# Shingle-Short and Other Verses/Shingle-Short

Shingle-Short.
Shingle-Short.
[To “Barney.”]
Awharé on a winter’s evening. Enter Barney, wet and muddy, with a lump of wood. He speaks:
Thank God for this ungodly rain! Paddock’s a puddle, creek’s in flood, Road’s like a river mix’d up rich— Pea-soup, treacle, pudd’n’ an’ sich— Reggular marmalade o’ mud. Won’t be no larrikins to-night, Come peerin’, jeerin’, thro’ the pane! “More rain, more rest, Fine weather’s not always best.” Wait, though—I’ll wedge the door.... That’s right!
(Going to the hearth.)
Anythin’ left o’ you, old log?.... My stars! I am a lucky dog— Blest if there ain’t a eye o’ bright Blinkin’ away-O! on its own. Soon wake you up: I’ve work for you. Supper? Not much! There’s sweeter meat A-holdin’ out its hands for heat. ....Where’s bellows, an’ a chip or two? ​Kind of a curtain, now, this wet, Between the wharé an’ the world, An’ me all good an’ cosy, curl’d Behind it, with no room to let. Gosh! Ain’t it fine to be alone, With just the work you want to do? Snug as a bug—that’s got a brain: Keen as a dog that’s got a bone: Quiet, an’ safe, an’ unbeknown: The tools, the matter, Him to guide— An’ everybody else outside! ....Kick off your boots, an’ wash your hands... Now let’s see where Creation stands!
(Taking up the wood he has brought in.)
First thing, the matter. Ain’t that good! Reggular wholesome bit o’ wood— Totara-heart, an’ extry sound. An’, look! Aha! God’s rifle sent Bang in my spirit what you meant, Minute you spurted on the ground. What! Think I’d give ’em you to burn? To cook the body spuds, an’ meal? No fear! Look here! What’s this? A stern! An’ this here lengthway ridge—Just feel! My word! it all-right is a keel! Plain as the buttons on my coat (Look at her, feelin’ for her bow!) This log was built to be a Boat— Blest if she ain’t a half-one now! An’ makin’ of a half-thing whole, Smells like the savin’ o’ my soul. ​Hull to be hollow’d first.Now, then— Ten fingers, not exactly fools: A gouge: a mallet:—them’s the tools: An’—would You help me? Please! Amen!
(Working on the wood.)
Twice 1 is 2, twice 2 is 4, Twice 3 is 6, dunno no more. Been the general run’ o’ day: Present, dingy: an’ prospeck, grey. Cherry, at ’milkin’, in the dirt Kick’d me over, an’ tore my shirt. Strippin’ o’ Fiddle-face, I’d a thought, ’Bout a boiler; it come to nought, ’N, while I was at it, Chalky’s calf Rush’d the bucket, an’ swaller’d half. Thoughts bein’ early, legs was late. Breakfast’s at seven,—mine was eight. Missis cold as the porridge-plate, Wanted to know if I understood Fire couldn’t burn, if it hadn’t wood? Brought her inrimu:—wa’n’t no good,— Said ’twas nothin’ but solid smoke; Tackled somemaire;—axe-helve broke, An’ Mick, o’ Saturday, at the store, Couldn’t afford me credit no more, —Twice 2 is 4, twice 4 is 6— So’ wa’n’t I in a proper fix? Hid in the sty, to make a helve; Made a beauty, but not till twelve— ​Dinner-time: turn’d up with the rest.... Cats an’ kettles! when I come in, Didn’t Boss get it off his chest? ’N Missis, her eyes was each a oath; Needed courage to meet ’em both.... Wish’d she squinted,....an’ wa’n’t she wroth!
Fencin’, some o’ the afternoon; Like that; lengthen’d it, all I could. Boss, he come an’ tackled it soon, Sent me blastin’ the blessed wood. Stop! that’s a libell’d God-send! Why, Out o’ the blastin’ didn’ you fly? Two an’ two, an’ two, an’ two,— Blasted an’ blessed, me an’ you.
Come on rainy; an’ Speck, the brute, Went an’ poison’d herself withtute— Started a’waltzin’, ’s if she seen Satan. I scoots in, sharp’s a bell, But head over eyes in this machine, Grabs the ginger what cured Colleen.... Thought she’d ha’ horn’d me into Hell— Forgot you sluiced it with kerosene. Luckily, Mick, he come along. My word! Wa’n’t his condemnin’ strong? Took some hearin’ to stand the sound:— Cow couldn’ stick it: she come round.
Evenin’ milkin’: all mud an’ muddle. Pinch o’ earth to a pint o puddle, Beasts one steamy, hollerin’ huddle.... ​All the way through, though, didn’ I smile? Didn’ I chuckle, all the while? When you haven’ to eat the bread, Much you care if the sponge goes sour— Specially when you’ve cake instead! Outside’s on’y a pin-head part:— Wa’n’t I at home inside my heart? Hadn’t I Heaven in my head? An’ didn’ them ugly moments thread, Straight as cotton, to this good hour?
There, now! ’F all things under the sun Nicer-lookin’ I never seen. Good lines; even, an’ smooth, an’ clean! Feelin’ better? Your hull is done!
Still, you’re a senseless son of a gun, Ain’t you? stuck-in-the-mud, an’ blind— On’y a body, be you, son? Now I’m a-goin’ to make your Mind!
Clock! you’re bound for a bit o’ change. I shall miss you, an’ you’ll feel strange——— Wonder, now, little Tick-tick-tick, If ocean-motion ‘ll turn you sick? Sorry—can’t help it!....’N, if I’m late, Missis ’ll thankfully set me straight. Seems to bustle her up, to find Time runnin’ on, with me behind— Straightens her back-bone, whips her blood, Tautens her belt, like, does her good. Waste o’ worry! What’s time to we, When there’s all of Eternity? ​Out o’ your coat!——So——Off you come, Ratchet, ’scapement, an’ pendulum―
(Taking clock to pieces.)
An’ there’s your power a-actin’—See?—
Your jolly mind!
There’s somethin’ still
A-wantin’, though, an’ that's your Will! No good keepin’ no mutton warm
For brain an’ body as don’t perform,
Is it? No call to worry, though— This cowbanger’s runnin’ the show!
Now comes the cream.... Old fire all right?
Seraphim! ain’t you quick an’ bright?
Everythin’s kind o’ kind, to-night.
(Taking soldering-iron.)
You run an’ see your friend the fire,
An’—Where’s that bit o’ fencin’-wire?
(Produces some from inside his boot, and untwists it.)
While that’s a-heatin’, here, let’s look
Back in that idiot table-book.
—“Twice 3 is 6, twice 4, 8, twice—” Left out poor 7? That ain’t nice—
Oh,—right down here! “Twice 7’s 14.” Well——, fourteen what, though? Inches? come! Or feet? Or fingers, eh? by gum!
Why can’t you spit out what you mean?
(Turning over pages.)
​Goes on a-mountin’ like a flood, Higher ’n higher,—’n no pertence To one half-toothful o’ solid sense. Mick said you’d help me measure wood. Measure mosquitoes! You’re no good! Said, you was shorter ways to add— Reckon short cuts is mostly bad. Can’t swallow stuff with shirkin’ to’t. ....Besides....I don’ see how you do’t, Nor why,—nor what— Oh, you ain’t much! Clear! I can’t be bothered by such.
(Flings the book across the room.)
Here, let’s look how that iron acks—— My! that’s visible, if you like. Figures be flutter’d! I’m for facks!
(Making a fork of the fencing-wire, he solders it on to the pinion of the clock, and fits all inside the hull. Then, boring a hole in the stern.)
Water within ’ud be a sin.... Vinegar-cork! you trundle in.
(Fits the cork into the hole, and leads the wire through it so as to engage with the fork.)
Now, what’s to make her jolly screw? Tin....thin....? Here, biscuit-box—you’ll do!
(From the lid of a biscuit-box, he cuts out and fixes a propeller.)
Try her, now—wind her up an’ try! Maiden trip in the water-tank!
(Lights a candle, and, going outside, clambers with the model up on to the rain-water tank.)
​Sloppy, ain’t it? The thing’s full up! Plenty o’ depth for you to draw.... Tea-leaf, top o’ a ten-foot cup.... I say! Sorrow! Suppose....she sank?.... Kind o’ tightens me in the throat.... Rubbish! she couldn’t....Oh, please don’t!
(Resolutely.)
Ready? Leggo, there! Now, then—Float!
(The model takes the water.)
Glory—Hosanna! You’re a Boat!
(Scrambling round the tank, guiding the boat.)
Do this yourself, you know, you ought: Make the round trip from port to port. That ’ud be splendid, just like life. Ought to ha’ fancied that at first. Hold on, now! Do it, if I burst.... Golly! I’ve got it. Where’s my knife?
(Shapes and fixes a rudder, lashing it so that the boat must move in a circle; this he proves, then re-enters the wharé.)
Good! You’re a boat, you’ll go, you’ll come— An’ yet my fancy ain’t fetch’d home. Know why? Because your looks ain’t neat, An’, if there’s one thing you’re to be, It’s this—right up-an’-down Complete! I kind o’ need things finished quite, So, come on, son! let’s get you right. ​Cabins, to start with—They don’ show, But if there wa’n’t none, I should know. Let’s see.... them there match-boxes! Quick, Chuck out the matches....There!.... one row To port: now, starboard—that’s the trick! Next thing, a deck—That cardboard lid:— Rule on some lines, to mean the planks.... An’ there’s your inside full, an’ hid! ....Two skewers for the masts....some string For riggin’.... There! That everythin’?
—Blest fool! you’ve give her that, inside, ’Ll work her spite o’ wind an’ tide, Yet never thought to put no trace O’ special power in her face— Funnel, she wants! Go slow, now....stop.... Got it! Mother’s umbrella-top!— Thank You! Ain’t got no paint, worse luck! Black hull, red funnel.... ’F I could pluck The red shine off therata-bloom, An’ drain the bitter bad black stuff Out o’ my heart, I’d have enough.... Would Micky swap my Sunday tweeds? ’Tisn’t so very much she needs; Two must-be coats and one to spare, Kind o’ pomatum to her hair.... She’d lick their S.S. “Wakatu.” ——Somehow I’ll get it, that I swear.—— Jericho!
(Runs out, and presently returns with a feather, which he sticks in the funnel.)
’Fraid poor Clucky woke Painful, but this here, see, ’s for smoke. There! Now the whole live world can rip, For now you’re finish’d: you’re a Ship!
....It’s hot!
(Opens the window.)
Why, Rain, when did you cease? ....Ain’t there a beauty stillness? Hush! All the whole valley’s full o’ peace. On’y amorepork in the Bush, On’y the callin’ o’ the creek.... An’ there’s the stars, all cool an’ clean, Where never any dirt has been, A-hangin’, steady an’ serene.... Kind of a fam’ly mast-head light To God’s great steamer o’ the World, A-travellin’ on across the night. Eh! when He’d got the thought o’ that, An’ work’d it perfeck at His ease, An’ finish’d up with lightin’ you: When that big Thought had all come pat, An’ lay there, livin’, on His knees, With every fittin’ right an’ tight, Everythin’ workin’ good an’ true— Lord God! Whatever did You do?
..Say!..there’s my ship in there. You know! (Thank God! You always do know, plain; You never dog me, to “explain”.)— Oh, what am I to be so blest? Why am I pick’d from all the rest, ​To Make? What have I been an’ done, To get so double-tiled in parts? Look! There it is, in there! An’—Oh, There’s tears an’ triumph in my brain! The pleasure of it’s sharp like pain— It scares me! Oh, it wants two hearts, To hold it an’ not overflow! My dingy day’s one blaze o’ Bright!— All’s tuned! there’s everythin’ come Right! Oh, who am I, what have I done, God! what am I? to be so blest.
....A grain more glad, an’ I’ll go mad.... It’s done! I done it! an’ it’s Done! Guess I’ll go in, an’ get some rest.
(Goes and sits down by the fire, which is nearly out. After an interval,)
Can’t rest.... There’s folk with heaps more wit— Micky, an’ Boss,—all hands an’ thought, Don’ seem to get no good of it: Never hear they’ve invented aught? They’re circ’lar saws, a-cuttin’ planks— I’m band-saw, reggular up to pranks. They rides on metal, an’ tween banks— Bush, I’m let survey an’ explore. Their contrack’s labell’d “As Before”— While I—Thank God! my order’s sent To heave an’ haul things different: So’s out o’ Nothin’ to make Some, An’ out o’ Some to make Some More; An’ thoughts, like shavin’s from your plane, Drops down upon me now ’n again.... ​—How can they others keep content? It don’t seem somehow hardly fair To give me such a extry share?
Take Missis, now:—can’t beat her bread, Never be lazy till she’s dead, An’ keeps account-books in her head: Yet, if she work’d till Kingdom Come, Could she make that? Suppose, some day, I show’d her? She’d be struck, I lay! “You do that, Barney?” p’raps she’d say— Or p’raps delight ’ud keep her dumb? Not much, it wouldn’t! Out she’d spit In them tight tones, as if she bit (I hear her), “What’s the good of it?”
That wasn’t Missis speakin’, sure....?
(Timidly.)
....Missis! You loony! she ain’t here. Said it yourself like, to yourself. Wish I hadn’t then,—did sound clear. ....What’s gone an’ happen’d? feel all queer— Silly, like: stopp’d inside o’ me, Like I was switch’d off suddenly, Like somethin’ right deep down got hit, Bursted, or somethin’.—Wait a bit.... Here, buck up! “What’s the....Good of it?”
(Loudly.)
Let be! To every mouth its mess! This ain’t old Missis’s business!
(Whispering.)
“What is the good of it”? Dunno! It just had, someway, to be so.
(Resolutely.)
“What is the Good of it?” Look here! You take an’ riddle this out clear!
(To the boat.)
Stand there! Are you some good or not? What’s a ship good for? Well, she sails Over the sea. What for? To hand Over to some one else’s land People, an’ cargo-stuff, an’ mails. Could you do that? O’ course, cut down All round, an’ kind o’ tucks took in.... We’ll say, a needle, an’ a pin, A post-card, an’ a dozen fleas, Passengers, like: could you take these, Well—over to the Point, say?
Oh, Ain’t it all fiddle-sticky stuff! Ain’t it a sickly suck, all round! You try an’ git across the Bay? How ’ud them insecks know the way? How ’ud they ever keep you wound? Ugh! makes me cringe inside o’ me, To fancy what a fool you’d be, Peacockin’ in the real live sea! ​First wind ’ud whip your feather off, First wave ‘ud stroke them skewers down, An’ smudge your cardboard,—an’ the wet ’Ud stop your works, an’ there you’d drown— Nice endin’ to a trial trip! Jolly good thing!—You ain’t no ship!
Well, but there is....I seen ’em, some, In Town there, in the Musë-um....? Much o’ your size, too: in a row: Five of ’em, steamers—an’ they’re fine! Bridges they got, an’ gold, an’ brass, An’ sets there smilin’, under glass; Right to a hair, an’ not a speck,— Fresher than Fancy, full o’ shine! An’ one of ’em’s a real twin-screw, An’ one with sailors on her deck. But each an’ all is in a box; Glass, but (I tried ’em), all with locks; So, clearly, they ain’t meant to go? An’, when I asked the man, he said: “You bloomin’ loony, ’course they ain’t— Nor don’t you try it!—Them’s for show!” ....Well, then....? Ho, yes! Got just the face, Ain’t you, to glorify your glass? Guess you’d git in a special class, An’ take first prize—as a Grimace!
Oh, here’s a rotten game I’ve play’d! Ain’t you a dandy!—Real home-made! Your works half-worn, your riggin’ string, An’ all odd colours—Burst the thing! ​It’s ate my supper, stole my sleep, Spoilt my umbrella, hurt a hen, Stuff’d me to split with pride—an’ then, Oh, yes! I’ve just misunderstood, As usual! Got things back before, Been on the booze inside my brain, Just as per usual—nothin’ more! —Well! now my eyes is back again. I thought you was A.1.—You’re not! You’re just a naked bit o’ rot! I thought you was a Ship.—You’re wood, Stuff’d full o’ foolin’. You’re No Good! If other ships was sneerin’ sort, Reckon they’d call you “Shingle-Short.”
Ay! that’s where all the sickness lies. It is’n’t you what’s wrong, it’s me. I’m glad o’ that; contrariwise, Sorry! for where’s your remedy? It ain’t the wood, it ain’t the tools, Has doom’d you deep among the fools, Nor ’tain’t the details:—’twas the plan; Which means, All fire it! ’twas the man. Made a nice milkin’ stool, you could, If on’y I’d ha’ seen it; yes,— An’ any other feller would. “Never too late to mend”? I guess You’re just about the same as me: Thirty-odd years too late to mend— I can’t remake your maker, friend, An’ he’s a fool himself, you see. ​Well, that ain’t news? No fear! Not much! It’s ached too often to the touch. ....Right back, at home..they next-door boys,— “Let’s have a game with Softy’s toys.” —An’, Teacher, yellin’ “O you fool!” That week I’d wanted so at school: —An’ Mother’s look, afore she died, Me sharpenin’ scissors at her side, An’ askin’ her why Granny cried? —An’ since,—the curses, an’ the blows, The sells, an’ mocks, an’ filthy jests, An’ harder hurts, that no one knows,— Reckon they’ve taught it past all tests. Besides, look here, I know I’m dull! See how I muddle things, an’ mull; Can’t write; an’ take for somethin’ fine Every poor feeble fake o’ mine. ....Still, though, I’ve know’d it all along, To-night it does come extry strong.
Fire’s out; an’ lamp’s begun to stink. Well, dark ’ll do for misery....
....I wonder what’s about the time? Why—where’s old Clocky got to?
(Catching sight of the boat.)
....Ah-h! ....An’ goin’ to be so sublime, Wa’n’t you? Such extry-special bliss....! Oh, an’ I did think you was good. —You mess! you muck, you! O you scab! ....Stickin’ there....like....a bloody crime! Hold on! I must git out o’ this.
(Opens door, and sits down on step outside.)
Well, you old Stars! you look amused. Kind of a general twinkle-wink. Jolly good joke on, I should think; Wish I could catch a whiff of it! —Wouldn’t surprise me, now, not half, If my concerns was in the laugh? Well, sooner you than larrikins! Nor ’tain’t so many moments since You seen me sit all cock-a-hoop, Catchin’ Creation in a loop, An’ ladlin’ Skill out by the scoop, While, now....’Tis kind o’ laugh—an’ cry: Tickles the taste, but works the eye, An’ makes the munchin’ mouth go wry, Don’t it? like pickles....Well, all right! ’Tis a bit laughable, I know. The things I do are mostly so.
Most eyes are straight, but some, they squint: Most cylinders are truly cast, But sometimes one has blow-holes in’t: There’s nuts, which isn’t screw’d in right, An’ keeps whole plates from settin’ tight: An’ Olsen’s bran new boiler burst:— I’m like ’em: failure from the first.
That’s so. An’ yet.... it’s rummy, too; ’Cause, if I’d got to die this hour, I swear to God, I have got power! Why, can’t I see things in the piece, Not scraps, like other people do? ​I know ’em! Belly, back, an’ soul, I get their plan complete an’ whole, An’ all their makin’ clear in view, An’ all their matter in control,— Then, Whiff! I dunno how it is, But there my vantage comes to cease; Don’ seem to matter what I do, All o’ my cream churns out to grease— My whoppers all works out askew. Them smithereens comes nicely through.
No! ’tain’t no sort o’ use to shirk— Somehow, this Power o’ mine don’t work. Dunno the reason; that can slide— No, it don’t ack; an’ what’s the worst, Won’t, never. No! I’m certified Certain o’ that. I can’t pretend “Hold on! you haven’t seen the end; This Ugly Ducklin’s bound to burst Out into Swan.” Not it, worse luck! It’s grow’d too far towards Ugly Duck.
No! I can fence this little lot— This way: I am, an’ yet I’m not! Can’t run to nothin’ clear an’ clean, But just keep ditherin’ in between; At once Too-Little, an’ Too-Much: You can’t do any good with such. Like this old iron-sand hereabout, Too married up with mucky sand To pay to get the iron out; Or, like that jolly knife I ground, An’ put no water on the stone;— ​Missis’s knife, an’ wa’n’t she mad! Didn’t much water her abuse, An’ took my on’y knife I had, Nice, dandy, new, horn-handled one; ’Cause, come to use her one, she found ’Twas gone too soft to cut a stick, Too hard to turn a screw around:— Use in it, yet it wa’n’t no use. That’s me....! My spirit’s all but broke To wish myself like usual folk, As does two right-out things in turn:— Just earns to eat, an’ eats to earn. A perfeck rose ’ll better please Your eyesight than fat cabbages: But good sound cabbage, I suppose, Is pleasinger than canker’d rose? Unless your eyes is in your nose.
Oh, ain’t there never no way out? ’Cause, see this extry use I got. Quench as you will, that truth keeps hot. My knife won’t cut, an’ yet I feel, I do! it’s extry-proper steel; An’ tons of iron ’s in my sand. ’Tain’t to make more, it’s on’y just Joggle a bit, an’ readjust? Couldn’t I be took back in hand, Run down, an’ temper’d back again, Or smelted out some patent way? I wouldn’ mind no kind o’ pain, So as my Power could get its play. ​Look here! It staggers me, how God, As crams a two-inch bit o’ sod With littlest leaves, an’ blades o’ grass, All perfeck, can a-bear let be This hugger-mugger muddle, Me! Ay, You could right me, yet You don’t. You hit too often as You aim For me to think Your skill’s to blame, An’, so it must be, ’cause You won’t. Well, that’s beyond me; let it pass! P’raps He can see some reason for ’t; But I’ll be jigger’d if I can! All I can see is, spilt an’ spoilt, An’ murder’d to a Shingle-short, Matter that might ha’ made a Man:— Better one, maybe, too, than most; Which is a bite, an’ not a boast— Just the tip-toppin’ to the curse; ’Cause, bein’ better makes me worse. Say you’d a shingle off the roof: Would clappin’ twenty on the side Make this old wharé weather-proof? No, make the twenty misapplied. An’ that’s the very way I am:— Here I’m a-wantin’, there I’m waste. First I’m a shortage, then a sham— Kind of a two ways in the wrong, Double disgustin’ and disgraced.
Oh, it’s all crazy! it’s all wrong! Everythin’s cuss’d an’ contrary! Everythin’ slops, or else comes short, Or both of ’em at once, like me. ​I’ve often guess’d it: now I know— It’s gone an’ topp’d itself up so. Just you look round! On every side Here’s Power lost an’ leakified, There’s good stuff dancin’ to the dogs, Because o’ Power not applied.— An’ springy things ain’t got no sense, Sensible ones ain’t got no spring— An’ things as should be here is hence— An’ promises proves out perverse— An’ every blessin’s got its curse— Ay, somethin’s wrong with everythin’. ....Dunno, now, as I ever saw Even a flower without a flaw? Or, if I did, that’s overcast— ’Cause, now it’s passin’, next it’s past; Very same second, like, it’s sound, Down on the road to rot it’s bound— Its rightness ain’t allowed to last. No! nothin’ but is black’d with blots! Nothin’ too healthy to get ill, Too good but might be better still. —Dash it! Mick said to-day, this rain Was, ’cause the sun hisself has spots!
Folk, just the same. You take the best— Not Missis: in her head she’s smart, But she’ve the shortage in her heart.... Nor Boss: ’cause he’s a meagre lot— Missis, an’ money, ’s all he’s got. Granny?....She liked a drop....Well, there! Wasn’t much halo to her hair; Nor Micky—he ain’t none to spare. ​But Mother, now? As good as good, Lovin’ an’ pretty: sing, she could! An’ save us! how that woman toil’d— But, foolish-like, at eatin’ food— Thought she could live on tea-leaves stew’d; That’s how she got her stummick spoil’d. —Oh, well, if Mother don’t come clear, Guess that’s a settle’em for the rest, An’ blame’s attachin’ to the best.
While, as for work an’ such—Look here! I guess the one success you do Is, thinkin’ you’re a-goin’ to. Oh, all’s right then: looks good, an’ sound, An’ plump, and reggular all-round— Puff-ballish! Prove it, an’ it’s broke, For all that good fat shape was—Smoke. (Like look at me to-night, poor bloke! A-savin’ up for this all day!) Or most of it was, anyway.— ’Tain’t never just the thing you thought; Don’t never pan out all it ought. Say, now, I’d managed to think straight, An’ plann’d a stool o’ that poor wood, An’ made it proper, all to rule (An’ even Missis always says ’Tain’t in my hands the madness lays),— Think ’t ’ud ha’ been a perfeck stool? You don’ know nothin’ if you do. Look here! As sure as butter’s rich, Turn’d out exackly as was traced, Somehow that stool’d ha’ got disgraced.— Just little, mind you; needn’t stare, But can’t I see it, sniggerin’ there! ​Slip o’ the tool....or scratch....or scritch, Somewhere’d be bound to come the hitch. ’Cause why? It’s always so, that’s why, That’s all about the bloomin’ mess.... Kind of a blitherin’ human blight— Nothin’s not never Right-down Right! —An’ most ’s a jolly long lot less.
Oh, ain’t it paltry! Ain’t it poor, An’ loo-warm, an’ soul-sickenin’! Not on’y me, an’ my poor fake (I wish it was!), but—Rotten Roots! Failure bang in Creation’s make, Somethin’ at fault in Everythin’. Good Gum! I’m fair full up of it. It’s all to pot, an’ so am I. Seems such a general, livin’ lie.... If there was just, for comfort’s sake, One rightness under the round sky! But, nothin’, nowhere, all it ought? The whole show with a taste o’ taint? The whole caboodle shingle-short? Oh, stinkin’! Makes you kind o’ heave! Fair makes you want to cut an’ quit. Wish I was dead, an’ done with it.— I do, old Stars!
Ay, there you stay, Lookin’ all handsome in the Blue; But, if I knew it, I daresay, Really, there’s somethin’ wrong with you? ....It don’t insist, tho’, anyway. ​You’re very still, an’ beautiful.... You’re like I guess a hand ’ud be, A-comin’ quietly an’ cool, When all the head was hot like this, Over the eyelids, firm an’ full.... An’ whisperin’ “Hush!” an’ “Never mind! I got you safe,—you go to sleep!” An’ drawin’ o’ you back to rest, Tired-baby-like, on some big Breast, All good, and comfortin’ an’ deep....
....Thunder! In sizin’ up just now This general-gatherum-run-to-rot, Dash’d if I ain’t forgot somehow— I have!—I been an’ clean forgot, (Me an’ the wood in such a plight), Him as was third in the invite, Him as is back of all the lot— God!
Oh, thank Goodness, God! You’re left!
My! Don’t it take the breath.... I say, Was I clean crazy an’ bereft? Ain’t I one sparkicle o’ wit? Fussin’ an’ fossickin’ throughout The whole live world, an’ leavin’ out The very livest bit of it! God—that lit up they stars with light: GOD! That’s Almighty, an’—ALL RIGHT! ​Hip! Hip! There’s knots you can’t untie— Grab ’em the right end, an’ they’ll fly! Hip-Hallelujah! I’ve a-got The loosener to my blessed knot. We’re the tangle, but You’re the Clue.... An’ what’s our tonnage, alongside You? Slops, or shortages, shams or what, ’Tain’t what we ain’t, or don’t or do, Really matters—No fear! It’s You! An’—You ain’t ruined ’cause we fail. God! if we’re shingle-short—You’re Not!
Ain’t I been off my course? O, You! I dunno rightly who You are, But nobody ain’t half so near. You look right in me, like that star, An’ every thought I have, You hear. Whatever’s twisty in my fate, The road to You is always straight.... I ain’t afraid; You’ll make allow, For I’m Your creature, anyhow, Ain’t I? I am that much to You! It come about I dunno how.... My work weren’t right, an’ I were wrong, An’ nick’d an’ nark’d an’ miserable, An’ seem’d like orders come along That everythin’ was wrong as well: Kind of a trial taste o’ Hell.... But, there! You know it all! You’re You! (That’s it! That’s it, Hosanna! Now I got my bearin’s, anyhow), Ay, You! all sight, all might, All-Right. An’ everythin’ all-right You do! ​What a salvation, ain’t it? Ay, You’ve got the bridle on Success; Your notions needn’t come to nought; You don’t mean ships, an’ make a mess. —What O, there! Stop! That’s my address.... You’ve made me—an’ I’m shingle-short: An’ Things—which isn’t all they ought.... An’ still Your turn-out’s like Your Thought?.... What’s that?....You meant us this way, then? You mapp’d us out this mangy sort? You really had got reasons for’t? ....My word! It seems to take some sight To see if things is wrong or right.... —Maybe, You ain’t quite through with us? Fools shouldn’t see things half-way through.... A half-hatched egg, ain’t that a fright? —Now, see here! Stow it! That’ll do! There ain’t no need for you to fuss, An’ make yourself ridicculous; Better shut up your silly jaws; It’s solid anyway, because There’s just one thing as He can’t make, But that one thing is,—a mistake!
Golly! By rights I’d ought to move Rejoicin’ down my gritty groove. ’Tain’t as if I’d been on the job; When the Headfitter’s fitted it, Guess you can bet your measly mind A misfit isn’t no misfit, But workin’, tho’ it works askew, Pre-cisely how it’s meant to do. ....I ain’t no failure, then, nor sport? ​You kind o’ wanted one my sort? —Right, God! I’ll be Your shingle-short!
Why, save us! Now I’ve slew’d my eye, An’ found You standin’ steady by, Holdin’ Your Finger in the pie, Things is a-turnin’ a traverse! ’Tain’t Curses, grinnin’ back o’ Good, That’s now a-bossin’ o’ the show— Too seeable to stay unseen— It’s Goodness, back of every Curse, A-smilin’ sunny an’ serene! Why....this rate, nothin’s Right-down Wrong? An’ as for somethin’ Right-down Right.... Think the whole jolly world ’ll do? For that’s the contrack!—I’ll allow, Scaffoldin’-kind o’ Right just now, But clean Right’s what it’s comin’ to! Bound to come right, because it’s Yours. —An’ one thing’s Right already,—YOU!
Ay! You ain’t shingle-short! You’re whole! You toe the mark, You touch the goal, Each time. Oh! Ain’t it a relief? Ain’t it a home, like, to the soul? Past all imperfecks under sun, Overdone, underdone, undone, Cockled, lopsided, leaky, odd, So-So, an’ Very-Near-Not-Quite,— There is one Somethin’ that’s A.1.! Oh, bless You, God, for bein’ GOD!— Full, out-an’-out, entire, clean, quite, An’ everlastin’—all All-Right! ​I guess, if it’s a sin to doubt, I’m almost grateful for a sin, I’m nearly glad I left You out— Makes such a difference now You’re in! Like on’y them what Hunger’s chew’d Knows all the lovely taste o’ food. ....Seems even some sense to be a fool, It shows You up that wonderful. ....You! Thorough: sound all round, an’ sure; All-Right for ever: always safe— O Perfeck God! I got my cure! There’s nothin’ needn’ really chafe. That joy’s so big all sorrow’s small; Out o’ my brain my self can fall. Great God! I’m full o’ gratitude— You’re whole! You’re workin’! That pays all!
My word! must be some Bush alight;— Pretty good patch, too, by the sky. What? Never! Can’t be mornin’?....Why, ’Tis, though! The stars ain’t hardly bright, An’ there’s the mountains, ghosty-white— Whatever’s happen’d? Where’s the night?
(Gets up, yawning, and turns to go in. The outlines of the boat are visible against the opposite window.)
Hallo! You there? Good mornin’! Oh, Look here, though, you must have a home: ’Case anyone, you know, should come. Here,—this’ll do us; come along!
(Pulls clothing out of a chest, and carefully lowers boat into it.)
Needn’t get nervous: lock is strong. ...I beg your pardon that you’re wrong! Maybe you’d rather I should take An’ break you,—bein’ a mistake? Please don’t! You’re clean ridicculous, An’ like no livin’ barge, that’s true; But still,—I like the feel o’ you.... I made you.... an’ you’re company— Now that you’re here, there’s two of us, Both bein’ shingle-short, you see. You’ll feel pounds better with the paint, An’ though, great Gum! I know you ain’t No value, not the least half-mite, But mean, an’ mockable, an’ odd: Yet, dunno how you’ve managed it— You kind o’ been some good to-night: —Wreck, you’ve a-sailed me home to God, All-wrong, you’ve show’d me the All-Right!
Time to notify up at the house, An’ start caressin’ them jolly cows. —Hallo, Sun! You’re the bestest friend! Dull’s the dinginess you can’t mend, Burstin’ out with your kind old face, Chuckin’ cheeriness round the place. Ain’t the rain got the paddicks green? —“If rain was honey, mud ’ud be money”— Don’ the black o’ the logs look clean? Dandy, them puddles in between! Each a-winkin’ his bright blue eye— Little run-away bits o’ sky. ​Minahs fossickin’ round about, Thrush a-turnin’ his song-box out— Feels so jolly, he’s got to shout. Reckon the wet’s a-polish’d the air— Such a shininess everywhere! Webs a-twinkelin’ on the rails, An’ even them mean old milkin-pails Sunny as silver....’Spose they were! S’pose I’d ha’ milk’d ’em all they’d hold, An’ Snap! the two of ’em turn’d to gold, An’ these old duds to satin an’ silk, Drippin’ with di’mon’s, instead o’ milk! Wouldn’t the folk at the fact’ry stare, An’ Boss palaver about his share? —Was that someone a-callin?.... Ay; Comin’ O, comin’! Ain’t that fine, ’Twixt that wattle an’ old black pine? Deeps o’ the Bush all dark below, Points o’ the mountain bright aloft, Sharp an’ solemn with sun, an’ snow; An’, ’twixt an’ ’tween of ’em curly-curl’d, Mists o’ the mornin’, rosy-soft. —Ain’t it the beautifullest world?
* ↑ Shingle-short: Australasian for “a tile loose.” Anglicé: Wanting in intellect.
* ↑ Wharé (pronounce whárray): A hut.
* ↑ Totara: A native timber.
* ↑ Rimu (Rée-moo): Red pine.
* ↑ Maire (mý-ray): A native timber.
* ↑ Tute, correctly tutu (toot): A poisonous native shrub.
* ↑ Rata (Ráh-tah): A Bush-tree, covered in summer-time with glorious scarlet blossom.
* ↑ Morepork: The New Zealand owl.
* ↑ Minah: The Indian starling, naturalised in New Zealand.