



Produced by Al Haines.


                                 FIRES

                                BOOK II
                       THE OVENS, AND OTHER TALES


                                   BY

                         WILFRID WILSON GIBSON



                                 LONDON
                       ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET
                                M CM XII




                          _BY THE SAME WRITER_
                            WOMENKIND (1912)
                           DAILY BREAD (1910)
                         THE STONEFOLDS (1907)
                        ON THE THRESHOLD (1907)




                                CONTENTS

The Crane
The Lighthouse
The Money
The Snow
Red Fox
The Ovens




_Thanks are due to the editors of_ THE ENGLISH REVIEW, RHYTHM _and_ THE
NATION _for leave to reprint some of these tales_.




                                 FIRES



                               THE CRANE

    The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
    Two hundred ton more easily
    Than I can lift my heavy head:
    And when it swings, the whole world shifts,
    Or so, at least, it seems to me,
    As, day and night, adream I lie
    Upon my crippled back in bed,
    And watch it up against the sky.

    My mother, hunching in her chair,
    Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
    At three-and-three the dozen pair...
    She'd sit all night, and stitch for me,
    Her son, if I could only wear...
    She never lifts her eyes to see
    The big crane swinging through the air.

    But, though she has no time to talk,
    She always cleans the window-pane,
    That I may see it, clear and plain:
    And, as I watch it move, I walk
    Who never walked in all my days...
    And, often, as I dream agaze,
    I'm up and out: and it is I
    Who swing the crane across the sky.
    Right up above the wharf I stand,
    And touch a lever with my hand,
    To lift a bunch of girders high,
    A truck of coal, a field of grain
    In sacks, a bundle of big trees,
    Or beasts, too frightened in my grip
    To wonder at their skiey trip:
    And then I let the long arm dip
    Without a hitch, without a slip,
    To set them safely in the ship
    That waits to take them overseas.

    My mother little dreams it's I,
    Up there, as tiny as a fly,
    Who stand above the biggest crane,
    And swing the ship-loads through the sky;
    While she sits, hunching in her chair,
    Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
    At three-and-three the dozen pair.

    And sometimes when it turns me dizzy,
    I lie and watch her, ever busy;
    And wonder at a lot of things
    I never speak to her about:
    I wonder why she never sings
    Like other people on the stair...
    And why, whenever she goes out
    Upon a windy day, the air
    Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright...
    And if the colour of her hair
    Was brown like mine, or always white...
    And why, when through the noise of feet
    Of people passing in the street,
    She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat,
    She always starts up in her chair,
    And looks before her with strange stare,
    Yet, seeing nothing anywhere:
    Though, right before her, through the sky,
    The biggest crane goes swinging by.

    But, it's a lucky day and rare
    When she's the time to talk with me...
    Though, only yesterday, when night
    Shut out, at last, the crane from sight...
    She, in her bed, and thinking I
    Was sleeping--though I watch the sky,
    At times, till it is morning-light,
    And ships are waiting to unload--
    I heard her murmur drowsily:
    "The pit-pat-pattering of feet,
    All night, along the moonlit road...
    A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat...
    The bracken's deep and soft and dry...
    And safe and snug, and no one near...
    The little burn sings low and sweet,
    The little burn sings shrill and clear...
    And loud all night the cock-grouse talks...
    There's naught in heaven or earth to fear...
    The pit-pat-pattering of feet...
    A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat..."
    And then, she started up in bed:
    I felt her staring, as she said:
    "I wonder if he ever hears
    The pit-pat-pattering of sheep,
    Or smells the broken bracken stalks...
    While she is lying sound-asleep
    Beside him... after all these years--
    Just nineteen years, this very night--
    Remembering?... and now, his son,
    A man... and never stood upright!"

    And then, I heard a sound of tears;
    But dared not speak, or let her know
    I'd caught a single whisper, though
    I wondered long what she had done
    That she should fear the pattering feet:
    And when those queer words in the night
    Had fretted me half-dead with fright,
    And set my throbbing head abeat...
    Out of the darkness, suddenly,
    The crane's long arm swung over me,
    Among the stars, high overhead...
    And then it dipped, and clutched my bed
    And I had not a breath to cry,
    Before it swung me through the sky,
    Above the sleeping city high,
    Where blinding stars went blazing by...

    My mother, hunching in her chair,
    Day-long, and stitching trousers there,
    At three-and-three the dozen pair,
    With quiet eyes and smooth white hair...
    You'd little think a yelp or bleat
    Could start her; or that she was weeping
    So sorely, when she thought me sleeping.
    She never tells me why she fears
    The pit-pat