Poems (Kimball)/The King's Surveyor

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

THE KING'S SURVEYOR.

COME, little one, this is "our time," you know;
Too late to read and too late to sew,
Yet too early the evening lamp to light,—
It is not day and it is not night.

The fresh stick crackles and blazes and sings,
And the shadows wave round us like dusky wings
On the ivory key-board flame-fingers play,—
It is not night and it is not day.

While you perch on my knee in the twilight time,
I tell you the tale—I chant you the rhyme:
Now here is a story you have not heard,—
It is true; I give it you word for word.

Once on a time in this quaint old town
Whose brown roofs are slow to tumble down,
While turrets and spires are slower yet
To fill their places and banish regrets—

Once on a time in the neighborhood fair
Of the stateliest mansion in Haymarket Square,
On the recks where a church has since been reared,
The shanty of Shepherd Ham appeared.

The King's Surveyor once was he;
In the forest on many a noble tree,
Ere the Red Coats the conquering Colonists met,
The royal arrow he loftily set.

But when he could serve his King no more,
And his silver lace was a thing of yore,
He opened a stable—the proud old Tory—
And fed his pride on his former glory.

Now close was he as the bark to the tree,
And the older he grew the worse grew he;
The rickety coach and the unshod brute
Soon brought his stalls into disrepute.

One by one and day by day
Shepherd's patrons fell away;
But his lank-ribbed horses, as odd as himself,
He would not part with for love or pelf.

A queer old man he was indeed!
In the Portsmouth "Rambles" you may read
How he dwelt for years in his hut alone,
Old saddles and trappings round him strewn;

Old sleighs, old coaches, old chaises beside,
Wherein even ghosts would not risk them to ride
And around his shanty far and near
Wheels and axles and useless gear.

William his name; yet low and high
Called him "Shepherd,"—I know not why,
Unless it may be he was wont to keep
His flock of horses as shepherds their sheep.

His long beard sweeping the faded vest
Carelessly buttoned across his breast,
In his clumsy boots and corduroys,
Teased and courted by all the boys,

The old man went on his daily rounds,
Rich in importance though poor in pounds,
Feeling old honors about him cling,
And praying persistently, "God save the King!"

Under and over him horse-skins spread,
The old man slept on his comfortless bed,
Unvexed by the raid of rats in his den
So his worm-eaten treasures were safe from men.

The moth and the mouse they lacked no food,
But well-nigh deserted his stables stood,
For the crib was empty, the rack was bare,
And the beast would starve that waited there.

So up and down, up and down,
Shepherd's horses roamed the town,
From morn till noon and from noon till night,
Pausing wherever they found a bite.

Yet a kindly care old Shepherd showed
For the creatures he pastured on the road
In gathering storms he sought his flock
From Frenchman's Lane to Puddle Dock.

As he drove his shaggy herd before
From Wibird's Hill to Christian Shore,
Merrily would the town's folk say:
"Be careful Shepherd is coming this way!"

Now the boys—well, boys will be boys, you know;
And sixty or seventy years ago
They were ripe for mischief and ready for play
As the rogues who run from the rod to-day.

And if one of those lads, overflowing with fun,
In Broad Street, or Jaffrey, or Islington,
Spied one of those horses of Shepherd Ham,
How could he leave him to browse like a lamb!

Some little trick with the burr-tangled tail
Switching the poor beast's flanks like a flail:
No evil he meant, but all he could do
He could not help playing a prank or two.

One morning, while slumber seemed yet to drown
The first faint hum of the drowsy town,
And Nature herself in her mist-spun cap
Indulged in an innocent morning nap,

Some workmen, beguiling their early walk
With simple, cheery, jovial talk,
Went up Church Hill where St. John's doth stand
Looking out o'er the water and hi o'er the land.

They had wrought on the belfry long days before,
And were come to take up their toil once more,
And the staging whereby they reached that height
They lifted at morning and lowered at night.

Midway up the hillside a boisterous shout
From the trio of honest throats rang out,
For lo! the staging swung high in air,
And—"What in the world is that up there

Surely it is—but can it be?—
An old horse gazing out to sea;
With sleepy eyes and listless ears,
As if he had gazed and gazed for years!

Did he follow some dim receding sail?
It is not recorded in the tale;
But I'll venture to add the workmen swore
No horse ever stood so near heaven before.

When the village had fairly opened its eyes,
Fancy the merriment and surprise
That followed its wake as the story flew round
How the ancient horse on the staging was found!

But at noon when the urchins broke from school,
And tossing their caps snapped their fingers at rule,
Of all the bright eyes in the crowd not one
Betrayed the author of last night's fun!