Page:Life of John Boyle O'Reilly.djvu/698

 652 He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse,

And was homeward bound, when-he saw in the grass

A long red snake: he had never been told

Of the Dukite's ways,—he jumped to the road.

And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!

He was proud of the red skin, so he tied

Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed

The bush on the path he followed that night.

He was early home, and the dead Dukite

Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.

At sunrise next morning he started away

To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride

Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride

And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse

And entered—to look on his young wife' s corse.

And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes

As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose

From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head

Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said,

I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had.

And so had the snake—David Sloane was mad!

I rode to his hut just by chance that night.

And there on the threshold the clear moonlight

Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door

With an awful feeling of coming woe:

The dead was stretched on the moonlit floor.

The man held the hand of his wife,—his pride,

His poor life's treasure,—and crouched by her side.

God! I sank with the weight of the blow.

I touched and called him: he heeded me not.

So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,

And lifted them both,—her boy on her breast,—

And laid them down in the shade to rest.

Then I tried to take my poor friend away.

But he cried so woefully, "Let me stay