A Diversity of Creatures Part 9

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.

Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile, And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show, We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do, And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.

Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat--well could Ogier wield his brand-- Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.

So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.

Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'

And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't for _me_ to interfere, But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.

Have it _jest_ as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time, If you want to change her nature you have _got_ to give her lime!'

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk, And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.

And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't; Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name, Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came; For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men, And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.

So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds: 'Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds?'

And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise, But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.

When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.

Hev it jest as you've a _mind_ to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.

And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away You can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.

_Georgii Quinti Anno s.e.xto_, I, who own the River-field, Am fortified with t.i.tle-deeds, attested, signed and sealed, Guaranteeing me, my a.s.signs, my executors and heirs All sorts of powers and profits which--are neither mine nor theirs.

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.

I can fish--but Hobden tickles. I can shoot--but Hobden wires.

I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege, Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?

Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?

Confiscate his evening f.a.ggot into which the conies ran, And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.

Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.

And the pa.s.sion and the piety and prowess of his line Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies, Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.

He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer, And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.

'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him again With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.

'Hev it jest as you've a mind to, _but_'--and so he takes command.

For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.

In the Same Boat

(1911)

'A throbbing vein,' said Dr. Gilbert soothingly, 'is the mother of delusion.'

'Then how do you account for my knowing when the thing is due?' Conroy's voice rose almost to a break.

'Of course, but you should have consulted a doctor before using--palliatives.'

'It was driving me mad. And now I can't give them up.'

''Not so bad as that! One doesn't form fatal habits at twenty-five.

Think again. Were you ever frightened as a child?'

'I don't remember. It began when I was a boy.'

'With or without the spasm? By the way, do you mind describing the spasm again?'

'Well,' said Conroy, twisting in the chair, 'I'm no musician, but suppose you were a violin-string--vibrating--and some one put his finger on you? As if a finger were put on the naked soul! Awful!'

'So's indigestion--so's nightmare--while it lasts.'

'But the horror afterwards knocks me out for days. And the waiting for it ... and then this drug habit! It can't go on!' He shook as he spoke, and the chair creaked.

'My dear fellow,' said the doctor, 'when you're older you'll know what burdens the best of us carry. A fox to every Spartan.'

'That doesn't help _me_. I can't! I can't!' cried Conroy, and burst into tears.

'Don't apologise,' said Gilbert, when the paroxysm ended. 'I'm used to people coming a little--unstuck in this room.'

'It's those tabloids!' Conroy stamped his foot feebly as he blew his nose. 'They've knocked me out. I used to be fit once. Oh, I've tried exercise and everything. But--if one sits down for a minute when it's due--even at four in the morning--it runs up behind one.'

'Ye-es. Many things come in the quiet of the morning. You always know when the visitation is due?'

'What would I give not to be sure!' he sobbed.

'We'll put that aside for the moment. I'm thinking of a case where what we'll call anaemia of the brain was masked (I don't say cured) by vibration. He couldn't sleep, or thought he couldn't, but a steamer voyage and the thump of the screw--'

'A steamer? After what I've told you!' Conroy almost shrieked. 'I'd sooner ...'

'Of course _not_ a steamer in your case, but a long railway journey the next time you think it will trouble you. It sounds absurd, but--'

'I'd try anything. I nearly have,' Conroy sighed.

'Nonsense! I've given you a tonic that will clear _that_ notion from your head. Give the train a chance, and don't begin the journey by bucking yourself up with tabloids. Take them along, but hold them in reserve--in reserve.'