"'And to the King of the Saxons
In witness of the truth,
Raising his noble head,
He stretched his brown hand and said,
"Behold this walrus tooth.
In witness of the truth,
Raising his noble head,
He stretched his brown hand and said,
"Behold this walrus tooth.
Kipling - Poems
He was
rapturously retasting some poem before him.
"Where had he been, then? " I was almost whispering that the sentence
might come gentle to whichever section of Charlie's brain was working on
my behalf.
"To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches! " was the reply, after a
minute of silence.
"To Furdurstrandi? " I asked, tingling from head to foot.
"Yes, to Furdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new fashion "And I
too saw"--The voice failed.
"Do you know what you have said? " I shouted, incautiously.
He lifted his eyes, fully roused now. "No! " he snapped. "I wish you'd
let a chap go on reading. Hark to this:
"'But Othere, the old sea captain, He neither paused nor stirred Till
the king listened, and then
Once more took up his pen
And wrote down every word.
"'And to the King of the Saxons
In witness of the truth,
Raising his noble head,
He stretched his brown hand and said,
"Behold this walrus tooth. "
"By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the
shop never knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah! "
"Charlie," I pleaded, "if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two
I'll make our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere. "
"Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don't care about writing things
any more. I want to read. " He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging
over my own ill-luck, I left him.
Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a
child--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose favor
depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one-half my torment.
Till that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within
the experiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue
in books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of
Thorfin Karlsefne's sailing to Wineland, which is America, in the ninth
or tenth century. The battle in the harbor he had seen; and his own
death he had described. But this was a much more startling plunge into
the past. Was it possible that he had skipped half a dozen lives and was
then dimly remembering some episode of a thousand years later? It was
a maddening jumble, and the worst of it was that Charlie Mears in his
normal condition was the last person in the world to clear it up.
rapturously retasting some poem before him.
"Where had he been, then? " I was almost whispering that the sentence
might come gentle to whichever section of Charlie's brain was working on
my behalf.
"To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches! " was the reply, after a
minute of silence.
"To Furdurstrandi? " I asked, tingling from head to foot.
"Yes, to Furdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new fashion "And I
too saw"--The voice failed.
"Do you know what you have said? " I shouted, incautiously.
He lifted his eyes, fully roused now. "No! " he snapped. "I wish you'd
let a chap go on reading. Hark to this:
"'But Othere, the old sea captain, He neither paused nor stirred Till
the king listened, and then
Once more took up his pen
And wrote down every word.
"'And to the King of the Saxons
In witness of the truth,
Raising his noble head,
He stretched his brown hand and said,
"Behold this walrus tooth. "
"By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the
shop never knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah! "
"Charlie," I pleaded, "if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two
I'll make our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere. "
"Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don't care about writing things
any more. I want to read. " He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging
over my own ill-luck, I left him.
Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a
child--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose favor
depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one-half my torment.
Till that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within
the experiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue
in books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of
Thorfin Karlsefne's sailing to Wineland, which is America, in the ninth
or tenth century. The battle in the harbor he had seen; and his own
death he had described. But this was a much more startling plunge into
the past. Was it possible that he had skipped half a dozen lives and was
then dimly remembering some episode of a thousand years later? It was
a maddening jumble, and the worst of it was that Charlie Mears in his
normal condition was the last person in the world to clear it up.
