Volume II Part 81 (1/2)

_Chorus:_ There's a platter of delf on his little book-shelf, And Pliny lived long ago.

Scarce had he spoken when, out of the wood, And buffeting all around, Rooting our sea-boots where we stood, There rumbled a marvellous sound, As a mountain of honey were crumbling asunder, Or a sunset-avalanche hurled Honey-comb boulders of golden thunder To smother the old black world.

_Chorus:_ Honey-comb boulders of musical thunder To mellow this old black world.

And the chaplain he whispered--”This honey, one saith, On my camphired cabin-shelf, None may harvest on pain of death; For the bee would eat it himself!

None walketh those woods but him whose voice In the dingles you then did hear!”

”A VOICE?” growls Bill. ”Ay, Bill, r-r-rejoice!

'Twas the great Hyrcanian Bear!”

_Chorus:_ Give thanks! _Re_-joice! 'Twas the glor-r-r-ious Voice Of the great Hyrcanian Bear!

But, marking that Bill looked bitter indeed, For his sweet tooth hungered sore, ”Consider,” he saith, ”that the Sweet hath need Of the Sour, as the Sea of the Sh.o.r.e!

As the night to the day is our grief to our joy, And each for its brother prepares A banquet, Bill, that would otherwise cloy.

Thus is it with honey and bears.”

_Chorus:_ Roses and honey and laughter would cloy!

Give us thorns, too, and sorrow and bears!

”Consider,” he saith, ”how by fretting a string The lutanist maketh sweet moan, And a bird ere it fly must have air for its wing To buffet or fall like a stone: Tho' you blacken like Pluto you make but more white These blooms which not Enna could yield!

Consider, Black Bill, ere the coming of night, The lilies,” he saith, ”of the field.”

_Chorus:_ ”Consider, Black Bill, in this beautiful light, The lilies,” he saith, ”of the field.”

”Consider the claws of a Bear,” said Bill, ”That can rip off the flesh from your bones, While his belly could cabin the skipper and still Accommodate Timothy Jones!

Why, that's where a seaman who cares for his grog Perspires how this world isn't square!

If there's _cause_ for a _cow_, if there's _use_ for a _dog_, By Pope John, there's no _Sense_ in a _Bear!_”

_Chorus:_ Cause for a cow, use for a dog, By'r Lakin, no _Sense_ in a _Bear!_

But our little s.h.i.+p's chaplain--”Sense,” quoth he, ”Hath the Bear tho' his making have none; For, my little book saith, by the sting of this bee Would Ursus be wholly foredone, But, or ever the hive he adventureth nigh And its crisp gold-crusted dome, He lardeth his nose and he greaseth his eye With a piece of an honey-comb.”

_Chorus:_ His velvety nose and his sensitive eye With a piece of an honey-comb.

Black Bill at the word of that golden crust --For his ears had forgotten the roar, And his eyes grew soft with their innocent l.u.s.t-- 'Gan licking his lips once more: ”Be it bound like a missal and printed as fair, With capitals blue and red, 'Tis a lie; for what honey could comfort a bear, Till the bear win the honey?” he said.

_Chorus:_ ”Ay, _whence_ the first honey wherewith the first bear First larded his nose?” he said.

”Thou first metaphysical bo'sun, Bill,”

Our chaplain quizzingly cried, ”Wilt thou riddle me redes of a dumpling still With thy 'how came the apple inside'?”

”Nay,” answered Bill, ”but I quest for truth, And I find it not on your shelf!

I will face your Hyrcanian bear, forsooth, And look at his nose myself.”

_Chorus:_ For truth, for truth, or a little sweet tooth-- I will into the woods myself.

Breast-high thro' that foam-white ocean of bloom With its wonderful spokes of gold, Our sun-burnt crew in the rose-red gloom Like buccaneer galleons rolled: Breast-high, breast-high in the lilies we stood, And before we could say ”good-night,”

Out of the valley and into the wood He plunged thro' the last rich light.

_Chorus:_ Out of the lilies and into the wood, Where the Great Bear walks all night!