7. The Black Cottage   
   
   
WE chanced in passing by that afternoon      
To catch it in a sort of special picture      
Among tar-banded ancient cherry trees,      
Set well back from the road in rank lodged grass,      
The little cottage we were speaking of,           5   
A front with just a door between two windows,      
Fresh painted by the shower a velvet black.      
We paused, the minister and I, to look.      
He made as if to hold it at arm’s length      
Or put the leaves aside that framed it in.           10   
“Pretty,” he said. “Come in. No one will care.”      
The path was a vague parting in the grass      
That led us to a weathered window-sill.      
We pressed our faces to the pane. “You see,” he said,      
“Everything’s as she left it when she died.           15   
Her sons won’t sell the house or the things in it.      
They say they mean to come and summer here      
Where they were boys. They haven’t come this year.      
They live so far away—one is out west—      
It will be hard for them to keep their word.           20   
Anyway they won’t have the place disturbed.”      
A buttoned hair-cloth lounge spread scrolling arms      
Under a crayon portrait on the wall      
Done sadly from an old daguerreotype.      
“That was the father as he went to war.           25   
She always, when she talked about war,      
Sooner or later came and leaned, half knelt      
Against the lounge beside it, though I doubt      
If such unlifelike lines kept power to stir      
Anything in her after all the years.           30   
He fell at Gettysburg or Fredericksburg,      
I ought to know—it makes a difference which:      
Fredericksburg wasn’t Gettysburg, of course.      
But what I’m getting to is how forsaken      
A little cottage this has always seemed;           35   
Since she went more than ever, but before—      
I don’t mean altogether by the lives      
That had gone out of it, the father first,      
Then the two sons, till she was left alone.      
(Nothing could draw her after those two sons.           40   
She valued the considerate neglect      
She had at some cost taught them after years.)      
I mean by the world’s having passed it by—      
As we almost got by this afternoon.      
It always seems to me a sort of mark           45   
To measure how far fifty years have brought us.      
Why not sit down if you are in no haste?      
These doorsteps seldom have a visitor.      
The warping boards pull out their own old nails      
With none to tread and put them in their place.           50   
She had her own idea of things, the old lady.      
And she liked talk. She had seen Garrison      
And Whittier, and had her story of them.      
One wasn’t long in learning that she thought      
Whatever else the Civil War was for           55   
It wasn’t just to keep the States together,      
Nor just to free the slaves, though it did both.      
She wouldn’t have believed those ends enough      
To have given outright for them all she gave.      
Her giving somehow touched the principle           60   
That all men are created free and equal.      
And to hear her quaint phrases—so removed      
From the world’s view to-day of all those things.      
That’s a hard mystery of Jefferson’s.      
What did he mean? Of course the easy way           65   
Is to decide it simply isn’t true.      
It may not be. I heard a fellow say so.      
But never mind, the Welshman got it planted      
Where it will trouble us a thousand years.      
Each age will have to reconsider it.           70   
You couldn’t tell her what the West was saying,      
And what the South to her serene belief.      
She had some art of hearing and yet not      
Hearing the latter wisdom of the world.      
White was the only race she ever knew.           75   
Black she had scarcely seen, and yellow never.      
But how could they be made so very unlike      
By the same hand working in the same stuff?      
She had supposed the war decided that.      
What are you going to do with such a person?           80   
Strange how such innocence gets its own way.      
I shouldn’t be surprised if in this world      
It were the force that would at last prevail.      
Do you know but for her there was a time      
When to please younger members of the church,           85   
Or rather say non-members in the church,      
Whom we all have to think of nowadays,      
I would have changed the Creed a very little?      
Not that she ever had to ask me not to;      
It never got so far as that; but the bare thought           90   
Of her old tremulous bonnet in the pew,      
And of her half asleep was too much for me.      
Why, I might wake her up and startle her.      
It was the words ‘descended into Hades’      
That seemed too pagan to our liberal youth.           95   
You know they suffered from a general onslaught.      
And well, if they weren’t true why keep right on      
Saying them like the heathen? We could drop them.      
Only—there was the bonnet in the pew.      
Such a phrase couldn’t have meant much to her.           100   
But suppose she had missed it from the Creed      
As a child misses the unsaid Good-night,      
And falls asleep with heartache—how should I feel?      
I’m just as glad she made me keep hands off,      
For, dear me, why abandon a belief           105   
Merely because it ceases to be true.      
Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt      
It will turn true again, for so it goes.      
Most of the change we think we see in life      
Is due to truths being in and out of favour.           110   
As I sit here, and oftentimes, I wish      
I could be monarch of a desert land      
I could devote and dedicate forever      
To the truths we keep coming back and back to.      
So desert it would have to be, so walled           115   
By mountain ranges half in summer snow,      
No one would covet it or think it worth      
The pains of conquering to force change on.      
Scattered oases where men dwelt, but mostly      
Sand dunes held loosely in tamarisk           120   
Blown over and over themselves in idleness.      
Sand grains should sugar in the natal dew      
The babe born to the desert, the sand storm      
Retard mid-waste my cowering caravans—      
   
“There are bees in this wall.” He struck the clapboards,           125   
Fierce heads looked out; small bodies pivoted.      
We rose to go. Sunset blazed on the windows.      

8. Blueberries   
   
   
“YOU ought to have seen what I saw on my way      
To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture to-day:      
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,      
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum      
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!           5   
And all ripe together, not some of them green      
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!”      
   
“I don’t know what part of the pasture you mean.”      
   
“You know where they cut off the woods—let me see—      
It was two years ago—or no!—can it be           10   
No longer than that?—and the following fall      
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.”      
   
“Why, there hasn’t been time for the bushes to grow.      
That’s always the way with the blueberries, though:      
There may not have been the ghost of a sign           15   
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,      
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn      
The pasture all over until not a fern      
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,      
And presto, they’re up all around you as thick           20   
And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.”      
   
“It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.      
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.      
And after all really they’re ebony skinned:      
The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind,           25   
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,      
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.”      
   
“Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?”      
   
“He may and not care and so leave the chewink      
To gather them for him—you know what he is.           30   
He won’t make the fact that they’re rightfully his      
An excuse for keeping us other folk out.”      
   
“I wonder you didn’t see Loren about.”      
   
“The best of it was that I did. Do you know,      
I was just getting through what the field had to show           35   
And over the wall and into the road,      
When who should come by, with a democrat-load      
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,      
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.”      
   
“He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?”           40   
   
“He just kept nodding his head up and down.      
You know how politely he always goes by.      
But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye—      
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:      
‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,           45   
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.’“      
   
“He’s a thriftier person than some I could name.”      
   
“He seems to be thrifty; and hasn’t he need,      
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?      
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,           50   
Like birds. They store a great many away.      
They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat      
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.”      
   
“Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live,      
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,           55   
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”      
   
“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow—      
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,      
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”      
   
“I wish I knew half what the flock of them know           60   
Of where all the berries and other things grow,      
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top      
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.      
I met them one day and each had a flower      
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;           65   
Some strange kind—they told me it hadn’t a name.”      
   
“I’ve told you how once not long after we came,      
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth      
By going to him of all people on earth      
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had           70   
For the picking. The rascal, he said he’d be glad      
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.      
There had been some berries—but those were all gone.      
He didn’t say where they had been. He went on:      
‘I’m sure—I’m sure’—as polite as could be.           75   
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,      
Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’      
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.      
   
“If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,      
He’ll find he’s mistaken. See here, for a whim,           80   
We’ll pick in the Mortensons’ pasture this year.      
We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear,      
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.      
It’s so long since I picked I almost forget      
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,           85   
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,      
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,      
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird      
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.      
‘Well, one of us is.’ For complaining it flew           90   
Around and around us. And then for a while      
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,      
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout      
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,      
For when you made answer, your voice was as low           95   
As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.”      
   
“We sha’n’t have the place to ourselves to enjoy—      
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.      
They’ll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.      
They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite—           100   
To people they look on as having no right      
To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain.      
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,      
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,      
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”           105

9. A Servant to Servants   
   
   
I DIDN’T make you know how glad I was      
To have you come and camp here on our land.      
I promised myself to get down some day      
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!      
With a houseful of hungry men to feed           5   
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me      
I can’t express my feelings any more      
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift      
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).      
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.           10   
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure      
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.      
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside      
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,      
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.           15   
You take the lake. I look and look at it.      
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.      
I stand and make myself repeat out loud      
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,      
Like a deep piece of some old running river           20   
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles      
Straight away through the mountain notch      
From the sink window where I wash the plates,      
And all our storms come up toward the house,      
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.           25   
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit      
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle      
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind      
About my face and body and through my wrapper,      
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,           30   
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.      
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,      
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?      
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.      
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!           35   
You let things more like feathers regulate      
Your going and coming. And you like it here?      
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!      
It would be different if more people came,      
For then there would be business. As it is,           40   
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,      
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore      
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.      
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.      
He looks on the bright side of everything,           45   
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right      
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine—      
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so—      
It’s rest I want—there, I have said it out—      
From cooking meals for hungry hired men           50   
And washing dishes after them—from doing      
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.      
By good rights I ought not to have so much      
Put on me, but there seems no other way.      
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.           55   
He says the best way out is always through.      
And I agree to that, or in so far      
As that I can see no way out but through—      
Leastways for me—and then they’ll be convinced.      
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.           60   
It was his plan our moving over in      
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you      
We used to live—ten miles from anywhere.      
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,      
But Len went at it to make up the loss.           65   
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,      
But he works when he works as hard as I do—      
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.      
(Women and men will make them all the same.)      
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.           70   
He’s into everything in town. This year      
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men      
Around him to look after that make waste.      
They take advantage of him shamefully,      
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.           75   
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,      
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk      
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!      
No more put out in what they do or say      
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.           80   
Coming and going all the time, they are:      
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone      
Their characters, or whether they are safe      
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.      
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not           85   
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.      
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.      
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him      
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.      
I’ve been away once—yes, I’ve been away.           90   
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;      
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;      
You know the old idea—the only asylum      
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,      
Rather than send their folks to such a place,           95   
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.      
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.      
There they have every means proper to do with,      
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives—      
Worse than no good to them, and they no good           100   
To you in your condition; you can’t know      
Affection or the want of it in that state.      
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.      
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.      
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,           105   
Because his violence took on the form      
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;      
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,      
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.      
Anyway all he talked about was love.           110   
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief      
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended      
In father’s building him a sort of cage,      
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,      
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,—           115   
A narrow passage all the way around.      
Anything they put in for furniture      
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.      
So they made the place comfortable with straw,      
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.           120   
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.      
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded      
With his clothes on his arm—all of his clothes.      
Cruel—it sounds. I ’spose they did the best      
They knew. And just when he was at the height,           125   
Father and mother married, and mother came,      
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,      
And accommodate her young life to his.      
That was what marrying father meant to her.      
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful           130   
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout      
Until the strength was shouted out of him,      
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.      
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,      
And let them go and make them twang until           135   
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.      
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play—      
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,      
They found a way to put a stop to it.      
He was before my time—I never saw him;           140   
But the pen stayed exactly as it was      
There in the upper chamber in the ell,      
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.      
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.      
It got so I would say—you know, half fooling—           145   
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”—      
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.      
No wonder I was glad to get away.      
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.      
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.           150   
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,      
And I looked to be happy, and I was,      
As I said, for a while—but I don’t know!      
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.      
And there’s more to it than just window-views           155   
And living by a lake. I’m past such help—      
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,      
And I won’t ask him—it’s not sure enough.      
I ’spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:      
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?           160   
I almost think if I could do like you,      
Drop everything and live out on the ground—      
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,      
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,      
And be glad of a good roof overhead.           165   
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,      
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.      
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away      
From over you as you lay in your beds.      
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.           170   
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,      
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.      
There’s work enough to do—there’s always that;      
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do      
Is set me back a little more behind.           175   
I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway.      
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.      

10. After Apple-picking   
   
   
MY long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree      
Toward heaven still,      
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill      
Beside it, and there may be two or three      
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.           5   
But I am done with apple-picking now.      
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,      
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.      
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight      
I got from looking through a pane of glass           10   
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough      
And held against the world of hoary grass.      
It melted, and I let it fall and break.      
But I was well      
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,           15   
And I could tell      
What form my dreaming was about to take.      
Magnified apples appear and disappear,      
Stem end and blossom end,      
And every fleck of russet showing clear.           20   
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,      
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.      
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.      
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin      
The rumbling sound           25   
Of load on load of apples coming in.      
For I have had too much      
Of apple-picking: I am overtired      
Of the great harvest I myself desired.      
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,           30   
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.      
For all      
That struck the earth,      
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,      
Went surely to the cider-apple heap           35   
As of no worth.      
One can see what will trouble      
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.      
Were he not gone,      
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his           40   
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,      
Or just some human sleep.      

11. The Code   
   
   
THERE were three in the meadow by the brook      
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,      
With an eye always lifted toward the west      
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud      
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger           5   
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly      
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,      
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.      
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.      
   
“What is there wrong?”           10   
   
“Something you just now said.”      
   
“What did I say?”      
   
“About our taking pains.”      
   
“To cock the hay?—because it’s going to shower?      
I said that more than half an hour ago.           15   
I said it to myself as much as you.”      
   
“You didn’t know. But James is one big fool.      
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.      
That’s what the average farmer would have meant.      
James would take time, of course, to chew it over           20   
Before he acted: he’s just got round to act.”      
   
“He is a fool if that’s the way he takes me.”      
   
“Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.      
The hand that knows his business won’t be told      
To do work better or faster—those two things.           25   
I’m as particular as anyone:      
Most likely I’d have served you just the same.      
But I know you don’t understand our ways.      
You were just talking what was in your mind,      
What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.           30   
Tell you a story of what happened once:      
I was up here in Salem at a man’s      
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five      
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.      
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,           35   
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy      
From a humped body nigh as big’s a biscuit.      
But work! that man could work, especially      
If by so doing he could get more work      
Out of his hired help. I’m not denying           40   
He was hard on himself. I couldn’t find      
That he kept any hours—not for himself.      
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:      
I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night.      
But what he liked was someone to encourage.           45   
Them that he couldn’t lead he’d get behind      
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—      
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.      
I’d seen about enough of his bulling tricks      
(We call that bulling). I’d been watching him.           50   
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield      
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.      
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders      
Combed it down with a rake and says, ‘O. K.’      
Everything went well till we reached the barn           55   
With a big catch to empty in a bay.      
You understand that meant the easy job      
For the man up on top of throwing down      
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,      
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.           60   
You wouldn’t think a fellow’d need much urging      
Under these circumstances, would you now?      
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,      
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,      
Shouts like an army captain, ‘Let her come!’           65   
Thinks I, D’ye mean it? ‘What was that you said?’      
I asked out loud, so’s there’d be no mistake,      
‘Did you say, Let her come?’ ‘Yes, let her come.’      
He said it over, but he said it softer.      
Never you say a thing like that to a man,           70   
Not if he values what he is. God, I’d as soon      
Murdered him as left out his middle name.      
I’d built the load and knew right where to find it.      
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for      
Like meditating, and then I just dug in           75   
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.      
I looked over the side once in the dust      
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,      
Keeping his head above. ‘Damn ye,’ I says,      
‘That gets ye!’ He squeaked like a squeezed rat.           80   
That was the last I saw or heard of him.      
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.      
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,      
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,      
One of the boys sings out, ‘Where’s the old man?’           85   
‘I left him in the barn under the hay.      
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.’      
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck      
More than was needed something must be up.      
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.           90   
They told me afterward. First they forked hay,      
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.      
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle.      
I guess they thought I’d spiked him in the temple      
Before I buried him, or I couldn’t have managed.           95   
They excavated more. ‘Go keep his wife      
Out of the barn.’ Someone looked in a window,      
And curse me if he wasn’t in the kitchen      
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet      
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.           100   
He looked so clean disgusted from behind      
There was no one that dared to stir him up,      
Or let him know that he was being looked at.      
Apparently I hadn’t buried him      
(I may have knocked him down); but my just trying           105   
To bury him had hurt his dignity.      
He had gone to the house so’s not to meet me.      
He kept away from us all afternoon.      
We tended to his hay. We saw him out      
After a while picking peas in his garden:           110   
He couldn’t keep away from doing something.”      
   
“Weren’t you relieved to find he wasn’t dead?”      
   
“No! and yet I don’t know—it’s hard to say.      
I went about to kill him fair enough.”      
   
“You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?”           115   
   
“Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.”      

12. The Generations of Men   
   
   
A GOVERNOR it was proclaimed this time,      
When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire      
Ancestral memories might come together.      
And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow,      
A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off,           5   
And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone.      
Someone had literally run to earth      
In an old cellar hole in a by-road      
The origin of all the family there.      
Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe           10   
That now not all the houses left in town      
Made shift to shelter them without the help      
Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard.      
They were at Bow, but that was not enough:      
Nothing would do but they must fix a day           15   
To stand together on the crater’s verge      
That turned them on the world, and try to fathom      
The past and get some strangeness out of it.      
But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain,      
With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted.           20   
The young folk held some hope out to each other      
Till well toward noon when the storm settled down      
With a swish in the grass. “What if the others      
Are there,” they said. “It isn’t going to rain.”      
Only one from a farm not far away           25   
Strolled thither, not expecting he would find      
Anyone else, but out of idleness.      
One, and one other, yes, for there were two.      
The second round the curving hillside road      
Was a girl; and she halted some way off           30   
To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind      
At least to pass by and see who he was,      
And perhaps hear some word about the weather.      
This was some Stark she didn’t know. He nodded.      
“No fête to-day,” he said.           35   
   
“It looks that way.”      
She swept the heavens, turning on her heel.      
“I only idled down.”      
   
“I idled down.”      
   
Provision there had been for just such meeting           40   
Of stranger cousins, in a family tree      
Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch      
Of the one bearing it done in detail—      
Some zealous one’s laborious device.      
She made a sudden movement toward her bodice,           45   
As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together.      
“Stark?” he inquired. “No matter for the proof.”      
   
“Yes, Stark. And you?”      
   
“I’m Stark.” He drew his passport.      
   
“You know we might not be and still be cousins:           50   
The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys,      
All claiming some priority in Starkness.      
My mother was a Lane, yet might have married      
Anyone upon earth and still her children      
Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.”           55   
   
“You riddle with your genealogy      
Like a Viola. I don’t follow you.”      
   
“I only mean my mother was a Stark      
Several times over, and by marrying father      
No more than brought us back into the name.”           60   
   
“One ought not to be thrown into confusion      
By a plain statement of relationship,      
But I own what you say makes my head spin.      
You take my card—you seem so good at such things—      
And see if you can reckon our cousinship.           65   
Why not take seats here on the cellar wall      
And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?”      
   
“Under the shelter of the family tree.”      
   
“Just so—that ought to be enough protection.”      
   
“Not from the rain. I think it’s going to rain.”           70   
   
“It’s raining.”      
   
“No, it’s misting; let’s be fair.      
Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?”      
   
The situation was like this: the road      
Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up,           75   
And disappeared and ended not far off.      
No one went home that way. The only house      
Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod.      
And below roared a brook hidden in trees,      
The sound of which was silence for the place.           80   
This he sat listening to till she gave judgment.      
   
“On father’s side, it seems, we’re—let me see——”      
   
“Don’t be too technical.—You have three cards.”      
   
“Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch      
Of the Stark family I’m a member of.”           85   
   
“D’you know a person so related to herself      
Is supposed to be mad.”      
   
“I may be mad.”      
   
“You look so, sitting out here in the rain      
Studying genealogy with me           90   
You never saw before. What will we come to      
With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees?      
I think we’re all mad. Tell me why we’re here      
Drawn into town about this cellar hole      
Like wild geese on a lake before a storm?           95   
What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.”      
   
“The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc,      
Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of.      
This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.”      
   
“You must be learned. That’s what you see in it?”           100   
   
“And what do you see?”      
   
“Yes, what do I see?      
First let me look. I see raspberry vines——”      
   
“Oh, if you’re going to use your eyes, just hear      
What I see. It’s a little, little boy,           105   
As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun;      
He’s groping in the cellar after jam,      
He thinks it’s dark and it’s flooded with daylight.”      
   
“He’s nothing. Listen. When I lean like this      
I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,—           110   
With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug—      
Bless you, it isn’t Grandsir Stark, it’s Granny,      
But the pipe’s there and smoking and the jug.      
She’s after cider, the old girl, she’s thirsty;      
Here’s hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.”           115   
   
“Tell me about her. Does she look like me?”      
   
“She should, shouldn’t she, you’re so many times      
Over descended from her. I believe      
She does look like you. Stay the way you are.      
The nose is just the same, and so’s the chin—           120   
Making allowance, making due allowance.”      
   
“You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!”      
   
“See that you get her greatness right. Don’t stint her.”      
   
“Yes, it’s important, though you think it isn’t.      
I won’t be teased. But see how wet I am.”           125   
   
“Yes, you must go; we can’t stay here for ever.      
But wait until I give you a hand up.      
A bead of silver water more or less      
Strung on your hair won’t hurt your summer looks.      
I wanted to try something with the noise           130   
That the brook raises in the empty valley.      
We have seen visions—now consult the voices.      
Something I must have learned riding in trains      
When I was young. I used the roar      
To set the voices speaking out of it,           135   
Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing.      
Perhaps you have the art of what I mean.      
I’ve never listened in among the sounds      
That a brook makes in such a wild descent.      
It ought to give a purer oracle.”           140   
   
“It’s as you throw a picture on a screen:      
The meaning of it all is out of you;      
The voices give you what you wish to hear.”      
   
“Strangely, it’s anything they wish to give.”      
   
“Then I don’t know. It must be strange enough.           145   
I wonder if it’s not your make-believe.      
What do you think you’re like to hear to-day?”      
   
“From the sense of our having been together—      
But why take time for what I’m like to hear?      
I’ll tell you what the voices really say.           150   
You will do very well right where you are      
A little longer. I mustn’t feel too hurried,      
Or I can’t give myself to hear the voices.”      
   
“Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?”      
   
“You must be very still; you mustn’t talk.”           155   
   
“I’ll hardly breathe.”      
   
“The voices seem to say——”      
   
“I’m waiting.”      
   
“Don’t! The voices seem to say:      
Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid           160   
Of an acquaintance made adventurously.”      
   
“I let you say that—on consideration.”      
   
“I don’t see very well how you can help it.      
You want the truth. I speak but by the voices.      
You see they know I haven’t had your name,           165   
Though what a name should matter between us——”      
   
“I shall suspect——”      
   
“Be good. The voices say:      
Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber      
That you shall find lies in the cellar charred           170   
Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it      
For a door-sill or other corner piece      
In a new cottage on the ancient spot.      
The life is not yet all gone out of it.      
And come and make your summer dwelling here,           175   
And perhaps she will come, still unafraid,      
And sit before you in the open door      
With flowers in her lap until they fade,      
But not come in across the sacred sill——”      
   
“I wonder where your oracle is tending.           180   
You can see that there’s something wrong with it,      
Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice      
Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir’s      
Nor Granny’s, surely. Call up one of them.      
They have best right to be heard in this place.”           185   
   
“You seem so partial to our great-grandmother      
(Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.)      
You will be likely to regard as sacred      
Anything she may say. But let me warn you,      
Folks in her day were given to plain speaking.           190   
You think you’d best tempt her at such a time?”      
   
“It rests with us always to cut her off.”      
   
“Well then, it’s Granny speaking: ‘I dunnow!      
Mebbe I’m wrong to take it as I do.      
There ain’t no names quite like the old ones though,           195   
Nor never will be to my way of thinking.      
One mustn’t bear too hard on the new comers,      
But there’s a dite too many of them for comfort.      
I should feel easier if I could see      
More of the salt wherewith they’re to be salted.           200   
Son, you do as you’re told! You take the timber—      
It’s as sound as the day when it was cut—      
And begin over——’ There, she’d better stop.      
You can see what is troubling Granny, though.      
But don’t you think we sometimes make too much           205   
Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals,      
And those will bear some keeping still about.”      
   
“I can see we are going to be good friends.”      
   
“I like your ‘going to be.’ You said just now      
It’s going to rain.”           210   
   
“I know, and it was raining.      
I let you say all that. But I must go now.”      
   
“You let me say it? on consideration?      
How shall we say good-bye in such a case?”      
   
“How shall we?”           215   
   
“Will you leave the way to me?”      
   
“No, I don’t trust your eyes. You’ve said enough.      
Now give me your hand up.—Pick me that flower.”      
   
“Where shall we meet again?”      
   
“Nowhere but here           220   
Once more before we meet elsewhere.”      
   
“In rain?”      
   
“It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain.      
In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains?      
But if we must, in sunshine.” So she went.           225

   
13. The Housekeeper   
   
   
I LET myself in at the kitchen door.      
“It’s you,” she said. “I can’t get up. Forgive me      
Not answering your knock. I can no more      
Let people in than I can keep them out.      
I’m getting too old for my size, I tell them.           5   
My fingers are about all I’ve the use of      
So’s to take any comfort. I can sew:      
I help out with this beadwork what I can.”      
   
“That’s a smart pair of pumps you’re beading there.      
Who are they for?”           10   
   
“You mean?—oh, for some miss.      
I can’t keep track of other people’s daughters.      
Lord, if I were to dream of everyone      
Whose shoes I primped to dance in!”      
   
“And where’s John?”           15   
   
“Haven’t you seen him? Strange what set you off      
To come to his house when he’s gone to yours.      
You can’t have passed each other. I know what:      
He must have changed his mind and gone to Garlands.      
He won’t be long in that case. You can wait.           20   
Though what good you can be, or anyone—      
It’s gone so far. You’ve heard? Estelle’s run off.”      
   
“Yes, what’s it all about? When did she go?”      
   
“Two weeks since.”      
   
“She’s in earnest, it appears.”           25   
   
“I’m sure she won’t come back. She’s hiding somewhere.      
I don’t know where myself. John thinks I do.      
He thinks I only have to say the word,      
And she’ll come back. But, bless you, I’m her mother—      
I can’t talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!”           30   
   
“It will go hard with John. What will he do?      
He can’t find anyone to take her place.”      
   
“Oh, if you ask me that, what will he do?      
He gets some sort of bakeshop meals together,      
With me to sit and tell him everything,           35   
What’s wanted and how much and where it is.      
But when I’m gone—of course I can’t stay here:      
Estelle’s to take me when she’s settled down.      
He and I only hinder one another.      
I tell them they can’t get me through the door, though:           40   
I’ve been built in here like a big church organ.      
We’ve been here fifteen years.”      
   
“That’s a long time      
To live together and then pull apart.      
How do you see him living when you’re gone?           45   
Two of you out will leave an empty house.”      
   
“I don’t just see him living many years,      
Left here with nothing but the furniture.      
I hate to think of the old place when we’re gone,      
With the brook going by below the yard,           50   
And no one here but hens blowing about.      
If he could sell the place, but then, he can’t:      
No one will ever live on it again.      
It’s too run down. This is the last of it.      
What I think he will do, is let things smash.           55   
He’ll sort of swear the time away. He’s awful!      
I never saw a man let family troubles      
Make so much difference in his man’s affairs.      
He’s just dropped everything. He’s like a child.      
I blame his being brought up by his mother.           60   
He’s got hay down that’s been rained on three times.      
He hoed a little yesterday for me:      
I thought the growing things would do him good.      
Something went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe      
Sky-high with both hands. I can see it now—           65   
Come here—I’ll show you—in that apple tree.      
That’s no way for a man to do at his age:      
He’s fifty-five, you know, if he’s a day.”      
   
“Aren’t you afraid of him? What’s that gun for?”      
   
“Oh, that’s been there for hawks since chicken-time.           70   
John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends.      
I’ll say that for him, John’s no threatener      
Like some men folk. No one’s afraid of him;      
All is, he’s made up his mind not to stand      
What he has got to stand.”           75   
   
“Where is Estelle?      
Couldn’t one talk to her? What does she say?      
You say you don’t know where she is.”      
   
“Nor want to!      
She thinks if it was bad to live with him,           80   
It must be right to leave him.”      
   
“Which is wrong!”      
   
“Yes, but he should have married her.”      
   
“I know.”      
   
“The strain’s been too much for her all these years:           85   
I can’t explain it any other way.      
It’s different with a man, at least with John:      
He knows he’s kinder than the run of men.      
Better than married ought to be as good      
As married—that’s what he has always said.           90   
I know the way he’s felt—but all the same!”      
   
“I wonder why he doesn’t marry her      
And end it.”      
   
“Too late now: she wouldn’t have him.      
He’s given her time to think of something else.           95   
That’s his mistake. The dear knows my interest      
Has been to keep the thing from breaking up.      
This is a good home: I don’t ask for better.      
But when I’ve said, ‘Why shouldn’t they be married,’      
He’d say, ‘Why should they?’ no more words than that.”           100   
   
“And after all why should they? John’s been fair      
I take it. What was his was always hers.      
There was no quarrel about property.”      
   
“Reason enough, there was no property.      
A friend or two as good as own the farm,           105   
Such as it is. It isn’t worth the mortgage.”      
   
“I mean Estelle has always held the purse.”      
   
“The rights of that are harder to get at.      
I guess Estelle and I have filled the purse.      
’Twas we let him have money, not he us.           110   
John’s a bad farmer. I’m not blaming him.      
Take it year in, year out, he doesn’t make much.      
We came here for a home for me, you know,      
Estelle to do the housework for the board      
Of both of us. But look how it turns out:           115   
She seems to have the housework, and besides,      
Half of the outdoor work, though as for that,      
He’d say she does it more because she likes it.      
You see our pretty things are all outdoors.      
Our hens and cows and pigs are always better           120   
Than folks like us have any business with.      
Farmers around twice as well off as we      
Haven’t as good. They don’t go with the farm.      
One thing you can’t help liking about John,      
He’s fond of nice things—too fond, some would say.           125   
But Estelle don’t complain: she’s like him there.      
She wants our hens to be the best there are.      
You never saw this room before a show,      
Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned birds      
In separate coops, having their plumage done.           130   
The smell of the wet feathers in the heat!      
You spoke of John’s not being safe to stay with.      
You don’t know what a gentle lot we are:      
We wouldn’t hurt a hen! You ought to see us      
Moving a flock of hens from place to place.           135   
We’re not allowed to take them upside down,      
All we can hold together by the legs.      
Two at a time’s the rule, one on each arm,      
No matter how far and how many times      
We have to go.”           140   
   
“You mean that’s John’s idea.”      
   
“And we live up to it; or I don’t know      
What childishness he wouldn’t give way to.      
He manages to keep the upper hand      
On his own farm. He’s boss. But as to hens:           145   
We fence our flowers in and the hens range.      
Nothing’s too good for them. We say it pays.      
John likes to tell the offers he has had,      
Twenty for this cock, twenty-five for that.      
He never takes the money. If they’re worth           150   
That much to sell, they’re worth as much to keep.      
Bless you, it’s all expense, though. Reach me down      
The little tin box on the cupboard shelf,      
The upper shelf, the tin box. That’s the one.      
I’ll show you. Here you are.”           155   
   
“What’s this?”      
   
“A bill—      
For fifty dollars for one Langshang cock—      
Receipted. And the cock is in the yard.”      
   
“Not in a glass case, then?”           160   
   
“He’d need a tall one:      
He can eat off a barrel from the ground.      
He’s been in a glass case, as you may say,      
The Crystal Palace, London. He’s imported.      
John bought him, and we paid the bill with beads—           165   
Wampum, I call it. Mind, we don’t complain.      
But you see, don’t you, we take care of him.”      
   
“And like it, too. It makes it all the worse.”      
   
“It seems as if. And that’s not all: he’s helpless      
In ways that I can hardly tell you of.           170   
Sometimes he gets possessed to keep accounts      
To see where all the money goes so fast.      
You know how men will be ridiculous.      
But it’s just fun the way he gets bedeviled—      
If he’s untidy now, what will he be——?           175   
   
“It makes it all the worse. You must be blind.”      
   
“Estelle’s the one. You needn’t talk to me.”      
   
“Can’t you and I get to the root of it?      
What’s the real trouble? What will satisfy her?”      
   
“It’s as I say: she’s turned from him, that’s all.”           180   
   
“But why, when she’s well off? Is it the neighbours,      
Being cut off from friends?”      
   
“We have our friends.      
That isn’t it. Folks aren’t afraid of us.”      
   
“She’s let it worry her. You stood the strain,           185   
And you’re her mother.”      
   
“But I didn’t always.      
I didn’t relish it along at first.      
But I got wonted to it. And besides—      
John said I was too old to have grandchildren.           190   
But what’s the use of talking when it’s done?      
She won’t come back—it’s worse than that—she can’t.”      
   
“Why do you speak like that? What do you know?      
What do you mean?—she’s done harm to herself?”      
   
“I mean she’s married—married someone else.”           195   
   
“Oho, oho!”      
   
“You don’t believe me.”      
   
“Yes, I do,      
Only too well. I knew there must be something!      
So that was what was back. She’s bad, that’s all!”           200   
   
“Bad to get married when she had the chance?”      
   
“Nonsense! See what’s she done! But who, who——”      
   
“Who’d marry her straight out of such a mess?      
Say it right out—no matter for her mother.      
The man was found. I’d better name no names.           205   
John himself won’t imagine who he is.”      
   
“Then it’s all up. I think I’ll get away.      
You’ll be expecting John. I pity Estelle;      
I suppose she deserves some pity, too.      
You ought to have the kitchen to yourself           210   
To break it to him. You may have the job.”      
   
“You needn’t think you’re going to get away.      
John’s almost here. I’ve had my eye on someone      
Coming down Ryan’s Hill. I thought ’twas him.      
Here he is now. This box! Put it away.           215   
And this bill.”      
   
“What’s the hurry? He’ll unhitch.”      
   
“No, he won’t, either. He’ll just drop the reins      
And turn Doll out to pasture, rig and all.      
She won’t get far before the wheels hang up           220   
On something—there’s no harm. See, there he is!      
My, but he looks as if he must have heard!”      
   
John threw the door wide but he didn’t enter.      
“How are you, neighbour? Just the man I’m after.      
Isn’t it Hell,” he said. “I want to know.           225   
Come out here if you want to hear me talk.      
I’ll talk to you, old woman, afterward.      
I’ve got some news that maybe isn’t news.      
What are they trying to do to me, these two?”      
   
“Do go along with him and stop his shouting.”           230   
She raised her voice against the closing door:      
“Who wants to hear your news, you—dreadful fool?”

14. The Fear   
   
   
A LANTERN light from deeper in the barn      
Shone on a man and woman in the door      
And threw their lurching shadows on a house      
Near by, all dark in every glossy window.      
A horse’s hoof pawed once the hollow floor,           5   
And the back of the gig they stood beside      
Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel,      
The woman spoke out sharply, “Whoa, stand still!”      
“I saw it just as plain as a white plate,”      
She said, “as the light on the dashboard ran           10   
Along the bushes at the roadside—a man’s face.      
You must have seen it too.”      
   
“I didn’t see it.      
   
Are you sure——”      
   
“Yes, I’m sure!”           15   
   
“—it was a face?”      
   
“Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in,      
I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled.      
Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.      
I always have felt strange when we came home           20   
To the dark house after so long an absence,      
And the key rattled loudly into place      
Seemed to warn someone to be getting out      
At one door as we entered at another.      
What if I’m right, and someone all the time—           25   
Don’t hold my arm!”      
   
“I say it’s someone passing.”      
   
“You speak as if this were a travelled road.      
You forget where we are. What is beyond      
That he’d be going to or coming from           30   
At such an hour of night, and on foot too.      
What was he standing still for in the bushes?”      
   
“It’s not so very late—it’s only dark.      
There’s more in it than you’re inclined to say.      
Did he look like——?”           35   
   
“He looked like anyone.      
I’ll never rest to-night unless I know.      
Give me the lantern.”      
   
“You don’t want the lantern.”      
   
She pushed past him and got it for herself.           40   
   
“You’re not to come,” she said. “This is my business.      
If the time’s come to face it, I’m the one      
To put it the right way. He’d never dare—      
Listen! He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that!      
He’s coming towards us. Joel, go in—please.           45   
Hark!—I don’t hear him now. But please go in.”      
   
“In the first place you can’t make me believe it’s——”      
   
“It is—or someone else he’s sent to watch.      
And now’s the time to have it out with him      
While we know definitely where he is.           50   
Let him get off and he’ll be everywhere      
Around us, looking out of trees and bushes      
Till I sha’n’t dare to set a foot outdoors.      
And I can’t stand it. Joel, let me go!”      
   
“But it’s nonsense to think he’d care enough.”           55   
   
“You mean you couldn’t understand his caring.      
Oh, but you see he hadn’t had enough—      
Joel, I won’t—I won’t—I promise you.      
We mustn’t say hard things. You mustn’t either.”      
   
“I’ll be the one, if anybody goes!           60   
But you give him the advantage with this light.      
What couldn’t he do to us standing here!      
And if to see was what he wanted, why      
He has seen all there was to see and gone.”      
   
He appeared to forget to keep his hold,           65   
But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.      
   
“What do you want?” she cried to all the dark.      
She stretched up tall to overlook the light      
That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.      
   
“There’s no one; so you’re wrong,” he said.           70   
   
“There is.—      
What do you want?” she cried, and then herself      
Was startled when an answer really came.      
   
“Nothing.” It came from well along the road.      
   
She reached a hand to Joel for support:           75   
The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.      
   
“What are you doing round this house at night?”      
   
“Nothing.” A pause: there seemed no more to say.      
   
And then the voice again: “You seem afraid.      
I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.           80   
I’ll just come forward in the lantern light      
And let you see.”      
   
“Yes, do.—Joel, go back!”      
   
She stood her ground against the noisy steps      
That came on, but her body rocked a little.           85   
   
“You see,” the voice said.      
   
“Oh.” She looked and looked.      
   
“You don’t see—I’ve a child here by the hand.”      
   
“What’s a child doing at this time of night——?”      
   
“Out walking. Every child should have the memory           90   
Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.      
What, son?”      
   
“Then I should think you’d try to find      
Somewhere to walk——”      
   
“The highway as it happens—           95   
We’re stopping for the fortnight down at Dean’s.”      
   
“But if that’s all—Joel—you realize—      
You won’t think anything. You understand?      
You understand that we have to be careful.      
This is a very, very lonely place.           100   
Joel!” She spoke as if she couldn’t turn.      
The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,      
It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.      

15. The Self-seeker   
   
   
“WILLIS, I didn’t want you here to-day:      
The lawyer’s coming for the company.      
I’m going to sell my soul, or, rather, feet.      
Five hundred dollars for the pair, you know.”      
   
“With you the feet have nearly been the soul;           5   
And if you’re going to sell them to the devil,      
I want to see you do it. When’s he coming?”      
   
“I half suspect you knew, and came on purpose      
To try to help me drive a better bargain.”      
   
“Well, if it’s true! Yours are no common feet.           10   
The lawyer don’t know what it is he’s buying:      
So many miles you might have walked you won’t walk.      
You haven’t run your forty orchids down.      
What does he think?—How are the blessed feet?      
The doctor’s sure you’re going to walk again?”           15   
   
“He thinks I’ll hobble. It’s both legs and feet.”      
   
“They must be terrible—I mean to look at.”      
   
“I haven’t dared to look at them uncovered.      
Through the bed blankets I remind myself      
Of a starfish laid out with rigid points.”           20   
   
“The wonder is it hadn’t been your head.”      
   
“It’s hard to tell you how I managed it.      
When I saw the shaft had me by the coat,      
I didn’t try too long to pull away,      
Or fumble for my knife to cut away,           25   
I just embraced the shaft and rode it out—      
Till Weiss shut off the water in the wheel-pit.      
That’s how I think I didn’t lose my head.      
But my legs got their knocks against the ceiling.”      
   
“Awful. Why didn’t they throw off the belt           30   
Instead of going clear down in the wheel-pit?”      
   
“They say some time was wasted on the belt—      
Old streak of leather—doesn’t love me much      
Because I make him spit fire at my knuckles,      
The way Ben Franklin used to make the kite-string.           35   
That must be it. Some days he won’t stay on.      
That day a woman couldn’t coax him off.      
He’s on his rounds now with his tail in his mouth      
Snatched right and left across the silver pulleys.      
Everything goes the same without me there.           40   
You can hear the small buzz saws whine, the big saw      
Caterwaul to the hills around the village      
As they both bite the wood. It’s all our music.      
One ought as a good villager to like it.      
No doubt it has a sort of prosperous sound,           45   
And it’s our life.”      
   
“Yes, when it’s not our death.”      
   
“You make that sound as if it wasn’t so      
With everything. What we live by we die by.      
I wonder where my lawyer is. His train’s in.           50   
I want this over with; I’m hot and tired.”      
   
“You’re getting ready to do something foolish.”      
   
“Watch for him, will you, Will? You let him in.      
I’d rather Mrs. Corbin didn’t know;      
I’ve boarded here so long, she thinks she owns me.           55   
You’re bad enough to manage without her.”      
   
“And I’m going to be worse instead of better.      
You’ve got to tell me how far this is gone:      
Have you agreed to any price?”      
   
“Five hundred.           60   
Five hundred—five—five! One, two, three, four, five.      
You needn’t look at me.”      
   
“I don’t believe you.”      
   
“I told you, Willis, when you first came in.      
Don’t you be hard on me. I have to take           65   
What I can get. You see they have the feet,      
Which gives them the advantage in the trade.      
I can’t get back the feet in any case.”      
   
“But your flowers, man, you’re selling out your flowers.”      
   
“Yes, that’s one way to put it—all the flowers           70   
Of every kind everywhere in this region      
For the next forty summers—call it forty.      
But I’m not selling those, I’m giving them,      
They never earned me so much as one cent:      
Money can’t pay me for the loss of them.           75   
No, the five hundred was the sum they named      
To pay the doctor’s bill and tide me over.      
It’s that or fight, and I don’t want to fight—      
I just want to get settled in my life,      
Such as it’s going to be, and know the worst,           80   
Or best—it may not be so bad. The firm      
Promise me all the shooks I want to nail.”      
   
“But what about your flora of the valley?”      
   
“You have me there. But that—you didn’t think      
That was worth money to me? Still I own           85   
It goes against me not to finish it      
For the friends it might bring me. By the way,      
I had a letter from Burroughs—did I tell you?—      
About my Cyprepedium reginæ;      
He says it’s not reported so far north.           90   
There! there’s the bell. He’s rung. But you go down      
And bring him up, and don’t let Mrs. Corbin.—      
Oh, well, we’ll soon be through with it. I’m tired.”      
   
Willis brought up besides the Boston lawyer      
A little barefoot girl who in the noise           95   
Of heavy footsteps in the old frame house,      
And baritone importance of the lawyer,      
Stood for a while unnoticed with her hands      
Shyly behind her.      
   
“Well, and how is Mister——”           100   
The lawyer was already in his satchel      
As if for papers that might bear the name      
He hadn’t at command. “You must excuse me,      
I dropped in at the mill and was detained.”      
   
“Looking round, I suppose,” said Willis.           105   
   
“Yes,      
Well, yes.”      
   
“Hear anything that might prove useful?”      
   
The Broken One saw Anne. “Why, here is Anne.      
What do you want, dear? Come, stand by the bed;           110   
Tell me what is it?” Anne just wagged her dress      
With both hands held behind her. “Guess,” she said.      
   
“Oh, guess which hand? My my! Once on a time      
I knew a lovely way to tell for certain      
By looking in the ears. But I forget it.           115   
Er, let me see. I think I’ll take the right.      
That’s sure to be right even if it’s wrong.      
Come, hold it out. Don’t change.—A Ram’s Horn orchid!      
A Ram’s Horn! What would I have got, I wonder,      
If I had chosen left. Hold out the left.           120   
Another Ram’s Horn! Where did you find those,      
Under what beech tree, on what woodchuck’s knoll?”      
   
Anne looked at the large lawyer at her side,      
And thought she wouldn’t venture on so much.      
   
“Were there no others?”           125   
   
“There were four or five.      
I knew you wouldn’t let me pick them all.”      
   
“I wouldn’t—so I wouldn’t. You’re the girl!      
You see Anne has her lesson learned by heart.”      
   
“I wanted there should be some there next year.”           130   
   
“Of course you did. You left the rest for seed,      
And for the backwoods woodchuck. You’re the girl!      
A Ram’s Horn orchid seedpod for a woodchuck      
Sounds something like. Better than farmer’s beans      
To a discriminating appetite,           135   
Though the Ram’s Horn is seldom to be had      
In bushel lots—doesn’t come on the market.      
But, Anne, I’m troubled; have you told me all?      
You’re hiding something. That’s as bad as lying.      
You ask this lawyer man. And it’s not safe           140   
With a lawyer at hand to find you out.      
Nothing is hidden from some people, Anne.      
You don’t tell me that where you found a Ram’s Horn      
You didn’t find a Yellow Lady’s Slipper.      
What did I tell you? What? I’d blush, I would.           145   
Don’t you defend yourself. If it was there,      
Where is it now, the Yellow Lady’s Slipper?”      
   
“Well, wait—it’s common—it’s too common.”      
   
“Common?      
The Purple Lady’s Slipper’s commoner.”           150   
   
“I didn’t bring a Purple Lady’s Slipper      
To You—to you I mean—they’re both too common.”      
   
The lawyer gave a laugh among his papers      
As if with some idea that she had scored.      
   
“I’ve broken Anne of gathering bouquets.           155   
It’s not fair to the child. It can’t be helped though:      
Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.      
Somehow I’ll make it right with her—she’ll see.      
She’s going to do my scouting in the field,      
Over stone walls and all along a wood           160   
And by a river bank for water flowers,      
The floating Heart, with small leaf like a heart,      
And at the sinus under water a fist      
Of little fingers all kept down but one,      
And that thrust up to blossom in the sun           165   
As if to say, ‘You! You’re the Heart’s desire.’      
Anne has a way with flowers to take the place      
Of that she’s lost: she goes down on one knee      
And lifts their faces by the chin to hers      
And says their names, and leaves them where they are.”           170   
   
The lawyer wore a watch the case of which      
Was cunningly devised to make a noise      
Like a small pistol when he snapped it shut      
At such a time as this. He snapped it now.      
   
“Well, Anne, go, dearie. Our affair will wait.           175   
The lawyer man is thinking of his train.      
He wants to give me lots and lots of money      
Before he goes, because I hurt myself,      
And it may take him I don’t know how long.      
But put our flowers in water first. Will, help her:           180   
The pitcher’s too full for her. There’s no cup?      
Just hook them on the inside of the pitcher.      
Now run.—Get out your documents! You see      
I have to keep on the good side of Anne.      
I’m a great boy to think of number one.           185   
And you can’t blame me in the place I’m in.      
Who will take care of my necessities      
Unless I do?”      
   
“A pretty interlude,”      
The lawyer said. “I’m sorry, but my train—           190   
Luckily terms are all agreed upon.      
You only have to sign your name. Right—there.”      
   
“You, Will, stop making faces. Come round here      
Where you can’t make them. What is it you want?      
I’ll put you out with Anne. Be good or go.”           195   
   
“You don’t mean you will sign that thing unread?”      
   
“Make yourself useful then, and read it for me.      
Isn’t it something I have seen before?”      
   
“You’ll find it is. Let your friend look at it.”      
   
“Yes, but all that takes time, and I’m as much           200   
In haste to get it over with as you.      
But read it, read it. That’s right, draw the curtain:      
Half the time I don’t know what’s troubling me.—      
What do you say, Will? Don’t you be a fool,      
You! crumpling folkses legal documents.           205   
Out with it if you’ve any real objection.”      
   
“Five hundred dollars!”      
   
“What would you think right?”      
   
“A thousand wouldn’t be a cent too much;      
You know it, Mr. Lawyer. The sin is           210   
Accepting anything before he knows      
Whether he’s ever going to walk again.      
It smells to me like a dishonest trick.”      
   
“I think—I think—from what I heard to-day—      
And saw myself—he would be ill-advised——”           215   
   
“What did you hear, for instance?” Willis said.      
   
“Now the place where the accident occurred——”      
   
The Broken One was twisted in his bed.      
“This is between you two apparently.      
Where I come in is what I want to know.           220   
You stand up to it like a pair of cocks.      
Go outdoors if you want to fight. Spare me.      
When you come back, I’ll have the papers signed.      
Will pencil do? Then, please, your fountain pen.      
One of you hold my head up from the pillow.”           225   
   
Willis flung off the bed. “I wash my hands—      
I’m no match—no, and don’t pretend to be——”      
   
The lawyer gravely capped his fountain pen.      
“You’re doing the wise thing: you won’t regret it.      
We’re very sorry for you.”           230   
   
Willis sneered:      
“Who’s we?—some stockholders in Boston?      
I’ll go outdoors, by gad, and won’t come back.”      
   
“Willis, bring Anne back with you when you come.      
Yes. Thanks for caring. Don’t mind Will: he’s savage.           235   
He thinks you ought to pay me for my flowers.      
You don’t know what I mean about the flowers.      
Don’t stop to try to now. You’ll miss your train.      
Good-bye.” He flung his arms around his face.

16. The Wood-pile   
   
   
OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day      
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.      
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.”      
The hard snow held me, save where now and then      
One foot went down. The view was all in lines           5   
Straight up and down of tall slim trees      
Too much alike to mark or name a place by      
So as to say for certain I was here      
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.      
A small bird flew before me. He was careful           10   
To put a tree between us when he lighted,      
And say no word to tell me who he was      
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.      
He thought that I was after him for a feather—      
The white one in his tail; like one who takes           15   
Everything said as personal to himself.      
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.      
And then there was a pile of wood for which      
I forgot him and let his little fear      
Carry him off the way I might have gone,           20   
Without so much as wishing him good-night.      
He went behind it to make his last stand.      
It was a cord of maple, cut and split      
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.      
And not another like it could I see.           25   
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.      
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,      
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.      
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it      
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis           30   
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.      
What held it though on one side was a tree      
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,      
These latter about to fall. I thought that only      
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks           35   
Could so forget his handiwork on which      
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,      
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace      
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could      
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.           40