Monday
5
12
19
26
Tuesday
6
13
20
27
Wednesday
7
14
21
28
Thursday
1
8
15
22
29
Friday
2
9
16
23
30
Saturday
3
10
17
23
—
October.
Sunday
2
9
16
23
30
Monday
3
10
17
24
31
Tuesday
4
11
18
25
—
Wednesday
5
12
19
26
—
Thursday
6
13
20
27
—
Friday
7
14
21
28
—
Saturday
1
8
15
22
29
—
November.
Sunday
6
13
20
27
Monday
7
14
21
28
Tuesday
1
8
15
22
29
Wednesday
2
9
16
23
30
Thursday
3
10
17
24
—
Friday
4
11
18
25
—
Saturday
5
12
19
26
—
December.
Sunday
4
11
18
25
Monday
5
12
19
26
Tuesday
6
13
20
27
Wednesday
7
14
21
28
Thursday
1
8
15
22
29
Friday
2
9
16
23
30
Saturday
3
10
17
24
31
Hunting.
Certes it is a noble sport And men have quitted selle and swum for’t, But I am of a meeker sort And I prefer Surtees in comfort.
Reach down my “Handley Cross” again. My run, where never danger lurks, is With Jorrocks and his deathless train Pigg, Binjimin and Arterxerxes!
January.
Coursing.
Most men harry the world for fun — Each man seeks it a different way But “of all daft devils under the sun A grey’ound’s the daftest” said Jorrocks J.
February.
Racing.
The horse is ridden — the jockey rides — The backers back — the owners own But ... there are lots of things besides, And I should leave this play alone.
March.
Boating.
The Pope of Rome he could not win From pleasant meat and pleasant sin These who, in honour’s hope, endure Lean days and lives enforced pure. These who, replying not, submit Unto the curses of the Pit Which he that rides (O greater shame!) Flings forth by number not by name... Could Triple Crown or Jesuit’s oath Do what yon shuffle-stocking doth?
April.
Fishing.
Behold a parable! A fished for B. C took her bait; her heart was set on D. Thank Heaven, who cooled your blood and cramped your wishes, Men and not Gods torment you, little fishes.
May.
Cricket.
Thank God who made the British Isles And taught me how to play, I do not worship crocodiles Or bow the knee to clay!
Give me a willow wand and I, With hide and cork and twine, From century to century Will gambol round my Shrine.
June.
Archery.
The child of the Nineties considers with laughter The maid whom his Sire in the sixties ran after, While careering himself in pursuit of a girl whom The Twenties will dub a “last century heir-loom.”
July.
Coaching.
The Pious Horse to church may trot. A maid may work a man’s salvation. Four horses and a girl are not, However, aids to reformation.
August.
Shooting.
“Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men!” So greet we Christmas Day. Oh Christian load your gun and then, O Christian, out and slay!
September.
Golf.
Why Golf is Art and Art is Golf we have not far to seek — So much depends upon the lie, so much upon the cleek.
October.
Boxing.
Read here the Moral roundly writ For him that into battle goes — Each soul that, hitting hard and hit, Encounters gross or ghostly foes: — Prince, blown by many overthrows Half blind with shame, half choked with dirt Man cannot tell but Allah knows How much the other side was hurt!
November.
Skating.
Over the ice she flies Perfect and poised and fair — Stars in my true-love’s eyes Teach me to do and to dare!
Now will I fly as she flies ... Woe for the stars that misled! Stars that I saw in her eyes Now do I see in my head!
December.
* * *
Now we must come away. What are you out of pocket? ‘Sorry to spoil your play, But Somebody says we must pay — And the candle’s down to the socket — Its horrible tallowy socket!
Alnaschar and the Oxen
“The Bull That Thought”
THERE’S a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide,
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight-tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,
On peaceful, postless Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things-
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl,
I know the pride that Lobengula felt,
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal,
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue ...
I have only six and twenty, but the principle’s the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips,
Level-backed and level-bellied watch ‘em move-
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins,
admire those hips,
And the tail set low for flesh to make above!
Count the broad unblemished muzzles, test the kindly mellow skin,
And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call,
Mark the bosom’s just abundance ‘
neath the gay and clean chin,
And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all!
Here is colour, form and substance! I will put it to the proud
And, next season, in my lodges shall be born
Some very Bull of Mithras, flawless from his agate hoof
To his even-branching, ivory, dusk-tipped horn.
He shall mate with block-square virgins-kings shall seek his like
in vain,
While I multiply his stock a thousandfold,
Till an hungry world extol me, builder of a lofty strain
That turns one standard ton at two years old!
There’s a valley, under oakwood, where a man may dream his dream,
In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease,
Till the moon o’ertops the alders, and her image chills the stream,
And the river-mist runs silver round their knees!
Now the footpaths fade and vanish; now the ferny clumps deceive;
Now the hedgerow-folk possess their fields anew;
Now the Herd is lost in darkness, and 1 bless them as I leave,
My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
An American
1894
The American Spirit speaks:
If the Led Striker call it a strike,
Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
Nor what he is, My Avatar.
Through many roads, by me possessed,
He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
And he the Text himself applies.
The Celt is in his heart and hand,
The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
He guards the Redskin’s dry reserve
His easy unswept hearth he lends
From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.
Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
Or cringing begs a crust of praise;
Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood — his heart
Leaps, as a babe’s, at little things.
But, through the shift of mood and mood,
Mine ancient humour saves him whole —
The cynic devil in his blood
That bids him mock his hurrying soul;
That bids him flout the Law he makes,
That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
The drumming guns that — have no doubts;
That checks him foolish-hot and fond,
That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
But dims the goal of his desire;
Inopportune, shrill-accented,
The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless ‘mid his dead,
The scandal of the elder earth.
How shall he clear himself, how reach
Your bar or weighed defence prefer —
A brother hedged with alien speech
And lacking all interpreter?
Which knowledge vexes him a space;
But, while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
Home, to the instant need of things.
Enslaved, illogical, elate,
He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.
Lo, imperturbable he rules,
Unkempt, desreputable, vast —
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
I — I shall save him at the last!
The American Rebellion
1776
Before
Twas not while England’s sword unsheathed
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men —
These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
They did not quit her then!
Not till their foes were driven forth
By England o’er the main —
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember that they owed
To Freedom — and were bold!
After
The snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
The ice on the Delaware,
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.
Not though the earliest primrose break
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England’ s spring again.
They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.
They will not stir though the mayflower blows
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.
Each for his land, in a fair fight,
Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
Covers them side by side.
She is too busy to think of war;
She has all the world to make gay;
And, behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers’ day!
Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.
Anchor Song
Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full —
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love —
Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
For the wind has come to say:
“You must take me while you may,
If you’d go to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
Oh, we’re bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!”
Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o’ that!
Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
Port — port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year!
Well, ah, fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again —
Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
And it’s time to clear and quit
When the hawser grips the bitt,
So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!
Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
And it’s blowing up for night,
And she’s dropping light on light,
And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,
Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road
alone to-night.
Sick she is and harbour-sick — Oh, sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us —
Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand!
Well, ah, fare you well, and it’s Ushant slams the door on us,
Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
And we’re off to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!
Angutivaun Taina
Song of the Returning Hunter (Esquimaux)
“Quiquern” — The Second Jungle Book
Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal — the seal!
In from the edge of the floe.
Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
And the yelping dog-teams go;
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!
We tracked our seal to his secret place,
We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
Out on the edge of the floe.
We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
We drove it downward — so!
And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
Out on the edge of the floe.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 749