FALLEN FENCESThe woods grew dark; black shadowsrockedAnd I could scarcely seeMy way along the old tote road,That long had seemed to meTo wind on aimlessly; but nowCame full to life; the rainWould soon strike down; ahead I sawA clearing, and a laneBetween gray, fallen fences andWide, grayer, grim stone walls;So grim and gray I shrank from thoughtOf weary, aching spalles.On stony knoll great aspens swayedAnd swung in browsing teethOf wind; slim, silvered yearlings shookAnd shivered underneath.Beyond, some ancient oak trees bentAnd wrangled over roofOf weatherbeaten house, and barnWhose sag bespoke no hoof.And ivy crawled up either endOf house, to chimney, whereIt lashed in futile anger atThe wind wolves of the air.I thought the house abandoned, andI ran to get inside,When suddenly the old front doorwas opened and flung wideAnd she stood there, with hand on knob,As I went swiftly in,Then closed the door most softly onThe storm and shrieking din.A space I stood and looked at her,So young; ’twas passing strangeThat fifty years or more had goneAnd brought no new style’s change.The sweetness, daintiness of herIn starched and dotted gownOf creamy whiteness, over hoops,With ruffles winding down!We had not much to say, and yetOf words I felt no lack;Her smiles slipped into dimples, stoppedA moment, then dropped back.I felt her pride of race; her tasteIn silken rug and chair,And quaintly fashioned furnitureOf patterns old and rare.On window sill a rose bush stood;’Twas bringing rose to bud;One full bloomed there but yesterday,Dropped petals, red as blood.Quite soon, she asked to be excusedFor just a moment, andWent out, returning with a trayIn either slender hand.My glance could not but linger onEach thin and lovely cup;“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighedThe while she raised it up.And when the storm was done and IArose, reluctantlyTo go, she too was loath to haveMe go, it seemed to me.When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,Upon the Corner Road,I went into the Upper FieldWhere Joe, round-shouldered, hoedPotatoes, culling them with hoeAnd practised, calloused hand,In rounded piles that brownly glowedUpon the fresh-turned land.“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girlWith beauty’s smiling charm,That lives beyond that hemlock growth,On that old grown-up farm?”Joe listened, while I told him whereI’d been that afternoon,Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,Before he spoke, a tune“They cum ter thet old place ter liveSome sixty years ago;Jest where they cum from, who they ware,Wy, no one got to know.“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’sRed racker an’ the gig;We never heard from him nor couldWe track the hoss or rig.“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ thenHe went ter see the Wife;He found her in thet settin’ room:She’d taken of her life.“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;Some say ’tis haunted,-butI ain’t no use fer foolishness,So all I say’s tut! tut!”WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
The woods grew dark; black shadowsrockedAnd I could scarcely seeMy way along the old tote road,That long had seemed to meTo wind on aimlessly; but nowCame full to life; the rainWould soon strike down; ahead I sawA clearing, and a laneBetween gray, fallen fences andWide, grayer, grim stone walls;So grim and gray I shrank from thoughtOf weary, aching spalles.On stony knoll great aspens swayedAnd swung in browsing teethOf wind; slim, silvered yearlings shookAnd shivered underneath.Beyond, some ancient oak trees bentAnd wrangled over roofOf weatherbeaten house, and barnWhose sag bespoke no hoof.And ivy crawled up either endOf house, to chimney, whereIt lashed in futile anger atThe wind wolves of the air.I thought the house abandoned, andI ran to get inside,When suddenly the old front doorwas opened and flung wideAnd she stood there, with hand on knob,As I went swiftly in,Then closed the door most softly onThe storm and shrieking din.A space I stood and looked at her,So young; ’twas passing strangeThat fifty years or more had goneAnd brought no new style’s change.The sweetness, daintiness of herIn starched and dotted gownOf creamy whiteness, over hoops,With ruffles winding down!We had not much to say, and yetOf words I felt no lack;Her smiles slipped into dimples, stoppedA moment, then dropped back.I felt her pride of race; her tasteIn silken rug and chair,And quaintly fashioned furnitureOf patterns old and rare.On window sill a rose bush stood;’Twas bringing rose to bud;One full bloomed there but yesterday,Dropped petals, red as blood.Quite soon, she asked to be excusedFor just a moment, andWent out, returning with a trayIn either slender hand.My glance could not but linger onEach thin and lovely cup;“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighedThe while she raised it up.And when the storm was done and IArose, reluctantlyTo go, she too was loath to haveMe go, it seemed to me.When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,Upon the Corner Road,I went into the Upper FieldWhere Joe, round-shouldered, hoedPotatoes, culling them with hoeAnd practised, calloused hand,In rounded piles that brownly glowedUpon the fresh-turned land.“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girlWith beauty’s smiling charm,That lives beyond that hemlock growth,On that old grown-up farm?”Joe listened, while I told him whereI’d been that afternoon,Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,Before he spoke, a tune“They cum ter thet old place ter liveSome sixty years ago;Jest where they cum from, who they ware,Wy, no one got to know.“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’sRed racker an’ the gig;We never heard from him nor couldWe track the hoss or rig.“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ thenHe went ter see the Wife;He found her in thet settin’ room:She’d taken of her life.“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;Some say ’tis haunted,-butI ain’t no use fer foolishness,So all I say’s tut! tut!”
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON