  TOthe sheer summit of the town, Up from the marshes where the mill is, The High Street clambers, looking down On willows, weirs and water-lilies; What goblin homes those gradients bear, Doors that for all their new defacements Date darkly, windows that outwear The centuries shining on their casements! When Simkin shows you up the street To pay a bill or post a letter, Your urgency infects his feet, He speeds as well as you, or better; Moulding his Lilliputian stride To your swift footfall's emulation He walks unwavering by your side Until you reach your destination. Simkin, the urchin with the shock Of curls rush-hatted, plainly preaches The Age of Reason in a smock And Liberty in holland breeches, Yet all obediently he'll ramp Against the counter, pressing closer To watch you lick a ha'penny stamp Or see you settle with the grocer. But once your steps retrace the town And "Home's" the goal your folly mentions A thousand projects of his own Engage the sum of his attentions— As when, precariously superb, He mounts with two-year-old activity The great stone horse-block by the kerb Time-worn to glacial declivity. Then debonair and undebarred By the old hound, its casual sentry, He dallies in "The Old George" yard And greets the jackdaw in the entry; Retracted to the street, he gains A sombre door no sunshine mellows, The smithy, where there glows and wanes Fire, at the bidding of the bellows. A-tip-toe at the infrequent shops Toys or tin kettles he appraises, Seeds in bright packets, lollipops, Through the dim oriels' greenish glazes: Then with two sturdy hands he shakes The stripling sycamore that dapples With shade the side-walk and awakes Some ancient memory of apples. Next he rejoins, beneath a sky With willow-leaves and gnats a-quiver, The dapper martins where they ply A clayey traffic by the river; Watches the minnows in the warm Near shallows with a smile persuading— He could not come to any harm On such a heaven-sent day for wading! Home's gained at last. At last they cease, Coaxes, entreaties, threats, coercions; An old gate's iron fleurs-de-lis Shut upon Simkin's last diversions. The garden crossed, the door stands wide, And, pouting like a wronged immortal, But passive as a Roman bride, Simkin is lifted through the portal. |
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