The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer's day; And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father-- Last of the dwarfish folk. The king sat high on his charger, He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them; And there on the giddy brink-- "I will give you life, ye vermin, For the secret of the drink." There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: "I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. "Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret," Quoth the Piet to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow's, And shrill and wonderful clear: "I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. "For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take _him_, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it's I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep." They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong, And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten;-- And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men. "True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale." ----R. L. Stevenson. CAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET |The first letter our Captain wrote To the Lord of Mantua: "Did you ever see French Janet (He wrote) on any day? "Did ye ever see French Janet, That was so blithe and coy? The little serving-lass I stole From the mountains of Savoy. "Last week I lost French Janet: Hunt for her up and down; And send her back to me, my Lord, From the four walls o* the town." Captain Gold and French Janet, For thirty days and thirty nights There came no news to us. Suddenly old grew Captain Gold, And his voice grew tremulous. O Mantua's a bonny town, And she's long been our ally; But help came none from Mantua-town, Dim grew our Captain's eye. "O send me Janet home again!"