Glugs of Gosh — Chapters 11-13

XI. OGS

It chanced one day, in the middle of May, There came to the great King Splosh A policeman, who said, while scratching his head, "There isn't a stone in Gosh To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og, Last Saturday week, at one, Took our last blue-metal, in order to settle A bill for a toy pop-gun."

Said the King, jokingly, "Why, how provokingly Weird; but we have the gun."

And the King said, "Well, we are stony-broke."

But the Queen could not see it was much of a joke.

And she said, "If the metal is all used up, Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?

It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.

The stones?

Why, import them from over the sea."

But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin, And said, with a most diabolical grin, "Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge, A spy has discovered a very 'cute dodge.

And the Ogs are determined to wage a war On Gosh, next Friday, at half-past four."

Then the Glugs all cried, in a terrible fright, "How did our grandfathers manage a fight?"

Then the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book, And he read, "Some very large stones they took, And flung at the foe, with exceeding force;

Which was very effective, tho' rude, of course."

And lo, with sorrowful wails and moans, The Glugs cried, "Where, Oh, where are the stones?"

And some rushed North, and a few ran West;

Seeking the substitutes seeming best.

And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs From the homes of the rich and middle-class Glugs.

And a hasty message they managed to send Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.

On the Friday, exactly at half-past four, Came the Ogs with triumphant glee.

And the first of their stones hit poor Mister Ghones, The captain of industry.

Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge, In the curve of his convex vest.

He gurgled "Un-Gluggish!"

His heart growing sluggish, He solemnly sank to rest.

'Tis inconceivable, Scarcely believable, Yet, he was sent to rest.

And the King said, "Ouch!"

And the Queen said, "0o!

My bee-ootiful drawing-room!

What shall I do?"

But the warlike Ogs, they hurled great rocks Thro' the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks They had sold to the Glugs but a month before-- Which was very absurd; but, of course, 'twas war.

And the Glugs cried, "What would our grandfathers do If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?"

But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic Book Oblivious slept in a grave-yard nook.

Then a Glug stood out with a pot in his hand, As the King was bewailing the fate of his land, And he said, "If these Ogs you desire to retard, Then hit them quite frequent with anything hard."

So the Glugs seized anvils, and editors' chairs, And smote the Ogs with them unawares;

And bottles of pickles, and clocks they threw, And books of poems, and gherkins, and glue, Which they'd bought with the stones--as, of course, you know-- From the Ogs but a couple of months ago.

Which was simply inane, when you reason it o'er;

And uneconomic, but then, it was war.

When they'd fought for a night and the most of a day, The Ogs threw the last of their metal away.

Then they went back to Podge, well content with their fun, And, with much satisfaction, declared they had won.

And the King of the Glugs gazed around on his land, And saw nothing but stones strewn on every hand: Great stones in the palace, and stones in the street, And stones on the house-tops and under the feet.

And he said, with a desperate look on his face, "There is nothing so ghastly as stones out of place.

And, no doubt, this Og scheme was a very smart dodge.

But whom does it profit--my people, or Podge?"

XII. EMILY ANN

Government muddles, departments dazed, Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;

Order insulted, authority spurned, Dread and distraction wherever he turned-- Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king, With never a statesman to straighten the thing.

Glus all importunate urging their claims, With selfish intent and ulterior aims, Glugs with petitions for this and for that, Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat, Raging when nobody answered their ring-- Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.

And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left, And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;

And, at least once a minute, asked, "What's to be done?"

But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans, "Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!"

"How now?"

cried the King.

"Is there not in my land One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand: A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief-- I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief-- A soldier, a sailor, a--" Raising his head, With relief in his eye, "Now, I mind me!"

he said.

"I mind me a Tinker, and what once befel, When I think, on the whole, he was treated not well.

But he shall be honoured, and he shall be famed If he read me this riddle.

But how is he named?

Some commonplace title, like-Simon?

-No-Sym!

Go, send out my riders, and scour Gosh for him."

They rode for a day to the sea in the South, Calling the name of him, hand to the mouth.

They rode for a day to the hills in the East, But signs of a tinker saw never the least.

Then they rode to the North thro' a whole day long, And paused in the even to hark to a song.

"Kettles and pans!

Kettles and pans!

Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?

Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips, Bright as the smile on her beckoning lips.

Bring out your kettle!

0 kettle or pan!

So I buy me a ribband for Emily Ann."

With his feet in the grass, and his back to a tree, Merry as only a tinker can be, Busily tinkering, mending a pan, Singing as only a merry man can .

.

.

"Sym!"

cried the riders.

" 'Tis thus you are styled?"

And he paused in his singing, and nodded and smiled.

Said he: "Last eve, when the sun was low, Down thro' the bracken I watched her go-- Down thro' the bracken, with simple grace-- And the glory of eve shone full on her face;

And there on the sky-line it lingered a span, So loth to be leaving my Emily Arm."

With hands to their faces the riders smiled.

"Sym," they said--"be it so you're styled-- Behold, great Splosh, our sorrowing King, Has sent us hither, that we may bring To the palace in Gosh a Glug so named, That he may be honoured and justly famed."

"Yet," said Sym, as he tinkered his can, "What should you know of her, Emily Ann?

Early as cock-crow yester morn I watched young sunbeams, newly born, As out of the East they frolicked and ran, Eager to greet her, my Emily Arm."

"King Splosh," said the riders, "is bowed with grief;

And the glory of Gosh is a yellowing leaf.

Up with you, Tinker!

There's work ahead.

With a King forsaken, and Swanks in dread, To whom may we turn for the salving of man?"

And Sym, he answered them, "Emily Ann."

Said he: "Whenever I watch her pass, With her skirts so high o'er the dew-wet grass, I envy every blade the bruise It earns in the cause of her twinkling shoes.

Oh, the dew-wet grass, where this morn she ran, Was doubly jewelled for Emily Ann."

"But haste!"

they cried.

"By the palace gates A sorrowing king for a tinker waits.

And what shall we answer our Lord the King If never a tinker hence we bring, To tinker a kingdom so sore amiss?"

But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him this: 'Every eve, when the clock chimes eight, I kiss her fair, by her mother's gate: Twice, all reverent, on the brow- Once for a pray'r, and once for a vow;

Twice on her eyes that they may shine, Then, full on the mouth because she's mine."

' "Calf!"

sneered the riders.

"O Tinker, heed!

Mount and away with us, we must speed.

All Gosh is agog for the coming of Sym.

Garlands and greatness are waiting for him: Garlands of roses, and garments of red And a chaplet for crowning a conqueror's head."

"Listen," quoth Sym, as he stirred his fire.

"Once in my life have I known desire.

Then, Oh, but the touch of her kindled a flame That burns as a sun by the candle of fame.

And a blessing and boon for a poor tinker man Looks out from the eyes of my Emily Ann."

Then they said to him, "Fool!

Do you cast aside Promise of honour, and place, and pride, Gold for the asking, and power o'er men- Working your will with the stroke of a pen?

Vexed were the King if you ride not with us."

But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him thus: 'Ease and honour and leave to live-- These are the gifts that a king may give 'Twas over the meadow I saw her first;

And my lips grew parched like a man athirst Oh, my treasure was ne'er in the gift of man;

For the gods have given me Emily Ann."

"Listen," said they, "O you crazy Sym.

Roses perish, and eyes grow dim.

Lustre fades from the fairest hair.

Who weds a woman links arms with care.

But women there are in the city of Gosh-- Ay, even the daughters of good King Splosh.

.

."

"Care," said Sym, "is a weed that springs Even to-day in the gardens of kings.

And I, who have lived 'neath the tent of the skies, Know of the flowers, and which to prize .

.

.

Give you good even!

For now I must jog."

And he whistled him once to his little red dog.

Into the meadow and over the stile, Off went the tinker man, singing the while;

Down by the bracken patch, over the hill, With the little red dog at the heel of him still.

And back, as he soberly sauntered along, There came to the riders the tail of his song.

"Kettles and pots!

Kettles and pans!

Strong is my arm if the cause it be man's. But a fig for the cause of a cunning old king;

For Emily Ann will be mine in the Spring.

Then nought shall I labour for Splosh or his plans;

Tho' I'll mend him a kettle.

Ho, kettles and pans!"

XIII. THE LITTLE RED DOG

The Glugs still live in the land of Gosh, Under the rule of the great King Splosh.

And they climb the trees in the Summer and Spring, Because it is reckoned the regular thing.

Down in the valley they live their lives, Taking the air with their aunts and wives.

And they climb the trees in the Winter and Fall, And count it improper to climb not at all.

And they name their trees with a thousand names, Calling them after their Arts and Aims;

And some, they climb for the fun of the thing, But most go up at the call of the King.

Some scale a tree that they fear to name, For it bears great blossoms of scarlet shame.

But they eat of the fruit of the nameless tree, Because they are Glugs, and their choice is free.

But every eve, when the sun goes West, Over the mountain they call The Blest, Whose summit looks down on the city of Gosh, Far from the reach of the great King Splosh, The Glugs gaze up at the heights above, And feel vague promptings to wondrous love.

And they whisper a tale of a tinker man, Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann.

A great mother mountain, and kindly is she, Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea.

And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap, Is a little red house with a little straw cap That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high, And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye.

And the eyes of it glisten and shine in the sun, As they look down on Gosh with a twinkle of fun.

There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate, And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight;

For it turns and it twists and it wanders about To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt.

'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth.

And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man With his little red dog and his Emily Arm.

And, once in a while, when the weather is clear, When the work is all over, and even is near, They walk in the garden and gaze down below On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go;

Where the houses of Gosh seem so paltry and vain, Like a handful of pebbles strewn over the plain;

Where tiny black forms crawl about in the vale, And stare at the mountain they fear them to scale.

And Sym sits him down by his little wife's knee, With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree;

And he looks on the Valley and dreams of old years, As he strokes his red dog with the funny prick ears.

And he says, "Still they climb in their whimsical way, While we stand on earth, yet are higher than they.

Oh, who trusts to a tree is a fool of a man!

For the wise seek the mountains, my Emily Ann."

So lives the queer tinker, nor deems it a wrong, When the spirit so moves him, to burst into song.

'Tis a comical song about kettles and pans, And the graces and charms that are Emily Ann's. 'Tis a mad, freakish song, but he sings it with zest, And his little wife vows it of all songs the best.

And he sings quite a lot, as the Summer days pass, With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass.

And the little red dog, who is wise as dogs go, He will hark to that song for a minute or so, 'With his head on one side, and a serious air.

Then he makes no remark; but he wanders elsewhere.

And he trots down the garden to gaze now and then At the curious pranks of a certain blue wren: Not a commonplace wren, but a bird marked for fame Thro' a grievance in life and a definite aim.

Now, they never fly far and they never fly high, And they probably couldn't, suppose they should try.

So the common blue wren is content with his lot: He will eat when there's food, and he fasts when there's not.

He flirts and he flutters, his wife by his side, With his share of content and forgiveable pride.

And he keeps to the earth, 'mid the bushes and shrubs, And he dines very well upon corpulent grubs.

But the little blue wren with a grievance in life, He was rude to his neighbours and short with his wife.

For, up in the apple-tree over his nest, There dwelt a fat spider who gave him no rest: A spider so fat, so abnormally stout That he seemed hardly fitted to waddle about.

But his eyes were so sharp, and his legs were so spry, That he could not be caught; and 'twas folly to try.

Said the wren, as his loud lamentations he hurled At the little red dog, "It's a rotten old world!

But my heart would be glad, and my life would be blest If I had that fat spider well under my vest.

Then I'd call back my youth, and be seeking to live, And to taste of the pleasures the world has to give.

But the world is all wrong, and my mind's in a fog!"

"Aw, don't be a Glug!"

said the little red dog.

Then, up from the grass, where he sat by his tree, The voice of the Tinker rose fearless and free.

The little dog listened, his head on one side;

Then sought him a spot where a bored dog could hide.

"Kettles and pans!

Ho, kettles and pans!

The stars are the gods' but the earth, it is man's!

Yet down in the shadow dull mortals there are Who climb in the tree-tops to snatch at a star: Seeking content and a surcease of care, Finding but emptiness everywhere.

Then make for the mountain, importunate man!

With a kettle to mend .

.

.

and your Emily Ann.

As he cocked a sad eye o'er a sheltering log, "Oh, a Glug is a Glug!"

sighed the little red dog.

THE END

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