A Diversity of Creatures - Rudyard Kipling

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be too tired to go readin' papers of evenin's; but Dockett he told me, that very week, I think, that they'd inquested on a man down at Robertsbridge which had poked and poked up agin' so many bridges an' banks, like, they couldn't make naun out of him.'

      'An' what did Mary say to all these doin's?'

      'The old lady bundled her off to the village 'fore her Lunnon father come, to buy week-end stuff (an' she forgot the half o' it). When we come in she was upstairs studyin' to be a school-teacher. None told her naun about it. 'Twadn't girls' affairs.'

      'Reckon she knowed?' Jabez went on.

      'She? She must have guessed it middlin' close when she saw her money come back. But she never mentioned it in writing so far's I know. She were more worritted that night on account of two-three her chickens bein' drowned, for the flood had skewed their old hen-house round on her postes. I cobbled her up next mornin' when the brook shrinked.'

      'An' where did you find the bridge? Some fur down-stream, didn't ye?'

      'Just where she allus was. She hadn't shifted but very little. The brook had gulled out the bank a piece under one eend o' the plank, so's she was liable to tilt ye sideways if you wasn't careful. But I pooked three-four bricks under her, an' she was all plumb again.'

      'Well, I dunno how it looks like, but let be how 'twill,' said Jabez, 'he hadn't no business to come down from Lunnon tarrifyin' people, an' threatenin' to take away children which they'd hobbed up for their lawful own-even if 'twas Mary Wickenden.'

      'He had the business right enough, an' he had the law with him-no gettin' over that,' said Jesse. 'But he had the drink with him, too, an' that was where he failed, like.'

      'Well, well! Let be how 'twill, the brook was a good friend to Jim. I see it now. I allus did wonder what he was gettin' at when he said that, when I talked to him about shiftin' the stack. "You dunno everythin'," he ses. "The Brook's been a good friend to me," he ses, "an' if she's minded to have a snatch at my hay, I ain't settin' out to withstand her."'

      'I reckon she's about shifted it, too, by now,' Jesse chuckled. 'Hark! That ain't any slip off the bank which she's got hold of.'

      The Brook had changed her note again. It sounded as though she were mumbling something soft.

      THE LAND

      When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,

      In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,

      He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,

      Saying: 'What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?'

      And the aged Hobden answered: 'I remember as a lad

      My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.

      An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.

      Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'

      So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.

      Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,

      And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,

      We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

      Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,

      And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.

      Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main

      And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

      Well could Ogier work his war-boat-well could Ogier wield his brand-

      Much he knew of foaming waters-not so much of farming land.

      So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.

      Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'

      And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't for me to interfere,

      But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.

      Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,

      If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!'

      Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,

      And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.

      And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't;

      Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

      Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,

      Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;

      For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,

      And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

      But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night

      And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.

      So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:

      'Hob, what about that River-bit-the Brook's got up no bounds?'

      And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise,

      But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.

      When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.

      Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'

      They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees

      And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.

      And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away

      You can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.

      Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,

      Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,

      Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs

      All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor theirs.

      I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.

      I can fish-but Hobden tickles. I can shoot-but Hobden wires.

      I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,

      Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

      Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?

      Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?

      Confiscate his evening faggot into which the conies ran,

      And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

      His dead are in the churchyard-thirty generations laid.

      Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.

      And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line

      Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

      Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,

      Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.

      He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,

      And if flagrantly a poacher-'tain't for me to interfere.

      'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him again

      With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.

      'Hev

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