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
? 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,?Search for the star who fled South from the Bears.?Gaze for an hour at that little blue star,?Giving him, cheerfully, wink for his wink;?Shrink to the size of the being you are;?Sneeze if you have