She never magged; she never said no word. 
An’ when I speaks, it seems she never ’eard. 
  I could ‘a’ sung a nim, I feels so gay! 
If she ’ad only roused I might ‘a’ smiled. 
She jist seems ‘urt an’ crushed; not even riled. 
      I turns away,
An’ yanks me carkis out into the yard,
Like some whipped pup; an’ kicks meself reel ’ard.

An’ then, I sneaks to bed, an’ feels dead crook. 
Fer golden quids I couldn’t face that look
  That trouble in the eyes uv my Doreen. 
Aw, strike!  Wot made me go an’ do this thing? 
I feel jist like a chewed up bit of string,
      An’ rotten mean! 
Fer ‘arf an hour I lies there feelin’ cheap;
An’ then I s’pose, I muster fell asleep....

“‘Ere, Kid, drink this"...I wakes, an’ lifts me ’ead,
An’ sees ‘er standin’ there beside the bed;
  A basin in ’er ‘ands; an’ in ’er eyes
(Eyes that wiv unshed tears is shinin’ wet)—­
The sorter look I never shall ferget,
      Until I dies. 
“‘Ere, Kid, drink this,” she sez, an’ smiles at me. 
I looks—­an’ spare me days!  It was beef tea!

Beef tea!  She treats me like a hinvaleed! 
Me! that ’as caused ‘er lovin’ ’eart to bleed. 
  It ‘urts me worse than maggin’ fer a week! 
’Er! ’oo ’ad right to turn dead sour on me,
Fergives like that, an’ feeds me wiv beef tea... 
       I tries to speak;
An’ then—­I ain’t ashamed o’ wot I did—­
I ‘ides me face...an’ blubbers like a kid.

XII.  Uncle Jim

“I got no time fer wasters, lad,” sez’e,
  “Give me a man wiv grit,” sez Uncle Jim. 
’E bores ’is cute ole eyes right into me,
  While I stares ‘ard an’ gives it back to ’im. 
Then orl at once ’e grips me ’and in ’is: 
“Some’ow,” ’e sez, “I likes yer ugly phiz.”

“You got a look,” ’e sez, “like you could stay;
  Altho’ yeh mauls King’s English when yeh yaps,
An’ ’angs flash frills on ev’rythink yeh say. 
  I ain’t no grammarist meself, per’aps,
But langwidge is a ’elp, I owns,” sez Unk,
“When things is goin’ crook.”  An’ ’ere ’e wunk.

“Yeh’ll find it tough,” ’e sez, “to knuckle down. 
  Good farmin’ is a gift—­like spoutin’ slang. 
Yeh’ll ‘ave to cut the luxuries o’ town,
  An’ chuck the manners of this back-street gang;
Fer country life ain’t cigarettes and beer.” 
“I’m game,” I sez.  Sez Uncle, “Put it ’ere!”

Like that I took the plunge, an’ slung the game. 
  I’ve parted wiv them joys I ’eld most dear;
I’ve sent the leery bloke that bore me name
  Clean to the pack wivout one pearly tear;
An’ frum the ashes of a ne’er-do-well
A bloomin’ farmer’s blossomin’ like ’ell.

Farmer!  That’s me!  Wiv this ’ere strong right ’and
  I’ve gripped the plough; and blistered jist a treat. 
Doreen an’ me ’as gone upon the land. 
  Yours truly fer the burden an’ the ’eat! 
Yours truly fer upendin’ chunks o’ soil! 
The ’ealthy, ’ardy, ‘appy son o’ toil!