The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 8

POSSIBILITIES

Ay, lay him 'neath the Simla pine-- A fortnight fully to be missed, Behold, we lose our fourth at whist, A chair is vacant where we dine.

His place forgets him; other men Have bought his ponies, guns, and traps.

His fortune is the Great Perhaps And that cool rest-house down the glen,

Whence he shall hear, as spirits may, Our mundane revel on the height, Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-light Sweep on to dinner, dance, and play.

Benmore shall woo him to the ball With lighted rooms and braying band; And he shall hear and understand "Dream Faces" better than us all.

For, think you, as the vapours flee Across Sanjaolie after rain, His soul may climb the hill again To each field of victory.

Unseen, who women held so dear, The strong man's yearning to his kind Shall shake at most the window-blind, Or dull awhile the card-room's cheer.

@In his own place of power unknown, His Light o' Love another's flame, And he an alien and alone!

Yet may he meet with many a friend-- Shrewd shadows, lingering long unseen Among us when "G.o.d save the Queen"

Shows even "extras" have an end.

And, when we leave the heated room, And, when at four the lights expire, The crew shall gather round the fire And mock our laughter in the gloom;

Talk as we talked, and they ere death-- Flirt wanly, dance in ghostly-wise, With ghosts of tunes for melodies, And vanish at the morning's breath.

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow-- As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.

Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!

Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth; And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry-- What part have India's exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring-- As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.

Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly-- Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice!

With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"

High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us-- As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.

They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone!

Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!

Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!

Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it.

Gold was good--we hoped to hold it, And today we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together-- As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.

That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.

Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment-- India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.

If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut--we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus-- As the conches from the temple scream and bray.

With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!

Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

PAGETT, M.P.

The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth-point goes.

The b.u.t.terfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad.

Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith-- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.

March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay."

March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he.

"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P.

April began with the punkah, coolies, and p.r.i.c.kly-heat,-- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.

He grew speckled and mumpy--hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.

May set in with a dust-storm,--Pagett went down with the sun.

All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.

Imprimis--ten day's "liver"--due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever--slight, but he called it severe.

Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat-- Lowered his portly person--made him yearn to depart.

He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"

But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.

July was a trifle unhealthy,--Pagett was ill with fear.

'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.

He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.

We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.

That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.

And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"

And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

THE SONG OF THE WOMEN

How shall she know the worship we would do her?