Shingle-Short and Other Verses/The Paddock - Song of the Creek
The Paddock.
Song of the Creek.
Where the youngest grass
Of the mountain-pass
By the melting snow is lipp’d,
Little by little, drop by drop,
Over the rocks I dripp’d.
Only the mountain-mosses saw,
And the mountain-daisies sipp’d.
Then, shyly, secretly,
Stealing out of sight,
I crept where the folded
Forest holds the night;
And there, amid the darkness
Inviolably hid,
Onward, downward,
I trickled, and I slid:
Moistening the fallen leaves,
Soaking thro’ the moss,
This boulder underneath,
That one across:
Scattering, spattering,
Twisting on again,
Gathering in the dewy Dusk,
Growing in the Rain:
Down, down, and still down,
On I hurried, on!
Glad to be coming—
Gladder to be gone!
“Under the fern-woof shining was seen.”
Till, as I rapidly rippled and ran,
Deep in the silence, Singing began:
Bathing, balming the brooding repose,
Fragrance, richer and fresher, uprose:
And, under the equable twilight of green,
Dim through the fern-woof, Shining was seen.
For now ’twixt the boulders I babbled and gush’d,
Over the rocks irresistibly rush’d....
With the shower of my tresses their shoulders were spread,
And they caught me—but, laughing, I loos’d me, and fled
Down! thro’ the dreamy magical Dusk,
Perfumed with Clematis, Myrtle, and Musk....
Laving pink Rootlets thrust from the brink....
Giving the Robin and Fantail to drink....
Here, quick thro’ a channel....there, smooth in a pool....
A volley of crystal....a column of cool....
Tuck’d into nothingness....shooting out
Thro’ a smother of snow to a sliding spout....
Lucid, but lustreless, limpid but brown—
Still amid Darkness, I ran away down.
Sudden, a Sunbeam shot like a shaft
Through the Koninis, and down at me laugh’d.
No longer eluding, no longer afraid,
With laughter I met him, with laughter we play’d,
Rollicking, frollicking, brother with brother,
Tossing and tumbling over each other:
Tickling the twilight with glimmer and gleams,
Pranking the leaves with a pageant of dreams,
Vivid, evasive, of brightness and beams.
Further, his fellows came flying in flocks,
Gemming the rushes, and gilding the rocks,
Beckoning, beckoning! Onward I roll’d....
Lighter the gloom became, brighter the gold....
Till, pushing, entreating, Ah! winning my way—
Out of the Dark I ran, into the Day!
There, for a little, my way I lost—
Wandering off in a score of tracks....
Oozing thro’ alleys velvet-moss’d,
Looping, lacing the Fern and Flax,
Crumbling hoof-prints furtively fingering,
Leisurely under the cool Turf lingering....
Till, how I know not, gather’d and guided,
All together again I glided,
Stay’d awhile for a last caress
To Mandarin-Button, and Watercress,
Then, under yon wire was led, and tame
Here, to the level Paddock came.
Like a polish’d column long,
Nodding Grass and Flowers among,
One long line of liquid light,
Softly, smoothly, stilly bright,
’Mid the Paddock now I lie—
Yet still slip and slither by!
Painted is my peaceful sheen
With white and yellow, blue and green;
Many a mouth is bent to drink,
Now, upon my easy brink;
And I water Poplar-shoots,
Apricot and Apple-roots,
As demurely thro’ the Grass,
Thro’ the Paddock, I pace and pass!
Round me runs a murmur low,
“Wherefore wilt thou further flow?
Do not leave us, do not go!”
Should I stay, then? Ah, no, no!
On, still on! I know not whither,
Only, that which brought me hither,
Hither urged me on and on,
Hence compels me to be gone.
Forward! Under the further fence,
(Turn a little, and twist about!)
See through darkness a tunnel hence—
Through the Paddock I pass—and out!
(Re-enter Janet, with strawberries.)
Janet—
The first full basket,—but they’re ripening fast.
Wonderful, what a difference sunshine makes!
You almost see, I’m sure you feel, things grow,
This glorious weather.
Now, you little creek,
Will you please be my basin? (washing hands)
....this green grass
My towel?....and this log my chair?....That’s good!
Stooping is real hard work.—Don’t hurry, Hine!
Those blue-gums seem springing to catch the sky:
The macrocarpa’s got a velvet heart,
And in these crispy matipo-leaves, light curls.
Oh, what a day! What sun! What blue and brightness!
What clean, clear air!....Doesn’t it seem to shine
Right through you! doesn’t it make you light and bright—
Fit for a frolic, wild to rush and leap
Over things! Oh, I am all on tiptoe, to....
To....Well, I don’t know what; but something quick!
Something adventurous, spirited, energetic,
Live!....
Splendid!—Splendid! Blow again, strong breeze!
Warmth now....with such a breath of basking pine!
And hark! the old [1]cabbage-tree—“Rush, rustle, splash!”
You poor old ancient tree! that Andrew thinks
Dying—But how triumphant, then, you die!
Brandishing blades, and crown’d with stars that glitter
Bravely as ever to the beams and breeze.
—That flax is going to flower this year.—
See there!
A daisy! Little dear! I won’t tell Andrew,
But don’t spread, will you, Bright-face?—
There’s the sun,
Down in the creek; he’s bigger than the world,
And yet our creek can hold him—that’s a puzzle.
....The water shines and slips and shines along....
There sails a feather! past the musk, between
The astonish’d cape-weed and the whispering poplars,
Glancing excitedly—round the bend, and out!
Hear, all! A brown hen-feather’s off to the world,
This stirring morning.
And...I mayn’t be, Dapple!...
That’s it, enjoy yourself! a real good roll
....There! now a real good gallop.—Isn’t she fresh!
Everything is, this jolly, frisky day.
Shine, ripple, sail, race, grow, and blow, and flow—
All strength and relish, liveliness and joy,
All doing straight out just what Nature says,
Free to be free:—O fortunate Out-door Things!
You get the best of it. I must go in,
And, what? What must I do?
Wash up the dishes,
Sweep out the kitchen, put on dinner (Oh,
That hateful, daily, never-done-with dinner!
Why do we have to eat?), then, that disposed of—
Oh, what’s there ever to look forward to?
Well, it is coach-day, though; I can ride Dapple
Out to the road, and take these strawberries down,
And wait for mail—and, save newspapers, get none!
Oh dear! There’s scarcely anyone goes by coach,
There’s never anyone up or down the road,
Much less along the track, of course. Heigh-ho!
Eternal Paddock’s dull!....Then, when I’m back....
Oh, what does it matter? Play with Andy, read
Some stale old book, I’ve read six hundred times,
Get tea, and clear it; then—the empty evening!
Once in a blue moon, some one may drop in—
Night after night, they don’t, and there I’ll sit,
Jean’s frock, or Andy’s overall to patch,
While Andrew reads aloud, of wheat and wool,
And ’Lizabeth listens. Nine o’clock at last!
I’ll light my candle, let out, full, the yawn
Kept in since daybreak, get to bed.—That’s all!
That’s my whole day.
To-morrow? Same old sorrow!
Cook, clean—the same tame humdrum...I forgot—
Churning’s thrown in—it’s Friday. Every Friday
These last four years....(Let’s see, I’d just left school
When ’Lisbeth sent for me....I’m eighteen now—
Yes! four whole years, except that trip to Aunt’s)
I’ve churn’d! I’ve wash’d on every possible house—
Iron’d each Tuesday, Wednesdays, clean’d the house,—
Oh! haven’t I done enough? And, when it’s done,
What does it all amount to? where’s it gone?
That is the worst of all! If one had slaved
Straight on at anything else that monstrous time,
I guess there would be something, at the end,
Done, and to show for it. But just look at me!
Four years....say seven-and-forty solid months,
Over a thousand days!....I’ve faithfully
Roasted and fried, made beds and bread-and-butter,
Scrubb’d, rubb’d, and all the rest—with what result?
What’s in the house this moment? Tumbled beds,
An empty larder, and a foot-mark’d floor!
That’s all. With all the doing, nothing’s Done;
With all the endless making, nothing’s Made;
There’s nothing come of all the eternal drudge,
Except—the need to drudge all over again!
Oh, who’d be a housekeeper? week in, week out,
The same old stupid treadmill; kick your heels,
Beat time, but never get on. I’m sick of it!
What will the next three years be like, I wonder?
Different, if I can manage it,—that I know!
Now ’Lizbeth says, this is the best of lives,
Wholesome, and natural (Liz, no! not for me!):
She reckons, work is, as you do it, worth
Or not worth doing; and, to help folk live,
She says, is the one way to live yourself.
—Is it? I’d like to make quite sure of that
By trying more ways first. And....what is living?
Eating up sheep, and wearing out your socks?
For that’s the only kind of thing I help!—
Wonderfully dull! If that’s all, well, I think
Life’s not worth helping. But it isn’t all,
Of course, it’s just the skin; life’s deeper down.
Well, then—if help I must, why can’t I help
Deep down? serve something Big, do something Real,
Make something that is Something? I’d like that,
But this—Oh, it’s so petty!
’Lizbeth says,
She finds it plenty large; but then, she’s different.
She asks no more, because she doesn’t need to,
Because she’s Liz, dear, tender, loving Liz,
Born with a magnifying heart; and seeing
More than is there, too, till she’s there to see it;
But, for what’s obvious—a blind bat would her!
Liz.? Why she never sees the work, at all—
She sees us, past it,....twice our natural size;
And that’s enough! To stir our porridge stirs
Her blessed heart; our mutton feeds her soul—
She lives! because she loves. And, since she lives,
Everything’s live to her; like dull side-streets
Yonder in Town, to one that knows the way,
The little dingy duties lead her out
To the big, main, exciting thoroughfares.
The world sits in the Paddock, and all’s well!
—Eggs are Americas! and milking means
Commerce! Art sets the patches in the shirts;
Wash-day’s a glorious, weekly Waterloo;
The good all-genuine squeak of An.’s new boots
Takes her a trip to Town (it doesn’t me!),
And Heaven’s inside four walls!—But Oh, Liz, Liz!
Janet’s outside! poor Janet stands by, blind
At this transfiguration! It’s no use.
I do try, and I love them dearly, too,
But I’m not Liz; they’re not Me, only Mine;
It’s her life,—but it’s Just my drudgery;
It takes her—and it takes my time and temper!
So you’re all right, Liz! You’re used-up, and happy.
But I’m not. It’s like stuffing darning-wool
Into a sewing-needle—most stays out,
And what’s got in is no particular good.
The worst is, that Elizabeth sees it, too—
Oh, it does make me feel so mean! Dear Liz,
Who used to get my meals, and mend my frocks,
And never growl’d or grumbled—only sobb’d,
Woftly, in bed, the nights when Andrew’d been,
And ridden out again; and now it looks
As though I grudged to work for her. I don’t!
It isn’t that:—she knows it isn’t that,
Whatever Andrew thinks. But—Oh dear me,
She doesn’t understand! “Just wait awhile,
Janet, my dear,” she’ll say, ever so kindly,
“Bide here a bit, and help me with my home,
Until” (here wakes the dimple in her cheek)
“Your own comes calling; then you’ll understand.
Just wait!” (I like that “just,” Liz! Just as if
Waiting were not the hardest work in the world!)—
Oh, well—she means, of course, till I get married.
Which I don’t want....that is, I mean, not yet,
Not till I’ve seen things....Not Jim Carson, ever!
Paddock for life, seen through a different grating?
No, thanks!....She’s happy this way, so she thinks
This is the one way to be happy.—’Tisn’t!
Then Andrew—
We’d been mustering, last week;
’Twas nearly dark, and we were all but in,
Skirting the orchard-fence, when out he jumps
With, “Janet! life’s no joke. Take it from me
It’s hard” (poor An.!), “there’s dangers, whips of ’em,
More than you know, and never a glut of kindness.
Best take it easy while you can, my girl;
You earn your home here, no mistake about it”
(He held the gate; we’d got to it, at last!)
“But, work’s work, anywhere; while nowhere else
Is home. It’s restful, snug,” (we pass’d the hives)
“And safe....good girls are precious!.... and none so rough,
Is it?.... Your sister’s done a lot for you....
And we’d all miss you, lassie. Just try, now,
And keep content.”
Thank Heaven! there came the yard.
And which of us was gladder, I don’t know.
I guess he’d said out everything he could—
I’d not a word to say.
Oh, whiles I wish
Andrew would grudge me food, or ’Lizabeth
Scold me, or strike me! Ah, no, no! I don’t.
Only....’twould make it easier—I’d go then,
Sure as a shot! but Love’s the toughest tether!—
What can I do? How am I to get out?
If Jeanie were but older! If they’d build
A creamery near!....Elizabeth might manage
Alone, now? No, she mightn’t! ’twouldn’t be fair.
Well, any way, Andrew needn’t mind—I work,
I don’t scamp. And I’m sure I sing, and laugh,
And play the fool, and play I’m happy: while....
Oh! they don’t understand. I want to go!
Where to? Oh, anywhere! And what to do?
Anything, almost!—All the same, I wish
I really knew....To tell the honest truth,
I don’t exactly know what I do want.
I only know I want it very badly!
....More, somehow, something that would give me more,
And take more out of me. Why don’t we have
Government Mind-Inspectors to sort out
And grade us, each one to our proper use?
Andrew? A farmer. Liz? A farmer’s wife.
That’s right: but—Janet? Cook? Housekeeper?
Nonsense!
I could be work’d to death that way, and die
Only half-used—No, I’ve a whole use, somewhere,
If I could only find it. Not just play—
I don’t want only pleasure—I must own,
I’d like a little more, but “Life’s no joke!”
No, I should just hope not! I value jokes,
But I know, quite as well as Andrew does,
You can’t live on puff-pastry. Life’s—Oh, well,
Something big, anyway!
“It’s hard.” All right!
Let it be hard! I want it hard! I want
Something to grab, and grip and grapple with,
Something—Oh, tough! Here’s it’s like fighting feathers.
“It’s dangerous?” Yes, I daresay; what of that?
Everything is, that’s anything; take riding.
“More than I know?” That’s it. I want to know!
Dangers don’t matter, if you’re brave enough.
And other girls get on: Lil Tracy, now,
And Cousin Con:—I beat them both at school.
“Content?” I will be, Andrew, when I’ve been
Contented, when I’ve had enough! but, here,
Oh, dear! there’s not enough. “Home?” for my body;
Prison, for my spirit—Ah, forgive me, Liz!
—Oh, I know all he says. I know the place
Is lovely; heavenly, on a day like this,
Yes, yes! but then, the thing you’re always seeing,
Well,....you don’t see it always! “Safe, and restful?”
Oh, but I don’t want rest! I get such lots.
I’m young—I’m not the least bit tired, except
As children are, at dawn,—tired of bed!
Rest isn’t always good for everything.
By resting in one place, wheat ripens—yes,
But water rots. Unrest is what I want;—
Change, chances, mystery, hope: to understand,
Dare, undertake, discover! Oh, it’s too safe,
Too snug, too settled—that’s the worst of it!
I don’t want just to be alive, I want
To feel it. Oh, I want to get away!
But there! ’Twould hurt them, and they’ve been so good,—
Ah, that they have, Heaven bless them! Fed, and clothed me,
Taught me, and train’d, and cared for me, and loved me,
Year after year. They’ve stood me on my feet.
—And, now I’m standing, good and firm and strong,
Some scrap of use at last, what’s their reward?
This: that I want to run away. For shame!
Janet! you are ungrateful.
No, I’m not!
Were you ungrateful, Apple-trees and Poplars,
When, just because they’d tended you, you grew
Out of the nook they’d nurs’d you in? What happen’d?
They were delighted—they transplanted you!
Those chicks, there—hadn’t they to break the shell,
When they were hatch’d? O, ’Lizabeth! I’m hatch’d—
Andrew! I want transplanting....It’s because
You’ve set me on my feet, I want to walk.
Repay you, darling mother-sister Liz,
I never can—but, which will pay you most:
Janet stuck here, stagnating, half alive,
A melancholy, meek, moss-cover’d log—
Mouldering inside: or, Janet somewhere else,
The whole live woman that you’ve made her be,
At her right work, you’ve fitted her to do?
That’s it! You’ve done it, Liz! You’ve made me live,
And now I want to—Oh, I must! I must!
You’d see it, too, if I could only tell you.
Oh, it’ll break my heart to leave you, dear,
And jolly, little Andy....Yet I’d give
My eyes to do it; for it seems to me
Staying will leave me with no heart to break.
All very well for Andrew; he’s seen things:
He’s tried his luck. But what have I seen? School,
Four or five farms, not even a real big town,
One scrap of sea! While there’s the whole live world
Beyond, with all one’s ever read about,
To see, and test, and tackle and take in.
—Think....Home!—old cities—London, and the Rhine—
Places where things have happen’d, famous folk—
Music (Ah me!), palaces, ships, and soldiers—
Swallows, and cowslips — vineyards — jewels — plays—
New animals and flowers — new clothes — new customs—
And people! lots and lots and lots of people!
—More, even, than that—my own part! Deeds to do,
Adventures, and experiences, and—Oh!
Who’s to know what? That’s half the beauty of it....
Yes! there they are, not tales, not dreams, but real,
Waiting for me! and here I’m caught and caged,
And can’t get out! Oh, on a day like this,
When everything just teems with life—the grass
So glad, the sky so gay, the light and air
So large and bright and racy, and young things
Frisking about, tingling with joy:—I tingle,
I stretch and strain, I flutter—but I’m tied!
O, somebody, help! It makes me tug and tear
To snap my rope, escape, break loose, go....go!...
O high unbudging mountain-tops, to mount
Over you! to break through your strict, straight line,
You plains and sky!....On, on! and further yet,
Away! away! to push and pierce and pass
Out! To go wandering with the wind, to see
What the sun sees....Why are we given minds
That want and wander so, if where we are
Is meant for where we should be? Are our feet
Roots?
And you can’t live other people’s lives!
You are yourself, why mayn’t you be yourself?
You’re you, not they. You have to draw your breath,
Sleep your own sleep, and eat your separate dinner?
Your toothaches are your own, I guess, your faults
Are yours? you’ll have to die—why can’t you live?
Why must you try to live in other people?
—Live in them? I don’t live, I nearly die,
I’m all but choked with life that can’t get lived—
Strength that you can’t use hurts you....eats you....Oh,
Let go! Oh, let me out, out, I say!
This paddock’s but a paddock—I was born
Into a world! Let me out into it!
Paddock! Plains, mountains—Life! Oh, let me out!....
Let, or not let, I will get out! I will!
How, though? I can’t imagine. All day long
Most days, I puzzle; and at night I’ll lie
Sleepless for hours, thinking of things, and planning.
Then, Ill forget a little—not for long,
And hardly ever now. Even when I do,
It goes on; it’s a living thing, it grows
Even while it sleeps. And then there’ll come the time
When it’ll wake! and seethe so, urging, urging—
That, ’spite the pain, I’m very nearly happy—
It feels so strong, so irresistible,
I feel it can’t be stopp’d very much longer,
’Twill make its way....Yes, I begin to trust it
More than myself; I guess it’s like those waves,
Mirrie and I, what years ago! at Aunt’s,
Tried blocking back. Oh, how we trudged and toil’d,
Time after time! what sand we shovell’d up!
What pebbles, logs and stones we stagger’d under!....
At last we’d stand there on our wall, and up
Would creep the waves....lick, lick.... and creep away.
“See that? They can’t get through.”....Then up they’d come
Again....stop short....and stay—but get no further.
“Ah, this wall’s going to hold!”—when suddenly!
Secretly undermined, the faithless sand
Gave way; and while, Splish! Splosh! down went the stones,
Down went our rampart, headlong down went we,
Kicking and spluttering, and only saved
By what we’d tried to stop—the tide came in!
Poor Miriam! what a bonny child she was!
Never sick then—while now she’s never well.
Aunt says she’s vext they ever moved to Town,
Mirrie does ail so....Oh, it seems a shame!
Some folks get all the luck, and then can’t use it.
Mirrie’s a little bit of Bush herself,
Can’t thrive outside of it—and she’s in Town,
While I....This world is very badly made!
....Miriam! What put you in my head? Why...
What!
Why not? Hurrah! Sail-O! Hope, hope at last!
I have it, O you blessed little creek.
Why not exchange us? Miriam come up-country,
I—get to Town! Oh! Oh!....
She loves the life,
She’s capital with children (Ah, my Andy!),
She’ll get her health again, they’ll all be happy:
While I.... It can’t come true!
Can’t it? It shall!
....Let’s think all round it.—I should have to keep
Aunt’s house; and Town, of course, is not the world....
It’s the beginning, though! it’s Somewhere Else!
It’s stir and change, it’s people everyday,
It’s openings and chances—doors ajar,
And roads all round, leading all sorts of ways.
O Paddock! it’s the start; it’s the first step
Beyond your fence. It is, it is, it shall be!
I’m going to race that feather, little Creek!
Let’s see, now: I must keep it in all day,
And speak to-night....If there could be a letter
By to-day’s mail, to say how bad she seems....?
(Not very bad, of course, poor little Mirrie!)....
Oh! it must do....it must....It’s made to fit;
I’ve only just to fit it in—and won’t I!
....I’ll be half sorry, too. ’Tis lovely here....
But I’ll be coming back again, old Paddock.
Maybe I’ll find I really like you best,
Once I’ve the chance of liking other things.
Oh! Oh! the first step!....Oh! I can’t sit still....
I can’t go in....No Hine yet....where’s Dapple?
One little gallop round the Paddock fence
I’m going to gallop over, Dap! Hurrah!
(Exit Janet.)
- ↑ Cabbage-tree, an ugly name for a beautiful thing: the Palm-Lily, the Maori Ti. This is the most distinctive of all New Zealand trees. In growth it somewhat resembles a true Palm.