THE FLUTE

And I was gay that night to be

Once more in my clean countryside,

Among the windy hills and wide.

Six days of city slush and mud,

Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel,

Made me rejoice again to feel

The tingling frost that fires the blood,

And sets life burning keen and bright;

And down the ringing road to stride

The eager swinging stride that braces

The straining thews from hip to heel:

To breathe again the wind that sweeps

Across the grassy, Northern steeps,

From crystal deeps and starry spaces.

And I was glad again to hear

The old man's greeting of good cheer:

For every night for many a year

At that same corner we had met,

Summer and Winter, dry and wet:

And though I never once had heard

The old man speak another word,

His cheery greeting at the bend

Seemed like the welcome of a friend.

But, as we neared to-night, somehow,

I felt that he would stop and speak:

Though he went by: and when I turned,

I saw him standing in the road,

And looking back, with hand to brow,

As if to shade old eyes, grown weak

Awaiting the long sleep they'd earned:

Though, as again towards him I strode,

A friendly light within them burned.

And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke

With shaking head, and voice that broke:

“I've missed you these last nights,” he said

“And I have not so many now

That I can miss friends easily...

Aye: friends grow scarce, as you grow old:

And roads are rough: and winds are cold:

And when you feel you're losing hold,

Life does not go too merrily.”

And then he stood with nodding head,

And spoke no more. And so I told

How I had been, six days and nights,

Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights.

And now, as though my voice had stirred

His heart to speech, he told right out,

With quickening eye and quavering word,

The things I care to hear about,

The little things that make up life:

How he'd been lonesome, since his wife

Had died, some thirty year ago:

And how he trudged three mile or so

To reach the farmstead where he worked,

And three mile back to his own door...

For he dwelt outby on the moor:

And every day the distance irked

More sorely still his poor, old bones;

And all the road seemed strewn with stones

To trip you up, when you were old —

When you were old, and friends were few:

How, since the farmstead had been sold,

The master and the men were new,

All save himself; and they were young;

And Mistress had a raspy tongue:

So, often, he would hardly speak

A friendly word from week to week

With any soul. Old friends had died,

Or else had quit the countryside:

And, since his wife was taken, he

Had lived alone, this thirty year:

And there were few who cared to hear

An old man's jabber... and too long

He'd kept me, standing in the cold,

With his long tongue, and such a song

About himself! And I would be...

I put my arm through his; and turned

To go upon his way with him:

And once again that warm light burned

In those old eyes, so weak and dim:

While, with thin, piping voice, he told

How much it meant to him each night

To change a kindly word with me:

To think that he'd at least one friend

Who'd maybe miss him, in the end.

Then, as we walked, he said no more:

And, silent, in the starry light,

Across the wide, sweet-smelling bent,

Between the grass and stars we went

In quiet, friendly company:

And, all the way, we only heard

A chirrup where some partridge stirred,

And ran before us through the grass,

To hide his head till we should pass.

At length, we reached the cottage-door:

But, when I stopped, and turned to go,

His words came falteringly and slow:

If I would step inside, and rest,

I'd be right welcome: not a guest

Had crossed his threshold, thirty year...

He'd naught but bread and cheese and beer

To offer me... but, I'd know best...

He spoke with hand upon the latch;

And, when I answered, opened wide

The cottage-door; and stepped inside;

And, as I followed, struck a match,

And lit a tallow-dip: and stirred

The banked-up peats into a glow:

And then with shuffling step and slow

He moved about: and soon had set

Two mugs of beer, and bread and cheese:

And while we made a meal off these,

The old man never spoke a word;

But, brooding in the ingle-seat,

With eyes upon the kindling peat,

He seemed awhile to quite forget

He was not sitting by himself

To-night, like any other night;

When, as, in the dim candle-light,

I glanced around me, with surprise

I saw, upon the rafter-shelf,

A flute, nigh hidden in the shade.

And when I asked him if he played,

The light came back into his eyes:

Aye, aye, he sometimes piped a bit,

But not so often since she died.

And then, as though old memories lit

His poor, old heart, and made it glad,

He told how he, when quite a lad,

Had taught himself: and they would play

On penny whistles all the day —

He and the miller's son, beside

The millpool, chirping all they knew,

Till they could whistle clean and true:

And how, when old enough to earn,

They both saved up to buy a flute;

And they had played it, turn for turn:

But, Jake was dead, this long while back...

Ah! if I'd only heard him toot,

I'd know what music meant. Aye, aye...

He'd play me something, by-and-bye;

Though he was naught to Jake... and now

His breath was scant, and fingering slack...

He used to play to her at night

The melodies that she liked best,

While she worked on: she'd never rest

By daylight, or by candle-light...

And then, with hand upon his brow,

He brooded, quiet in his chair,

With eyes upon the red peat-glare;

Until, at length, he roused himself,

And reached the flute down from the shelf;

And, carrying it outside the door,

I saw him take a can, and pour

Fresh water through the instrument,

To make it sweet of tone, he said.

Then, in his seat, so old and bent,

With kindling eyes, and swaying head,

He played the airs he used to play

To please his wife, before she died:

And as I watched his body sway

In time and tune, from side to side,

So happy, playing, and to please

With old familiar melodies,

His eyes grew brighter and more bright,

As though they saw some well-loved sight:

And, following his happy gaze,

I turned, and saw, without amaze,

A woman standing, young and fair,

With hazel eyes, and thick brown hair

Brushed smoothly backward from the brow,

Beside the table that but now,

Save for the empty mugs, was bare.

Upon it she had spread a sheet:

And stood there, ironing a shirt,

Her husband's, as he played to her

Her favourite tunes, so old and sweet.

I watched her move with soundless stir;

Then stand with listening eyes, and hold

The iron near her glowing cheek,

Lest it, too hot, should do some hurt,

And she, so careful not to burn

The well-darned shirt, so worn and old.

Then, something seemed to make me turn

To look on the old man again:

And, as I looked, the playing stopped;

And now I saw that he had dropped

Into his brooding mood once more,

With eyes again grown dull and weak.

He seemed the oldest of old men

Who grope through life with sight worn dim

And, even as I looked at him,

Too full of tender awe to speak,

I knew once more the board was bare,

With no young woman standing there

With hazel eyes and thick, brown hair;

And I, in vain, for her should seek,

If I but sought this side death's door.

And so, at last, I rose, and took

His hand: and as he clasped mine tight,

I saw again that friendly look

Fill his old weary eyes with light,

And wish me, without words, good-night

And in my heart, that look glowed bright

Till I reached home across the moor.

And, at the corner of the lane,

Next night, I heard the old voice cry

In greeting, as I struggled by,

Head-down against the wind and rain.

And so each night, until one day,

His master chanced across my way:

But, when I spoke of him, he said:

Did I not know the man was dead,

And had been dead a week or so?

One morn he'd not turned up to work;

And never having known him shirk;

And hearing that he lived alone;

He thought it best himself to go

And see what ailed: and coming there,

He found the old man in his chair,

Stone-dead beside the cold hearthstone.

It must be full a week, or more...

Aye, just two weeks, come Saturday,

He'd found him; but he must have died

O'ernight — ( the night I heard him play! )

And they had found, dropt by his side,

A broken flute upon the floor.

Yet, every night, his greeting still

At that same corner of the hill,

Summer and Winter, wet or dry,

‘ Neath cloud, or moon, or cold starlight,

Is waiting there to welcome me:

And ever as I hurry by,

The old voice sings out cheerily:

“Good-night!” and yet again, “Good-night!”