Glugs of Gosh — Chapters 5-6

V. THE GROWTH OF SYM

Now Sym was a Glug; and 'tis mentioned so That the tale reads perfectly plain as we go.

In his veins ran blood of that stupid race Of docile folk, who inhabit the place Called Gosh, sad Gosh, where the tall trees sigh With a strange, significant sort of cry When the gloaming creeps and the wind is high.

When the deep shades creep and the wind is high The trees bow low as the gods ride by: Gods of the gloaming, who ride on the breeze, Stooping to heaften the birds and the trees.

But each dull Glug sits down by his door, And mutters, " 'Tis windy!"

and nothing more, Like the long-dead Glugs in the days of yore.

When Sym was born there was much to-do, And his parents thought him a joy to view;

But folk not prejudiced saw the Glug, As his nurse remarked, "In the cut of his mug."

For he had their hair, and he had their eyes, And the Glug expression of pained surprise, And their predilection for pumpkin pies.

And his parents' claims were a deal denied By his maiden aunt on his mother's side, A tall Glug lady of fifty-two With a slight moustache of an auburn hue.

"Parental blither!"

she said quite flat.

"He's an average Glug; and he's red and fat!

And exceedingly fat and red at that!"

But the father, joi, when he gazed on Sym, Dreamed great and wonderful things for him.

Said he, "If the mind of a Glug could wake Then, Oh, what a wonderful Glug he'd make!

We shall teach this laddie to play life's game With a different mind and a definite aim: A Glug in appearance, yet not the same."

But the practical aunt said, "Fudge!

You fool!

We'll pack up his dinner and send him to school.

He shall learn about two-times and parsing and capes, And how to make money with inches on tapes.

We'll apprentice him then to the drapery trade, Where, I've heard it reported, large profits are made;

Besides, he can sell us cheap buttons and braid."

So poor young Sym, he was sent to school, Where the first thing taught is the Golden Rule.

"Do unto others," the teacher said .

.

.

Then suddenly stopped and scratched his head.

"You may look up the rest in a book," said he.

"At present it doesn't occur to me;

But do it, whatever it happens to be."

"And now," said the teacher, "the day's task brings Consideration of practical things.

If a man makes a profit of fifteen pounds On one week's takings from two milk rounds, How many .

.

."

And Sym went dreaming away To the sunlit lands where the field-mice play, And wrens hold revel the livelong day.

He walked in the welcoming fields alone, While from far, far away came the pedagogue's drone: "If a man makes .

.

.

Multiply .

.

.

Abstract nouns .

.

.

From B take .

.

.

Population of towns .

.

.

Rods, poles or perches .

.

.

Derived from Greek Oh, the hawthorn buds came out this week, And robins are nesting down by the creek.

So Sym was head of his class not once;

And his aunt repeatedly dubbed him "Dunce."

But, "Give him a chance," said his father, Joi.

"His head is abnormally large for a boy."

But his aunt said, "Piffie!

It's crammed with bosh!

Why, he don't know the rivers and mountains of Gosh, Nor the names of the nephews of good King Splosh!"

In Gosh, when a youth gets an obstinate look, And copies his washing-bill into a book, And blackens his boot-heels, and frowns at a joke, "Ah, he's getting sense," say the elderly folk.

But Sym, he would laugh when he ought to be sad;

Said his aunt, "Lawk-a-mussy!

What's wrong with the lad?

He romps with the puppies, and talks to the ants, And keeps his loose change in his second-best pants, And stumbles all over my cauliflower plants!"

"There is wisdom in that," laughed the father, Joi.

But the aunt said, "Toity!"

and, "Drat the boy!"

"He shall play," said the father, "some noble part.

Who knows but it may be in letters or art?

'Tis a dignified business to make folk think."

But the aunt cried, "What!

Go messing with ink?

And smear all his fingers, and take to drink?

Paint hussies and cows, and end in the clink?"

So the argument ran; but one bright Spring day Sym settled it all in his own strange way.

"'Tis a tramp," he announced, "I've decided to be;

And I start next Monday at twenty to three .

.

."

When the aunt recovered she screamed, "A tramp?

A low-lived, pilfering, idle scamp, Who steals people's washing, and sleeps in the damp?"

Sharp to the hour Sym was ready and dressed.

"Young birds," sighed the father, "must go from the nest.

When the green moss covers those stones you tread, When the green grass whispers above my head, Mark well, wherever your path may turn, They have reached the valley of peace who learn That wise hearts cherish what fools may spurn."

So Sym went off; and a year ran by, And the father said, with a smile-masked sigh, "It is meet that the young should leave the nest."

Said the aunt, "Don't spill that soup on your vest!

Nor mention his name!

He's our one disgrace!

And he's probably sneaking around some place With fuzzy black whiskers all over his face."

But, under a hedge, by a flowering peach, A youth with a little blue wren held speech.

With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass, He watched the thistle-down drift and pass, And the cloud-puffs, borne on a lazy breeze, Move by on their errand, above the trees, Into the vault of the mysteries.

"Now, teach me, little blue wren," said he.

"'Tis you can unravel this riddle for me.

I am 'mazed by the gifts of this kindly earth.

Which of them all has the greatest worth?"

He flirted his tail as he answered then, He bobbed and he bowed to his coy little hen: "Why, sunlight and worms!"

said the little blue wren.

VI. THE END OF JOI

They climbed the trees .

.

.

As was told before, The Glugs climbed trees in the days of yore, When the oldes tree in the land to-day Was a tender little seedling--Nay, This climbing habit was old, so old That even the cheeses could not have told When the past Glug people first began To give their lives to the climbing plan.

And the legend ran That the art was old as the mind of man.

And even the mountains old and hoar, And the billows that broke on Gosh's shore Since the far-off neolithic night, All knew the Glugs quite well by sight.

And they tell of a perfectly easy way: For yesterday's Glug is the Glug of to-day.

And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls, To solemnly salve their shop-worn souls.

For they fear the coals That threaten to frizzle their shop-worn souls.

They climbed the trees.

'Tis a bootless task To say so over again, or ask The cause of it all, or the reason why They never felt happier up on high.

For Joi asked why; and Joi was a fool, And never a Glug of the fine old school With fixed opinions and Sunday clothes, And the habit of looking beyond its nose, And treating foes With the calm contempt of the One Who Knows.

And every spider who heaves a line And trusts to his luck when the day is fine, Or reckless swings from an awful height, He knows the Glugs quite well by sight.

"You can never mistake them," he will say;

"For they always act in a Gluglike way.

And they climb the trees when the glass points fair, With circumspection and proper care, For they fear to tear The very expensive clothes they wear."

But Joi was a Glug with a twisted mind Of the nasty, meditative kind.

He'd meditate on the modes of Gosh, And dared to muse on the acts of Splosh;

He dared to speak, and, worse than that, He spoke out loud, and he said it flat.

"Why climb?"

said he.

"When you reach the top There's nowhere to go, and you have to stop, Unless you drop.

And the higher you are the worse you flop."

And every cricket that chirps at eve, And scoffs at the folly of fools who grieve, And the furtive mice who revel at night, All know the Glugs quite well by sight.

For, "Why," they say, " in the land of Gosh There is no one else who will bow to Splosh.

And they climb the trees when the rain pelts down And feeds the gutters that thread the town;

For they fear to drown, When floods are frothy and waters brown."

Said the Glug called Joi, "This climbing trees Is a foolish art, and things like these Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.

Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!"

But Splosh, the king, he smiled a smile, And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile, Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;

And they hanged poor Joi on a Snufflebust Palm;

Then they sang a psalm, Did those pious Glugs 'neath the Snufflebust Palm.

And every bee that kisses a flow'r, And every blossom, born for an hour, And every bird on its gladsome flight, All know the Glugs quite well by sight.

For they say, "'Tis a simple test we've got: If you know one Glug, why, you know the lot!"

So, they climbed a tree in the bourgeoning Spring, And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.

'Tis a horrible thing To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.

Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said, "It's not polite; but he's safer dead.

And there's not much room in the land of Gosh For a Glug named Joi and a king called Splosh!"

And every Glug flung high his hat, And cried, "We're Glugs!

and you can't change that!"

So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold, While the brazen bell of the city tolled And tolled, and told The fate of a Glug who was over-bold.

And every cloud that sails the blue, And every dancing sunbeam too, And every sparkling dewdrop bright All know the Glugs quite well by sight.

"We tell," say they, "by a simple test;

For any old Glug is like the rest.

And they climb the trees when there's weather about, In a general way, as a cure for gout;

Tho' some folks doubt If the climbing habit is good for gout."

So Joi was hanged, and his race was run, And the Glugs were tickled with what they'd done.

And, after that, if a day should come When a Glug felt extra specially glum, He'd call his children around his knee, And tell that tale with a chuckle of glee.

And should a little Glug girl or boy See naught of a joke in the fate of Joi, Then he'd employ Stern measures with such little girl or boy.

But every dawn that paints the sky, And every splendid noontide high, All know the Glugs so well, so well.

'Tis an easy matter, and plain to tell.

For, lacking wit, with a candour smug, A Glug will boast that he is a Glug.

And they climb the trees, if it shines or rains, To settle the squirming in their brains, And the darting pains That are caused by rushing and catching trains.