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 it jest as you’ve a mind to, but’—­and so he takes command. 
     For whoever pays the taxes old Mus’ Hobden owns the land.

In the Same Boat

(1911)

‘A throbbing vein,’ said Dr. Gilbert soothingly, ’is the mother of delusion.’

‘Then how do you account for my knowing when the thing is due?’ Conroy’s voice rose almost to a break.

’Of course, but you should have consulted a doctor before using—­palliatives.’

‘It was driving me mad.  And now I can’t give them up.’

’’Not so bad as that!  One doesn’t form fatal habits at twenty-five.  Think again.  Were you ever frightened as a child?’

‘I don’t remember.  It began when I was a boy.’

’With or without the spasm?  By the way, do you mind describing the spasm again?’

‘Well,’ said Conroy, twisting in the chair, ’I’m no musician, but suppose you were a violin-string—­vibrating—­and some one put his finger on you?  As if a finger were put on the naked soul!  Awful!’

‘So’s indigestion—­so’s nightmare—­while it lasts.’