The Project Gutenberg eBook, Wandering Heath, by Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Title: Wandering Heath

Author: Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Release Date: July 3, 2006 [eBook #18750]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANDERING HEATH***

WANDERING HEATH.

By

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch.

1895

This etext prepared from a reprint of a version published in 1895.

The stories in this volume made their first appearance in England as follows: "The Roll-Call of the Reef" in The Idler; "The Looe Die-hards" in The Illustrated London News, where it was entitled "The Power o' Music"; "Jetsom" and "The Bishop of Eucalyptus" in The Pall Mall Magazine"; "Visitors at the Gunnel Rock" in The Strand Magazine; "Flowing Source" in The Woman at Home; and the rest, with one exception, in the friendly pages of The Speaker.

CONTENTS

LETTERS FROM TROY--

LEGENDS--

EXPERIMENTS--

PROLOGUE.

"What is the use of it?" the Poet demanded peevishly—it was New Year's Day in the morning. "People don't read my poetry when I have gone to the trouble of writing it!"

"The more shame to them," said his wife.

"But, my dear, you know you never read it yourself."

"Oh, that is altogether different. Besides you are improving, are you not?" She asked it a trifle anxiously, but the question set him off at once.

"In twenty years' time—" he began eagerly.

"—The boy will be at college." She laid down her needle and embroidery and, gazing into the fire, let her hands lie idle in her lap.

"You might think of me."

"I thought," she answered, "you were doing that."

"Of yourself, then."

"In twenty years' time—" She broke off with the faintest possible sigh.

The Poet jumped up and went to his writing-desk. "That reminds me," he said, and produced a folded scrap of paper. "I wrote it last night. It's a sort of a little New Year's present—you need not read it, you know."

"But I will": and she took the paper and read—

UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE

Now winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.

And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch,
And play at Jack's Alight
With burning torch,

Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring—
While ashen faggots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.

Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail
And welcome—plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.

For though the snows he'll shake
Of winter from his head,
To settle, flake by flake,
On ours instead;

Yet we be wreathed green
Beyond his blight or chill,
Who kissed at seventeen
And worship still.

We know not what he'll bring:
But this we know to-night—
He doth prepare the Spring
For our delight.

With birds he'll comfort us,
With blossoms, balms, and bees,
With brooks, and odorous