GOOD-NIGHT
BUT THESE THINGS ALSO
THE NEW HOUSE
THE BARN AND THE DOWN
SOWING
MARCH THE THIRD
TWO PEWITS
WILL YOU COME?
THE PATH
THE WASP TRAP
A TALE
WIND AND MIST
A GENTLEMAN
LOB
DIGGING
LOVERS
IN MEMORIAM (EASTER, 1915)
HEAD AND BOTTLE
HOME
HEALTH
THE HUXTER
SHE DOTES
SONG
A CAT
MELANCHOLY
TONIGHT
APRIL
THE GLORY
JULY
THE CHALK-PIT
FIFTY FAGGOTS
SEDGE-WARBLERS
I BUILT MYSELF A HOUSE OF GLASS
WORDS
THE WORD
UNDER THE WOODS
HAYMAKING
A DREAM
THE BROOK
ASPENS
THE MILL-WATER
FOR THESE
DIGGING
TWO HOUSES
COCK-CROW
OCTOBER
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN
THE THRUSH
LIBERTY
THIS IS NO CASE OF PETTY RIGHT OR WRONG
RAIN
THE CLOUDS THAT ARE SO LIGHT
ROADS
THE ASH GROVE
FEBRUARY AFTERNOON
I MAY COME NEAR LOVING YOU
THOSE THINGS THAT POETS SAID
NO ONE SO MUCH AS YOU
THE UNKNOWN
CELANDINE
HOME
THAW
IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE
IF I WERE TO OWN
WHAT SHALL I GIVE?
AND YOU, HELEN
THE WIND’S SONG
LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN
WHEN WE TWO WALKED
TALL NETTLES
I NEVER SAW THAT LAND BEFORE
THE CHERRY TREES
THE WATCHERS
IT RAINS
THE SUN USED TO SHINE
NO ONE CARES LESS THAN I
SOME EYES CONDEMN
AS THE TEAM’S HEAD-BRASS
AFTER YOU SPEAK
BRIGHT CLOUDS
EARLY ONE MORNING
IT WAS UPON
WOMEN HE LIKED
THERE WAS A TIME
THE GREEN ROADS
THE GALLOWS
THE DARK FOREST
WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH
HOW AT ONCE
GONE, GONE AGAIN
THAT GIRL’S CLEAR EYES
WHAT WILL THEY DO?
THE TRUMPET
WHEN FIRST
THE CHILD IN THE ORCHARD
THE LONG SMALL ROOM
LIGHTS OUT
THE SHEILING
THE LANE
OUT IN THE DARK
THE SORROW OF TRUE LOVE
Thomas, 1907
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A-D E-H I-L M-O P-S T-V W-Z
A CAT
A DREAM
A GENTLEMAN
A PRIVATE
A TALE
ADLESTROP
AFTER RAIN
AFTER YOU SPEAK
AMBITION
AN OLD SONG I
AN OLD SONG II
AND YOU, HELEN
APRIL
AS THE TEAM’S HEAD-BRASS
ASPENS
BEAUTY
BIRDS’ NESTS
BRIGHT CLOUDS
BUT THESE THINGS ALSO
CELANDINE
COCK-CROW
DIGGING
DIGGING
EARLY ONE MORNING
FEBRUARY AFTERNOON
FIFTY FAGGOTS
FIRST KNOWN WHEN LOST
FOR THESE
GONE, GONE AGAIN
GOOD-NIGHT
HAYMAKING
HEAD AND BOTTLE
HEALTH
HOME
HOME
HOME
HOUSE AND MAN
HOW AT ONCE
I BUILT MYSELF A HOUSE OF GLASS
I MAY COME NEAR LOVING YOU
I NEVER SAW THAT LAND BEFORE
IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE
IF I WERE TO OWN
IN MEMORIAM (EASTER, 1915)
INTERVAL
IT RAINS
IT WAS UPON
JULY
LIBERTY
LIGHTS OUT
LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN
LOB
LOVERS
MAN AND DOG
MARCH
MARCH THE THIRD
MAY 23
MELANCHOLY
NO ONE CARES LESS THAN I
NO ONE SO MUCH AS YOU
NOVEMBER
OCTOBER
OLD MAN
OUT IN THE DARK
OVER THE HILLS
PARTING
RAIN
ROADS
SEDGE-WARBLERS
SHE DOTES
SNOW
SOME EYES CONDEMN
SONG
SOWING
SWEDES
TALL NETTLES
TEARS
THAT GIRL’S CLEAR EYES
THAW
THE ASH GROVE
THE BARN
THE BARN AND THE DOWN
THE BRIDGE
THE BROOK
THE CHALK-PIT
THE CHERRY TREES
THE CHILD IN THE ORCHARD
THE CHILD ON THE CLIFFS
THE CLOUDS THAT ARE SO LIGHT
THE COMBE
THE CUCKOO
THE DARK FOREST
THE GALLOWS
THE GLORY
THE GREEN ROADS
THE GYPSY
THE HOLLOW WOOD
THE HUXTER
THE LANE
THE LOFTY SKY
THE LONG SMALL ROOM
THE MANOR FARM
THE MILL-POND
THE MILL-WATER
THE MOUNTAIN CHAPEL
THE NEW HOUSE
THE NEW YEAR
THE OTHER
THE OWL
THE PATH
THE PENNY WHISTLE
THE SHEILING
THE SIGNPOST
THE SORROW OF TRUE LOVE
THE SOURCE
THE SUN USED TO SHINE
THE THRUSH
THE TRUMPET
THE UNKNOWN
THE UNKNOWN BIRD
THE WASP TRAP
THE WATCHERS
THE WIND’S SONG
THE WORD
THERE WAS A TIME
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN
THIS IS NO CASE OF PETTY RIGHT OR WRONG
THOSE THINGS THAT POETS SAID
TONIGHT
TWO HOUSES
TWO PEWITS
UNDER THE WOODS
UP IN THE WIND
WHAT SHALL I GIVE?
WHAT WILL THEY DO?
WHEN FIRST
WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH
WHEN WE TWO WALKED
WILL YOU COME?
WIND AND MIST
WOMEN HE LIKED
WORDS
The Novella
Elses Farm near Sevenoaks, Kent — where Thomas lived with his family before enlisting
THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY MORGANS
First published in 1913, this autobiographical novella is set in Balham, South West London, close to where Thomas grew up, and tells the story of adolescent Arthur, based on events from the author’s own childhood. Dedicating the work to his parents, Thomas later described it as a ‘half memory’ and ‘half fancy’, which provides a cast of characters that reflect various different aspects of Thomas’ own character.
Thomas, close to the time of publication
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. ABERCORRAN STREET
CHAPTER II. THE MORGANS O
F ABERCORRAN HOUSE
CHAPTER III. THE WILD SWANS
CHAPTER IV. HOB-Y-DERI-DANDO
CHAPTER V. AURELIUS, THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN
CHAPTER VI. OUR COUNTRY
CHAPTER VII. WOOL-GATHERING AND LYDIARD CONSTANTINE
CHAPTER VIII. ABERCORRAN AND MORGAN’S FOLLY
CHAPTER IX. MR TORRANCE, THE CHEERFUL MAN
CHAPTER X. THE HOUSE UNDER THE HILL
CHAPTER XI. MR STODHAM, THE RESPECTABLE MAN, AND THE DRYAD
CHAPTER XII. GREEN AND SCARLET
CHAPTER XIII. NED OF GLAMORGAN
CHAPTER XIV. THE CASTLE OF LEAVES AND THE BEGGAR WITH THE LONG WHITE BEARD
CHAPTER XV. MR STODHAM SPEAKS FOR ENGLAND — FOG SUPERVENES
CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE OF THE DAYS OF THE YEAR
CHAPTER XVII. PHILIP AND THE OUTLAWS OF THE ISLAND
CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT WILL ROLAND DO?
CHAPTER XIX. THE INTERLUDE OF HIGH BOWER
CHAPTER XX. THE POET’S SPRING AT LYDIARD CONSTANTINE
The first edition’s title page
‘But now — O never again’
Thomas Hardy’s Julie-Jane
TO
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
CHAPTER I. ABERCORRAN STREET
MY story is of Balham and of a family dwelling in Balham who were more Welsh than Balhamitish. Strangers to that neighbourhood who go up Harrington Road from the tram must often wonder why the second turning on the right is called Abercorran Street: the few who know Abercorran town itself, the long grey and white street, with a castle at one end, low down by the river mouth, and an old church high up at the other, must be delighted by the memories thus recalled, but they also must wonder at the name. Abercorran Street is straight, flat, symmetrically lined on both sides by four-bedroomed houses in pairs, and it runs at right angles out of Harrington Road into another road which the pair of four-bedroomed houses visible at the corner proclaim to be exactly like it. The only external variety in the street is created by the absence from two of the cast-iron gates of any notice prohibiting the entrance of hawkers and canvassers.
When I myself first saw the white lettering on a blue ground of ABERCORRAN STREET I was perhaps more surprised than most others have been who paid any attention to it. I was surprised but not puzzled. I knew very well why it was called Abercorran Street. For I knew Abercorran House and the Morgans, its inhabitants, and the dogs and the pigeons thereof. Who that ever knew the house and the people could ever forget them? I knew the Morgans, the father and mother, the five sons, the one daughter Jessie. I knew the house down to the kitchen, because I knew old Ann, the one permanent — I had almost written immortal — servant, of whom it was said by one knowing the facts, that they also rule who only serve and wait. I knew the breakfast room where breakfast was never finished; the dark Library where they had all the magazines which have since died of their virtues; the room without a name which was full of fishing-rods, walking-sticks, guns, traps, the cross-bow, boxes of skins, birds’ eggs, papers, old books, pictures, pebbles from a hundred beaches, and human bones. I knew the conservatory crowded with bicycles and what had been tricycles. I knew as well as any one the pigeon-houses, the one on a pole and the one which was originally a fowl-house, built with some idea or fancy regarding profit. I knew that well-worn square of blackened gravel at the foot of the back steps, where everybody had to pass to go to the conservatory, the pigeon-houses, and the wild garden beyond, and where the sun was always shining on men and children and dogs. This square was railed off from the rest of the garden. That also I knew, its four-and-twenty elms that stood about the one oak in the long grass and buttercups and docks, like a pleasant company slowly and unwillingly preparing to leave that three-acre field which was the garden of Abercorran House and called by us The Wilderness — a name now immortalised, because the christener of streets has given it to the one beyond Abercorran Street. Under the trees lay a pond containing golden water-lilies and carp. A pond needs nothing else except boys like us to make the best of it. Yet we never could fish in it again after the strange girl was drawn out of it dead one morning: nobody knew who she was or why she had climbed over into the Wilderness to drown herself; yet Ann seemed to know, and so perhaps did the tall Roland, but both of them could lock up anything they wished to keep secret and throw away the key. I knew the elms and the one oak of the Wilderness as well as the jackdaws did. For I knew them night and day, and the birds knew nothing of them between half-past five on an October evening and half-past five the next morning.
To-day the jackdaws at least, if ever they fly that way, can probably not distinguish Abercorran Street and Wilderness Street from ordinary streets. For the trees are every one of them gone, and with them the jackdaws. The lilies and carp are no longer in the pond, and there is no pond. I can understand people cutting down trees — it is a trade and brings profit — but not draining a pond in such a garden as the Wilderness and taking all its carp home to fry in the same fat as bloaters, all for the sake of building a house that might just as well have been anywhere else or nowhere at all. I think No. 23 Wilderness Street probably has the honour and misfortune to stand in the pond’s place, but they call it LYNDHURST. Ann shares my opinion, and she herself is now living in the house behind, No. 21 Abercorran Street.
Ann likes the new houses as well as the old elm-trees, and the hundreds of men, women, and children as well as the jackdaws — which is saying a good deal; for she loved both trees and birds, and I have heard her assert that the birds frequently talked in Welsh as the jackdaws used to do at the castle of Abercorran; but when I asked her why she thought so and what they said, she grew touchy and said: ‘Well, they did not speak English, whatever, and if it was Welsh, as I think, you cannot expect me to pervert Welsh into English, for I am no scholar.’ She is keeping house now for the gentleman at 21 Abercorran Street, a Mr Henry Jones. She would probably have been satisfied with him in any case, since he is the means by which Ann remains alive, free to think her own thoughts and to bake her own bread; to drink tea for breakfast, tea for dinner, tea for tea, tea for supper, and tea in between; to eat also at long intervals a quart of cockles from Abercorran shore, and a baked apple dumpling to follow; and at night to read the Welsh Bible and a Guide to the Antiquities of Abercorran. But Ann is more than satisfied because Mr Jones is Welsh. She admits his claim in spite of her unconcealed opinion that his Dolgelly Welsh, of which she can hardly understand a word, she says, is not Welsh at all. Of his speech as of the jackdaws she can retort: ‘He does not speak English, whatever.’
Ann will never leave him unless he or she should die. She is untidy; she has never decided what is truth; and she has her own affairs as well as his to manage; but, as he says himself, he has entertained an angel unawares and she is not to be thrust out. He covers his inability to command her by asking what she could do at her age if she had to leave. It is not likely that Mr Henry Jones could get the better of a woman whom — in spite of the fact that she has never decided what is truth — he has called an angel. For he did not use the word as a mere compliment, as much as to say that she was all that a woman should be when she is in domestic service. She is not; she is excellent only at pastry, which Mr Jones believes that he ought never to touch. He has been heard to call her ‘half angel and half bird’; but neither does this furnish the real explanation, though it offers an obvious one. For Ann is now — I mean that when we were children she seemed as old as she seems now; she limps too; and yet it might partly be her limp that made Mr Jones call her ‘half bird,’ for it is brisk and quite unashamed, almost a pretty limp; also she is pale with a shining paleness, and often she is all eyes, because her eyes are large and round and dark, looking always up at you and always a little sidelong — but that alone would not justify a sensible man in calling her ‘half angel.’ Nor would her voice, which has a remarkable unexpectedness, wherever and whenever it is heard. She begins abruptly in the middle of a thought without a word or gesture of preparation, and always on
an unexpectedly high note. In this she is like the robin, who often rehearses the first half of his song in silence and then suddenly continues aloud, as if he were beginning in mid-song. Well, Mr Henry Jones, as I have said, once called her ‘half angel and half bird,’ and declared that he had entertained an angel unawares in Ann, and I believe that he is right and more than a sensible man. For he has grasped the prime fact that she is not what she seems.
For my part I can say that she is such a woman that her name, Ann Lewis, has for those who connect it with her, and with her alone, out of all the inhabitants of earth, a curious lightness, something at once pretty and old with an elfish oldness, something gay and a little weird, also a bird-like delicacy, as delicate as ‘linnet’ and ‘martin.’ If these words are useless, remember at least that, though half bird, she is not a mere human travesty or hint of a winged thing, and that she is totally unlike any other bird, and probably unlike any other angel.
An ordinary bird certainly — and an ordinary angel probably — would have pined away at 21 Abercorran Street after having lived at Abercorran House and at Abercorran itself. But Ann is just the same as when I last saw her in Abercorran House. She alone that day was unchanged. The house, the Wilderness, the conservatory, the pigeon-houses, all were changed; I was changed, but not Ann. Yet the family had then newly gone, leaving her alone in the house. It was some years since I had been there. They had been going on as ever in that idle, careless, busy life which required a big country house and an illimitable playground of moor and mountain for a full and fitting display. Gradually their friends grew up, went to a university, to business, or abroad, and acquired preferences which were not easily to be adapted to that sunny, untidy house. At first these friends would be only too glad to go round to Abercorran House of an evening after business, or a morning or two after the beginning of the vacation. Perhaps they came again, and after a long interval yet again. They said it was different: but they were wrong; it was they themselves were different; the Morgans never changed. In this way young men of the neighbourhood discovered that they were no longer boys. They could no longer put up with that careless hullabaloo of lazy, cheerful people, they took offence at the laziness, or else at the cheerfulness. Also they saw that Jessie, the girl, was as frank and untidy at seventeen as she had always been, and it took them aback, especially if they were wanting to make love to her. The thought of it made them feel foolish against their will. They fancied that she would laugh. Yet it was easy to believe that Jessie might die for love or for a lover. When somebody was pitying the girl who drowned herself in the Wilderness pond, Jessie interrupted: ‘She isn’t a poor girl; she is dead; it is you are poor; she has got what she wanted, and some of you don’t know what you want, and if you did you would be afraid of cold water.’ The young men could see the power of such words in Jessie’s eye, and they did not make love to her. Some took their revenge by calling her a slut, which was what Ann used to call her when she was affectionate, as she could be to Jessie only. ‘Come on, there’s a slut,’ she used to say. It was too familiar for the youths, but some of them would have liked to use it, because they felt that the phrase was somehow as amorous as it was curt, a sort of blow that was as fond as a kiss. Even when, in their hard hats at the age of twenty or so, they used the term in condemnation, they would still have given their hats for courage to speak it as Ann did, and say: ‘Come on, Jessie, there’s a slut’; for they would have had to kiss her after the word, both because they could not help it, and for fear she should misunderstand its significance. At any rate, I believe that nobody but Ann ever addressed that term of utmost endearment to Jessie.
Complete Poetical Works of Edward Thomas Page 12
