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TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN.

BY ALFRED NOYES.

II. THE FAERY BUCK.

[Being the only true account of how WILL SHAKESPEARE went deer-stalking in Charlecote wood, where-unless by the eyes of the poet-no deer was ever to be seen.]

SOME three nights later, if my memory hold,
Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm
Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and called
For red-deer pies.

There, as they supped, I caught
Scraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will,
His Venus and Adonis, and how it held
The colours of the Stratford country-side,
And all the glowing passion of his youth
Transmuted-past discovery-but a-throb
With the red life-blood of Anne Hathaway
Under the skin of Venus.

"Gabriel thought

'Twas wrong to change the old writers and create A cold Adonis."

"Laws were made for Will,

Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buck
In Charlecote woods."

Laughed Ben, "unless it chewed the fern-seed, too,
And walked invisible."

"Where never a buck chewed fern,"

"Bring me some wine," called Kit,

And, with his knife thrumming upon the board,
He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled.

I.

Will Shakespeare's out like Robin Hood
With his merry men all in green,

To steal a deer in Charlecote wood
Where never a deer was seen.

II.

He's hunted all a night of June,
He's followed a phantom horn,

He's killed a buck by the light of the moon,
Under a fairy thorn.

III.

He's carried it home with his merry, merry band,
There never was haunch so fine;

For this buck was born in Elfin-land
And fed upon sops-in-wine.

IV.

This buck had browsed on elfin boughs

Of rose-marie and bay,

And he's carried it home to the little white house

Of sweet Anne Hathaway.

V.

"The dawn above your thatch is red!
Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne!
I have stolen a fairy buck," he said,
"The first since the world began.

VI.

"Roast it on a golden spit,

And see that it do not burn;

For we never shall feather the like of it
Out of the fairy fern."

VII.

She scarce had donned her long white gown
And given him kisses four,

When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town
Knocked at the little green door.

VIII.

They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher;

But squarely he fronts the squire,

With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer? Was it under a fairy briar?

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XII.

They're hunting high, they're hunting low,
They're all away, away,

With horse and hound to feather the doe
That's under the fairy spray!

XIII.

Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore!
But all and all in vain;

For there never was deer in his woods before,
And there never would be again!

And, as I brought the wine-"This is my grace,"
Laughed Ben, "Diana grant the jolly buck
That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie."

THE INSPECTOR OF GOZ DAOUD.

THE night before I started on my annual tour of inspection up the Blue Nile I dined with Fortman, the Civil Secretary, kindest and best of men. After dinner he said. "By the way, will you be stopping at Goz Daoud?"

"Yes," I said, "I think so. The boat takes in wood there, and I believe we stop for a night."

"I wish you would look up Aveling," said Fortman. "You know him, don't you?"

"Oh yes," I said, "I know him. Melancholy beggar, isn't

he?"

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much good unless he's a bit enthusiastic. Well, the reason I want you to look him up is this. He wrote me a very nice letter, but a most awfully queer one. He said that he knew he had always been a bit of a wet blanket, but that the most amazing thing had happened to him which had made him the happiest man alive. He said he couldn't tell me the story then, but he hoped some day he might be able to explain it. I suppose it's all right, but it's a bit odd, isn't it? He used to be profoundly depressed, and 'Well, he always used to now he's extremely cheerful: be," said Fortman; "but Billy and "but Billy and the change, whatever Graham, who saw him not caused it, has made him one long ago, says that he's now of the keenest and best men quite a cheerful bird. He's a we've got. But I must say jolly good man at his job, that I should like to know a anyway. We got & note little more about it." from him on the taxation of rain lands two or three months ago which was really excellent: the Sirdar thought it was quite a good scheme, and I believe it's going to be adopted. So I wrote to Aveling and congratulated him, and said I was glad he was taking such an interest in his job, and hoped he was getting to like the life here, and all that sort of thing. Because, you know, he always used to be so fearfully depressed he did his work all right, but he never seemed to get any fun out of it, or out of anything else: and in this country a man doesn't do

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"Why bother?" I said. "It's all to the good, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's not idle curiosity," said Fortman. "But I rather distrust these sudden changes, especially in this country. The climate and the life have such a queer effect on some people; and one has to keep an eye on fellows who are all by themselves, like Aveling. Of course, I don't want you to report, or anything of that kind: but you might just look him up, and tell me if you think he would be the better for a spell of civilisation. He's doing so well where he is that we don't want to move him. All the

same, if you think he wants have had news that he was

a change, we could easily manage it."

So I promised to look him up, and next day I started off on my tour. To tell the honest truth, I didn't think much of Fortman's story. Aveling might quite well

out of some mess about which he had been worrying; and anyhow, it didn't seem to be any one's business except his own. Besides, I didn't take much interest in the man: he was such a gloomy beggar, as I knew him.

It was a week later, and one of the hottest afternoons I ever remember. The little sternwheel steamer, kicking her way up against the Blue Nile in flood, seemed to be baked through and through by the sun, like a cake in an oven. It was too hot to read, too hot to shoot crocodiles, too hot even to smoke. One could only lie and pant, and wait for the setting of the sun.

Even Abdou, my fat Berberine servant, seemed to feel the heat. He was late with my afternoon tea, and he appeared to have something on his mind: for he stood about, when he had put down the tea-things, looking distinctly uneasy. At last he said

"After an hour and a half we get to Goz Daoud.'

"Yes," I said sleepily. "Does your Excellency land there for dinner with the Inspector," he asked, "or will the Inspector dine with us on board?"

"I expect I shall dine with him," I said, "and very likely I shall sleep there to-night. The boat won't go on till tomorrow morning.'

Abdou seemed more embar

II.

rassed than ever. "Better your Excellency stop on board," he said; and when I asked him why, he replied, "Who knows if the tale is true? Yet a tale is told which I do not understand. It is said that his Honour the Inspector, Aveling Bey, has always with him a Djinn, who tells him of things unknown to mortals."

"Nonsense," I said; and Abdou said—

"As your Excellency pleases. This is the story. Who knows if it is true?" and he waddled off

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After he had gone, I remembered my conversation with Fortman, and Aveling's letter about the "amazing thing" which had happened to him. Had this anything to do with Abdou's yarn? Of course, one thinks nothing of stories of Djinns or Afreets in the Sudan: according to the natives, they are everywhere. One, I remember, used to haunt the road leading down to the river past the Adjutant-General's house in Khartoum. The boldest donkey-boy would never think of going that way after dark. But I had never heard before of an Afreet or Djinn befriending an Englishman.

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