Poems (Hardy)/The fall of the leaf: a beast drama
THE FALL OF THE LEAF
A CREATURE-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS
PERSONS
| The Chipmunk, | The Weasel, |
| Cwink, the Neighbor Chipmunk, | Two Doves, |
| The Thing, | A Hunter, with a gun, |
| The Snake, | A Child. |
Place—A wooded mountain-side in the Sierra.
Time—Early autumn.
Act I. Scene I.
Place—A log hemmed in by a thicket. Time—Afternoon.
Persons—The Chipmunk, The Thing, The Child, The Weasel, The Snake.
Persons—The Chipmunk, The Thing, The Child, The Weasel, The Snake.
The Chipmunk [at first running about the wood path, then stopping].
There is a stir among the pine-tree tops,
There is a creeping low of wind among the shrubs,
A falling slow of here a yellow leaf and there
A red one. I know not what it bodes to me,
But I must make my home all safe and warm
For what is coming. I must fill my stores.
Here is a feather white of Lady Dove's;
I like her most; 't will help to make my bed;
And here's a strip of thin sweet bark,
A lock of wool, a shag of moss,—
I'll tear you, scratch you, yellow thing,
You feather of the sparrow-hawk I fear!
Kst! Ooh! Ooh! That's the track of the Thing!
Run, run! O Terror! Am I hid enough
Beneath this bunch of leaves? Let me look out,
Still,—still as the earthworm! And never rustling
In these dry oak-leaves. Ah, safe in my own cell,
My rounded cell in the big log
Among the berry-trees. The Thing can hear?
Let me not think!
The Thing [snuffing about].
Where went that legged atom with the stripes?
I marvel that a beast so small should be so wise;
Here by the log it went,—up that tree,—there!
Is that its beaded head,—its white-spot ears?
This daylight pinches up my eyes to slits
I cannot see through, so these saucy mites,
These bush-tailed whiffets, find their homes
And leave me cheated of the sweetest fat I know.
That 's a white lichen-splotch, and I'll not climb.
He went not such a way, I think,
But in those rocks I scorn to turn aside
He's lying flat. May the snake get him!
[Lies down on the log and stretches.]
There 's somewhat strange and tall that walks this path
And pulls the nuts down from the bushes here,
And munches like that lightning-footed thing,—
If I but dared to try its bones?—Hark!
He comes now.
[A child goes by, singing and bearing a bough
of wild red plums.]
Through the thicket screen of boughs
See him go by on two flat feet, and if—
There 's something rustles in the leaves or in
The log. The fangèd groundworm that I hate!
The Snake
I saw him creep in hither in a fume
Of terror. I'll coil me here where he must come
Again, and take him for my dinner,—so.
One streak of sun pours through the leaves straight down
As I would choose it. These dead brown leaves
And yellow blots of clay will hide me well.
Am I so ugly?—'or not, the Thing
Fears me.
The Chipmunk [in his cell in the log].
Softly I'll weave my winter bed a while;
I cannot leave my home to-day for fear,
I am so sick of fear! I'll close this door
And make a way through that small chink.
There is the dove's feather, it shall go here
Where my head lies; and this sweet-smelling moss,
And the strip of silvery bark. Now one more cell
I'll make, and that shall be, then, three for sleep
And one for store.
[The Thing stretches on the log above the chipmunk's
nest, licks his paws, and purrs.]
Hark! Is't thunder? O me!
Something will hear my heart beat,—beat so!
Still,—be still as the earthworm;—still as the snail.
The Weasel [coming toward the end of the log].
Ha, ah! I've found your runway, now at last,
You of the saucy stripes and perked-up ears;
I'll get you now,—now, little fool in the log.
The Snake [lifting its head].
That hateful stoat! He seeks the little beast
That he may suck his blood.
[The Weasel, unaware, creeps upon the snake.]
Creep and ape me, will you? Take that, blood-sucker.
[Strikes and recoils in his place. The Weasel
creeps away and dies. The Thing, terrified
by the rattle of the Snake, springs from the
log and flees up the hill-side; as he runs, his
foot loosens a stone which, rolling down, crushes
the Snake and closes up the end of the log.]
There is a stir among the pine-tree tops,
There is a creeping low of wind among the shrubs,
A falling slow of here a yellow leaf and there
A red one. I know not what it bodes to me,
But I must make my home all safe and warm
For what is coming. I must fill my stores.
Here is a feather white of Lady Dove's;
I like her most; 't will help to make my bed;
And here's a strip of thin sweet bark,
A lock of wool, a shag of moss,—
I'll tear you, scratch you, yellow thing,
You feather of the sparrow-hawk I fear!
Kst! Ooh! Ooh! That's the track of the Thing!
Run, run! O Terror! Am I hid enough
Beneath this bunch of leaves? Let me look out,
Still,—still as the earthworm! And never rustling
In these dry oak-leaves. Ah, safe in my own cell,
My rounded cell in the big log
Among the berry-trees. The Thing can hear?
Let me not think!
The Thing [snuffing about].
Where went that legged atom with the stripes?
I marvel that a beast so small should be so wise;
Here by the log it went,—up that tree,—there!
Is that its beaded head,—its white-spot ears?
This daylight pinches up my eyes to slits
I cannot see through, so these saucy mites,
These bush-tailed whiffets, find their homes
And leave me cheated of the sweetest fat I know.
That 's a white lichen-splotch, and I'll not climb.
He went not such a way, I think,
But in those rocks I scorn to turn aside
He's lying flat. May the snake get him!
[Lies down on the log and stretches.]
There 's somewhat strange and tall that walks this path
And pulls the nuts down from the bushes here,
And munches like that lightning-footed thing,—
If I but dared to try its bones?—Hark!
He comes now.
[A child goes by, singing and bearing a bough
of wild red plums.]
Through the thicket screen of boughs
See him go by on two flat feet, and if—
There 's something rustles in the leaves or in
The log. The fangèd groundworm that I hate!
The Snake
I saw him creep in hither in a fume
Of terror. I'll coil me here where he must come
Again, and take him for my dinner,—so.
One streak of sun pours through the leaves straight down
As I would choose it. These dead brown leaves
And yellow blots of clay will hide me well.
Am I so ugly?—'or not, the Thing
Fears me.
The Chipmunk [in his cell in the log].
Softly I'll weave my winter bed a while;
I cannot leave my home to-day for fear,
I am so sick of fear! I'll close this door
And make a way through that small chink.
There is the dove's feather, it shall go here
Where my head lies; and this sweet-smelling moss,
And the strip of silvery bark. Now one more cell
I'll make, and that shall be, then, three for sleep
And one for store.
[The Thing stretches on the log above the chipmunk's
nest, licks his paws, and purrs.]
Hark! Is't thunder? O me!
Something will hear my heart beat,—beat so!
Still,—be still as the earthworm;—still as the snail.
The Weasel [coming toward the end of the log].
Ha, ah! I've found your runway, now at last,
You of the saucy stripes and perked-up ears;
I'll get you now,—now, little fool in the log.
The Snake [lifting its head].
That hateful stoat! He seeks the little beast
That he may suck his blood.
[The Weasel, unaware, creeps upon the snake.]
Creep and ape me, will you? Take that, blood-sucker.
[Strikes and recoils in his place. The Weasel
creeps away and dies. The Thing, terrified
by the rattle of the Snake, springs from the
log and flees up the hill-side; as he runs, his
foot loosens a stone which, rolling down, crushes
the Snake and closes up the end of the log.]
Act II. Scene I.
Persons—Two Doves, Same place; time, next day.
The Two Doves [he preening his feathers on the log
over the Chipmunk's nest; she swinging on an
overhanging oak-bough].
over the Chipmunk's nest; she swinging on an
overhanging oak-bough].
She. This was our oak-bough,
Here was our nest;
The leaves are estranged now,
All is so changed now;
We change with the rest.
O Love, change comes and snow.
Here was our nest;
The leaves are estranged now,
All is so changed now;
We change with the rest.
O Love, change comes and snow.
He. Where, where can we go?
Lovely and warm and low
In the lowland air
Lies a home I know,
A dear home I know.
Come fly with me there.
Lovely and warm and low
In the lowland air
Lies a home I know,
A dear home I know.
Come fly with me there.
She. I know not a tree
In the valley low
Whither to flee
When nightwinds blow.
Stay but a day,—
Stay, stay, but a farewell day.
In the valley low
Whither to flee
When nightwinds blow.
Stay but a day,—
Stay, stay, but a farewell day.
He. Linger no more, love;
The valley is fair.
The valley is fair.
She. Here falls a red leaf,
There one of gold;
Here clings a dead leaf,
There loses hold.
Where are our friends, now?
Everything ends now.
The little brown beasts
Have left their nut-feasts;
The hermit-thrush glooms
In the thicket's dark rooms,
And the wee lonely wren
Just speaks to us, then
Hides himself and his song
Where the fir-roots throng
Over the cliff's high edge.
The sun finds the ferns
Where their yellow light burns
In the leaf-riven hedge,
Like that flash of bright flame
When the wood's blackened shame
Came upon it in summer's low tide,
And shriveled, and blasted, and killed
Whatever was wingless, and filled
All the world with burnt ruin wide.
We have seen it and known;
Ere our nestlings had flown—
There one of gold;
Here clings a dead leaf,
There loses hold.
Where are our friends, now?
Everything ends now.
The little brown beasts
Have left their nut-feasts;
The hermit-thrush glooms
In the thicket's dark rooms,
And the wee lonely wren
Just speaks to us, then
Hides himself and his song
Where the fir-roots throng
Over the cliff's high edge.
The sun finds the ferns
Where their yellow light burns
In the leaf-riven hedge,
Like that flash of bright flame
When the wood's blackened shame
Came upon it in summer's low tide,
And shriveled, and blasted, and killed
Whatever was wingless, and filled
All the world with burnt ruin wide.
We have seen it and known;
Ere our nestlings had flown—
He. Think not of that sad time.
Now many a glad time
In the far fields of spring
Is waiting for you.
Come, sweet wife and true,
Lift your heart, lift your wing,
Cleave we together, seeking the blue
Sky of the distant and new.
[They fly.]
Now many a glad time
In the far fields of spring
Is waiting for you.
Come, sweet wife and true,
Lift your heart, lift your wing,
Cleave we together, seeking the blue
Sky of the distant and new.
[They fly.]
Act III. Scene I.
Persons—The Chipmunk, Neighbor Cwink, The Thing, The Hunter.
Time, next afternoon; same place.
Time, next afternoon; same place.
[The Chipmunk and Neighbor Cwink, running on
the log, stopping at a knot-bole,]
The Chipmunk
That's the door of my home. Keep away! I'll scratch,—
I'll bite! But let us run up and down our playways
In the sunshine; but squeak not.
[They run up and down to the end of the log and
back, and stop suddenly.]
That was a leaf
From the oak; it rustled as it fell there by the bush;
And there 's another dropping in the wind; but I'm afraid.
That was a thrush hopping through the hazel thicket,—
But I'm afraid. I cannot see, though I stand up tall,
What the thing that moves is. Chizct! Chzit!
[The Thing with his feet on the log about to spring
over. The Chipmunk runs up an oak-tree
and hides in a bunch of mistletoe. The Neighbor
disappears in a pile of stones.]
the log, stopping at a knot-bole,]
The Chipmunk
That's the door of my home. Keep away! I'll scratch,—
I'll bite! But let us run up and down our playways
In the sunshine; but squeak not.
[They run up and down to the end of the log and
back, and stop suddenly.]
That was a leaf
From the oak; it rustled as it fell there by the bush;
And there 's another dropping in the wind; but I'm afraid.
That was a thrush hopping through the hazel thicket,—
But I'm afraid. I cannot see, though I stand up tall,
What the thing that moves is. Chizct! Chzit!
[The Thing with his feet on the log about to spring
over. The Chipmunk runs up an oak-tree
and hides in a bunch of mistletoe. The Neighbor
disappears in a pile of stones.]
Scene 2.
Time, next morning.
The Thing [lying down on the log listening].
Aha, something chimbles in the log,—the little brown-stripe beast!
Now I'll get him when the sun comes up above the pines,
For he 'll come out to drink and climb the hazel-twigs,
And stuff his cheeks; I know his kin and all their tricks.
[Purrs, dresses bis fur, and dozes.]
The Chipmunk [inside the log].
It is the roar of some great wind; or the rain comes
From the thunder-place,—that must be the noise,—and I'll not stir;
Besides, I am afraid, and a shiver pinches down my back.
I'll sleep some more. But there is Neighbor Cwink
Calling from the hazel-thicket; will he get the last nuts, think?
So I must harvest a while till the rain comes.
[Chipmunk starts to leave his nest. As he reaches
the door where the Thing is watching, there
is a flash, a loud noise, and the Thing falls
dead over the knot-hole, the Chipmunk going
back to his nest.]
It is the thunder-fire; now comes the rain and I shall sleep,
For Cwink and I can get no nuts to-day,
[Cwink runs away from the hazel-thicket,
shrieking with terror.]
And something tells me that what would come has come. I'll sleep.
The Hunter [coming up, turns over the dead body
of the Thing.]
Ho, ho, unlooked for luck!
'T was you that killed old Topknot, and ate the chicks
Of Ruffleneck, and were whetting up for smaller game,—
The little squirrel, nimble, curious, friendly,
A bare midget, silken-striped, that makes the big dark woods
So cheery with his antics. Luck for me, and luck for him
I came in time. By your leave, old cat of the Cañon,
[Taking the Thing on his shoulder,]
Go home with me and make a soft warm rug
For two small feet by the winter fire.
[Hunter goes by, whistling "The Song of the
Forest Children."]
Time, next morning.
The Thing [lying down on the log listening].
Aha, something chimbles in the log,—the little brown-stripe beast!
Now I'll get him when the sun comes up above the pines,
For he 'll come out to drink and climb the hazel-twigs,
And stuff his cheeks; I know his kin and all their tricks.
[Purrs, dresses bis fur, and dozes.]
The Chipmunk [inside the log].
It is the roar of some great wind; or the rain comes
From the thunder-place,—that must be the noise,—and I'll not stir;
Besides, I am afraid, and a shiver pinches down my back.
I'll sleep some more. But there is Neighbor Cwink
Calling from the hazel-thicket; will he get the last nuts, think?
So I must harvest a while till the rain comes.
[Chipmunk starts to leave his nest. As he reaches
the door where the Thing is watching, there
is a flash, a loud noise, and the Thing falls
dead over the knot-hole, the Chipmunk going
back to his nest.]
It is the thunder-fire; now comes the rain and I shall sleep,
For Cwink and I can get no nuts to-day,
[Cwink runs away from the hazel-thicket,
shrieking with terror.]
And something tells me that what would come has come. I'll sleep.
The Hunter [coming up, turns over the dead body
of the Thing.]
Ho, ho, unlooked for luck!
'T was you that killed old Topknot, and ate the chicks
Of Ruffleneck, and were whetting up for smaller game,—
The little squirrel, nimble, curious, friendly,
A bare midget, silken-striped, that makes the big dark woods
So cheery with his antics. Luck for me, and luck for him
I came in time. By your leave, old cat of the Cañon,
[Taking the Thing on his shoulder,]
Go home with me and make a soft warm rug
For two small feet by the winter fire.
[Hunter goes by, whistling "The Song of the
Forest Children."]