Shingle-Short and Other Verses/Early Days
Early Days.
Early Days.
Want to hear a story? Want to come on Granny’s knee?
None the better for that party and the pastry, I can see!
Tired of all your dollies, and the picture-books? Well, well!
I don’t think we’d have tired....Now, you listen, and I’ll tell.
....Once, there was a blue Bay—years and years ago;—
Cramm’d with red and black pine, thick as they could grow;
Half-a-dozen settlers, with as many children each;
Not a track to anywhere, and Bush to the beach.
We’d no mail, or schoolhouse; there was neither church nor store;
People lived in pine-wood wharés, with pine-sawdust on the floor.
Strangers never came our way, playthings mostly grew,
An’ Town might have been at Home, for all us young ones knew.
Always dress’d in dungaree: never had new boots!
Lived on pig and pigeon, [1]kaka, fish, and roots.
But, chew, an’ get the full good out of everything you’ve got,
And I guess you’re just as well-off with a little as a lot.
Ay, sunshine: sunshine: freedom, an’ content:
Bless those bare old Bay days—light enough they went!
—But what I was going to tell you, was, when Father’s boat came down
After taking up the timber from the sawpit into Town.
Mother and Aunt was timid when the men-folk were away;
Used to call us young ones in at dimming of the day.
We’d fetch in water and wood, and we’d make the wharé fast,
Snuggle under the blankets, an’ wish the night was past.
But sometimes, sometimes! in the middle of the night,
Round the Northern Head ’ud steal a little lonely light.
“Coo-ee!” ’d come the cry.... Waken all! and hark!....
Oh, it’s father! Father coming in the deadness of the Dark!
Then, one ’ud shift the back-log, for the hot red beneath,
One ’ud pile the kindling on, and blow with all her breath,
An’, wide on the dreadful Dark, an’ creepy, curdly Cold,
One ’ud run and fling the door, an’ nobody ’ud scold!
“Coo-ee....Coo-ee!”....closer ’d come the sound....
Peer an’ peer....at last we’d hear her being run aground!
Footsteps up the shingle! Shout!....and answering shout!
Out we’d run an’ pull ’em in, an’ shut the Darkness out!
Father, Uncle Eb, an’ big brother Dave—
Oh, so wet an’ salty! Oh, so big and brave!
Good it was to hug them, an’ warm their wintry cheeks—
Sometimes they’d been up in Town, weather-bound for weeks.
Then I’d be at the bellows, an’ I’d blow, blow, blow,
Till the brown walls were ruddy, an’ the wharé all a-glow.
Merrily danced the fire-flicker, bright the flashes danced,
Upon merry heart-lit faces, an’ bright eyes that danced.
Then Father’d weigh the baby, and declare we all were grown;
Or he’d want the dimples counted, an’ the last new freckles shown.
While close we’d cling about him, an’ [2]fossick in his coat—
“[3]Lollies for the kiddies”, always came in Father’s boat.
Next, he’d toss the parcel Mother always caught:
Something tasty out o’ Town, down for supper brought.
Hiss! Splut! Splutter!....Tending it in turn,
You can guess us children never let that cooking burn!
Meanwhile, the grown-ups ’ud be carrying in the swags;
There’d be diving into bundles, an’ dipping into bags..
Matches: molasses: cotton, and salt an’ such—
Puzzled me how Town got on, when the Bay had took so much?
An’, all the while, they’d tell us tales—what the timber brought,
Town-news, war-news, an’ what vessels lay in port;
An’, Oh! the people, an’ places, an’ sights an’ all, they’d name—
How big! how wonderful an’ strange!—how full the world became!
An’ sometimes, Oh! a letter.—Then, ’twas “Get the slush-lamp, quick!”
(’Twas a hollow’d raw potato, stuff’d with stocking round a stick,
An’ stuck, swamp’d with porpoise-oil, in a pannikin—
Smelt, Uncle used to say, worse than home-made sin);
An’ then we’d hush an’ settle down quiet round the hearth,
For to hear o’ green Kent country, an’ the old side of the Earth.
Uncle listen’d interested, Father with a frown;
Mother used to listen with her head bow’d down.
It was always full o’ stories; folks were wedded, buried, born;
There were animals, an’ railways, an’ “the cherries,” or “the corn.”
All our plays ’ud be for days what the news had been;—
An’ ’twas nice that people loved you that you hadn’t ever seen.
Well, an’ after that, came Supper—for us young ones, too; at least,
Mother’d let us have a taste, just to feel the feast.
An’ wasn’t she a picture! pouring, good an’ hot,
Tea (not [4]manuka-brew, but Tea!) from the pot.
Then, amid the cosy, warm tobacco-smoke,
Through the deep, protecting tones of the men-folk,
Good it was to listen, with your head on Father’s knee,
To the falling, lifting, falling, of the Sea!
Or, gazing through the window that look’d upon the tide,
To dare all that big, black, bogey Dark outside....
Outside, the pouncing Dark, and cold, cold foam,—
Inside, all of us—and Father! safe back home.
Then, when all was over, all the good-nights said,
Fire cover’d up again, and every one in bed—
Why, bless me, child, ’twasn’t over! ’Tisn’t yet—the dear delight
Of those sudden riches rain’d down in the middle of the night.