The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 12

Subadar Prag Tewarri, Bidding them load with ball, Halted a dozen rifles Under the village wall; Sent out a flanking-party With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First Shikaris Shouted and smote and slew, Turning the grinning jingal On to the howling crew.

The Jemadar's flanking-party Butchered the folk who flew.

Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads were taken, Five score heads and twain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back to their grave again,

Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village-- The village of Pabengmay, And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets Reddened the gra.s.s by the way.

They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, The head of his son below, With the sword and the peac.o.c.k-banner That the world might behold and know.

Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain Of the wrath of the First Shikaris-- The price of a white man slain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back into camp again.

Then a silence came to the river, A hush fell over the sh.o.r.e, And Bohs that were brave departed, And Sniders squibbed no more; For the Burmans said That a kullah's head Must be paid for with heads five score.

There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done.

THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS

Beneath the deep veranda's shade, When bats begin to fly, I sit me down and watch--alas!-- Another evening die.

Blood-red behind the sere ferash She rises through the haze.

Sainted Diana! can that be The Moon of Other Days?

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, Sweet Saint of Kensington!

Say, was it ever thus at Home The Moon of August shone, When arm in arm we wandered long Through Putney's evening haze, And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath The Moon of Other Days?

But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now, And Putney's evening haze The dust that half a hundred kine Before my window raise.

Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist The seething city looms, In place of Putney's golden gorse The sickly babul blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, And bid the pie-dog yell, Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ, From each bazaar its smell; Yea, suck the fever from the tank And sap my strength therewith: Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face To little Kitty Smith!

THE OVERLAND MAIL (Foot-Service to the Hills)

In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.

The woods are astir at the close of the day-- We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.

Let the robber retreat--let the tiger turn tail-- In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill-- The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill: "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail."

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.

Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.

Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him?

The Service admits not a "but" or and "if."

While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From level to upland, from upland to crest, From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.

From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.

There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode-- The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.

For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail: "In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!"

WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID June 21st, 1887

By the well, where the bullocks go Silent and blind and slow-- By the field where the young corn dies In the face of the sultry skies, They have heard, as the dull Earth hears The voice of the wind of an hour, The sound of the Great Queen's voice: "My G.o.d hath given me years, Hath granted dominion and power: And I bid you, O Land, rejoice."

And the ploughman settles the share More deep in the grudging clod; For he saith: "The wheat is my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d.

He sent the Mahratta spear As He sendeth the rain, And the Mlech, in the fated year, Broke the spear in twain.

And was broken in turn. Who knows How our Lords make strife?

It is good that the young wheat grows, For the bread is Life."

Then, far and near, as the twilight drew, Hissed up to the scornful dark Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue, That rose and faded, and rose anew.

That the Land might wonder and mark "Today is a day of days," they said, "Make merry, O People, all!"

And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head: "Today and tomorrow G.o.d's will," he said, As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.

"He sendeth us years that are good, As He sendeth the dearth, He giveth to each man his food, Or Her food to the Earth.

Our Kings and our Queens are afar-- On their peoples be peace-- G.o.d bringeth the rain to the Bar, That our cattle increase."

And the Ploughman settled the share More deep in the sun-dried clod: "Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North, And White Queen over the Seas-- G.o.d raiseth them up and driveth them forth As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze; But the wheat and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d."

THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE

"To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.

How can he drink tea with the Executioner?"

j.a.panese Proverb.

The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.

Neither shies he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats:-- "Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?"

Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go--men Of pith and might and muscle--at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.