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North and South
CHAPTER XXXVI - UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
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       _ CHAPTER XXXVI - UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH
       'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,
       The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'
       SHELLEY.
       At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk
       to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded
       of their recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new
       habiliments, and in the fact that it was the first time, for many
       weeks, that they had deliberately gone out together. They drew
       very close to each other in unspoken sympathy.
       Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner:
       but he had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon
       his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he
       saw them, though Margaret could read the welcome in his eye.
       'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out,' said he, giving it
       a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He
       was rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of
       several days' growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a
       jacket which would have been all the better for patching.
       'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just
       after dinner-time,' said Margaret.
       'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale.
       'Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I
       reckon, my dinner hour stretches all o'er the day; yo're pretty
       sure of finding me.'
       'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret.
       'Ay,' he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, he
       added, looking up for the first time: 'I'm not wanting brass.
       Dunno yo' think it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her
       pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, and Mary is
       fustian-cutting. But I'm out o' work a' the same.'
       'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp
       pressure on his arm could arrest the words.
       'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside
       these four walls, and she'll bide out. That's a'.'
       'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale
       again.
       'I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter theer for her deeds o' love to my
       poor wench. I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have to begin and
       try now, if yo' start making an ado about what little Mary could
       sarve yo'.'
       'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret
       gently.
       'Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work because
       I ne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because good
       words is scarce, and bad words is plentiful.'
       He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that
       were like riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be
       asked for the explanation.
       'And good words are--?'
       'Asking for work. I reckon them's almost the best words that men
       can say. "Gi' me work" means "and I'll do it like a man." Them's
       good words.'
       'And bad words are refusing you work when you ask for it.'
       'Ay. Bad words is saying "Aha, my fine chap! Yo've been true to
       yo'r order, and I'll be true to mine. Yo' did the best yo' could
       for them as wanted help; that's yo'r way of being true to yo'r
       kind; and I'll be true to mine. Yo've been a poor fool, as knowed
       no better nor be a true faithful fool. So go and be d--d to yo'.
       There's no work for yo' here." Them's bad words. I'm not a fool;
       and if I was, folk ought to ha' taught me how to be wise after
       their fashion. I could mappen ha' learnt, if any one had tried to
       teach me.'
       'Would it not be worth while,' said Mr. Hale, 'to ask your old
       master if he would take you back again? It might be a poor
       chance, but it would be a chance.'
       He looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner; and
       then tittered a low and bitter laugh.
       'Measter! if it's no offence, I'll ask yo' a question or two in
       my turn.'
       'You're quite welcome,' said Mr. Hale.
       'I reckon yo'n some way of earning your bread. Folk seldom lives
       i' Milton lust for pleasure, if they can live anywhere else.'
       'You are quite right. I have some independent property, but my
       intention in settling in Milton was to become a private tutor.'
       'To teach folk. Well! I reckon they pay yo' for teaching them,
       dunnot they?'
       'Yes,' replied Mr. Hale, smiling. 'I teach in order to get paid.'
       'And them that pays yo', dun they tell yo' whatten to do, or
       whatten not to do wi' the money they gives you in just payment
       for your pains--in fair exchange like?'
       'No; to be sure not!'
       'They dunnot say, "Yo' may have a brother, or a friend as dear as
       a brother, who wants this here brass for a purpose both yo' and
       he think right; but yo' mun promise not give it to him. Yo' may
       see a good use, as yo' think, to put yo'r money to; but we don't
       think it good, and so if yo' spend it a-thatens we'll just leave
       off dealing with yo'." They dunnot say that, dun they?'
       'No: to be sure not!'
       'Would yo' stand it if they did?'
       'It would be some very hard pressure that would make me even
       think of submitting to such dictation.'
       'There's not the pressure on all the broad earth that would make
       me, said Nicholas Higgins. 'Now yo've got it. Yo've hit the
       bull's eye. Hamper's--that's where I worked--makes their men
       pledge 'emselves they'll not give a penny to help th' Union or
       keep turnouts fro' clemming. They may pledge and make pledge,'
       continued he, scornfully; 'they nobbut make liars and hypocrites.
       And that's a less sin, to my mind, to making men's hearts so hard
       that they'll not do a kindness to them as needs it, or help on
       the right and just cause, though it goes again the strong hand.
       But I'll ne'er forswear mysel' for a' the work the king could
       gi'e me. I'm a member o' the Union; and I think it's the only
       thing to do the workman any good. And I've been a turn-out, and
       known what it were to clem; so if I get a shilling, sixpence
       shall go to them if they axe it from me. Consequence is, I dunnot
       see where I'm to get a shilling.'
       'Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force at all
       the mills?' asked Margaret.
       'I cannot say. It's a new regulation at ourn; and I reckon
       they'll find that they cannot stick to it. But it's in force now.
       By-and-by they'll find out, tyrants makes liars.'
       There was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether she
       should say what was in her mind; she was unwilling to irritate
       one who was already gloomy and despondent enough. At last out it
       came. But in her soft tones, and with her reluctant manner,
       showing that she was unwilling to say anything unpleasant, it did
       not seem to annoy Higgins, only to perplex him.
       'Do you remember poor Boucher saying that the Union was a tyrant?
       I think he said it was the worst tyrant of all. And I remember at
       the time I agreed with him.'
       It was a long while before he spoke. He was resting his head on
       his two hands, and looking down into the fire, so she could not
       read the expression on his face.
       'I'll not deny but what th' Union finds it necessary to force a
       man into his own good. I'll speak truth. A man leads a dree life
       who's not i' th' Union. But once i' the' Union, his interests are
       taken care on better nor he could do it for himsel', or by
       himsel', for that matter. It's the only way working men can get
       their rights, by all joining together. More the members, more
       chance for each one separate man having justice done him.
       Government takes care o' fools and madmen; and if any man is
       inclined to do himsel' or his neighbour a hurt, it puts a bit of
       a check on him, whether he likes it or no. That's all we do i'
       th' Union. We can't clap folk into prison; but we can make a
       man's life so heavy to be borne, that he's obliged to come in,
       and be wise and helpful in spite of himself. Boucher were a fool
       all along, and ne'er a worse fool than at th' last.'
       'He did you harm?' asked Margaret.
       'Ay, that did he. We had public opinion on our side, till he and
       his sort began rioting and breaking laws. It were all o'er wi'
       the strike then.'
       'Then would it not have been far better to have left him alone,
       and not forced him to join the Union? He did you no good; and you
       drove him mad.'
       'Margaret,' said her father, in a low and warning tone, for he
       saw the cloud gathering on Higgins's face.
       'I like her,' said Higgins, suddenly. 'Hoo speaks plain out
       what's in her mind. Hoo doesn't comprehend th' Union for all
       that. It's a great power: it's our only power. I ha' read a bit
       o' poetry about a plough going o'er a daisy, as made tears come
       into my eyes, afore I'd other cause for crying. But the chap
       ne'er stopped driving the plough, I'se warrant, for all he were
       pitiful about the daisy. He'd too much mother-wit for that. Th'
       Union's the plough, making ready the land for harvest-time. Such
       as Boucher--'twould be settin' him up too much to liken him to a
       daisy; he's liker a weed lounging over the ground--mun just make
       up their mind to be put out o' the way. I'm sore vexed wi' him
       just now. So, mappen, I dunnot speak him fair. I could go o'er
       him wi' a plough mysel', wi' a' the pleasure in life.'
       'Why? What has he been doing? Anything fresh?'
       'Ay, to be sure. He's ne'er out o' mischief, that man. First of
       a' he must go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then
       he'd to go into hiding, where he'd a been yet, if Thornton had
       followed him out as I'd hoped he would ha' done. But Thornton,
       having got his own purpose, didn't care to go on wi' the
       prosecution for the riot. So Boucher slunk back again to his
       house. He ne'er showed himsel' abroad for a day or two. He had
       that grace. And then, where think ye that he went? Why, to
       Hamper's. Damn him! He went wi' his mealy-mouthed face, that
       turns me sick to look at, a-asking for work, though he knowed
       well enough the new rule, o' pledging themselves to give nought
       to th' Unions; nought to help the starving turn-out! Why he'd a
       clemmed to death, if th' Union had na helped him in his pinch.
       There he went, ossing to promise aught, and pledge himsel' to
       aught--to tell a' he know'd on our proceedings, the
       good-for-nothing Judas! But I'll say this for Hamper, and thank
       him for it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na
       listen to him--ne'er a word--though folk standing by, says the
       traitor cried like a babby!'
       'Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!' exclaimed Margaret. 'Higgins, I
       don't know you to-day. Don't you see how you've made Boucher what
       he is, by driving him into the Union against his will--without
       his heart going with it. You have made him what he is!'
       Made him what he is! What was he?
       Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow,
       measured sound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many
       voices were hushed and low: many steps were heard not moving
       onwards, at least not with any rapidity or steadiness of motion,
       but as if circling round one spot. Yes, there was one distinct,
       slow tramp of feet, which made itself a clear path through the
       air, and reached their ears; the measured laboured walk of men
       carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn towards the
       house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled thither--not by
       a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.
       Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being
       policemen. They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their
       shoulders, on which lay some dead human creature; and from each
       side of the door there were constant droppings. All the street
       turned out to see, and, seeing, to accompany the procession, each
       one questioning the bearers, who answered almost reluctantly at
       last, so often had they told the tale.
       'We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there.'
       'Th' brook!--why there's not water enough to drown him!'
       'He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was
       sick enough o' living, choose what cause he had for it.'
       Higgins crept up to Margaret's side, and said in a weak piping
       kind of voice: 'It's not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough.
       Sure! It's not John Boucher! Why, they are a' looking this way!
       Listen! I've a singing in my head, and I cannot hear.'
       They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might
       see the poor drowned wretch--his glassy eyes, one half-open,
       staring right upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which
       he had been found lying, his face was swollen and discoloured
       besides, his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which
       had been used for dyeing purposes. The fore part of his head was
       bald; but the hair grew thin and long behind, and every separate
       lock was a conduit for water. Through all these disfigurements,
       Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to her so
       sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised
       face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly
       covered the dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. The
       eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she turned away from
       her pious office, and were thus led to the place where Nicholas
       Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot. The men spoke
       together, and then one of them came up to Higgins, who would have
       fain shrunk back into his house.
       'Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it
       gently, man, but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.'
       'I canna go,' said Higgins. 'Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.'
       'Thou knows her best,' said the man. 'We'n done a deal in
       bringing him here--thou take thy share.'
       'I canna do it,' said Higgins. 'I'm welly felled wi' seeing him.
       We wasn't friends; and now he's dead.'
       'Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun, though. It's a
       dree task; but it's a chance, every minute, as she doesn't hear
       on it in some rougher way nor a person going to make her let on
       by degrees, as it were.'
       'Papa, do you go,' said Margaret, in a low voice.
       'If I could--if I had time to think of what I had better say; but
       all at once----' Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable.
       He was trembling from head to foot.
       'I will go,' said she.
       'Bless yo', miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been but a
       sickly sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on
       her.'
       Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise,
       as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no
       reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment
       of delay made her recoil from her task more and more, she opened
       the door and went in, shutting it after her, and even, unseen to
       the woman, fastening the bolt.
       Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of
       the ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been
       untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness.
       Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and
       mouth were so dry, and the children's noise completely prevented
       her from being heard. She tried again.
       'How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm afraid.'
       'I've no chance o' being well,' said she querulously. 'I'm left
       alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give 'em for to
       keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left me, and me so poorly.'
       'How long is it since he went away?'
       'Four days sin'. No one would give him work here, and he'd to go
       on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' been back afore
       this, or sent me some word if he'd getten work. He might----'
       'Oh, don't blame him,' said Margaret. 'He felt it deeply, I'm
       sure----'
       'Willto' hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!'
       addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin
       of about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret,
       'He's always mithering me for "daddy" and "butty;" and I ha' no
       butties to give him, and daddy's away, and forgotten us a', I
       think. He's his father's darling, he is,' said she, with a sudden
       turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, she began
       kissing it fondly.
       Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her
       attention. Their eyes met.
       'Poor little fellow!' said Margaret, slowly; 'he ~was~ his
       father's darling.'
       'He ~is~ his father's darling,' said the woman, rising hastily,
       and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke
       for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low, growling
       tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: He ~is~ his father's
       darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich.
       Why dunno yo' speak? Why dun yo' stare at me wi' your great
       pitiful eyes? Where's John?' Weak as she was, she shook Margaret
       to force out an answer. 'Oh, my God!' said she, understanding the
       meaning of that tearful look. She sank hack into the chair.
       Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.
       'He loved him,' said she.
       'Ay,' said the woman, shaking her head, 'he loved us a'. We had
       some one to love us once. It's a long time ago; but when he were
       in life and with us, he did love us, he did. He loved this babby
       mappen the best on us; but he loved me and I loved him, though I
       was calling him five minutes agone. Are yo' sure he's dead?' said
       she, trying to get up. 'If it's only that he's ill and like to
       die, they may bring him round yet. I'm but an ailing creature
       mysel'--I've been ailing this long time.'
       'But he is dead--he is drowned!'
       'Folk are brought round after they're dead-drowned. Whatten was I
       thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel'? Here,
       whisth thee, child--whisth thee! tak' this, tak' aught to play
       wi', but dunnot cry while my heart's breaking! Oh, where is my
       strength gone to? Oh, John--husband!'
       Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She
       sate down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her
       knees, her head lying on Margaret's shoulder. The other children,
       clustered together in affright, began to understand the mystery
       of the scene; but the ideas came slowly, for their brains were
       dull and languid of perception. They set up such a cry of despair
       as they guessed the truth, that Margaret knew not how to bear it.
       Johnny's cry was loudest of them all, though he knew not why he
       cried, poor little fellow.
       The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's arms. Margaret heard
       a noise at the door.
       'Open it. Open it quick,' said she to the eldest child. 'It's
       bolted; make no noise--be very still. Oh, papa, let them go
       upstairs very softly and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear
       them. She has fainted--that's all.'
       'It's as well for her, poor creature,' said a woman following in
       the wake of the bearers of the dead. 'But yo're not fit to hold
       her. Stay, I'll run fetch a pillow and we'll let her down easy on
       the floor.'
       This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was
       evidently a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district,
       indeed; but she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she
       was no longer needed; and that it would be better, perhaps, to
       set an example of clearing the house, which was filled with idle,
       if sympathising gazers.
       She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she
       spoke to the woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher
       on the floor.
       'Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave
       in quietness? So that when she comes round, she should only find
       one or two that she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the
       men, and get them to go away? She cannot breathe, poor thing,
       with this crowd about her.'
       Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing he face
       with vinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush
       of fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her
       father and the woman.
       'What is it?' asked she.
       'Only our good friend here,' replied her father, 'hit on a
       capital expedient for clearing the place.'
       'I bid 'em begone, and each take a child with 'em, and to mind
       that they were orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who
       could do most, and the childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and
       of kindness too. Does hoo know how he died?'
       'No,' said Margaret; 'I could not tell her all at once.'
       'Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest. See! Hoo's coming round;
       shall you or I do it? or mappen your father would be best?'
       'No; you, you,' said Margaret.
       They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour
       woman sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's head and
       shoulders on her lap.
       'Neighbour,' said she, 'your man is dead. Guess yo' how he died?'
       'He were drowned,' said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry
       for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.
       'He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o'
       aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men;
       mappen not so hard; mappen as tender as a mother; mappen
       tenderer. I'm not saying he did right, and I'm not saying he did
       wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have his sore
       heart, or we may do like things.'
       'He has left me alone wi' a' these children!' moaned the widow,
       less distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret
       expected; but it was of a piece with her helpless character to
       feel his loss as principally affecting herself and her children.
       'Not alone,' said Mr. Hale, solemnly. 'Who is with you? Who will
       take up your cause?' The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked
       at the new speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till
       then.
       'Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?' continued
       he.
       'But I've getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight
       years of age. I'm not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,--only
       it needs a deal o' trust;' and she began to cry afresh.
       'Hoo'll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,' said the
       neighbour. 'Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her
       heart. I'm sorry they took the babby.'
       'I'll go for it,' said Margaret. And in a few minutes she
       returned, carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and
       his hands loaded with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits
       of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She placed him in
       his mother's arms.
       'There!' said the woman, 'now you go. They'll cry together, and
       comfort together, better nor any one but a child can do. I'll
       stop with her as long as I'm needed, and if yo' come to-morrow,
       yo' can have a deal o' wise talk with her, that she's not up to
       to-day.'
       As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused
       at Higgins's closed door.
       'Shall we go in?' asked her father. 'I was thinking of him too.'
       They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was
       bolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.
       'Nicholas!' said Margaret. There was no answer, and they might
       have gone away, believing the house to be empty, if there had not
       been some accidental fall, as of a book, within.
       'Nicholas!' said Margaret again. 'It is only us. Won't you let us
       come in?'
       'No,' said he. 'I spoke as plain as I could, 'bout using words,
       when I bolted th' door. Let me be, this day.'
       Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her
       finger on his lips.
       'I don't wonder at it,' said she. 'I myself long to be alone. It
       seems the only thing to do one good after a day like this.' _
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本书目录

Introduction
CHAPTER I - 'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'
CHAPTER II - ROSES AND THORNS
CHAPTER III - 'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'
CHAPTER IV - DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES
CHAPTER V - DECISION
CHAPTER VI - FAREWELL
CHAPTER VII - NEW SCENES AND FACES
CHAPTER VIII - HOME SICKNESS
CHAPTER IX - DRESSING FOR TEA
CHAPTER X - WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD
CHAPTER XI - FIRST IMPRESSIONS
CHAPTER XII - MORNING CALLS
CHAPTER XIII - A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE
CHAPTER XIV - THE MUTINY
CHAPTER XV - MASTERS AND MEN
CHAPTER XVI - THE SHADOW OF DEATH
CHAPTER XVII - WHAT IS A STRIKE?
CHAPTER XVIII - LIKES AND DISLIKES
CHAPTER XIX - ANGEL VISITS
CHAPTER XX - MEN AND GENTLEMEN
CHAPTER XXI - THE DARK NIGHT
CHAPTER XXII - A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
CHAPTER XXIII - MISTAKES
CHAPTER XXIV - MISTAKES CLEARED UP
CHAPTER XXV - FREDERICK
CHAPTER XXVI - MOTHER AND SON
CHAPTER XXVII - FRUIT-PIECE
CHAPTER XXVIII - COMFORT IN SORROW
CHAPTER XXIX - A RAY OF SUNSHINE
CHAPTER XXX - HOME AT LAST
CHAPTER XXXI - 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'
CHAPTER XXXII - MISCHANCES
CHAPTER XXXIII - PEACE
CHAPTER XXXIV - FALSE AND TRUE
CHAPTER XXXV - EXPIATION
CHAPTER XXXVI - UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH
CHAPTER XXXVII - LOOKING SOUTH
CHAPTER XXXVIII - PROMISES FULFILLED
CHAPTER XXXIX - MAKING FRIENDS
CHAPTER XL - OUT OF TUNE
CHAPTER XLI - THE JOURNEY'S END
CHAPTER XLII - ALONE! ALONE!
CHAPTER XLIII - MARGARET'S FLITTIN'
CHAPTER XLIV - EASE NOT PEACE
CHAPTER XLV - NOT ALL A DREAM
CHAPTER XLVI - ONCE AND NOW
CHAPTER XLVII - SOMETHING WANTING
CHAPTER XLVIII - 'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'
CHAPTER XLIX - BREATHING TRANQUILLITY
CHAPTER L - CHANGES AT MILTON
CHAPTER LI - MEETING AGAIN
CHAPTER LII - 'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'