'AS THE BELL CLINKS' 'And you let the chance escape you?' rapped the rattling tonga-bar. 'What a chance and what an idiot!' clicked the vicious tonga-bar. Heart of man-Oh heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti, On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car, But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the mile-stones slide by. To-'You call on Her to-morrow!'-fugue with cymbals by the bar 'You must call on Her to-morrow!'-post-horn gallop by the bar. Yet a farther stage my goal on-we were whirling down to Solon, With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar 'She was very sweet,' I hinted. 'If a kiss had been imprinted-?' "Would ha' saved a world of trouble!' clashed the busy tonga-bar. 'Been accepted or rejected!' banged and clanged the tonga-bar. Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring And a hasty thought of sharing-less than many in comes are, Made me put a question private (you can guess what I would drive at), 'You must work the sum to prove it,' clanked the careless tonga-bar. 'Simple Rule of Two will prove it,' lilted back the tongabar. It was under Khyraghaut I mused:-'Suppose the maid be haughty [There are lovers rich—and forty] wait some wealthier Avatar? Answer, monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!' 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' creaked the straining tonga-bar. 'Can I tell you ere you ask Her?' pounded slow the tonga-bar. Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning, Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far. As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar:'Try your luck-you can't do better!' twanged the loosened tonga-bar. D' CHRISTMAS IN INDIA IM dawn behind the tamarisks-the sky is saffron-yellow As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day behind the tamarisks-the sky is blue and staring As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly Call on Rama-he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid 'good Christian men rejoice'! High noon behind the tamarisks-the sun is hot above us As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner-those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the heim- Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! good-we hoped to hold it, Gold was And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. Gray dusk behind the tamarisks-the parrots fly together As the Sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether That drags us back howe'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment-she in ancient, tattered raiment India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut-we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks-the owls begin their chorus As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us, Let us honour, oh my brothers, Christmas Day! |