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    The Glugs of Gosh
    The Glugs of Gosh
    The Glugs of Gosh
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    The Glugs of Gosh

    By C. J. (Clarence James) Dennis

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Glugs of Gosh

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      Book preview

      The Glugs of Gosh - C. J. (Clarence James) Dennis

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glugs of Gosh, by C. J. Dennis

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Glugs of Gosh

      Author: C. J. Dennis

      Release Date: July 27, 2005 [EBook #16362]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLUGS OF GOSH ***

      THE GLUGS OF GOSH

      BY

      C J DENNIS

      With Illustrations by Hal Gye

      FIRST PUBLISHED 1917

      TO MY WIFE

      The City of Gosh

      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

      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

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