THE LONG BET
Themountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags; a little bridgeIs there that hasn’t yet dropped through.I don’t know how it is with you,But every time I see that shackIt gets me somehow—calls me backAnd tries to speak. The caved-in shedWhere some poor nag was fedHis mighty little, and the rakesUpstanding still—and scattered shakes,Tell how they labored to deceiveThe man with hope. In make-believeThey played a barn—and over thereThe several-acre clearing whereA few anæmic blades of grainStill volunteer; but ohThat Potter’s Field where growIn broken rows of twos and threesThe little, weazened apple-trees.Mere stalks are some, that diedBeside the stakes where they were tied,While others held tenaciouslyTheir stunted semblance to a tree—Their dangling leaves are sparseAnd bloodless—so the farceGoes on. I know he stood that dayHe planted them and looked awayAcross his claim—beyond that drawWhere all the ghost-trees are, and sawThem fade away and in their steadA smiling orchard with its redFruit-laden boughs. At any rateHe likely staked with fateWhat all he had—all he could get,And made his one long bet.He staked the woman too—That calico of faded blueStill waving by the kitchen door,The shreds of curtains on the fourWee windows on the front, proclaimThere was a woman in the game.Lord, how he must have strungHer on—to drag her up amongThose snags! And what it must have beenIn winter! Think of living inThat tumbly hut—eight feet of snowOutside—and ten below.Suppose the woman took her bed,Caved in, just like the shedIs now—upon her back laid flat,(The work alone would tend to that).
Themountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags; a little bridgeIs there that hasn’t yet dropped through.I don’t know how it is with you,But every time I see that shackIt gets me somehow—calls me backAnd tries to speak. The caved-in shedWhere some poor nag was fedHis mighty little, and the rakesUpstanding still—and scattered shakes,Tell how they labored to deceiveThe man with hope. In make-believeThey played a barn—and over thereThe several-acre clearing whereA few anæmic blades of grainStill volunteer; but ohThat Potter’s Field where growIn broken rows of twos and threesThe little, weazened apple-trees.Mere stalks are some, that diedBeside the stakes where they were tied,While others held tenaciouslyTheir stunted semblance to a tree—Their dangling leaves are sparseAnd bloodless—so the farceGoes on. I know he stood that dayHe planted them and looked awayAcross his claim—beyond that drawWhere all the ghost-trees are, and sawThem fade away and in their steadA smiling orchard with its redFruit-laden boughs. At any rateHe likely staked with fateWhat all he had—all he could get,And made his one long bet.He staked the woman too—That calico of faded blueStill waving by the kitchen door,The shreds of curtains on the fourWee windows on the front, proclaimThere was a woman in the game.Lord, how he must have strungHer on—to drag her up amongThose snags! And what it must have beenIn winter! Think of living inThat tumbly hut—eight feet of snowOutside—and ten below.Suppose the woman took her bed,Caved in, just like the shedIs now—upon her back laid flat,(The work alone would tend to that).
Themountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags; a little bridgeIs there that hasn’t yet dropped through.I don’t know how it is with you,But every time I see that shackIt gets me somehow—calls me backAnd tries to speak. The caved-in shedWhere some poor nag was fedHis mighty little, and the rakesUpstanding still—and scattered shakes,Tell how they labored to deceiveThe man with hope. In make-believeThey played a barn—and over thereThe several-acre clearing whereA few anæmic blades of grainStill volunteer; but ohThat Potter’s Field where growIn broken rows of twos and threesThe little, weazened apple-trees.
Mere stalks are some, that diedBeside the stakes where they were tied,While others held tenaciouslyTheir stunted semblance to a tree—Their dangling leaves are sparseAnd bloodless—so the farceGoes on. I know he stood that dayHe planted them and looked awayAcross his claim—beyond that drawWhere all the ghost-trees are, and sawThem fade away and in their steadA smiling orchard with its redFruit-laden boughs. At any rateHe likely staked with fateWhat all he had—all he could get,And made his one long bet.
He staked the woman too—That calico of faded blueStill waving by the kitchen door,The shreds of curtains on the fourWee windows on the front, proclaimThere was a woman in the game.Lord, how he must have strungHer on—to drag her up amongThose snags! And what it must have beenIn winter! Think of living inThat tumbly hut—eight feet of snowOutside—and ten below.Suppose the woman took her bed,Caved in, just like the shedIs now—upon her back laid flat,(The work alone would tend to that).
The mountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags.
The mountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags.
The mountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags.
The mountain road will lead you pastThe shack. It’s easily told, the lastOld tumbledown this side the ridgeOf snags.
Of course they had a kid.The broken go-cart shows they did,It’s shy a wheel and tongue—You’ll find it there amongThe weeds just by the front door stoop.It’s ten to one he’d have the croupAnd scarcely likely he’d get offWithout the whooping-cough.Good God! It’s fiendish anywhere,But think of whooping-cough up thereIn winter! All that gloom—A little roomWith stuffy stove and candle-light,And whooping, whooping through the night.And when the man gave inAt last and found he couldn’t win,Found apples couldn’t keep aliveOr thriveOr come to any goodOne bit more than a human couldUp there, and when the dayCame that they went away—Packed up their leavings in a loadAnd joggled down the mountain road,I’ll bet they both looked backAnd cursed that shack.And it is hard to thinkThat even that rose-pinkOf early sunrise on the topOf that old mountain had one dropOf beauty left for them. It mightBe that the whiteGhost-trees bespoke their moodOf helplessness and solitudeThat day. It’s easily told,The oldRamshackle place this side the ridgeOf snags—the little bridgeThat hasn’t yet dropped through,Will point it out to you.
Of course they had a kid.The broken go-cart shows they did,It’s shy a wheel and tongue—You’ll find it there amongThe weeds just by the front door stoop.It’s ten to one he’d have the croupAnd scarcely likely he’d get offWithout the whooping-cough.Good God! It’s fiendish anywhere,But think of whooping-cough up thereIn winter! All that gloom—A little roomWith stuffy stove and candle-light,And whooping, whooping through the night.And when the man gave inAt last and found he couldn’t win,Found apples couldn’t keep aliveOr thriveOr come to any goodOne bit more than a human couldUp there, and when the dayCame that they went away—Packed up their leavings in a loadAnd joggled down the mountain road,I’ll bet they both looked backAnd cursed that shack.And it is hard to thinkThat even that rose-pinkOf early sunrise on the topOf that old mountain had one dropOf beauty left for them. It mightBe that the whiteGhost-trees bespoke their moodOf helplessness and solitudeThat day. It’s easily told,The oldRamshackle place this side the ridgeOf snags—the little bridgeThat hasn’t yet dropped through,Will point it out to you.
Of course they had a kid.The broken go-cart shows they did,It’s shy a wheel and tongue—You’ll find it there amongThe weeds just by the front door stoop.It’s ten to one he’d have the croupAnd scarcely likely he’d get offWithout the whooping-cough.Good God! It’s fiendish anywhere,But think of whooping-cough up thereIn winter! All that gloom—A little roomWith stuffy stove and candle-light,And whooping, whooping through the night.
And when the man gave inAt last and found he couldn’t win,Found apples couldn’t keep aliveOr thriveOr come to any goodOne bit more than a human couldUp there, and when the dayCame that they went away—Packed up their leavings in a loadAnd joggled down the mountain road,I’ll bet they both looked backAnd cursed that shack.And it is hard to thinkThat even that rose-pinkOf early sunrise on the topOf that old mountain had one dropOf beauty left for them. It mightBe that the whiteGhost-trees bespoke their moodOf helplessness and solitudeThat day. It’s easily told,The oldRamshackle place this side the ridgeOf snags—the little bridgeThat hasn’t yet dropped through,Will point it out to you.