Part 6

"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 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.

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 conjurer'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, Marne, _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 shan'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."

BROWN'S DESCENT OR, THE WILLY-NILLY SLIDE

Brown lived at such a lofty farm That everyone for miles could see His lantern when he did his chores In winter after half-past three.

And many must have seen him make His wild descent from there one night, 'Cross lots, 'cross walls, 'cross everything, Describing rings of lantern light.

Between the house and barn the gale Got him by something he had on And blew him out on the icy crust That cased the world, and he was gone!

Walls were all buried, trees were few: He saw no stay unless he stove A hole in somewhere with his heel. But though repeatedly he strove

And stamped and said things to himself, And sometimes something seemed to yield, He gained no foothold, but pursued His journey down from field to field.

Sometimes he came with arms outspread Like wings, revolving in the scene Upon his longer axis, and With no small dignity of mien.

Faster or slower as he chanced, Sitting or standing as he chose, According as he feared to risk His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,

He never let the lantern drop. And some exclaimed who saw afar The figures he described with it, "I wonder what those signals are

Brown makes at such an hour of night! He's celebrating something strange. I wonder if he's sold his farm, Or been made Master of the Grange."

He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked; He fell and made the lantern rattle (But saved the light from going out). So half-way down he fought the battle

Incredulous of his own bad luck. And then becoming reconciled To everything, he gave it up And came down like a coasting child.

"Well—-I-—be----" that was all he said, As standing in the river road, He looked back up the slippery slope (Two miles it was) to his abode.

Sometimes as an authority On motor-cars, I'm asked if I Should say our stock was petered out, And this is my sincere reply:

Yankees are what they always were. Don't think Brown ever gave up hope Of getting home again because He couldn't climb that slippery slope;

Or even thought of standing there Until the January thaw Should take the polish off the crust. He bowed with grace to natural law,

And then went round it on his feet, After the manner of our stock; Not much concerned for those to whom, At that particular time o'clock,

It must have looked as if the course He steered was really straight away From that which he was headed for—- Not much concerned for them, I say.

But now he snapped his eyes three times; Then shook his lantern, saying, "Ile's 'Bout out!" and took the long way home By road, a matter of several miles.

VIII

REVELATION

We make ourselves a place apart Behind light words that tease and flout, But oh, the agitated heart Till someone really find us out.

A pity if the case require (Or so we say) that in the end We speak the literal to inspire The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play At hide-and-seek to God afar, So all who hide too well away Must speak and tell us where they are.

STORM-FEAR

When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lower chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, The beast, "Come out! Come out!"—- It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, do! I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—- How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away, And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided.

BOND AND FREE

Love has earth to which she clings With hills and circling arms about—- Wall within wall to shut fear out. But Thought has need of no such things, For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.

On snow and sand and turf, I see Where Love has left a printed trace With straining in the world's embrace. And such is Love and glad to be. But thought has shaken his ankles free.

Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom And sits in Sirius' disc all night, Till day makes him retrace his flight, With smell of burning on every plume, Back past the sun to an earthly room.

His gains in heaven are what they are. Yet some say Love by being thrall And simply staying possesses all In several beauty that Thought fares far To find fused in another star.

FLOWER-GATHERING

I left you in the morning, And in the morning glow, You walked a way beside me To make me sad to go. Do you know me in the gloaming, Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming? Are you dumb because you know me not, Or dumb because you know?

All for me? And not a question For the faded flowers gay That could take me from beside you For the ages of a day? They are yours, and be the measure Of their worth for you to treasure, The measure of the little while That I've been long away.

RELUCTANCE

Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

INTO MY OWN

One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew—- Only more sure of all I thought was true.