Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, STONEFOLDS, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

STONEFOLDS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Is ralph there?
Last Line: Nicholas. Yet another day!


Persons:

NICHOLAS THIRLWALL, an old shepherd.
RACHEL THIRLWALL, his wife.
RUTH THIRLWALL, his daughter.
RALPH MOORE, a young shepherd, Nicholas' nephew.

Scene: The living-room of Stonefolds, a shepherd's house
on the fells. A door opens on to the yard, another to
the back of the house. NICHOLAS, an infirm, old man,
sits on the settle by the peat-fire with his back to
the outer door. His wife, RACHEL, moves about putting
things away in a cupboard

NICHOLAS. Is Ralph there?
RACHEL. Nay, he's gone back to the fold.
NICHOLAS. If only I might go with him! It's strange
The year's lambs should be born, and I not there.
The labouring ewes will miss my hand to-night;
Though Ralph's a careful fellow, he is young;
And six-and-fifty lambings have I seen.
It's hard, it's hard that I sit crippled here
When there's so much to do -- so much to do!
That I, who should be tending the young lambs,
As helpless as a yeanling crouch and shake
Beside the peats, and shudder at the night.
RACHEL. It's a wild night! See how beneath the door
The snow has silted. It's a perilous night
For young things to be born. Hark to the wind!
NICHOLAS. Ay, it's the lambing-storm.
RACHEL. I'll set a pan
Of milk upon the hob, for Ralph may bring
Some motherless lamb to tend before the fire.
NICHOLAS. It's hard, it's hard that all may help but me --
While I have seen so many young things born,
So many perish in my time. Worn out,
Useless and old, I sit before the fire
Warming my hands that once were never cold,
And now are never warm. I sit and shake
Like quaking-grass, and cannot even rise
To shift my seat, or turn my hand to aught,
When there's so much to do.
[A noise as of some one knocking the snow off his boots
against the threshold.]

What's that?
RACHEL. It's Ralph.

[The door opens, and Ralph comes in, white with snow,
carrying a lanthorn, and a new-born lamb wrapped in
his plaid. He looks about him, as though expecting to
see someone with NICHOLAS and RACHEL; then, with a
sigh, he sets down the lanthorn on the table, and
carries the lamb to the hearth, an

RALPH. The old lame ewe is dead. I've brought her lamb
To lie before the fire; but it is weak
And like to die.
NICHOLAS. Had I but tended her!
RALPH. The ewe was old.
NICHOLAS. Ay, ay, the ewe was old,
And so must die, and none pay any heed!
I, too, am old -- I, too, am growing old.
RALPH [to RACHEL, who is kneeling by the lamb]. You keep
the yeanling warm till I come back,
I doubt that it can live; but I must go.
[Takes his lanthorn and goes out.]
RACHEL. Ralph's a good lad and has a tender heart.
NICHOLAS. Ay, he's a careful fellow. He should wed.
At his age I'd been wed hard on a year.
RACHEL. But Ralph will never wed.
NICHOLAS. Why should he not?
He is a likely lad. Why should he not?
RACHEL. It's just a year to-night since Ruth left home.
NICHOLAS. Ruth! What of Ruth? The lass has made her bed,
And she must lie upon it now.
RACHEL. Poor Ruth!
Yet, Ralph will never wed.
NICHOLAS. How can you tell?
RACHEL. I watch him as he sits before the fire
Each night in his own corner, with still eyes
That gaze and gaze into the glowing peat
Until they burn as fiercely as the flame
On which they feed; and sometimes, suddenly,
His fingers grip the settle till it shakes;
And when I speak he heeds not, till the light
Has perished from his eyes, and, dull as ash,
They look upon the crumbling peats once more.
NICHOLAS. A woman's fancies! Ralph is not a boy
To peak and pine because a silly wench,
Who, if she'd had but wit, might be his wife,
Flits one fine night. O Ruth! to give up Ralph
For that young wastrel, Michael! Ralph must wed
The sooner if he broods. A wife and babes
Will leave him little time for idle brooding.
He's not the fool his father was.
RACHEL. Poor Ruth!
Yet, Ralph will never wed. At other times,
I see him sit and hearken all night long
As though he fretted for some well-known foot --
Listening with his whole body, like a hare --
Bolt-upright on the settle; every nerve
Astrain to catch the never-falling sound
Of home-returning steps. Only last night
I watched him till my heart was sore for him.
He seemed to listen with his very eyes,
That gleamed like some wild creature's.
[The clock strikes.] It's gone ten.
Come, Nicholas, I will help you to your bed.
NICHOLAS. Nay, nay! I'll not to bed to-night. Why, lass,
I have not gone to bed at lambing-time
Since I could hold a lanthorn! That must be
Nigh sixty years; and I'll not sleep to-night.
Though I be as much use asleep as waking
Since my legs failed me, yet I could not sleep.
I can but sit and think about the lambs
That in the fold are opening wondering eyes,
Poor new-born things!
RACHEL. This one lies very still.
I'll get more peats to heap upon the fire.
It's cold, maybe. [Goes through the inner door.]
NICHOLAS. It's weak, and like to die.

[The outer door slowly opens, and RUTH enters, wearily,
with hesitating steps. She is dressed in a cloak, and
is covered with snow. She pauses uncertainly in the
middle of the room, and looks at her father, who,
unaware of her presence, still sits gazing at the
lamb, which opens its mouth as i

NICHOLAS. Poor, bleating beast! We two are much alike,
At either end of life, though scarce an hour
You've been in this rough world, and I so long
That death already has me by the heels;
For neither of us can stir to help himself,
But both must bleat for others' aid. This world
Is rough and bitter to the newly born,
But far more bitter to the nearly dead.
RUTH [softly]. Father!
NICHOLAS [not hearing her, and still mumbling to
himself]. I've seen so many young things born,
So many perish!

[RACHEL enters, and, seeing RUTH, drops the peats which
she is carrying and folds her to her breast.]

RACHEL. Ruth! My child, my child!
NICHOLAS [still gazing into the fire]. Why harp on Ruth?
The lass has made her bed....
RUTH [tottering towards him and kneeling on the rug by
his side]. Father!
NICHOLAS. What, is it Ruth? [Fondling her.]
My child, my child!
Why, you are cold; and you are white with snow!
You shiver, lass, like any new-born lamb.

[RACHEL meanwhile strips off RUTH'S cloak, and fills a
cup with milk from the pan on the hob.]

RUTH. I thought I never should win home. The snow
Was all about me. Even now my eyes
Are blinded by the whirling white that stung
My face like knotted cords, and in my ears
Rustled of death -- of cold, white, swirling death.
I thought I never should win home again
With that wild night against me. How I fought!
I was so weary, I was fain at whiles
To strive no more against the cruel night,
And could have lain down gladly in a drift,
As in my bed, to die ... had I not known...
Yet, knowing, I dared not. But I am dazed.
RACHEL [holding the cup to RUTH'S lips]. Come, drink
this milk. 'Twas heated for the lambs.
I little knew that for my own poor lamb
I set it on the hob an hour ago!
RUTH [seeing for the first time the lamb on the hearth].
The lambs? I had forgotten -- I am dazed.
This is the lambing-time; and Ralph...
and Ralph...
NICHOLAS. Is in the fold, where I should be if I...
RUTH [bending over the lamb]. Ah, what a night to come
into the world!
Poor, motherless thing! and those poor, patient mothers!
I might have known it was the lambing-storm.

[She moans and almost falls, but RACHEL stays her in her arms.]

RACHEL. Child, you are ill!
RUTH. Yes, I am near my time.
RACHEL [raising her from the ground and supporting her].
Come, daughter, your own bed awaits you now,
And has awaited you these many nights.
Come, Ruth. [They move slowly across the room.]
RUTH. I thought I never should win home.
NICHOLAS [as they pass into the inner room]. Yes, I have
seen so many young things born,
So many perish! Rachel! They are gone;
And we're alone again, the lamb and I.
Poor beast, poor beast, has she forgotten you
Now that her own stray lamb is home again?
You lie so still and bleat no longer now.
It's only I bleat now. Maybe, you're dead,
And will not bleat again, or need to bleat,
Because you're spared by death from growing old;
And it can scarce be long till death's cold clutch
Shall stop my bleating too.

[He sits gazing into the fire, and dozes. Time passes.
The cry of a new-born babe is heard from the next room.]

NICHOLAS [mumbling, half asleep]. Yes, I have seen
So many young things born, so many perish!

[He dozes again. After a while RACHEL enters, carrying
a baby wrapped in a blanket, which she lays on the rug
before the fire.]

RACHEL. See, Nicholas! Wake up! It is Ruth's child.
NICHOLAS [waking]. Ruth's child! Why, Ruth is but a child herself!
RACHEL. Don't sleep again, for you must watch the babe
While I go back to Ruth again. She lies
So still and cold; and knows naught of the child.
Unless she rouse, she cannot last till day.
[Goes into the other room.]
NICHOLAS. So many young things perish; and I, so old,
Am left to sit all day with idle hands,
And can do naught to save them.

[The knocking of snowy boots against the threshold is
heard again. The door opens, and RALPH enters with
his lanthorn.]
Is that Ralph?

[RALPH goes towards the lamb, but, seeing the child,
stands gazing in amazement.]

RALPH. Uncle, what babe is this?
NICHOLAS. Lad, Ruth is home.
RALPH. Ruth has come home! I knew that she would come.
She could not stay, though held so long from me,
For I have ever called her in my heart,
By day and night, through all the weary year.
I knew -- I knew that she would come to-night
Through storm and peril, and within the fold
My heart has gone out to the labouring ewes,
And new-born lambs, and all weak, helpless things.
And yet I might have killed her! -- though I sought
Only to draw her to my shielding breast.
She might have fallen by the way, and died,
On such a night! She shall not stray again.
The love that drew her from the perilous night
May never let her go.

[RACHEL, entering, is about to speak, but seeing RALPH, pauses.]

RALPH [to RACHEL]. Ruth has come home!
And we shall never let her go again.
RACHEL [speaking slowly]. Ay, Ruth is home.

[Going to the hearth and taking the child in her arms.]

You poor, poor, motherless babe!

[RALPH gazes at her as though stunned, then bends over the lamb.]

RALPH. It's dead. I must go back now to the fold.
I shall be there till morning.

[He crosses to the door and goes out.]

RACHEL [calling after him] Ralph! your plaid!

[She follows to the door and opens it. The snow drifts
into the room].

RACHEL. He's gone without his lanthorn and his plaid.
God keep him safe on such a night! Poor Ralph!
Ruth's babe no longer breathes.

[Laying the child by the dead lamb.]

To-night has death
Shown pity to the motherless and weak,
And folded them in peace. How sweet they sleep!
NICHOLAS. We two have seen so many young things born,
So many perish; yet death takes us not.
Wife, bar the door; that wind blows through my bones.
It's a long night. [Clock strikes.]
What hour is that?
RACHEL. It's one;
The night is over.
NICHOLAS. Yet another day!





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