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diff --git a/old/nobos10.txt b/old/nobos10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2181fd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/nobos10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2495 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of North of Boston, by Robert Frost +#2 in our series by Robert Frost + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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F. +THIS BOOK OF PEOPLE + + + THE PASTURE + I'M going out to clean the pasture spring; + I'll only stop to rake the leaves away + (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): + I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. + I'm going out to fetch the little calf + That's standing by the mother. It's so young, + It totters when she licks it with her tongue. + I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. + + +CONTENTS + Mending Wall + The Death of the Hired Man + The Mountain + A Hundred Collars + Home Burial + The Black Cottage + Blueberries + A Servant to Servants + After Apple-picking + The Code + The Generations of Men + The Housekeeper + The Fear + The Self-seeker + The Wood-pile + Good Hours + +Mending Wall + + SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall, + That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, + And spills the upper boulders in the sun; + And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. + The work of hunters is another thing: + I have come after them and made repair + Where they have left not one stone on a stone, + But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, + To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, + No one has seen them made or heard them made, + But at spring mending-time we find them there. + I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; + And on a day we meet to walk the line + And set the wall between us once again. + We keep the wall between us as we go. + To each the boulders that have fallen to each. + And some are loaves and some so nearly balls + We have to use a spell to make them balance: + "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" + We wear our fingers rough with handling them. + Oh, just another kind of out-door game, + One on a side. It comes to little more: + There where it is we do not need the wall: + He is all pine and I am apple orchard. + My apple trees will never get across + And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. + He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." + Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder + If I could put a notion in his head: + "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it + Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. + Before I built a wall I'd ask to know + What I was walling in or walling out, + And to whom I was like to give offence. + Something there is that doesn't love a wall, + That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, + But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather + He said it for himself. I see him there + Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top + In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. + He moves in darkness as it seems to me, + Not of woods only and the shade of trees. + He will not go behind his father's saying, + And he likes having thought of it so well + He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours." + +The Death of the Hired Man + + MARY sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table + Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, + She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage + To meet him in the doorway with the news + And put him on his guard. "Silas is back." + She pushed him outward with her through the door + And shut it after her. "Be kind," she said. + She took the market things from Warren's arms + And set them on the porch, then drew him down + To sit beside her on the wooden steps. + "When was I ever anything but kind to him? + But I'll not have the fellow back," he said. + "I told him so last haying, didn't I? + 'If he left then,' I said, 'that ended it.' + What good is he? Who else will harbour him + At his age for the little he can do? + What help he is there's no depending on. + Off he goes always when I need him most. + 'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, + Enough at least to buy tobacco with, + So he won't have to beg and be beholden.' + 'All right,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay + Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.' + 'Someone else can.' 'Then someone else will have to.' + I shouldn't mind his bettering himself + If that was what it was. You can be certain, + When he begins like that, there's someone at him + Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,-- + In haying time, when any help is scarce. + In winter he comes back to us. I'm done." + "Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you," Mary said. + "I want him to: he'll have to soon or late." + "He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove. + When I came up from Rowe's I found him here, + Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep, + A miserable sight, and frightening, too-- + You needn't smile--I didn't recognise him-- + I wasn't looking for him--and he's changed. + Wait till you see." + "Where did you say he'd been?" + "He didn't say. I dragged him to the house, + And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke. + I tried to make him talk about his travels. + Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off." + "What did he say? Did he say anything?" + "But little." + "Anything? Mary, confess + He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me." + "Warren!" + "But did he? I just want to know." + "Of course he did. What would you have him say? + Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man + Some humble way to save his self-respect. + He added, if you really care to know, + He meant to clear the upper pasture, too. + That sounds like something you have heard before? + Warren, I wish you could have heard the way + He jumbled everything. I stopped to look + Two or three times--he made me feel so queer-- + To see if he was talking in his sleep. + He ran on Harold Wilson--you remember-- + The boy you had in haying four years since. + He's finished school, and teaching in his college. + Silas declares you'll have to get him back. + He says they two will make a team for work: + Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! + The way he mixed that in with other things. + He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft + On education--you know how they fought + All through July under the blazing sun, + Silas up on the cart to build the load, + Harold along beside to pitch it on." + "Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot." + "Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. + You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger! + Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him. + After so many years he still keeps finding + Good arguments he sees he might have used. + I sympathise. I know just how it feels + To think of the right thing to say too late. + Harold's associated in his mind with Latin. + He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying + He studied Latin like the violin + Because he liked it--that an argument! + He said he couldn't make the boy believe + He could find water with a hazel prong-- + Which showed how much good school had ever done him. + He wanted to go over that. But most of all + He thinks if he could have another chance + To teach him how to build a load of hay----" + "I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment. + He bundles every forkful in its place, + And tags and numbers it for future reference, + So he can find and easily dislodge it + In the unloading. Silas does that well. + He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests. + You never see him standing on the hay + He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself." + "He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be + Some good perhaps to someone in the world. + He hates to see a boy the fool of books. + Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, + And nothing to look backward to with pride, + And nothing to look forward to with hope, + So now and never any different." + Part of a moon was falling down the west, + Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. + Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw + And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand + Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, + Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, + As if she played unheard the tenderness + That wrought on him beside her in the night. + "Warren," she said, "he has come home to die: + You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time." + "Home," he mocked gently. + "Yes, what else but home? + It all depends on what you mean by home. + Of course he's nothing to us, any more + Than was the hound that came a stranger to us + Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail." + "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, + They have to take you in." + "I should have called it + Something you somehow haven't to deserve." + Warren leaned out and took a step or two, + Picked up a little stick, and brought it back + And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. + "Silas has better claim on us you think + Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles + As the road winds would bring him to his door. + Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day. + Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich, + A somebody--director in the bank." + "He never told us that." + "We know it though." + "I think his brother ought to help, of course. + I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right + To take him in, and might be willing to-- + He may be better than appearances. + But have some pity on Silas. Do you think + If he'd had any pride in claiming kin + Or anything he looked for from his brother, + He'd keep so still about him all this time?" + "I wonder what's between them." + "I can tell you. + Silas is what he is--we wouldn't mind him-- + But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide. + He never did a thing so very bad. + He don't know why he isn't quite as good + As anyone. He won't be made ashamed + To please his brother, worthless though he is." + "I can't think Si ever hurt anyone." + "No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay + And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back. + He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge. + You must go in and see what you can do. + I made the bed up for him there to-night. + You'll be surprised at him--how much he's broken. + His working days are done; I'm sure of it." + "I'd not be in a hurry to say that." + "I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself. + But, Warren, please remember how it is: + He's come to help you ditch the meadow. + He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him. + He may not speak of it, and then he may. + I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud + Will hit or miss the moon." + It hit the moon. + Then there were three there, making a dim row, + The moon, the little silver cloud, and she. + Warren returned--too soon, it seemed to her, + Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited. + "Warren," she questioned. + "Dead," was all he answered. + +The Mountain + + THE mountain held the town as in a shadow + I saw so much before I slept there once: + I noticed that I missed stars in the west, + Where its black body cut into the sky. + Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall + Behind which I was sheltered from a wind. + And yet between the town and it I found, + When I walked forth at dawn to see new things, + Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields. + The river at the time was fallen away, + And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones; + But the signs showed what it had done in spring; + Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass + Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark. + I crossed the river and swung round the mountain. + And there I met a man who moved so slow + With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart, + It seemed no hand to stop him altogether. + "What town is this?" I asked. + "This? Lunenburg." + Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn, + Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain, + But only felt at night its shadowy presence. + "Where is your village? Very far from here?" + "There is no village--only scattered farms. + We were but sixty voters last election. + We can't in nature grow to many more: + That thing takes all the room!" He moved his goad. + The mountain stood there to be pointed at. + Pasture ran up the side a little way, + And then there was a wall of trees with trunks: + After that only tops of trees, and cliffs + Imperfectly concealed among the leaves. + A dry ravine emerged from under boughs + Into the pasture. + "That looks like a path. + Is that the way to reach the top from here?-- + Not for this morning, but some other time: + I must be getting back to breakfast now." + "I don't advise your trying from this side. + There is no proper path, but those that have + Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd's. + That's five miles back. You can't mistake the place: + They logged it there last winter some way up. + I'd take you, but I'm bound the other way." + "You've never climbed it?" + "I've been on the sides + Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There's a brook + That starts up on it somewhere--I've heard say + Right on the top, tip-top--a curious thing. + But what would interest you about the brook, + It's always cold in summer, warm in winter. + One of the great sights going is to see + It steam in winter like an ox's breath, + Until the bushes all along its banks + Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles-- + You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!" + "There ought to be a view around the world + From such a mountain--if it isn't wooded + Clear to the top." I saw through leafy screens + Great granite terraces in sun and shadow, + Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up-- + With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet; + Or turn and sit on and look out and down, + With little ferns in crevices at his elbow. + "As to that I can't say. But there's the spring, + Right on the summit, almost like a fountain. + That ought to be worth seeing." + "If it's there. + You never saw it?" + "I guess there's no doubt + About its being there. I never saw it. + It may not be right on the very top: + It wouldn't have to be a long way down + To have some head of water from above, + And a good distance down might not be noticed + By anyone who'd come a long way up. + One time I asked a fellow climbing it + To look and tell me later how it was." + "What did he say?" + "He said there was a lake + Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top." + "But a lake's different. What about the spring?" + "He never got up high enough to see. + That's why I don't advise your trying this side. + He tried this side. I've always meant to go + And look myself, but you know how it is: + It doesn't seem so much to climb a mountain + You've worked around the foot of all your life. + What would I do? Go in my overalls, + With a big stick, the same as when the cows + Haven't come down to the bars at milking time? + Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear? + 'Twouldn't seem real to climb for climbing it." + "I shouldn't climb it if I didn't want to-- + Not for the sake of climbing. What's its name?" + "We call it Hor: I don't know if that's right." + "Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?" + "You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg, + But it's as much as ever you can do, + The boundary lines keep in so close to it. + Hor is the township, and the township's Hor-- + And a few houses sprinkled round the foot, + Like boulders broken off the upper cliff, + Rolled out a little farther than the rest." + "Warm in December, cold in June, you say?" + "I don't suppose the water's changed at all. + You and I know enough to know it's warm + Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. + But all the fun's in how you say a thing." + "You've lived here all your life?" + "Ever since Hor + Was no bigger than a----" What, I did not hear. + He drew the oxen toward him with light touches + Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank, + Gave them their marching orders and was moving. + +A Hundred Collars + + LANCASTER bore him--such a little town, + Such a great man. It doesn't see him often + Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead + And sends the children down there with their mother + To run wild in the summer--a little wild. + Sometimes he joins them for a day or two + And sees old friends he somehow can't get near. + They meet him in the general store at night, + Pre-occupied with formidable mail, + Rifling a printed letter as he talks. + They seem afraid. He wouldn't have it so: + Though a great scholar, he's a democrat, + If not at heart, at least on principle. + Lately when coming up to Lancaster + His train being late he missed another train + And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction + After eleven o'clock at night. Too tired + To think of sitting such an ordeal out, + He turned to the hotel to find a bed. + "No room," the night clerk said. "Unless----" + Woodsville's a place of shrieks and wandering lamps + And cars that shook and rattle--and one hotel. + "You say 'unless.'" + "Unless you wouldn't mind + Sharing a room with someone else." + "Who is it?" + "A man." + "So I should hope. What kind of man?" + "I know him: he's all right. A man's a man. + Separate beds of course you understand." + The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. + "Who's that man sleeping in the office chair? + Has he had the refusal of my chance?" + "He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. + What do you say?" + "I'll have to have a bed." + The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs + And down a narrow passage full of doors, + At the last one of which he knocked and entered. + "Lafe, here's a fellow wants to share your room." + "Show him this way. I'm not afraid of him. + I'm not so drunk I can't take care of myself." + The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. + "This will be yours. Good-night," he said, and went. + "Lafe was the name, I think?" + "Yes, Layfayette. + You got it the first time. And yours?" + "Magoon. + Doctor Magoon." + "A Doctor?" + "Well, a teacher." + "Professor Square-the-circle-till-you're-tired? + Hold on, there's something I don't think of now + That I had on my mind to ask the first + Man that knew anything I happened in with. + I'll ask you later--don't let me forget it." + The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. + A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, + He sat there creased and shining in the light, + Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. + "I'm moving into a size-larger shirt. + I've felt mean lately; mean's no name for it. + I just found what the matter was to-night: + I've been a-choking like a nursery tree + When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. + I blamed it on the hot spell we've been having. + 'Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, + Not liking to own up I'd grown a size. + Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?" + The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. + "Oh--ah--fourteen--fourteen." + "Fourteen! You say so! + I can remember when I wore fourteen. + And come to think I must have back at home + More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. + Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. + They're yours and welcome; let me send them to you. + What makes you stand there on one leg like that? + You're not much furtherer than where Kike left you. + You act as if you wished you hadn't come. + Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous." + The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, + And propped himself at bay against a pillow. + "Not that way, with your shoes on Kike's white bed. + You can't rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off." + "Don't touch me, please--I say, don't touch me, please. + I'll not be put to bed by you, my man." + "Just as you say. Have it your own way then. + 'My man' is it? You talk like a professor. + Speaking of who's afraid of who, however, + I'm thinking I have more to lose than you + If anything should happen to be wrong. + Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! + Let's have a show down as an evidence + Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. + Come, if you're not afraid." + "I'm not afraid. + There's five: that's all I carry." + "I can search you? + Where are you moving over to? Stay still. + You'd better tuck your money under you + And sleep on it the way I always do + When I'm with people I don't trust at night." + "Will you believe me if I put it there + Right on the counterpane--that I do trust you?" + "You'd say so, Mister Man.--I'm a collector. + My ninety isn't mine--you won't think that. + I pick it up a dollar at a time + All round the country for the Weekly News, + Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?" + "Known it since I was young." + "Then you know me. + Now we are getting on together--talking. + I'm sort of Something for it at the front. + My business is to find what people want: + They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. + Fairbanks, he says to me--he's editor-- + Feel out the public sentiment--he says. + A good deal comes on me when all is said. + The only trouble is we disagree + In politics: I'm Vermont Democrat-- + You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; + The News has always been Republican. + Fairbanks, he says to me, 'Help us this year,' + Meaning by us their ticket. 'No,' I says, + 'I can't and won't. You've been in long enough: + It's time you turned around and boosted us. + You'll have to pay me more than ten a week + If I'm expected to elect Bill Taft. + I doubt if I could do it anyway.'" + "You seem to shape the paper's policy." + "You see I'm in with everybody, know 'em all. + I almost know their farms as well as they do." + "You drive around? It must be pleasant work." + "It's business, but I can't say it's not fun. + What I like best's the lay of different farms, + Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, + Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. + I like to find folks getting out in spring, + Raking the dooryard, working near the house. + Later they get out further in the fields. + Everything's shut sometimes except the barn; + The family's all away in some back meadow. + There's a hay load a-coming--when it comes. + And later still they all get driven in: + The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches + Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees + To whips and poles. There's nobody about. + The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. + And I lie back and ride. I take the reins + Only when someone's coming, and the mare + Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. + I've spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. + She's got so she turns in at every house + As if she had some sort of curvature, + No matter if I have no errand there. + She thinks I'm sociable. I maybe am. + It's seldom I get down except for meals, though. + Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, + All in a family row down to the youngest." + "One would suppose they might not be as glad + To see you as you are to see them." + "Oh, + Because I want their dollar. I don't want + Anything they've not got. I never dun. + I'm there, and they can pay me if they like. + I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. + Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. + I drink out of the bottle--not your style. + Mayn't I offer you----?" + "No, no, no, thank you." + "Just as you say. Here's looking at you then.-- + And now I'm leaving you a little while. + You'll rest easier when I'm gone, perhaps-- + Lie down--let yourself go and get some sleep. + But first--let's see--what was I going to ask you? + Those collars--who shall I address them to, + Suppose you aren't awake when I come back?" + "Really, friend, I can't let you. You--may need them." + "Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style." + "But really I--I have so many collars." + "I don't know who I rather would have have them. + They're only turning yellow where they are. + But you're the doctor as the saying is. + I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me: + I've just begun the night. You get some sleep. + I'll knock so-fashion and peep round the door + When I come back so you'll know who it is. + There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people. + I don't want you should shoot me in the head. + What am I doing carrying off this bottle? + There now, you get some sleep." + He shut the door. + The Doctor slid a little down the pillow. + +Home Burial + + HE saw her from the bottom of the stairs + Before she saw him. She was starting down, + Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. + She took a doubtful step and then undid it + To raise herself and look again. He spoke + Advancing toward her: "What is it you see + From up there always--for I want to know." + She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, + And her face changed from terrified to dull. + He said to gain time: "What is it you see," + Mounting until she cowered under him. + "I will find out now--you must tell me, dear." + She, in her place, refused him any help + With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. + She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, + Blind creature; and a while he didn't see. + But at last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh." + "What is it--what?" she said. + "Just that I see." + "You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is." + "The wonder is I didn't see at once. + I never noticed it from here before. + I must be wonted to it--that's the reason. + The little graveyard where my people are! + So small the window frames the whole of it. + Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? + There are three stones of slate and one of marble, + Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight + On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those. + But I understand: it is not the stones, + But the child's mound----" + "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried. + She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm + That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; + And turned on him with such a daunting look, + He said twice over before he knew himself: + "Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?" + "Not you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! + I must get out of here. I must get air. + I don't know rightly whether any man can." + "Amy! Don't go to someone else this time. + Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs." + He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. + "There's something I should like to ask you, dear." + "You don't know how to ask it." + "Help me, then." + Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. + "My words are nearly always an offence. + I don't know how to speak of anything + So as to please you. But I might be taught + I should suppose. I can't say I see how. + A man must partly give up being a man + With women-folk. We could have some arrangement + By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off + Anything special you're a-mind to name. + Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love. + Two that don't love can't live together without them. + But two that do can't live together with them." + She moved the latch a little. "Don't--don't go. + Don't carry it to someone else this time. + Tell me about it if it's something human. + Let me into your grief. I'm not so much + Unlike other folks as your standing there + Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. + I do think, though, you overdo it a little. + What was it brought you up to think it the thing + To take your mother-loss of a first child + So inconsolably--in the face of love. + You'd think his memory might be satisfied----" + "There you go sneering now!" + "I'm not, I'm not! + You make me angry. I'll come down to you. + God, what a woman! And it's come to this, + A man can't speak of his own child that's dead." + "You can't because you don't know how. + If you had any feelings, you that dug + With your own hand--how could you?--his little grave; + I saw you from that very window there, + Making the gravel leap and leap in air, + Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly + And roll back down the mound beside the hole. + I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. + And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs + To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. + Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice + Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, + But I went near to see with my own eyes. + You could sit there with the stains on your shoes + Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave + And talk about your everyday concerns. + You had stood the spade up against the wall + Outside there in the entry, for I saw it." + "I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. + I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed." + "I can repeat the very words you were saying. + 'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day + Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.' + Think of it, talk like that at such a time! + What had how long it takes a birch to rot + To do with what was in the darkened parlour. + You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go + With anyone to death, comes so far short + They might as well not try to go at all. + No, from the time when one is sick to death, + One is alone, and he dies more alone. + Friends make pretence of following to the grave, + But before one is in it, their minds are turned + And making the best of their way back to life + And living people, and things they understand. + But the world's evil. I won't have grief so + If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!" + "There, you have said it all and you feel better. + You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. + The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up. + Amy! There's someone coming down the road!" + "You--oh, you think the talk is all. I must go-- + Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you----" + "If--you--do!" She was opening the door wider. + Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. + I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will!--" + +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, + 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. + "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. + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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; + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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 + 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 + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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? + 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, + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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 + 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 + 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, + Fierce heads looked out; small bodies pivoted. + We rose to go. Sunset blazed on the windows. + +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! + 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 + 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 + 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 + 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, + 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. + 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 + 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?" + "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, + 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, + 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, + 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 + 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; + 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 + 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. + 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, + 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, + 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 + 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 + 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-- + 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." + +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 + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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, + 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! + 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, + 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, + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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, + 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 + 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, + 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. + 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,-- + 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. + 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, + 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 + 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 + 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; + 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-- + "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. + 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 + 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? + 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. + 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. + 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. + I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway. + I'd rather you'd not go unless you must. + +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. + 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 + 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, + 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. + 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 + 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, + 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 + 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 + Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, + Or just some human sleep. + +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 + 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?" + "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. + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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, + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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!' + 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, + 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 + 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. + 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?' + '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. + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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: + 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?" + "Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right." + +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, + 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 + 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 + 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. + 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 + 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 + 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. + "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 + 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, + 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: + 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." + "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." + "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. + 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." + "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, + 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. + 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." + "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 + 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? + 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?" + "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, + 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,-- + 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." + "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-- + 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." + "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 + 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, + 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." + "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. + 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. + 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." + "I'll hardly breathe." + "The voices seem to say----" + "I'm waiting." + "Don't! The voices seem to say: + Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid + 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, + 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 + 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, + 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. + 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." + "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. + 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, + 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. + 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 + 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." + "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?" + "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 + 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. + +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. + 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?" + "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?" + "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. + 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." + "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!" + "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, + 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: + 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? + 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, + 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. + 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. + 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-- + 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. + 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." + "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, + 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: + 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. + 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. + 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." + "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, + 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. + 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: + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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." + "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: + 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 + 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." + "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?" + "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-- + 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. + 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----? + "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." + "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, + 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. + 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." + "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!" + "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. + 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 + 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. + 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 + 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. + 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." + She raised her voice against the closing door: + "Who wants to hear your news, you--dreadful fool?" + +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, + 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 + 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!" + "--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 + 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-- + 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 + 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----?" + "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. + "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. + 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. + 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." + "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! + 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, + 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. + "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: + 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. + 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. + "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 + 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-- + 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. + 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. + +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; + 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. + 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?" + "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." + "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, + 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 + 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. + 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. + 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, + 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. + 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. + 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. + 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 + 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 + 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. + 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, + 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 + 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. + 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 + 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----" + 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. + "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; + 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. + 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. + 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?" + "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." + "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, + 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 + 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. + 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." + "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. + 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 + 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 + 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." + 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. + 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: + 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. + 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-- + 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." + "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 + 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. + 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 + 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----" + "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. + 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." + 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." + 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. + 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. + +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 + 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 + 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 + 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, + 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. + 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 + 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 + 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. + +Good Hours + + I HAD for my winter evening walk-- + No one at all with whom to talk, + But I had the cottages in a row + Up to their shining eyes in snow. + And I thought I had the folk within: + I had the sound of a violin; + I had a glimpse through curtain laces + Of youthful forms and youthful faces. + I had such company outward bound. + I went till there were no cottages found. + I turned and repented, but coming back + I saw no window but that was black. + Over the snow my creaking feet + Disturbed the slumbering village street + Like profanation, by your leave, + At ten o'clock of a winter eve. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of North of Boston, by Robert Frost + diff --git a/old/nobos10.zip b/old/nobos10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa7b9de --- /dev/null +++ b/old/nobos10.zip |