The Glugs of Gosh

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Title: The Glugs of Gosh
Author: C. J. Dennis
Release Date: July 27, 2005 [EBook #16362]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
0. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLUGS
OF GOSH ***
Produced by Col Choat
THE GUGS OF GOSH
BY
C J DENNIS
With Illustrations by Hal Gye
FIRST PUBLISHED 1917
TO MY WIFE
CONTENTS
I. THE GLUG QUEST
II. JOI, THE GLUG
III. THE STONES
OF GOSH
IV. SYM, THE SON OF JOI
V. THE GROWTH OF
SYM
VI. THE END OF JOI
VII. THE SWANKS OF GOSH

VIII. THE SEER
IX. THE RHYMES OF SYM
X. THE

DEBATE
XI. OGS
XII. EMILY ANN
XIII. THE LITTLE
RED DOG
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE CITY OF GOSH
AS GLUG BLAMED GLUG
"AND
NOW," SAID THE TEACHER . . .
O'ER THE PROPHECY
PORED
QUOG TOOK THE CHAIR
ON THE ROYAL
DOOR-MAT
TAKING THE AIR
Let him who is minded to meet with a Glug
Pluck three hardy hairs
from a rabbit-skin rug;
Blow one to the South, and one to the West,

Then burn another and swallow the rest.
And who shall explain 'tis
the talk of a fool,
He's a Glug! He's a Glug of the old Gosh school!

And he'll climb a tree, if the East wind blows,
In a casual way, just to
show he knows . . .
Now, tickle his toes!
Oh, tickle his toes!
And don't blame me if you
come to blows.
--OLD GOSH RHYME
I. THE GLUG QUEST
Follow the river and cross the ford,
Follow again to the wobbly
bridge,
Turn to the left at the notice board,
Climbing the cow-track
over the ridge;
Tip-toe soft by the little red house,
Hold your breath
if they touch the latch,
Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse,

Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.
Worm your way where the fern fronds tall
Fashion a lace-work over
your head,
Hemming you in with a high, green wall;
Then, when
the thrush calls once, stop dead.
Ask of the old grey wallaby there--

Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree--
How to encounter a Glug,
and where
The country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.

But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb,
Hush! There's another way left.
Then come.
On a white, still night, where the dead tree bends
Over the track, like
a waiting ghost,
Travel the winding road that wends
Down to the
shore on an Eastern coast.
Follow it down where the wake of the
moon
Kisses the ripples of silver sand;
Follow it on where the night
seas croon
A traveller's tale to the listening land.
Step not jauntily, not too grave,
Till the lip of the languorous sea you
greet;
Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave
Tumbles a jellyfish
out at your feet.
Not too hopefully, not forlorn,
Whisper a word of
your earnest quest;
Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn
And sneers in
your face like a fish possessed.
Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way.
Brooding jellyfish won't be gay.
Wait till the clock in the tower booms three,
And the big bank
opposite gnashes its doors,
Then glide with a gait that is carefully free

By the great brick building of seventeen floors;
Haste by the draper
who smirks at his door,
Straining to lure you with sinister force,

Turn up the lane by the second-hand store,
And halt by the light bay
carrier's horse.
By the carrier's horse with the long, sad face
And the wisdom of
years in his mournful eye;
Bow to him thrice with a courtier's grace,

Proffer your query, and pause for reply.
Eagerly ask for a hint of
the Glug,
Pause for reply with your hat in your hand;
If he responds
with a snort and a shrug
Strive to interpret and understand.
Rare will a carrier's horse condescend.
Yet there's another way. On to
the end!
Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand,
Punched by the porter who
broods in his box;
Journey afar to the sad, soggy land,
Wearing

your shot-silk lavender socks.
Wait at the creek by the moss-grown
log
Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West.
Hark for the
croak of a gentleman frog,
Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.
Go as he guides you, over the marsh,
Treading with care on the
slithery stones,
Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh
That
seize you and freeze you and search for your bones.
On to the edge of
a still, dark pool,
Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug;
Gaze
in the depths of it, placid and cool,
And long in your heart for one
glimpse of a Glug.
"Krock!" Was he mocking you? "Krock! Kor-r-rock!"
Well, you
bought a return, and it's past ten o'clock.
Choose you a night when the intimate stars
Carelessly prattle of
cosmic affairs.
Flat on your back, with your nose pointing Mars,

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