Ever
whispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away in
silence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young men
enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not
care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from
our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lapping
water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still
stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet as she
used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face,
ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweet
as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us,
her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of painted
civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned
sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led
with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many
thousands years ago.
Harris said:
"How about when it rained?"
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wild
yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."
If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:
"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the
waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by
seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:
"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come along
with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop
of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less than
no time."
Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get
something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met
Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would
immediately greet you with:
"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the
corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."
In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his
practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in
rainy weather is not pleasant.
It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches of
water in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on the
banks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and you
land and lug out the tent, and two of you proceed to fix it.
It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down on you, and
clings round your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring steadily
down all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry weather:
in wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead of helping you, it seems to
you that the other man is simply playing the fool. Just as you get your
side beautifully fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end, and spoils it
all.
"Here! what are you up to?" you call out.
"What are YOU up to?" he retorts; "leggo, can't you?"
"Don't pull it; you've got it all wrong, you stupid ass!" you shout.
"No, I haven't," he yells back; "let go your side!"
"I tell you you've got it all wrong!" you roar, wishing that you could
get at him; and you give your ropes a lug that pulls all his pegs out.
"Ah, the bally idiot!" you hear him mutter to himself; and then comes a
savage haul, and away goes your side. You lay down the mallet and start
to go round and tell him what you think about the whole business, and, at
the same time, he starts round in the same direction to come and explain
his views to you. And you follow each other round and round, swearing at
one another, until the tent tumbles down in a heap, and leaves you
looking at each other across its ruins, when you both indignantly
exclaim, in the same breath:
"There you are! what did I tell you?"
Meanwhile the third man, who has been baling out the boat, and who has
spilled the water down his sleeve, and has been cursing away to himself
steadily for the last ten minutes, wants to know what the thundering
blazes you're playing at, and why the blarmed tent isn't up yet.
At last, somehow or other, it does get up, and you land the things. It
is hopeless attempting to make a wood fire, so you light the methylated
spirit stove, and crowd round that.
Rainwater is the chief article of diet at supper. The bread is two-
thirds rainwater, the beefsteak-pie is exceedingly rich in it, and the
jam, and the butter, and the salt, and the coffee have all combined with
it to make soup.
After supper, you find your tobacco is damp, and you cannot smoke.
Luckily you have a bottle of the stuff that cheers and inebriates, if
taken in proper quantity, and this restores to you sufficient interest in
life to induce you to go to bed.
There you dream that an elephant has suddenly sat down on your chest, and
that the volcano has exploded and thrown you down to the bottom of the
sea - the elephant still sleeping peacefully on your bosom.
