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قراءة كتاب Fires - Book II The Ovens, and Other Tales
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اللغة: English
Fires - Book II The Ovens, and Other Tales
الصفحة رقم: 4
stay here:
The waves would have us back;
Or we should perish of the cold.
Come, lad: there's naught to fear...
You must be brave and bold.
Perhaps, we'll strike a track.
Aye, son: it's steep, and black,
And slimy to the hold:
But we must climb, and see! the mist is gone.
The stars are shining clear...
Think, son, your mother's at the top;
And you'll be up in no time. See, that star,
The brightest star that ever shone,
Just think it's she who watches you;
And knows that you'll be brave and true.
Come, lad: we may not stop...
Or, else, the cold...
Give me your hand...
Your foot there, now ... just room to stand.
It cannot be so far...
We'll soon be up ... this work should make us warm.
Thank God, it's not a storm,
Or we should scarce ... your foot, here, firm...
Nay, lad! you must not squirm.
Come, be a man: you shall not fall:
I'll hold you tight.
There: now, you are my own son, after all!
Your mother, lad,
Her star burns bright...
And we're already half-way up the height...
Your mother will be glad,
Aye, she'll be glad to hear
Of her brave boy who had no fear.
Your foot ... your hand ... 'twas but a bird
You startled out of bed:
'Twould think it queer
To wake up, suddenly, and see your head!
And, when you stirred...
Nay! steady, lad!
Or you will send your dad...
Your hand ... your foot ... we'll rest upon this ledge...
Why, son, we're at the top! I feel the edge,
And grass, soft, dewy grass!
Let go, one moment; and I'll draw you up...
Now, lad! ... Thank God! that's past...
And you are safe, at last:
You're safe, you're safe ... and now, my precious lass
Will see her son, her little son, again.
I never thought to reach the top, to-night.
God! What a height!
Nay! but you must not look: 'twould turn your head
And we must not stand shivering here...
And see ... a flashing light...
It's sweeping towards us: and now you stand bright.
Ah, your poor, bleeding hands and feet!
My little son, my sweet!
There's nothing more to fear.
A lighthouse, lad! And we must make for it.
You're tired; I'll carry you a bit.
Nay, son: 'twill warm me up...
And there will be a fire and bed;
And ev'n perhaps a cup
Of something hot to drink,
And something good to eat.
And think, son, only think,
Your home ... and mother ... once again."
Once more, the weary head
Sank back upon the bed:
And, for a while, he hardly stirred;
But only muttered, now and then,
A broken word,
As though to cheer
His son, who still slept quietly,
Upon the other side of me.
And then, my blood ran cold to hear
A sudden cry of fear:
"My son! My son!
Ah, God, he's done!
I thought I'd laid him on the bed...
I've laid him on white mist, instead:
He's fallen sheer..."
Then, I sprang up; and cried: "Your son is here!"
And, taking up the sleeping boy,
I bore him to his father's arms:
And, as he nestled to his breast,
Kind life came back to those wild eyes;
And filled them with deep joy:
And, free of all alarms,
The son and father lay,
Together, in sweet rest,
While through the window stole the strange, clear light of day.
THE MONEY
They found her cold upon the bed.The cause of death, the doctor said,Was nothing save the lack of bread.Her clothes were but a sorry ragThat barely hid the nakednessOf her poor body's piteous wreck:Yet, when they stripped her of her dress,They found she was not penniless;For, in a little silken bag,Tied with red ribbon round her neck,Was four-pound-seventeen-and-five."It seems a strange and shameful thingThat she should starve herself to death,While she'd the means to keep alive.Why, such a sum would keep the breathWithin her body till she'd foundA livelihood; and it would bring...But, there is very