"He didn't look the same man. His face were red an' angry, his basket-hilt was all smashed in, his knuckles were raw, and there were no more'n but a foot left of his stick.

"The Kaffir stood there, solum as a judge, with jes' a touch of fire in his eyes. There were not so much as a mark on his smooth skin, as he slipped the blanket over his shoulder, and waited for more.

"The sergeant fished up sixpence, and gave it to the boy, without a word.

"'You'd better go,' I sed.

"'Yoh,' sed the Kaffir, looking at the sixpence; 'is he done? Let him take another stick; we were but playing, and no one's head is broken.'

"'You go,' I said; and he went, looking mighty troubled.

"I tell you what, sonny; the Queen should take a thousand of these yer red Kaffirs, and make soldiers of 'em for service in a hot country. Not here, of course, but away off in Injia. It's a pity to waste 'em, and they'd do more good scouting than drinkin' Cape brandy, lifting cattle, and loafin' around. A black battalion of Kaffirs and Zulus would be no small pumpkins, an' they could be officered by Colonials who know the language."

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A BUGLE CALL.

"Hulloa, Ba.s.sie! I thought this fine morning would bring you over. The sap's running strong, and the quail are gathering thick in the young wheat. Hear to them whistling. Where's your gun?"

"I did not come to shoot."

"Soh! Well, you don't look like shooting. Been eating too much green fruit?"

"I've pa.s.sed the green fruit stage, Abe."

"I ain't; there's nothing better'n a pie of green apricots with cream, and green mealies is better'n kissing. You're not in love, are you?"

"I have been writing poetry," I said, with an air of unconcern; "and I want to take your opinion of it."

"Fire away," said Abe, fetching up a judicial expression; "it's many a year since I learnt poetry, my boy--many a year. The ole mum onct, in the moonlight, when I were knee high, read to me outer a torn sheet she had, and these words I remember:

"'He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear G.o.d that loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

"Long years agone the old mother read that outer a torn slip of paper, and I know it yet, sonny. I'd like to year some more."

"I don't think I'll read it you, on second thoughts," I said, with sudden doubt.

"You bet you will, sonny. A man that's got the gift of making poetry has no occasion to stand back in the corner."

"Well it's only a little thing I dashed off the other night. Here it is:

"'Oh, frog, that sits on the garden seat (Croak, croak! where the trees hang low), Have you ever swum in the ocean deep, In the waves where the wild winds blow, Where the red crabs crawl on the rocks below, On the rocks where the dead men sleep?'"

"It's kind o' b.u.t.tery," said Abe slowly, "but I don't see no sense in it. What's a frog on a garden seat got anything to do with dead men?

And crabs ain't red."

"Oh, that's a poet's licence."

"It are, eh? Well, I won't go to your shop for spirrits. Is there any more?"

"This is the second verse," I said, rather discouraged:

"'Oh, speckled toad, did you ever dream (Croak, croak! there's a snake on the wall), Did you ever dream of my lady dear, Who sometimes walks in the garden here (While the milk in the pan is making cream), And sings when there's no one near?'"

"How does it sound?"

"It sounds like treacle," said Abe, with a puzzled look; "but I don't see what the podder's got to do with it, anyhow; and the young woman's got no business to be wasting her time waiting for the milk to set. Why don't she use the cream separator?"

"I couldn't write about a machine."

"Why not--hum--er--hum--why not say this:

"After she turned the cream separator, She sat and ate a cold pertater."

"There is no sentiment in that!" I said indignantly; "and the words have no rhythm."

"What's rhythm?"

"Why, tone, modulation, music; you know!"

"Sonny! is there any music in the croak of a frog--is there? In course not! Now listen--what do you hear?"

I listened, and heard nothing but the drowsy hum and hollow drone of the surf.

"I can hear nothing."

"Soh! Well, now jes' c.o.c.k yer ear, and hearken to the voice of the sea--rising and falling, soft and melancholy. Dying away to a whisper, then swellin' up as the big wave rolls in, swinging to and fro in a great song of quiet and peace. That's music, sonny; and when the wind rises, and in the dark of the night, the spring-tide, coming in with the power of the sea behind, thunders on the beach, there's music there-- wild and grand--and when the clouds pile up outer the sea higher and higher, and the yearth waitin' in silence, when there is no breath of air, shakes to the rollin' crash of the thunder--there's music then.

Where's your potery beside them sounds and the lightning flash and the rush of the wind, and the splashing of water risin' suddenly?"

I thrust my paper back into my pocket.

"There's music, sonny, in the veld and bush, and in the night cries of the wild animiles and birds; but I yeard onct a sound I shall never forget, and I guess there was in it a whole book of potery. But you ain't finished about your podder."

"Never mind the frog, the snake has swallowed him by this. Tell me the story."

"Well it were in the Borna Pa.s.s, time of the Kaffir War, and the ole 94th were halted in the jaws of the pa.s.s, waitin' for the cool of the afternoon before they marched. I recomember it well--the dark woods in the narrow pa.s.s rising up till they 'most shut out the sky; the red-coats down by the water; the smoke rising in tall columns from the cooking fires; the horses standing in a bunch switching the flies offen 'em; the oxen knee-deep in the water; and a silence born of the hot sun over all. It were as quiet as Sunday down in the mouth of the pa.s.s, with the sun running up and down the bayonets like fire, and no red to stain them, for there was no news of Kaffirs within a day's march.

"I yeard a honey-bird call outer the black of the wood, and I jes' moved off with nothin' mor'n a pipe and a clasp-knife.

"'Where you going, Abe?' said a little bugler chap, lookin' up from the shade of a bush.

"'Bee huntin', sonny.'

"'I'll come along o' you,' he sed; 'as there ain't no bloomin' Kafs to hunt, bees'll do.'

"He were a little chap, with his lips all cracked by the sun, and a little nose that you couldn't see for the freckles, and brown eyes like you see in a bird or a buck--clear and bright. Always he were on the move, like a willey-wagtail, and him and me were chums. Ah yes; many a story I tole him by the camp fire, him a sitting with his chin in his hands staring at me with his big round eyes, and they called him 'Abe's kid,' 'cos I downed a fellow for boosting him with a leather belt. I tole you how a little dream lad had come to me one night outer the sea; that were he, my son--that were my little boy."