Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire The Feet Of The Young Men

By Brother Rudyard Kipling

The Feet of the Young Men
Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose —
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?

He must go — go — go away from here!
On the other side the world he's overdue.
'Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!

So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow,
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow,
And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust.
Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning?
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning
Too the camps of proved desire and known delight!

Let him go — go, etc.

I

Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing stream '
With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end;
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream
To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend?
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces,
To a silent, smoky Indian that we know —
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

They must go — go, etc.

II

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short,
Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride?
Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port
On a coast you've lost the chart of overside?
It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her —
Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know.
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go — go, etc.

III

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade —
Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo?
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade
When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through?
It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes,
To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know —
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go — go, etc.

IV

Do you know the world's white roof-tree — do you know that windy rift
Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on frozen drift,
While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie,
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know.
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli,
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go — go, etc.

How the Four-way Lodge is opened — now the Smokes of Council rise —
Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose —
Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies:
Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues!
Who shall meet them at those altars — who shall light them to that shrine?
Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal?
Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign —
Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath the Line —
And to each a man that knows his naked soul!

White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover,
Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train —
Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover —
Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover —
Where the rails run out in sand-rift... Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over,
For the Red Gods make their medicine again!

And we go — go — go away from here!
On the other side the world we're overdue!
'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!

Thank you, K.W. It's been a long, long time since I read that. I enjoyed reading it again.

L.W.

I am glad you enjoyed it my friend!

Poetry escapes us working stiffs mostly...but I once heard a great rendition of The Cremation of Sam McGee done by a total stranger as we sat on the tailgate of a pickup in front of the Hunger Hut in Nikiski at 5am waiting for the joint to open back up. But, maybe it was the booze.

Great Post!
Thanks for reminding me.
7mm

Kipling was haunted til death that his only son, John, was never found on his WWI battlefield. He was assuredly killed at Loos as an Irish Guard 2nd Lieutenant; it was his father's old regiment.

It's ironic that Rudyard Kipling Wrote for a memorial there "Known Unto God" while he served as a member of the war graves commission. For years he would not accept John's death. His son's body was never recovered and identified. He was one of the 600,000 British dead. Kipling has no known descendants.

That`s some good stuff.Thanks for posting.

Ive done it and several others at the Armijo Springs gatherings. Not tryin’ to brag 🤣

There volumes about war that never sink in to future generations.

It's good we have the history. Just in case..

Bob, did you do Thant from memory?

Siegfried Sassoon

Thank you for the posting. Kipling is and has been since childhood one of my favorite writers and poets.

A Dead Boche
Rating: ★2.9
♡
To you who'd read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I'll say (you've heard it said before)
'War's Hell! ' and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains, jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your gawd like a soldier.

Rudyard Kipling

Yes sir.

My own list of poetry is short. But among my favorite is from Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

You are a truly amazing man, Robert.

All good....

Mr. Kaywoodie,
Hope you're getting along well and enjoying life.
Thank you, good post, caused me to read a little more.