Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE NIXY OF NEWS, by AMOS RUSSEL WELLS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE NIXY OF NEWS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: It was on the good dominion, of the famed dominion line
Last Line: "you fools, that want to-morrow! How have you used to-day?"
Subject(s): News


It was on the good Dominion, of the famed Dominion Line,
As she ploughed her fickle furrow through the blue Atlantic brine.
Seven days of sober travel, and a very welcome face
Was that rather previous headland, home-predicting, dear Cape Race.
For the time was hanging heavy as the line of heavy smoke;
To the last remaining victim had been told the final joke;
All the songs were worn to tatters; shuffleboard was shuffled out;
And the mild, precarious ring-toss could not raise a single shout;
And the queer, contracted cricket, though the ladies won the score,
Got the cramps in both its wickets, and it was a "go" no more.
Yes, the novels all were finished, and the yarns had all been spun,
And the nautical flirtations were becoming overdone,
And the spouting of the whales had grown to be a tiresome tale,
And the thrill had all departed from the adventitious sail,
And it could not well be doubted, though we played at gayety,
Not a board in all the vessel was so truly bored as we.

'Twas at this strategic moment that a seaman blue and brave
Spied a very curious object bobbing toward us on a wave;
Half it seemed a human being, half a creature of the deep,
And the sailor murmured, "Blow me! am I wiking or asleep?"
But he threw a life-line at it, as the creature seemed to wish,
And he hauled it on the vessel much as he would land a fish.
Then we gathered all about it as it lay upon the deck,
With a trickle of green water running from its feet and neck,
With a seamoss kind of garment and a seaweed sort of hair,
While its hands and feet were flippers, very wet and very bare,
And one eye was like a ruby and the other green as grass,
And its oozy, matted whiskers were a most unpleasant mass,
And we had no time for guessing, and we had no need to speak,
For the Thing itself addressed us, in a high and shivery squeak.

"Hee, good people," thus it chattered, "well for you you don't refuse
To receive me on your vessel. I'm the Nixy of the News.
In my home upon the Banks there, sixty fathoms down it is,
I've a transatlantic cable beats the one of Cyrus's.
For a line I use a million interlooped electric eels,
And the news of all the continents my instrument reveals.
So take me to a cabin, folks, and enter one by one;
I'll give you each a word from home before the day is done."

Then shouted that home-hungry crowd, and with a merry din
They chose the festive smoking-room and bore the creature in.
They heeded not the slimy rills that down the sofa ran,
But eagerly the women came, and eager every man.
And as the purser called the roll, that none his turn should lose,
Old, young, man, maid, they pressed to hear the Nixy of the News.

How the prompt interrogations leaped upon the anxious tongue!
Hopes and fears and joys and sorrows, all that poet ever sung,
Heart endured or sought or cherished, failure, triumph, bliss, or doom,
How the whole, weird human medley thrilled in that inquiry room!
Now the whisper of a lover: "Shall I find her? find her true?"
Now a merchant asking anxious for his venture in Peru;
Now a trembling voice that quivered: "My sick mother? Yet alive?"
Now a speculator's challenge: "Wheat at ninety? -- ninety-five?"
Or a solemn-headed statesman who would know how China fares,
Or a priest with careful query for his many parish cares,
Or a criminal that stammered: "Do they know where I have fled?"
Or a lad would know of Nelly or a lass would know of Ned.

Old and young and man and maiden, answer meet they all received,
Answers sealed by truthful tokens they accepted and believed.
One by one they left the Nixy on his sofa weird and wet,
And full many a face was smiling and full many a face was set;
Brows with sudden cares were furrowed, hearts were tense with sudden woe,
And of all eyes those were saddest where the tear-drops did not flow;
Till the last pale face had entered, and the last white face come forth,
And the week's enfranchised vessel touched once more the groaning earth.
Still we hung about the cabin, and we glowered at the door,
Half in stupor at the tidings, half in hope of something more,
Till there grew a sullen murmur in that saddened, gladdened crowd,
Grew a murmur to a clamor that would not be disallowed:
"What's the profit, what's the profit, here in all this waste of sea, --
Where's the gain from this foreknowing of our joy and misery?
'Twill be madness, very madness, three full days to journey here
With the crape before our eyes and the dirges in our ear,
Knowing failure, knowing triumph, having knowledge without power,
Helpless, idle, -- where's the profit of this mischief-making hour?
Spirit, spirit, baleful spirit, we entreat you, we command, --
Change your cruel gift to kindness! Bring us instantly to land!"

With this angry cry imperious sprang we forward to the door,
And we found the sodden sofa and the slime upon the floor,
But we found the sofa empty, and the creature was not there,
And nothing but a mocking laugh that shook along the air;
Yes, nothing but an empty sneer that mocking seemed to say:
"You fools, that want to-morrow! How have you used to-day?"





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