Dream Life and Real Life | Page 7

to run now. Only the narrow path between the high rocks and the river.
At last she came to the end of it, and stood for an instant. Before her lay the plain, and the red farmhouse, so near, that if persons had been walking there you might have seen them in the moonlight. She clasped her hands. "Yes, I will tell them, I will tell them!" she said; "I am almost there!" She ran forward again, then hesitated. She shaded her eyes from the moonlight, and looked. Between her and the farmhouse there were three figures moving over the low bushes.
In the sheeny moonlight you could see how they moved on, slowly and furtively; the short one, and the one in light clothes, and the one in dark.
"I cannot help them now!" she cried, and sank down on the ground, with her little hands clasped before her.
...
"Awake, awake!" said the farmer's wife; "I hear a strange noise; something calling, calling, calling!"
The man rose, and went to the window.
"I hear it also," he said; "surely some jackal's at the sheep. I will load my gun and go and see."
"It sounds to me like the cry of no jackal," said the woman; and when he was gone she woke her daughter.
"Come, let us go and make a fire, I can sleep no more," she said; "I have heard a strange thing tonight. Your father said it was a jackal's cry, but no jackal cries so. It was a child's voice, and it cried, 'Master, master, wake!'"
The women looked at each other; then they went to the kitchen, and made a great fire; and they sang psalms all the while.
At last the man came back; and they asked him, "What have you seen?" "Nothing," he said, "but the sheep asleep in their kraals, and the moonlight on the walls. And yet, it did seem to me," he added, "that far away near the krantz by the river, I saw three figures moving. And afterwards--it might have been fancy--I thought I heard the cry again; but since that, all has been still there."
...
Next day a navvy had returned to the railway works.
"Where have you been so long?" his comrades asked.
"He keeps looking over his shoulder," said one, "as though he thought he should see something there."
"When he drank his grog today," said another, "he let it fall, and looked round."
Next day, a small old Bushman, and a Hottentot, in ragged yellow trousers, were at a wayside canteen. When the Bushman had had brandy, he began to tell how something (he did not say whether it was man, woman, or child) had lifted up its hands and cried for mercy; had kissed a white man's hands, and cried to him to help it. Then the Hottentot took the Bushman by the throat, and dragged him out.
Next night, the moon rose up, and mounted the quiet sky. She was full now, and looked in at the little home; at the purple flowers stuck about the room, and the kippersol on the shelf. Her light fell on the willow trees, and on the high rocks, and on a little new-made heap of earth and round stones. Three men knew what was under it; and no one else ever will.
Lily Kloof, South Africa.

II. THE WOMAN'S ROSE.
I have an old, brown carved box; the lid is broken and tied with a string. In it I keep little squares of paper, with hair inside, and a little picture which hung over my brother's bed when we were children, and other things as small. I have in it a rose. Other women also have such boxes where they keep such trifles, but no one has my rose.
When my eye is dim, and my heart grows faint, and my faith in woman flickers, and her present is an agony to me, and her future a despair, the scent of that dead rose, withered for twelve years, comes back to me. I know there will be spring; as surely as the birds know it when they see above the snow two tiny, quivering green leaves. Spring cannot fail us.
There were other flowers in the box once; a bunch of white acacia flowers, gathered by the strong hand of a man, as we passed down a village street on a sultry afternoon, when it had rained, and the drops fell on us from the leaves of the acacia trees. The flowers were damp; they made mildew marks on the paper I folded them in. After many years I threw them away. There is nothing of them left in the box now, but a faint, strong smell of dried acacia, that recalls that sultry summer afternoon; but the rose is in the box still.
It is many years ago now; I was a girl of fifteen,