DECEMBER (To F.H.)
WE never knew what became of him, that was so curious ; He embarked, it was in December, and never returned ; No chance to say Good-bye, and Christmas confronting us ; A few letters arrived, long after, and came to an end. The weeks dragged into months, and then it was December. We troubled the officials, of course, and they cabled about ;
They were patient but busy, importunities without number ; Some told us one thing, some another ; they never found out. There's a lot go like that, I suppose, without explanation ;
And death is death, after all ; small comfort to know how and when ; But I keep thinking, now that we've dropped the investigation :
It was more like the death of an insect than of a man.
This beetle, for instance ; I lower my foot now and crush it, And who's to connect me, correct me? Who is to know?
I do not ask whether the other beetles will miss it, Or God will say " Where is my beetle, Where did it go? "
The life and the tiny delight, the sublime fabrication Of colour, mechanics and form, I care nothing for that ; I am man with his mind, the master, the lord of creation ; This beetle obstructs me, offends me ; I lower my foot.
And that was the way that he went. Yes, I see the reioinder: He was bound with us, armed with us—man in his violence and pride. What use now to speak of his kindness, the gentle remainder? But he was my friend, and that was the way that he died. J. R. ACKERLEY.
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