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Title: Convalescence
Author: Juliana Horatia Ewing [
More Titles by Ewing]
Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to
remember the word,
What was it?--that the doctor says is now fairly established both
in me and my bird.
C-O-N-_con_, _with a con_, S-T-A-N-_stan_, _with a stan_--No! That's
Constantinople, that is
The capital of the country where rhubarb-and-magnesia comes from, and
I wish they would keep it in that country, and not send
it to this.
C-O-N-_con_--how my head swims! Now I've got it!
C-O-N-V-A-L-E-S-C-E-N-C-E.
_Convalescence!_ And that's what the doctor says is now fairly
established both in my blackbird and me.
He says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well
by and by.
And so the Sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends,
because we're both convalescents--at least we're all three
convalescents, my blackbird, and the Captain and I.
He's a sea-captain, not a land-captain, but, all the same, he was
in the war,
And he fought,--for I asked him,--and he's been ill ever since, and
that's why he's not afloat, but ashore;
And why somebody else has got his ship; and she behaved so beautifully
in the battle, and he loves her quite as much as his wife,
and rather better than the rest of his relations, for I asked
him; and now he's afraid she will never belong to him
any more.
I like him. I've seen him three times out walking with two sticks, when
I was driving in the bath-chair, but I never talked to him
till to-day.
He'd only one stick and a telescope, and he let me look through it at
the big ship that was coming round the corner into the bay.
He was very kind, and let me ask questions. I said, "Are you a
sea-captain?" and he said, "Yes." And I said, "How funny it
is about land things and sea things!
There are captains and sea-captains, and weeds and sea-weeds, and
serpents and sea-serpents. Did you ever meet one, and is it
really like the dragons on our very old best blue tea-things?"
But he never did. So I asked him, "Have you got convalescence? Does
your doctor say it is fairly established? Do your eyes ache
if you try to read, and your neck if you draw, and your back
if you sit up, and your head if you talk?
Don't you get tired of doing nothing, and worse tired still if you do
anything; and does everything wobble about when you walk?
Wouldn't you rather go back to bed? I think I would. Don't you wish
you were well? Wouldn't you rather be ill than only better?
I do hate convalescence, don't you?"
Then I stopped asking, and he shut up his telescope, and sat down on
the shingle, and said, "When you come to my age, little chap,
you won't think 'What is it I'd rather have?' but, 'What is
it I've got to do?'
'What have I got to do or to bear; and how can I do it or bear
it best?'
That's the only safe point to make for, my lad. Make for it, and
leave the rest!"
I said, "But _wouldn't_ you rather be in battles than in bed, with
your head aching as if it would split?"
And he said, "Of course I would; so would most men. But, my little
convalescent, that's not it.
What would _you_ think of a man who was ordered into battle, and went
grumbling and wishing he were in bed?"
"What should I think of the fellow? Why, I should know he was a
coward," I said.
"And if he were confined to bed," said the Sea-captain, "and lay
grumbling and wishing he were in battle, I should give
him no better a name;
For the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, are really
one and the same."
Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, for I'm thinking, and
I very much fear
You've had no good of being well since I was ill; I've led you such a
life; but indeed I am obliged to you, dear!
Is it true that Nurse has got something the matter with her legs, and
that Mary has gone home because she's worn out with nursing,
And won't be fit to work for months? (will _she_ be convalescent,
because it was such hard work waiting on _me_?) and did Cook
say, "So much grumbling and complaining is nigh as big a sin
as swearing and cursing"?
I wish I hadn't been so cross with poor Mary, and I wish I hadn't given
so much trouble about my medicine and my food.
I didn't think about her. I only thought what a bother it was. I wish
I hadn't thought so much about being miserable, that I never
thought of trying to be good.
I believe the Sea-captain is right, and I shall tell him so to-morrow,
when he comes here to tea;
He's going to look at my blackbird's leg, and if it is really set, he
wants me to let it go free.
He says captivity is worse than convalescence, and so I should think
it must be.
Are you tired, little Sister? You feel shaky. Don't beg my pardon; I
beg yours. I've not let you go out of my sight for weeks.
Get your things on, and have a gallop on Jack.
Ride round this way and let me see you. I won't say a word about
wishing I was going too; and if my head gets bad whilst
you're away, I will bear it my very best till you come back.
Tell me one thing before you start. If I learn to be patient, shall I
learn to be brave, do you think? The Sea-captain says so.
He says, "Self-command is the making of a man," and he's a finely-made
man himself, so he ought to know.
Perhaps, if I try hard at Convalescence now, I may become a brave
sea-captain hereafter, and take my beautiful ship into battle,
and bring her out again with flying colours and fame,
If the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, _are_ really
one and the same.
[The end]
Juliana Horatia Ewing's poem: Convalescence
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