No More Learning

He walked with elaborate slowness
round the corral and behind a shed. “Hello, you kid! ” he called
again.
"I was thinking of going to sleep,” said the boy, appearing
quite suddenly. I—I'm not used to riding all day.
used to it, you know,” he hastened to add.
« (Ha-ve you seen my Flo- Say, kid, where you bound,
anyway? ”
« San Carlos. ”
« San Carlos! Oh. Ah. - Flo-ra pass this way ? ) »
“Is it far, sir ? ”
"Awful far, sometimes. It's always liable to be far through
“
the Arivaypa Cañon. ”
“I didn't expect to make it between meals,” remarked Cum-
nor.
“No. Sure. What made you come this route ? ”
"A man told me. ”
“A man ? Oh. Well, it is kind o' difficult, I admit, for an
Arizonan not to lie to a stranger. But I think I'd have told
you to go by Tres Alamos and Point of Mountain. It's the road
the man that told you would choose himself every time. Do
you like Injuns, kid ? ”
Cumnor snapped eagerly.
“Of course you do. And you've never saw one in the whole
minute and a half you've been alive. I know all about it. ”
"I'm not afraid,” said the boy.
« Not afraid ? Of course you ain't. What's your idea in going
to Carlos ? Got town lots there ? »
"No," said the literal youth, to the huge internal diversion of
Jones. « There's a man there I used to know back home. He's
in the cavalry. What sort of a town is it for sport ? ” asked
Cumnor, in a gay-Lothario tone.
“Town ? » Specimen Jones caught hold of the top rail of the
corral. "Sport? Now I'll tell you what sort of a town it is.
There ain't no streets. There ain't no houses. There ain't any
land and water in the usual meaning of them words. There's
>


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16112
OWEN WISTER
(
>
Mount Turnbull. It's pretty near
It's pretty near a usual mountain, but you
don't want to go there. The Creator didn't make San Carlos.
It's a heap older than him. When he got around to it after
slickin' up Paradise and them fruit-trees, he just left it to be as
he found it, as a sample of the way they done business before
he come along. He 'a'n't done any work around that spot at all,
he 'a'n't. Mix up a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and
jam scorpions and rattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on
stones, and heat yer stones red-hot, and set the United States
army loose over the place chasin' Apaches, and you've got San
Carlos. ”
Cumnor was silent for a moment. "I don't care,” he said.
“I want to chase Apaches. ”
“Did you see that man Ephraim found by the cañon ? Jones
inquired.
“Didn't get here in time. ”
Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But
there's no harm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn't,
you see.
You heard Ephraim tell about it. They'd done a num-
ber of things to the man before he could die. Roastin' was only
one of 'em. Now your road takes you through the mountains
where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along to Tucson with
me," urged Jones suddenly.
Again Cumnor was silent. "Is my road different from other
people's ? ” he said, finally.
“Not to Grant, it ain't. These Mexicans are hauling freight
to Grant. But what's the matter with your coming to Tucson
with me? ”
“I started to go to San Carlos, and I'm going,” said Cumnor.
“You're a poor chuckle-headed fool! ” burst out Jones in a
rage. “And you can go for all I care -you and your Christmas-
tree pistol. Like as not you won't find your cavalry friend at
San Carlos. They've killed a lot of them soldiers huntin' Injuns
this season.
Good-night. ”
Specimen Jones was gone. Cumnor walked to his blanket-
roll, where his saddle was slung under the shed. The various
doings of the evening had bruised his nerves. He spread his
blankets among the dry cattle-dung, and sat down, taking off a
few clothes slowly. He lumped his coat and overalls under his
head for a pillow, and putting the despised pistol alongside,


## p. 16113 (#459) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16113
lay between the blankets. No object showed in the night but
the tall freight-wagon. The tenderfoot thought he had made
altogether a fool of himself upon the first trial trip of his man-
hood, alone on the open sea of Arizona. No man, not even Jones
now, was his friend. A stranger, who could have had nothing
against him but his inexperience, had taken the trouble to direct
him on the wrong road. He did not mind definite enemies,- he
had punched the heads of those in Pennsylvania, and would not
object to shooting them here: but this impersonal, surrounding
hostility of the unknown was new and bitter; the cruel, assassin-
ating, cowardly Southwest, where prospered those jail-birds whom
the vigilantes had driven from California. He thought of the
nameless human carcass that lay near, buried that day, and of
the jokes about its mutilations. Cuinnor was not an innocent
boy, either in principles or in practice; but this laughter about a
dead body had burned into his young, unhardened soul.
He lay
watching with hot, dogged eyes the brilliant stars, A passing
wind turned the windmill, which creaked a forlorn minute, and
ceased. He must have gone to sleep and slept soundly; for the
next he knew, it was the cold air of dawn that made him open
A numb silence lay over all things, and the tenderfoot
had that moment of curiosity as to where he was now which
comes to those who have journeyed for many days. The Mexi-
cans had already departed with their freight-wagon. It was not
entirely light, and the embers, where these early starters had
cooked their breakfast, lay glowing in the sand across the road.
The boy remembered seeing a wagon where now he saw only
chill, distant peaks; and while he lay quiet and warm, shunning
full consciousness, there was a stir in the cabin, and at Ephraim's
voice reality broke upon his drowsiness, and he recollected Ari-
zona and the keen stress of shifting for himself. He noted the
gray paling round the grave. Indians ? He would catch up with
the Mexicans, and travel in their company to Grant. Freight-
ers made but fifteen miles in the day, and he could start after
breakfast and be with them before they stopped to noon. Six
men need not worry about Apaches, Cumnor thought. The voice
of Specimen Jones came from the cabin, and sounds of lighting
the stove, and the growling conversation of men getting up.
Cumnor, lying in his blankets, tried to overhear what Jones was
saying, for no better reason than that this was the only man he
had met lately who had seemed to care whether he were alive
his eyes.
XXVII-1008


## p. 16114 (#460) ##########################################

16114
OWEN WISTER
»
»
>
or dead.
There was the clink of Ephraim's whisky-bottles,
and the cheerful tones of old Mr. Adams saying, "It's better'n
brushin' yer teeth ;” and then further clinking, and an inquiry
from Specimen Jones.
Whose spurs ? ” said he.
«Mine. ” This from Mr. Adams.
« How long have they been yourn? ”
«Since I got 'em, I guess. ”
“Well, you've enjoyed them spurs long enough. ” The voice
of Specimen Jones now altered in quality. "And you'll give 'em
back to that kid. ”
Muttering followed that the boy could not catch. “ You'll
give 'em back," repeated Jones. “I seen you lift 'em from under
that chair when I was in the corner. ”
That's straight, Mr. Adams,” said Ephraim. “I noticed it
myself, though I had no objections, of course. But Mr. Jones
has pointed out — »
"Since when have you growed so honest, Jones? ” cackled
Mr. Adams, seeing that he must lose his little booty. “And why
didn't you raise yer objections when you seen me do it? ”
I didn't know the kid,” Jones explained. “And if it don't
strike you that game blood deserves respect, why it does strike
me. ”
Hearing this, the tenderfoot, outside in his shed, thought
better of mankind and life in general, arose from his nest, and
began preening himself. He had all the correct trappings for
the frontier, and his toilet in the shed gave him pleasure. The
sun came up, and with a stroke struck the world to crystal.
The near sand-hills went into rose; the crabbed yucca and the
mesquite turned transparent, with lances and pale films of green,
like drapery graciously veiling the desert's face; and distant violet
peaks and edges framed the vast enchantment beneath the liquid
exhalations of the sky. The smell of bacon and coffee from
open windows filled the heart with bravery and yearning; and
Ephraim, putting his head round the corner, called to Cumnor
that he had better come in and eat. Jones, already at table,
gave him the briefest nod; but the spurs were there, replaced as
Cumnor had left them under a chair in the corner. In Arizona
they do not say much at any meal, and at breakfast nothing
at all; and as Cumnor swallowed and meditated, he noticed the
cream-colored lady and the chain, and he made up his mind he
»


## p. 16115 (#461) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16115
should assert his identity with regard to that business, though
how and when was not clear to him. He was in no great haste
to take up his journey. The society of the Mexicans whom he
must sooner or later overtake did not tempt him. When break-
fast was done he idled in the cabin, like the other guests, while
Ephraim and his assistant busied about the premises. But the
morning grew on; and the guests, after a season of smoking and
tilted silence against the wall, shook themselves and their effects
together, saddled, and were lost among the waste thorny hills.
Twenty Mile became hot and torpid. Jones lay on three con-
secutive chairs, occasionally singing; and old Mr. Adams had not
gone away either, but watched him, with more tobacco running
down his beard.
"Well,” said Cumnor, I'll be going. ”
“Nobody's stopping you,” remarked Jones.
“You're going to Tucson ? ” the boy said, with the chain
problem still unsolved in his mind. “Good-by, Mr. Jones. I
hope I'11 — we'll — »
" That'll do,” said Jones; and the tenderfoot, thrown back by
this severity, went to get his saddle-horse and his burro.
Presently Jones remarked to Mr. Adams that he wondered
what Ephraim was doing, and went out. The old gentleman
was left alone in the room, and he swiftly noticed that the belt
and pistol of Specimen Jones were left alone with him. The
accoutrement lay by the chair its owner had been lounging in.
It is an easy thing to remove cartridges from the chambers of a
revolver, and replace the weapon in its holster so that everything
looks quite natural. The old gentleman was entertained with
the notion that somewhere in Tucson, Specimen Jones might
have a surprise; and he did not take a minute to prepare this,
drop the belt as it lay before, and saunter innocently out of
the saloon. Ephraim and Jones were criticizing the tenderfoot's
property as he packed his burro.
Do
you make it a rule to travel with ice-cream ? ” Jones
was inquiring
'They're for water,” Cumnor said. They told me at Tucson
I'd need to carry water for three days on some trails. ”
two good-sized milk-cans that he had; and they
bounced about on the little burro's pack, giving him as much
amazement as a jackass can feel. Jones and Ephraim were hila-
rious.
(
(C
It was


## p. 16116 (#462) ##########################################

16116
OWEN WISTER
“Don't go without your spurs, Mr. Cumnor,” said the voice of
old Mr. Adams, as he approached the group. His tone was par.
ticularly civil.
The tenderfoot had indeed forgotten his spurs; and he ran
back to get them. The cream-colored lady still had the chain
hanging upon her, and Cumnor's problem was suddenly solved.
He put the chain in his pocket, and laid the price of one round
of drinks for last night's company on the shelf below the chronio.
He returned with his spurs on, and went to his addle that lay
beside that of Specimen Jones under the shed. After a moment
he came with his saddle to where the men stood talking by his
pony, slung it on, and tightened the cinches; but the chain was
now in the saddle-bag of Specimen Jones, mixed up with some
tobacco, stale bread, a box of matches, and a hunk of fat bacon.
The men at Twenty Mile said good-day to the tenderfoot, with
monosyllables and indifference, and watched him depart into
the heated desert. Wishing for a last look at Jones, he turned
once, and saw the three standing, and the chocolate brick of the
cabin, and the windmill white and idle in the sun.
“He'll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.
"I ain't buryin' him, then," said Ephraim.
“Nor 1,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it's time I was getting
to Tucson. ”
He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and
rode away. Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and
here is the final conclusion they came to, after three hours of
discussion as to who took the chain and who had it just then:-
Ephraim — Jones, he hadn't no cash.
Mr. Adams The kid, he hadn't no sense.
Ephraim — The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.
Mr. Adams — Jones, he goes off with his chain.
Both — What damn fools everybody is, anyway!
And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention
his relations with Jones's pistol. Let it be said in extenuation
of that performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going
to Tucson, where he said he was going, and where a job and a
salary were awaiting him.
In Tucson an unloaded pistol, in the
holster of so handy a man on the drop as was Specimen, would
keep people civil, because they would not know, any more than
the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere possession of it
would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten — though it was
(


## p. 16117 (#463) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16117
(
(
>
undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope.
But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in
his mind as to whether he would do what was good for himself,
or what was good for another, had kept him sullen ever since he
got up. Now it was settled, and Jones in serene humor again.
Of course he had started on the Tucson road, for the benefit of
Ephraim and Mr. Adams.
The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon
the deadly silence; and the world was no longer of crystal, but a
mesa, dull and gray and hot. The pony's hoofs grated in the
gravel; and after a time the road dived down and up among
lumpy hills of stone and cactus, always nearer the fierce glaring
Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so abruptly in and out of the
shallow sudden ravines, that on coming up from one of these
into the sight of the country again, the tenderfoot's heart jumped
at the close apparition of another rider quickly bearing in upon
him from gullies where he had been moving unseen. But it
was only Specimen Jones.
“Hello! ” said he, joining Cumnor. “Hot, ain't it? ”
"Where are you going? ” inquired Cumnor.
"Up here a ways. ” And Jones jerked his finger generally
towards the Sierra, where they were heading.
“Thought you had a job in Tucson. ”
« That's what I have. ”
Specimen Jones had no more to say; and they rode for a
while, their ponies' hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the
milk-cans lightly clanking on the burro's pack. The bunched
blades of the yuccas bristled steel-stiff; and as far as you could
see, it was a gray waste of mounds and ridges sharp and blunt,
up to the forbidding boundary walls of the Tortilita one way and
the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered if Jones had
found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it for several
weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.
“You'll excuse my meddling with your business ? ” the boy
hazarded.
Jones looked inquiring.
“Something's wrong with your saddle-pocket. ”
Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it; but perceiv-
ing Cumnor was grinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at
the boy rapidly, and looked away again; and as he rode, still in
»


## p. 16118 (#464) ##########################################

16118
OWEN WISTER
»
silence, he put the chain back round his neck below the flannel
shirt-collar.
“Say, kid,” he remarked after some time, “what does J. stand
for? ”
"J. ? Oh, my name! Jock. ”
"Well, Jock, will you explain to me as a friend how you ever
come to be such a fool as to leave yer home — wherever and
whatever it was— in exchange for this here God-forsaken and
iniquitous hole ? »
"If you'll explain to me,” said the boy, greatly heartened,
“how you come to be ridin' in the company of a fool, instead of
goin' to your job at Tucson. ”
The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had
framed his reply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismem-
bered human stumps lay in the road. This was what had hap-
pened to the Miguels and Serapios and the concertina. Jones
and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles to exclude all expres-
sions of growing mutual esteem from their speech, had forgotten
their journey; and a sudden bend among the rocks where the
road had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring
them in the face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its
splintered, blazing boards slid down as they burned, into the fiery
heap on the ground; packages of soda and groceries and medi-
cines slid with them, bursting into chemical spots of green and
crimson flame; a wheel crushed in and sank, spilling more pack-
ages that flickered and hissed; the garbage of combat and murder
littered the earth; and in the air hung an odor that Cumnor
knew, though he had never smelled it before. Morsels of dropped
booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians had gone;
and one horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in
his belly.
“We'll just kill him,” said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly,
and snapped again, as his eye caught a motion - a something -
- –
two hundred yards up among the bowlders on the hill. He
whirled round. The enemy was behind them also. There was
no retreat. “Yourn's no good! ” yelled Jones fiercely, for Cum-
was getting out his little foolish revolver. "Oh, what a
trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse, kid; drop, and do
Shootin's no good here, even if I was loaded. They
shot, and look at them now. God bless them ice-cream freezers
nor
like me.


## p. 16119 (#465) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16119
-(
of yourn, kid! Did you ever see a crazy man? If you 'ain't,
make it up as you go along ! ”
More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones
ripped off the burro's pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the
ground. The burro began grazing quietly, with now and then a
step towards new patches of grass. The horses stood where their
riders had left them, their reins over their heads, hanging and
dragging From two hundred yards on the hill the ambushed
Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figures appearing cautiously
one by one, watching with suspicion. Specimen Jones seized up
one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.
“You kin dance, kid, and I kin sing, and we'll go to it,” said
Jones. He rambled in a wavering loop, and diving eccentrically
at Cumnor, clashed the milk-cans together. «Es schallt ein Ruf
wie Donnerhall, he bawled, beginning the song of Die Wacht
” ”
'
am Rhein. ' “Why don't you dance ? he shouted sternly. The
boy saw the terrible earnestness of his face, and clashing his
milk-cans in turn, he shuffled a sort of jig. The two went over
the sand in loops, toe and heel; the donkey continued his quiet
grazing, and the flames rose hot and yellow from the freight-
wagon,
And all the while the stately German hymn pealed
among the rocks, and the Apaches crept down nearer the bow-
ing, scraping men. The sun shone bright, and their bodies
poured with sweat. Jones flung off his shirt; his damp, matted
hair was half in ridges and half glued to his forehead, and the
delicate gold chain swung and struck his broad, naked breast.
The Apaches drew nearer again, their bows and arrows held
uncertainly. They came down the hill, fifteen or twenty, taking
a long time, and stopping every few yards. The milk-cans
clashed, and Jones thought he felt the boy's strokes weakening.
Die Wacht am Rhein was finished, and now it was “Ha-ve
you seen my Flora pass this way ? ) » «You mustn't play out,
kid,” said Jones, very gently,– indeed you mustn't;” and he at
once resumed his song.
The silent Apaches had now reached the bottom of the hill.
They stood some twenty yards away, and Cumnor had a good
chance to see his first Indians. He saw them move, and the
color and slim shape of their bodies, their thin arms, and their
long, black hair. It went through his mind that if he had no
more clothes on than that, dancing would come easier. His boots
(


## p. 16120 (#466) ##########################################

16120
OWEN WISTER
(
were growing heavy to lift, and his overalls seemed to wrap his
sinews in wet, strangling thongs. He wondered how long he had
been keeping this up. The legs of the Apaches were free, with
light moccasins only half-way to the thigh, slenderly held up by
strings from the waist. Cumnor envied their unincumbered steps
as he saw them again walk nearer to where he was dancing. It
was long since he had eaten, and he noticed a singing dullness
in his brain, and became frightened at his thoughts, which were
running and melting into one fixed idea. This idea was to take
off his boots, and offer to trade them for a pair of moccasins. It
terrified him this endless, molten rush of thoughts; he could
see them coming in different shapes from different places in his
head, but they all joined immediately, and always formed the
same fixed idea. He ground his teeth to master this encroach-
ing inebriation of his will and judgment. He clashed his can
more loudly to wake him to reality, which he still could rec-
ognize and appreciate. For a time he found it a good plan to
listen to what Specimen Jones was singing, and tell himself the
name of the song, if he knew it. At present it was Yankee
Doodle,' to which Jones was fitting words of his own. These
ran, Now I'm going to try a bluff, And mind you do what I
do;” and then again, over and over. Cumnor waited for the
word “bluff"; for it was hard and heavy, and fell into his
thoughts, and stopped them for a moment. The dance was SO
long now he had forgotten about that. A numbness had been
spreading through his legs, and he was glad to feel a sharp pain
in the sole of his foot. It was a piece of gravel that had some-
how worked its way in, and was rubbing through the skin into
the flesh. “That's good,” he said aloud. The pebble was eating
the numbness away, and Cumnor drove it hard against the raw
spot, and relished the tonic of its burning friction.
The Apaches had drawn into a circle. Standing at some
interval apart, they entirely surrounded the arena. Shrewd, half
,
convinced, and yet with awe, they watched the dancers, who
clashed their cans slowly now in rhythm to Jones's hoarse,
parched singing. He was quite master of himself, and led the
jig round the still blazing wreck of the wagon, and circled in
figures of eight between the corpses of the Mexicans, clashing
the milk-cans above each one. Then, knowing his strength was
coming to an end, he approached an Indian whose splendid fillet


## p. 16121 (#467) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16121
and trappings denoted him of consequence; and Jones was near
shouting with relief when the Indian shrank backward.
denly he saw Cumnor let his can drop; and without stopping to
see why, he caught it up, and slowly rattling both, approached
each Indian in turn with tortuous steps. The circle that had
never uttered a sound till now, receded, chanting almost in a
whisper some exorcising song which the man with the fillet had
begun. They gathered round him, retreating always; and the
strain, with its rapid muttered words, rose and fell softly among
them. Jones had supposed the boy was overcome by faintness,
and looked to see where he lay. But it was not faintness.
Cumnor, with his boots off, came by and walked after the
Indians in a trance. They saw him, and quickened their pace,
often turning to be sure he was not overtaking them. He called
to them unintelligibly, stumbling up the sharp hill, and pointing
to the boots. Finally he sat down. They continued ascending
the mountain, herding close round the man with the feathers,
until the rocks and the filmy tangles screened them froin sight;
and like a wind that hums uncertainly in grass, their chanting
died away.
The sun was half behind the western range when Jones next
moved. He called, and getting no answer, he crawled painfully
to where the boy lay on the hill. Cumnor was sleeping heavily;
his head was hot, and he moaned. So Jones crawled down,
and fetched blankets and the canteen of water. He spread the
blankets over the boy, wet a handkerchief and laid it on his
forehead; then he lay down himself.
The earth was again magically smitten to crystal. Again the
sharp cactus and the sand turned beautiful, and violet floated
among the mountains, and rose-colored orange in the sky above
them.
Jock,” said Specimen at length.
The boy opened his eyes.
“ Your foot is awful, Jock. Can you eat? ”
« Not with my foot. ”
"Ah, God bless you, Jock! You ain't turruble sick.
But can
you eat ? »
Cumnor shook his head.
“Eatin's what you need, though. Well, here. ” Specimen
poured a judicious mixture of whisky and water down the boy's


## p. 16122 (#468) ##########################################

16122
OWEN WISTER
1
throat, and wrapped the awful foot in his own flannel shirt.
« They'll fix you over to Grant. It's maybe twelve miles through
the cañon. It ain't a town any more than Carlos is, but the
soldiers 'll be good to us. As soon as night comes, you and me
must somehow git out of this. ”
Somehow they did, -Jones walking and leading his horse and
the imperturbable little burro, and also holding Cumnor in the
saddle. And when Cumnor was getting well in the military hos-
pital at Grant, he listened to Jones recounting to all that chose
to hear how useful a weapon an ice-cream freezer can be, and
how if you'll only chase Apaches in your stocking feet they are
sure to run away. And then Jones and Cumnor both enlisted;
and I suppose Jones's friend is still expecting him in Tucson.


## p. 16123 (#469) ##########################################

16123
GEORGE WITHER
(1588-1667)
HERE is delightful spontaneity and enjoyment of life in
George Wither's early poems. The young cavalier found
the world rich and beautiful. His Chaucer-like spirit ex-
ulted in nature, in
the murmurs of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,"
(
-
and he was intolerant of all meanness and artifice. He was ambitious
of royal favor, and meant to merit it. But the state of corruption
he found at the court of James I. revolted
him, and inspired one of his earliest works.
Abuses Stript and Whipt' is a satire far
milder than its title, upon society's moral
obliquities. In spite of its general, imper-
sonal tone, the poem invited resentment,
and its author was punished by imprison-
ment in the Marshalsea. There he beguiled
the tedium by writing The Shepherd's
Hunting,' - a pleasant pastoral, and one of
his most beautiful poems.
Another fine
example of his cavalier period is “The Mis-
tress of Philarete,' — probably the longest
love panegyric in the language. Its gently GEORGE WITHER
rambling eclogues are sweet though some-
times tedious; and they end with lovely lyrics, which establish With-
er's fame.
The Motto (1618) is a long naively egotistic poem in three
parts; the motto being “Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo. ” There is
quaint charm in the treatment, and the lines reveal much of his own
simple high-minded personality. Perhaps his melody and lyric gift
are best exemplified in the well-known “Shall I, wasting in despair,”
and The Steadfast Shepherd. ' In later life, when depressed with
poverty and Puritanism, Wither repented of much of his early work
as sinful. But in a time of license and coarse expression, he was
noteworthy for delicacy of sentiment and refinement of taste, which
kept him clear of impropriety.
George Wither was born at Brentworth in Hampshire in 1588.
Perhaps the two happiest years of his youth were those he spent at

>
a


## p. 16124 (#470) ##########################################

16124
GEORGE WITHER
Magdalen College, Oxford. Unfortunately his father desired his aid
in the management of his estate, and George was not allowed to take
his degree. But he soon tired of country life, and went to London.
It was there he formed the friendship with his fellow-poet, William
Browne, to whose influence something of his grace and technical skill
is due. Few poets have more ably handled octosyllabic verse.
With the outbreak of the civil war, Wither cast off King and
court, and became an ardent Puritan. He sold his lands to equip
a company of horse for the Parliamentary army; and henceforth all
he wrote reflected his change of view. He was no longer the singer
of love songs and light delights. Instead he composed Hymns and
Songs of the Church (1623); Britain's Remembrancer' (1628); “Hal-
lelujah' (1641); and other collections of religious and political poems.
Writing thus with a didactic purpose, he lost much of his earlier
lyric quality; and these later verses do not entitle him to remem-
brance.
A ROCKING HYMN
S**
WEET baby, sleep: what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear;
His holy Spouse thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be:
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.


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GEORGE WITHER
16125
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy Protector threatened are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in his sight.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was he,
And strength in weakness then was laid
Upon his virgin Mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay, and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that he did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by his torments and his pain,
Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then, forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast yet more to perfect this,-
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.