Miss Thompson Goes Shopping

Miss Thompson at Home.                      In her lone cottage on the downs,     With winds and blizzards and great crowns     Of shining cloud, with wheeling plover     And short grass sweet with the small white clover,     Miss Thompson lived, correct and meek,     A lonely spinster, and every week     On market-day she used to go     Into the little town below,     Tucked in the great downs' hollow bowl     Like pebbles gathered in a shoal.     She goes a-Marketing.                          So, having washed her plates and cup     And banked the kitchen-fire up,     Miss Thompson slipped upstairs and dressed,     Put on her black (her second best),     The bonnet trimmed with rusty plush,     Peeped in the glass with simpering blush,     From camphor-smelling cupboard took     Her thicker jacket off the hook     Because the day might turn to cold.     Then, ready, slipped downstairs and rolled     The hearthrug back; then searched about,     Found her basket, ventured out,     Snecked the door and paused to lock it     And plunge the key in some deep pocket.     Then as she tripped demurely down     The steep descent, the little town     Spread wider till its sprawling street     Enclosed her and her footfalls beat     On hard stone pavement, and she felt     Those throbbing ecstasies that melt     Through heart and mind, as, happy, free,     Her small, prim personality     Merged into the seething strife     Of auction-marts and city life.     She visits the Boot-maker.                          Serenely down the busy stream     Miss Thompson floated in a dream.     Now, hovering bee-like, she would stop     Entranced before some tempting shop,     Getting in people's way and prying     At things she never thought of buying:     Now wafted on without an aim,     Until in course of time she came     To Watson's bootshop. Long she pries     At boots and shoes of every size--     Brown football-boots with bar and stud     For boys that scuffle in the mud,     And dancing-pumps with pointed toes     Glossy as jet, and dull black bows;     Slim ladies' shoes with two-inch heel     And sprinkled beads of gold and steel--     'How anyone can wear such things!'     On either side the doorway springs     (As in a tropic jungle loom     Masses of strange thick-petalled bloom     And fruits mis-shapen) fold on fold     A growth of sand-shoes rubber-soled,     Clambering the door-posts, branching, spawning     Their barbarous bunches like an awning     Over the windows and the doors.     But, framed among the other stores,     Something has caught Miss Thompson's eye     (O worldliness! O vanity!),     A pair of slippers--scarlet plush.     Miss Thompson feels a conscious blush     Suffuse her face, as though her thought     Had ventured further than it ought.     But O that colour's rapturous singing     And the answer in her lone heart ringing!     She turns (O Guardian Angels, stop her     From doing anything improper!)     She turns; and see, she stoops and bungles     In through the sand-shoes' hanging jungles,     Away from light and common sense,     Into the shop dim-lit and dense     With smells of polish and tanned hide.     Mrs. Watson.                      Soon from a dark recess inside     Fat Mrs. Watson comes slip-slop     To mind the business of the shop.     She walks flat-footed with a roll--     A serviceable, homely soul,     With kindly, ugly face like dough,     Hair dull and colourless as tow.     A huge Scotch pebble fills the space     Between her bosom and her face.     One sees her making beds all day.     Miss Thompson lets her say her say:     'So chilly for the time of year.     It's ages since we saw you here.'     Then, heart a-flutter, speech precise,     Describes the shoes and asks the price.     'Them, Miss? Ah, them is six-and-nine.'     Miss Thompson shudders down the spine     (Dream of impossible romance).     She eyes them with a wistful glance,     Torn between good and evil. Yes,     Wrestles with a Temptation;                  For half-a-minute and no less     Miss Thompson strives with seven devils,     Then, soaring over earthly levels,     And is Saved.                      Turns from the shoes with lingering touch--     'Ah, six-and-nine is far too much.     Sorry to trouble you. Good day!'     She visits the Fish-monger.                          A little further down the way     Stands Miles's fish-shop, whence is shed     So strong a smell of fishes dead     That people of a subtler sense     Hold their breath and hurry thence.     Miss Thompson hovers there and gazes:     Her housewife's knowing eye appraises     Salt and fresh, severely cons     Kippers bright as tarnished bronze:     Great cods disposed upon the sill,     Chilly and wet, with gaping gill,     Flat head, glazed eye, and mute, uncouth,     Shapeless, wan, old-woman's mouth.     Next a row of soles and plaice     With querulous and twisted face,     And red-eyed bloaters, golden-grey;     Smoked haddocks ranked in neat array;     A group of smelts that take the light     Like slips of rainbow, pearly bright;     Silver trout with rosy spots,     And coral shrimps with keen black dots     For eyes, and hard and jointed sheath     And crisp tails curving underneath.     But there upon the sanded floor,     More wonderful in all that store     Than anything on slab or shelf,     Stood Miles, the fishmonger, himself.     Mr. Miles.                          Four-square he stood and filled the place.     His huge hands and his jolly face     Were red. He had a mouth to quaff     Pint after pint: a sounding laugh,     But wheezy at the end, and oft     His eyes bulged outwards and he coughed.     Aproned he stood from chin to toe.     The apron's vertical long flow     Warped grandly outwards to display     His hale, round belly hung midway,     Whose apex was securely bound     With apron-strings wrapped round and round.     Outside, Miss Thompson, small and staid,     Felt, as she always felt, afraid     Of this huge man who laughed so loud     And drew the notice of the crowd.     Awhile she paused in timid thought,     Then promptly hurried in and bought     'Two kippers, please. Yes, lovely weather.'     'Two kippers? Sixpence altogether:'     And in her basket laid the pair     Wrapped face to face in newspaper.     Relapses into Temptation:                  Then on she went, as one half blind,     For things were stirring in her mind;     Then turned about with fixed intent     And, heading for the bootshop, went     And Falls.                          Straight in and bought the scarlet slippers     And popped them in beside the kippers.     She visits the Chemist,                          So much for that. From there she tacked,     Still flushed by this decisive act,     Westward, and came without a stop     To Mr. Wren the chemist's shop,     And stood awhile outside to see     The tall, big-bellied bottles three--     Red, blue, and emerald, richly bright     Each with its burning core of light.     The bell chimed as she pushed the door.     Spotless the oilcloth on the floor,     Limpid as water each glass case,     Each thing precisely in its place.     Rows of small drawers, black-lettered each     With curious words of foreign speech,     Ranked high above the other ware.     The old strange fragrance filled the air,     A fragrance like the garden pink,     But tinged with vague medicinal stink     Of camphor, soap, new sponges, blent     With chloroform and violet scent.     Mr. Wren.                              And Wren the chemist, tall and spare,     Stood gaunt behind his counter there.     Quiet and very wise he seemed,     With skull-like face, bald head that gleamed;     Through spectacles his eyes looked kind.     He wore a pencil tucked behind     His ear. And never he mistakes     The wildest signs the doctor makes     Prescribing drugs. Brown paper, string,     He will not use for any thing,     But all in neat white parcels packs     And sticks them up with sealing-wax.     Miss Thompson bowed and blushed, and then     Undoubting bought of Mr. Wren,     Being free from modern scepticism,     A bottle for her rheumatism;     Also some peppermints to take     In case of wind; an oval cake     Of scented soap; a penny square     Of pungent naphthaline to scare     The moth. And after Wren had wrapped     And sealed the lot, Miss Thompson clapped     Them in beside the fish and shoes;     'Good day,' she says, and off she goes.     Is Led away to the Pleasure of the Town,                      Beelike Miss Thompson, whither next?     Outside, you pause awhile, perplext,     Your bearings lost. Then all comes back     Such as Groceries and Millinery,              And round she wheels, hot on the track     Of Giles the grocer, and from there     To Emilie the milliner,     There to be tempted by the sight     Of hats and blouses fiercely bright.     (O guard Miss Thompson, Powers that Be,     From Crudeness and Vulgarity.)     And other Allurements                              Still on from shop to shop she goes     With sharp bird's-eye, enquiring nose,     Prying and peering, entering some,     Oblivious of the thought of home.     The town brimmed up with deep-blue haze,     But still she stayed to flit and gaze,     Her eyes ablur with rapturous sights,     Her small soul full of small delights,     Empty her purse, her basket filled.     But at length is Convinced of Indiscretion.                      The traffic in the town was stilled.     The clock struck six. Men thronged the inns.     Dear, dear, she should be home long since.     And Returns Home.                          Then as she climbed the misty downs     The lamps were lighted in the town's     Small streets. She saw them star by star     Multiplying from afar;     Till, mapped beneath her, she could trace     Each street, and the wide square market-place     Sunk deeper and deeper as she went     Higher up the steep ascent.     And all that soul-uplifting stir     Step by step fell back from her,     The glory gone, the blossoming     Shrivelled, and she, a small, frail thing,     Carrying her laden basket. Till     Darkness and silence of the hill     Received her in their restful care     And stars came dropping through the air.     But loudly, sweetly sang the slippers     In the basket with the kippers;     And loud and sweet the answering thrills     From her lone heart on the hills.