POETRY.
A DREAD IN SPRING. MOTHER she calls to me: " Here, Bess, Slip up t' Beacon Farm," she says, " An' take their basket back again; Au' keep an eye for firie-wood."
She thinks the do me good, She dunno how I dreads that lane.
" Nightingale Lane," as Jim an' me Did used to call Farm Lane, when we Walked out on April nights last year s For where it sang above its nest We'd stand 'leugside the hedgerow, pressed In one another's arms to hear.
An' Jim he'd_ learned to mock the bird That sates-al you never heard: Four long high notes he used to give, Then " jug.jug-jim ; until, lanybe.
'Twould sing him answer, seemingly—
There, I shall bear it long's I live!
An' Spring nights, when he'd pitched his fold An' moonlight was all dusky gold.
He'd whistle for me like that—low; An' I 'aid steal out soft to Jim So none 'ud see use go to him, Only our nightingale 'ud kaiser.
First off we cared nought for the war; But, before April come once more.
Jim he had gone, an' fought, an' died: Yes, when he'd heard an' thought on it, It seemed as he must do his bit, For love o' me, like—love an' pride.
I durstn't never go that way, Up our old lane, 'cause any day The nightingale may get back there; All sudden, maybe. be might sing The call Jim whistled me, an' wring My poor heart worse'n I cn's1 bear.
An' I dreads evenin's more an' more; When Mother's knittin' at the door
An' Father's got his pipe an' nag,
I sits an' holds my head, for fear Lest up our little lane I'll hear Those four long notes, then "jug-jug-jug."
JIABEERION LULHAIR,
Previous page
