\nUp the stairs and out of a window and off,\nThat's my road. [He goes upstairs.\nWoman : There's the first to take your stairs\nJoiner : And a good use for them ; it quits us of him.\nThree Men come in (1, 2, & 3.)\n1. Ay, there he is !\n2. The man !\n3. The very man !\n1 markt him well, nosing the taproom whiff\nBeside the door, and fearing to go in.\n1. You see his cunning ?\n2. Why, he's washt his face !\n3. 'Tis that! I thought he lookt another man !\n1. But not this way you'll put off eyes like ours.\nWoman : O will they take him ?— I'd not plotted that!\nJoiner : Ay, the thing plans itself, once we can hold\nTheir crazy pother."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.40", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : Keep them blundering\nA while, a little while !\n2. We'll have to go\nCarefully about him.\n3. Ay, 'tis a face\nWith gallows in it. When I saw him leant\nBeside the taproom door, with his eyes cadging,\nI thought, \" There's a slaughtering visnomy! \"\n1. I've no notion at all of seeing him hanged\nFor murdering me.\n2. Young fellow, own to yourself!\nYou're the rick-burner.\n3. Ay, and he burnt a lad.\nJoiner: Do hold your blathering a bit and hear me.\nOr if you won't, see this. [Holding up a hammer.\n1. He means battery !\n2. Dreadful things can be done with a hammer.\n3. When he\nThat uses it is wild and knows the way\nThrough your skull and into your brain.\nJoiner : Do stop !\nlam the joiner here. Yonder's my work,\nThe staircase. And the man you want has bolted\nUp to the loft, and you have him caged and safe.\n1. Are there weapons upstairs ?\nJoiner: Go on and take him.\nThe room's bare boards and walls, and he's as weak\nWith famishing as a fly.\n2. Well, if you're sure"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.41", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nYou're not the man\n3- No, no ; I saw right off\nHe had the look of someone else.\n1. {Marshalling them at the staircase) Now for it!\n2. Mind the reward that's posted for him !\n3- Charge!\n[ They rush up the stairs.\nJoiner : This falls out well. Here's an easy riddance,\nAnd the way smooth from here.\nWoman : Were you not told\nTo break out larger windows in the attics ?\nThey're cruel small!\nJoiner : Cruel and small indeed\nTo one who thinks of squeezing his escape\nThrough one of them.— But I can hear they have him.\n[The three men come down with the Tramp.\n1. The man for certain this time.\nTramp : Copt! Copt!\nWoman : We couldn't flee for ever. Is it far,\nThe way to the jail ? They'll give us food there, likely.\n2 {to the Woman). What, are you coming too ?\nWoman : Yes, I'm coming.\n3. Were you in with his burnings ?\nWoman : They are mine\nAs much as his. I screened his light from draughts.\nJoiner : He made her do it \\—{to the Woman) There's no need for\nTramp : Copt is the word ! [this !"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.42", "texte": "THE STAIRCASE\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nWoman : And I am glad it's over.\nJoiner : It's over right enough ; the whole black time\nIs over now. Must you see him to jail ?\nHow can you make your duty such a thing ?\nWoman : You'll never want a flatterer, young man,\nNot while your own tongue lives. Who said I made\nGoing with him my duty ?\n1. Settle your mind\nAnd choose your man, missis : come on or stay.\nWoman : And you talk civil, mister ! Choose my man !\nJoiner {to the Tramp) : You will not drag her with you ?\nWoman : O, you have\nQueer sense in you ! Who's dragging me at all ?\nJoiner {to the Tramp) : Have you not had enough of injuring her ?\nGo off from her at last!\nTramp : Copt! Fair copt!\nWoman : Thank you for lending me your fire, young man.\n{to the men) Not budging yet ? [They begin to go out.\nBless my wits, I was leaving you the brat!\nIs it still raining ? I must lap him well:\nThere is a trouble in his breath already.\n[When the Joiner is left alone and the door closed,\nthe curtain comes down."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.43", "texte": "THE ORPHANS\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nAt five o'clock one April morn\nI met them making tracks,\nYoung Benjamin and Abel Horn,\nWith bundles on their backs.\nYoung Benjamin is seventy-five,\nYoung Abel, seventy-seven—\nThe oldest innocents alive\nBeneath that April heaven.\nI asked them why they trudged about\nWith crabby looks and sour—\n\" And does your mother know you're out\nAt this unearthly hour ? \"\nThey stopped: and scowling up at me\nKach shook a grizzled head,\nAnd swore ; and then spat bitterly,\nAs with one voice they said:\n\" Homeless, about the country-side\nWe never thought to roam;\nBut mother, she has gone and died,\nAnd broken up the home.\""}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.44", "texte": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nTHE PESSIMIST\nHis body bulged with puppies—little eyes\nPeeped out of every pocket, black and bright;\nAnd with as innocent, round-eyed surprise\nHe watched the glittering traffic of the night.\n\" What this world's coming to I cannot tell,\"\nHe muttered, as I passed him, with a whine—\n\" Things surely must be making slap for hell,\nWhen no one wants these little dogs of mine.\""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.45", "texte": "GIRL'S SONG\nI saw three black pigs riding\nIn a blue and yellow cart—\nThree black pigs riding to the fair\nBehind the old grey dappled mare—\nBut it wasn't black pigs riding\nIn a gay and gaudy cart\nThat sent me into hiding\nWith a flutter in my heart.\nI heard the cart returning,\nThe jolting jingling cart—\nReturning empty from the fair\nBehind the old jog-trotting mare—\nBut it wasn't the returning\nOf a clattering, empty cart\nThat sent the hot blood burning\nAnd throbbing through my heart.\n\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.46", "texte": "THE OLD NAIL-SHOP\nI dreamt of wings,—and waked to hear\nThrough the low sloping ceiling clear\nThe nesting starlings flutter and scratch\nAmong the rafters of the thatch,\nNot twenty inches from my head;\nAnd lay, half-dreaming, in my bed,\nWatching the far elms, bolt-upright\nBlack towers of silence in a night\nOf stars, square-framed between the sill\nOf the casement and the eaves, until\nI drowsed, and must have slept a wink . . .\nAnd wakened to a ceaseless clink\nOf hammers ringing on the air . . .\nAnd, somehow, only half-aware,\nI'd risen, and crept down the stair,\nBewildered by strange, smoky gloom,\nUntil I'd reached the living-room\nThat once had been a nailshop-shed.\nAnd where my hearth had blazed, instead\nI saw the nail-forge glowing red;\nAnd, through the stife and smoky glare,\nThree dreaming women standing there\nWith hammers beating red-hot wire\nOn tinkling anvils, by the fire,\nTo ten-a-penny nails; and heard—\nThough none looked up or breathed a word—\nThe song each heart sang to the tune\nOf hammers, through a Summer's noon,\nWhen they had wrought in that red glow,\nAlive, a hundred years ago—\n\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.47", "texte": "THE OLD NAIL-SHOP\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nThe song of girl and wife and crone,\nSung in the heart of each alone . . .\nThe dim-eyed crone with nodding head—\n\" He's dead; and I'll, too, soon be dead.\"\nThe grave-eyed mother, gaunt with need—\n\" Another little mouth to feed! \"\nThe black-haired girl, with eyes alight—\n\"I'll wear the yellow beads to-night.\""}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.48", "texte": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nTHE SHAFT\nTHE SHAFT\nHe must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould seem\nHe'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit,\nAfter his lamp ... Or was it all a dream\nThat he'd nigh reached the cage—his new lamp lit\nAnd swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad\nTo think the shift was over—when he'd tripped\nAnd stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad\nHis mother called him; and his lamp had slipped\nAnd smashed to smithereens; and left him there\nIn pitchy dark, half-stunned, and with barked shins ?\nHe'd cursed his luck; although he didn't care,\nNot overmuch ; you suffered for your sins ;\nAnd, anyway, he must be nigh the shaft;\nAnd he could fumble his way out somehow,\nIf he were last, and none came by. 'Twas daft\nTo do a trick like thon.\nAnd even now\nHis mother would be waiting. How she'ld laugh\nTo hear about it! She was always game\nFor fun, she was, and such a one for chaff.\nA fellow had no chance. But 'twas the same\nWith women always; you could never tell\nWhat they'ld be at, or after saying next;\nThey'd such queer, tricky tongues; and it was well\nFor men to let them talk when they were vext—\nAlthough, his mother, she was seldom cross.\nBut she'ld be wondering now, ay, that she would—\nHands folded in her apron, at a loss\nTo know what kept him, even now she stood,\nBiting her lips, held warrant. She aye bit"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.49", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nHer lips till they were white when things went wrong.\nShe'd never liked his taking to the pit,\nAfter his father'd .. . Ay, and what a song\nShe'ld make . . . and supper cold ! It must be late.\nThe last on the last shift! After to-day\nThe pit was being laid idle. Jack, his mate,\nHad left him tidying, hurrying away,\nTo back . . . And no night-shift . . .\nIf that cursed lamp\nHad not gone out . . . But that was hours ago—\nHow many hours he couldn't tell. The cramp\nWas in his thighs. And what could a lad know\nWho'd crawled for hours upon his hands and knees\nThrough miles on miles of hot, black, dripping night\nOf low-roofed, unfamiliar galleries ?\nHe'ld give a hundred pound to stand upright\nAnd stretch his legs a moment: but, somehow,\nHe'd never reached a refuge, though he'd felt\nThe walls on either hand. He'd bumped his brow\nTill he was dizzy. And the heat would melt\nThe marrow in his bones. And yet he'd gone\nA dozen miles at least, and hadn't found\nEven a crossway. On and on and on\nHe'd crawled, and crawled ; and never caught a sound\nSave water dripping, dripping, or the creak\nOf settling coal. If he could only hear\nHis own voice even; but he dared not speak\nAbove a whisper . . .\nThere was naught to fear;\nAnd he was not afraid of aught, not he !\nHe would come on a shaft, before he knew."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.50", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nHe couldn't miss. The longest gallery\nMust end somewhere or other; though 'twas true\nHe hadn't guessed the drift could be so long.\nIf he had not come straight ... If he had turned,\nUnknowing, in the dark ... If he'd gone wrong\nOnce, then why not a dozen times! It burned\nHis very heart to tinder, just to think\nThat he, maybe, was crawling round and round\nAnd round and round, and hadn't caught a blink\nOf light at all, or hadn't heard a sound . . .\n'Twas queer, gey queer . . .\nOr was he going daft,\nAnd only dreaming he was underground\nIn some black pit of hell, without a shaft—\nJust one long gallery that wound and wound,\nWhere he must crawl for ever with the drip\nOf lukewarm water drumming on his back . . .\n'Twas nightmare, surely, had him in its grip.\nHis head was like to split, his spine to crack . . .\nIf he could only call, his mother'ld come\nAnd shake him; and he'ld find himself in bed . . .\nShe'ld joke his fright away . . . But he was dumb,\nAnd couldn't shout to save himself . . . His head\nSeemed full of water, dripping, dripping, dripping . . .\nAnd he, somehow, inside it—huge and dark\nHis own skull soared above him . . . He kept slipping,\nAnd clutching at the crumbling walls ... A spark\nFlared suddenly; and to a blood-red blaze\nHis head was bursting ; and the pain would break . . .\n'Twas solid coal he'd run against, adaze"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.51", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nCoal, sure enough. And he was broad awake,\nAnd crawling still through that unending drift\nOf some old working, long disused. He'd known\nThat there were such. If he could only lift\nHis head a moment; but the roof of stone\nCrushed low upon him. A gey narrow seam\nHe must be in,—and bad to work : no doubt\nThat's why 'twas given up. Held like to scream,\nHis cut knees hurt so sorely; but a shout\nMight bring the crumbling roof down on his head,\nAnd squash him flat.\nIf he could only creep\nBetween the cool white sheets of his own bed,\nAnd turn towards the wall, and sleep, and sleep—\nAnd dream, maybe, of pigeons soaring high,\nTurning and tumbling in the morning light,\nWith wings ashimmer in a cloudless sky.\nHe'ld give the world to see a bonnie flight\nOf his own pigeons rise with flapping wings,\nSoaring and sweeping almost out of sight,\nTill he was dizzy, watching the mad things\nTossing and tumbling at that dazzling height.\nAy, and his homers, too—if they'd come in,\nHe hoped his mother'd fed them. They would be\nFair famished after such a flight, and thin.\nBut she would feed them, sure enough; for she\nLiked pigeons, too—would stand there at the door\nWith arms akimbo, staring at the blue,\nHer black eyes shining as she watched them soar,\nWithout a word, till they were out of view."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.52", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd how she laughed to hear them scold and pout,\nRuffle and fuss—like menfolk, she would say,\nNobody knowing what 'twas all about,\nAnd least of all themselves. That was her way,\nTo joke and laugh the tantrums out of him.\nHe'ld tie his neckerchief before the glass;\nAnd she'ld call him her pigeon, Peter Prim,\nPreening himself, she'ld say, to meet his lass—\nThough he'd no lass, not he! A scarf well tied,\nNo gaudy colours, just a red or yellow,\nWas what he fancied. What harm if he tried\nTo keep himself respectable! A fellow—\nThough womenfolk might laugh and laugh . . .\nAnd now\nHe wondered if he'ld hear her laugh again\nWith hands on hips and sparkling eyes. His brow\nSeemed clampt with red-hot iron bands; and pain\nShot red-hot needles through his legs—his back,\nA raw and aching spine that bore the strain\nOf all the earth above him: the dead black\nUnending clammy night blinding his brain\nTo a black blankness shot with scarlet streaks\nOf searing lightning; and he scarcely knew\nIf he'd been crawling hours, or days, or weeks . . .\nAnd now the lightning glimmered faintly blue,\nAnd gradually the blackness paled to grey:\nAnd somewhere, far ahead, he caught the gleam\nOf light, daylight, the very light of day,\nDay, dazzling day!\nThank God, it was no dream.\nHe felt a cooler air upon his face;"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.53", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd scrambling madly for some moments more\nThough centuries it seemed, he reached the place\nWhere through the chinks of the old crumbling door\nOf a disused upcast-shaft, grey ghostly light\nStrained feebly, though it seemed the sun's own blaze\nTo eyes so long accustomed to the night\nAnd peering blindly through that pitchy maze.\nThe door dropped from its hinges—and upright\nHe stood, at last, bewildered and adaze,\nIn a strange dazzling world of flowering white.\nPlumed snowy fronds and delicate downy sprays,\nFantastic as the feathery work of frost,\nDrooped round him from the wet walls of the shaft—\nA monstrous growth of mould, huge mould. And lost\nIn wonder he stood gaping; and then laughed\nTo see that living beauty—quietly\nHe laughed to see it: and awhile forgot\nAll danger. He would tell his mother: she\nWould scarce know whether to believe or not,—\nBut laugh to hear how, when he came on it,\nIt dazzled him. If she could only see\nThat fluffy white—come on it from the pit,\nSnow-white as fantails' feathers, suddenly\nAs he had, she'ld laugh too: she . . .\nIcy cold\nShot shuddering through him, as he stept beneath\nA trickle. He looked up. That monstrous mould\nFrightened him; and he stood with chattering teeth,\nSeeming to feel it growing over him\nAlready, shutting out the fleck of sky"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.54", "texte": "THE SHAFT\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nThat up the slimy shaft gleamed far and dim.\n'T would flourish on his bones when he should lie\nForgotten in the shaft. Its clammy breath\nWas choking him already. He would die,\nAnd no one know how he'd come by his death. . .\nDank, cold mould growing slowly. By and by\n'Twould cover him; and not a soul to tell . . .\nWith a wild cry he tried to scramble out,\nClutching the wall . . . Mould covered him ... He fell,\nAs, close at hand, there came an answering shout."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "[204]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.55", "texte": "NEW NUMBERS"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "[205]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.56", "texte": "New Numbers\n1914\nPUBLISHED AT RYTON, DYMOCK, GLOUCESTER.\n\nLascelles Abercrombie\nRupert Brooke\nJohn Drink water\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.57", "texte": "CONTENTS\nLascelles Abercrombie\nEnd of the World No. 2 Page\nInnocents, The No.\nOlympians, The No. 1 » 31\nStaircase, The No. 4 » 170\nRupert Brooke\nA Memory No. 1 PaSe\nGreat Lover, The No. 3 ~ 114\nHauntings No. 3 ~ lis\nheaven No. 2 „ 100\nMutability No. 1 ~ 30\nOne Day No. 1 „ 29\nPeace No. „\nRetrospect iNO- 6 »\nSafety No. 4 „ 166\nSonnet No. 1 ~\nThe Dead ... ... ••• ••• ••• No. 4 ~ 167\nThe Soldier No. 4 „ 169\nThe Treasure No. 4 „ 164\nTiare Tahiti No. 3 ~ 109\nWaikiki ... ••• ••• ••• ••• No. 3 ~117\nJohn Drinkzvater\nA Town Window ... ... ••• ••• No. 1 Page 58\nBoundaries, The ... ••• ••• ••• No. 1 ~ 57\nCarver in Stone, The No. 4 „ 153\nMove's House No. 2 ~ 97\nMemory No. 1 ~ 59\nNew Miracle No. 1 „ 5b\nPoet to His Mistress, The No. 1 „ 55\nStorm, The No. 3 ~ 119"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.58", "texte": "CONTENTS—(Continued)\n\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nA Catch for Singing No. 2 Page 101\nBix>odybush Edge No. 1 „ 5\nGiri/s Song No. 4 194\nGorse, The No. 2 ~107\nGreeting, The No. 2 „ 103\nHoops No. 3 ~135\n*CE' Ihe No. 2 „ 105\nOld Nail-Shop, The ... No 4 IQS\nOn Hampstead Heath I' No.' 2 104\nOrphans, The No 4 192\nPessimist, The No! 4 193\nShaft, The No 4 IQ7\nTram, The ] No! 2 I 102\nWheei^s No. 3 „ 132"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.59", "texte": "New Numbers is published in four parts at 7/6; Single Copy, 2/6: and may be obtame\nfrom the Publishers. Rvton, Dymock, Gloucester, to whom all communications should be addressed.\n\nBooks by the same writers.\nBy LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE\nInterludes and Poems ... 1908.\nMary and the Bramble 1910.\nThe Sale of St. Thomas ... 1911. (out of print)\nEmblems of Love ••• 1912.\nDeborah 1913.\nBy RUPERT BROOKE\nPoems 1911.\nBy JOHN DRINKWATER\nLyrical and Other Poems ... 1908. (out of print)\nPoems of Men and Hours ... 1911.\nCophetua - - - * ••• 1911.\nPoems oi Love and Earth ... 1912.\nCromwell and Other Poems 1913.\nRebellion 1914.\nBy WILFRID WILSON GIBSON\nDaily Bread - - - ••• 1910.\nFires • - ... 1912.\nBorderlands - - - ••• 1914.\nThoroughfares - - ••• 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191412-01.1.60", "texte": "CRYPT HOUSE PRESS,\nGLOUCESTER."}]}