MAPLE

MAPLEHer teacher’s certainty it must be MabelMade Maple first take notice of her name.She asked her father and he told her “Maple—Maple is right.”“But teacher told the schoolThere’s no such name.”“Teachers don’t know as muchAs fathers about children, you tell teacher.You tell her that it’s M-A-P-L-E.You ask her if she knows a maple tree.Well, you were named after a maple tree.Your mother named you. You and she just sawEach other in passing in the room upstairs,One coming this way into life, and oneGoing the other out of life—you know?So you can’t have much recollection of her.She had been having a long look at you.She put her finger in your cheek so hardIt must have made your dimple there, and said,‘Maple.’ I said it too: ‘Yes, for her name.’She nodded. So we’re sure there’s no mistake.I don’t know what she wanted it to mean,But it seems like some word she left to bid youBe a good girl—be like a maple tree.How like a maple tree’s for us to guess.Or for a little girl to guess sometime.Not now—at least I shouldn’t try too hard now.By and by I will tell you all I knowAbout the different trees, and something, too,About your mother that perhaps may help.”Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.Luckily all she wanted of her name thenWas to rebuke her teacher with it next day,And give the teacher a scare as from her father.Anything further had been wasted on her,Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.She would forget it. She all but forgot it.What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,And came so near death in the dark of years,That when it woke and came to life againThe flower was different from the parent seed.It came back vaguely at the glass one day,As she stood saying her name over aloud,Striking it gently across her lowered eyesTo make it go well with the way she looked.What was it about her name? Its strangeness layIn having too much meaning. Other names,As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,But hadn’t as it went. (She knew a Rose.)This difference from other names it wasMade people notice it—and notice her.(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)Her problem was to find out what it askedIn dress or manner of the girl who bore it.If she could form some notion of her mother—What she had thought was lovely, and what good.This was her mother’s childhood home;The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the end it presented to the road.(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)Her mother’s bedroom was her father’s still,Where she could watch her mother’s picture fading.Once she found for a bookmark in the BibleA maple leaf she thought must have been laidIn wait for her there. She read every wordOf the two pages it was pressed betweenAs if it was her mother speaking to her.But forgot to put the leaf back in closingAnd lost the place never to read again.She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.So she looked for herself, as everyoneLooks for himself, more or less outwardly.And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,May still have been what led her on to read,And think a little, and get some city schooling.She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand mayHave had to do with it—she sometimes wondered.So, till she found herself in a strange placeFor the name Maple to have brought her to,Taking dictation on a paper pad,And in the pauses when she raised her eyesWatching out of a nineteenth story windowAn airship laboring with unship-like motionAnd a vague all-disturbing roar above the riverBeyond the highest city built with hands.Someone was saying in such natural tonesShe almost wrote the words down on her knee,“Do you know you remind me of a tree—A maple tree?”“Because my name is Maple?”“Isn’t it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.”“No doubt you’ve heard the office call me Mabel.I have to let them call me what they like.”They were both stirred that he should have divinedWithout the name her personal mystery.It made it seem as if there must be somethingShe must have missed herself. So they were married,And took the fancy home with them to live by.They went on pilgrimage once to her father’s(The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the side it presented to the road)To see if there was not some special treeShe might have overlooked. They could find none,Not so much as a single tree for shade,Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.She told him of the bookmark maple leafIn the big Bible, and all she rememberedOf the place marked with it—“Wave offering,Something about wave offering, it said.”“You’ve never asked your father outright, have you?”“I have, and been put off sometime, I think.”(This was her faded memory of the wayOnce long ago her father had put himself off.)“Because no telling but it may have beenSomething between your father and your motherNot meant for us at all.”“Not meant for me?Where would the fairness be in giving meA name to carry for life, and never knowThe secret of?”“And then it may have beenSomething a father couldn’t tell a daughterAs well as could a mother. And againIt may have been their one lapse into fancy’Twould be too bad to make him sorry forBy bringing it up to him when he was too old.Your father feels us round him with our questing,And holds us off unnecessarily,As if he didn’t know what little thingMight lead us on to a discovery.It was as personal as he could beAbout the way he saw it was with youTo say your mother, had she lived, would beAs far again as from being born to bearing.”“Just one look more with what you say in mind,And I give up”; which last look came to nothing.But, though they now gave up the search forever,They clung to what one had seen in the otherBy inspiration. It proved there was something.They kept their thoughts away from when the maplesStood uniform in buckets, and the steamOf sap and snow rolled off the sugar house.When they made her related to the maples,It was the tree the autumn fire ran throughAnd swept of leathern leaves, but left the barkUnscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.They always took their holidays in autumn.Once they came on a maple in a glade,Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,And every leaf of foliage she’d wornLaid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.But its age kept them from considering this one.Twenty-five years ago at Maple’s namingIt hardly could have been a two-leaved seedlingThe next cow might have licked up out at pasture.Could it have been another maple like it?They hovered for a moment near discovery,Figurative enough to see the symbol,But lacking faith in anything to meanThe same at different times to different people.Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept themFrom thinking it could be a thing so bridal.And anyway it came too late for Maple.She used her hands to cover up her eyes.“We would not see the secret if we could now:We are not looking for it any more.”Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,Made a girl’s marriage, and ruled in her life.No matter that the meaning was not clear.A name with meaning could bring up a child,Taking the child out of the parents’ hands.Better a meaningless name, I should say,As leaving more to nature and happy chance.Name children some names and see what you do.

Her teacher’s certainty it must be MabelMade Maple first take notice of her name.She asked her father and he told her “Maple—Maple is right.”“But teacher told the schoolThere’s no such name.”“Teachers don’t know as muchAs fathers about children, you tell teacher.You tell her that it’s M-A-P-L-E.You ask her if she knows a maple tree.Well, you were named after a maple tree.Your mother named you. You and she just sawEach other in passing in the room upstairs,One coming this way into life, and oneGoing the other out of life—you know?So you can’t have much recollection of her.She had been having a long look at you.She put her finger in your cheek so hardIt must have made your dimple there, and said,‘Maple.’ I said it too: ‘Yes, for her name.’She nodded. So we’re sure there’s no mistake.I don’t know what she wanted it to mean,But it seems like some word she left to bid youBe a good girl—be like a maple tree.How like a maple tree’s for us to guess.Or for a little girl to guess sometime.Not now—at least I shouldn’t try too hard now.By and by I will tell you all I knowAbout the different trees, and something, too,About your mother that perhaps may help.”Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.Luckily all she wanted of her name thenWas to rebuke her teacher with it next day,And give the teacher a scare as from her father.Anything further had been wasted on her,Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.She would forget it. She all but forgot it.What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,And came so near death in the dark of years,That when it woke and came to life againThe flower was different from the parent seed.It came back vaguely at the glass one day,As she stood saying her name over aloud,Striking it gently across her lowered eyesTo make it go well with the way she looked.What was it about her name? Its strangeness layIn having too much meaning. Other names,As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,But hadn’t as it went. (She knew a Rose.)This difference from other names it wasMade people notice it—and notice her.(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)Her problem was to find out what it askedIn dress or manner of the girl who bore it.If she could form some notion of her mother—What she had thought was lovely, and what good.This was her mother’s childhood home;The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the end it presented to the road.(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)Her mother’s bedroom was her father’s still,Where she could watch her mother’s picture fading.Once she found for a bookmark in the BibleA maple leaf she thought must have been laidIn wait for her there. She read every wordOf the two pages it was pressed betweenAs if it was her mother speaking to her.But forgot to put the leaf back in closingAnd lost the place never to read again.She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.

Her teacher’s certainty it must be Mabel

Made Maple first take notice of her name.

She asked her father and he told her “Maple—

Maple is right.”

“But teacher told the school

There’s no such name.”

“Teachers don’t know as much

As fathers about children, you tell teacher.

You tell her that it’s M-A-P-L-E.

You ask her if she knows a maple tree.

Well, you were named after a maple tree.

Your mother named you. You and she just saw

Each other in passing in the room upstairs,

One coming this way into life, and one

Going the other out of life—you know?

So you can’t have much recollection of her.

She had been having a long look at you.

She put her finger in your cheek so hard

It must have made your dimple there, and said,

‘Maple.’ I said it too: ‘Yes, for her name.’

She nodded. So we’re sure there’s no mistake.

I don’t know what she wanted it to mean,

But it seems like some word she left to bid you

Be a good girl—be like a maple tree.

How like a maple tree’s for us to guess.

Or for a little girl to guess sometime.

Not now—at least I shouldn’t try too hard now.

By and by I will tell you all I know

About the different trees, and something, too,

About your mother that perhaps may help.”

Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.

Luckily all she wanted of her name then

Was to rebuke her teacher with it next day,

And give the teacher a scare as from her father.

Anything further had been wasted on her,

Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.

She would forget it. She all but forgot it.

What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,

And came so near death in the dark of years,

That when it woke and came to life again

The flower was different from the parent seed.

It came back vaguely at the glass one day,

As she stood saying her name over aloud,

Striking it gently across her lowered eyes

To make it go well with the way she looked.

What was it about her name? Its strangeness lay

In having too much meaning. Other names,

As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,

Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,

But hadn’t as it went. (She knew a Rose.)

This difference from other names it was

Made people notice it—and notice her.

(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)

Her problem was to find out what it asked

In dress or manner of the girl who bore it.

If she could form some notion of her mother—

What she had thought was lovely, and what good.

This was her mother’s childhood home;

The house one story high in front, three stories

On the end it presented to the road.

(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)

Her mother’s bedroom was her father’s still,

Where she could watch her mother’s picture fading.

Once she found for a bookmark in the Bible

A maple leaf she thought must have been laid

In wait for her there. She read every word

Of the two pages it was pressed between

As if it was her mother speaking to her.

But forgot to put the leaf back in closing

And lost the place never to read again.

She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.

So she looked for herself, as everyoneLooks for himself, more or less outwardly.And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,May still have been what led her on to read,And think a little, and get some city schooling.She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand mayHave had to do with it—she sometimes wondered.So, till she found herself in a strange placeFor the name Maple to have brought her to,Taking dictation on a paper pad,And in the pauses when she raised her eyesWatching out of a nineteenth story windowAn airship laboring with unship-like motionAnd a vague all-disturbing roar above the riverBeyond the highest city built with hands.Someone was saying in such natural tonesShe almost wrote the words down on her knee,“Do you know you remind me of a tree—A maple tree?”“Because my name is Maple?”

So she looked for herself, as everyone

Looks for himself, more or less outwardly.

And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,

May still have been what led her on to read,

And think a little, and get some city schooling.

She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand may

Have had to do with it—she sometimes wondered.

So, till she found herself in a strange place

For the name Maple to have brought her to,

Taking dictation on a paper pad,

And in the pauses when she raised her eyes

Watching out of a nineteenth story window

An airship laboring with unship-like motion

And a vague all-disturbing roar above the river

Beyond the highest city built with hands.

Someone was saying in such natural tones

She almost wrote the words down on her knee,

“Do you know you remind me of a tree—

A maple tree?”

“Because my name is Maple?”

“Isn’t it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.”

“Isn’t it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.”

“No doubt you’ve heard the office call me Mabel.I have to let them call me what they like.”

“No doubt you’ve heard the office call me Mabel.

I have to let them call me what they like.”

They were both stirred that he should have divinedWithout the name her personal mystery.It made it seem as if there must be somethingShe must have missed herself. So they were married,And took the fancy home with them to live by.

They were both stirred that he should have divined

Without the name her personal mystery.

It made it seem as if there must be something

She must have missed herself. So they were married,

And took the fancy home with them to live by.

They went on pilgrimage once to her father’s(The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the side it presented to the road)To see if there was not some special treeShe might have overlooked. They could find none,Not so much as a single tree for shade,Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.She told him of the bookmark maple leafIn the big Bible, and all she rememberedOf the place marked with it—“Wave offering,Something about wave offering, it said.”

They went on pilgrimage once to her father’s

(The house one story high in front, three stories

On the side it presented to the road)

To see if there was not some special tree

She might have overlooked. They could find none,

Not so much as a single tree for shade,

Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.

She told him of the bookmark maple leaf

In the big Bible, and all she remembered

Of the place marked with it—“Wave offering,

Something about wave offering, it said.”

“You’ve never asked your father outright, have you?”

“You’ve never asked your father outright, have you?”

“I have, and been put off sometime, I think.”(This was her faded memory of the wayOnce long ago her father had put himself off.)

“I have, and been put off sometime, I think.”

(This was her faded memory of the way

Once long ago her father had put himself off.)

“Because no telling but it may have beenSomething between your father and your motherNot meant for us at all.”“Not meant for me?Where would the fairness be in giving meA name to carry for life, and never knowThe secret of?”“And then it may have beenSomething a father couldn’t tell a daughterAs well as could a mother. And againIt may have been their one lapse into fancy’Twould be too bad to make him sorry forBy bringing it up to him when he was too old.Your father feels us round him with our questing,And holds us off unnecessarily,As if he didn’t know what little thingMight lead us on to a discovery.It was as personal as he could beAbout the way he saw it was with youTo say your mother, had she lived, would beAs far again as from being born to bearing.”

“Because no telling but it may have been

Something between your father and your mother

Not meant for us at all.”

“Not meant for me?

Where would the fairness be in giving me

A name to carry for life, and never know

The secret of?”

“And then it may have been

Something a father couldn’t tell a daughter

As well as could a mother. And again

It may have been their one lapse into fancy

’Twould be too bad to make him sorry for

By bringing it up to him when he was too old.

Your father feels us round him with our questing,

And holds us off unnecessarily,

As if he didn’t know what little thing

Might lead us on to a discovery.

It was as personal as he could be

About the way he saw it was with you

To say your mother, had she lived, would be

As far again as from being born to bearing.”

“Just one look more with what you say in mind,And I give up”; which last look came to nothing.But, though they now gave up the search forever,They clung to what one had seen in the otherBy inspiration. It proved there was something.They kept their thoughts away from when the maplesStood uniform in buckets, and the steamOf sap and snow rolled off the sugar house.When they made her related to the maples,It was the tree the autumn fire ran throughAnd swept of leathern leaves, but left the barkUnscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.They always took their holidays in autumn.Once they came on a maple in a glade,Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,And every leaf of foliage she’d wornLaid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.But its age kept them from considering this one.Twenty-five years ago at Maple’s namingIt hardly could have been a two-leaved seedlingThe next cow might have licked up out at pasture.Could it have been another maple like it?They hovered for a moment near discovery,Figurative enough to see the symbol,But lacking faith in anything to meanThe same at different times to different people.Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept themFrom thinking it could be a thing so bridal.And anyway it came too late for Maple.She used her hands to cover up her eyes.“We would not see the secret if we could now:We are not looking for it any more.”

“Just one look more with what you say in mind,

And I give up”; which last look came to nothing.

But, though they now gave up the search forever,

They clung to what one had seen in the other

By inspiration. It proved there was something.

They kept their thoughts away from when the maples

Stood uniform in buckets, and the steam

Of sap and snow rolled off the sugar house.

When they made her related to the maples,

It was the tree the autumn fire ran through

And swept of leathern leaves, but left the bark

Unscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.

They always took their holidays in autumn.

Once they came on a maple in a glade,

Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,

And every leaf of foliage she’d worn

Laid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.

But its age kept them from considering this one.

Twenty-five years ago at Maple’s naming

It hardly could have been a two-leaved seedling

The next cow might have licked up out at pasture.

Could it have been another maple like it?

They hovered for a moment near discovery,

Figurative enough to see the symbol,

But lacking faith in anything to mean

The same at different times to different people.

Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept them

From thinking it could be a thing so bridal.

And anyway it came too late for Maple.

She used her hands to cover up her eyes.

“We would not see the secret if we could now:

We are not looking for it any more.”

Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,Made a girl’s marriage, and ruled in her life.No matter that the meaning was not clear.A name with meaning could bring up a child,Taking the child out of the parents’ hands.Better a meaningless name, I should say,As leaving more to nature and happy chance.Name children some names and see what you do.

Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,

Made a girl’s marriage, and ruled in her life.

No matter that the meaning was not clear.

A name with meaning could bring up a child,

Taking the child out of the parents’ hands.

Better a meaningless name, I should say,

As leaving more to nature and happy chance.

Name children some names and see what you do.

THE AXE-HELVEI’ve known ere now an interfering branchOf alder catch my lifted axe behind me.But that was in the woods, to hold my handFrom striking at another alder’s roots,And that was, as I say, an alder branch.This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one dayBehind me on the snow in my own yardWhere I was working at the chopping-block,And cutting nothing not cut down already.He caught my axe expertly on the rise,When all my strength put forth was in his favor,Held it a moment where it was, to calm me,Then took it from me—and I let him take it.I didn’t know him well enough to knowWhat it was all about. There might be somethingHe had in mind to say to a bad neighborHe might prefer to say to him disarmed.But all he had to tell me in French-EnglishWas what he thought of—not me, but my axe;Me only as I took my axe to heart.It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me—“Made on machine,” he said, ploughing the grainWith a thick thumbnail to show how it ranAcross the handle’s long drawn serpentine,Like the two strokes across a dollar sign.“You give her one good crack, she’s snap raght off.Den where’s your hax-ead flying t’rough de hair?”Admitted; and yet, what was that to him?“Come on my house and I put you one inWhat’s las’ awhile—good hick’ry what’s grow crooked,De second growt’ I cut myself—tough, tough!”Something to sell? That wasn’t how it sounded.“Den when you say you come? It’s cost you nothing.To-naght?”As well to-night as any night.Beyond an over-warmth of kitchen stoveMy welcome differed from no other welcome.Baptiste knew best why I was where I was.So long as he would leave enough unsaid,I shouldn’t mind his being overjoyed(If overjoyed he was) at having got meWhere I must judge if what he knew about an axeThat not everybody else knew was to countFor nothing in the measure of a neighbor.Hard if, though cast away for life with Yankees,A Frenchman couldn’t get his human rating!Mrs. Baptiste came in and rocked a chairThat had as many motions as the world:One back and forward, in and out of shadow,That got her nowhere; one more gradual,Sideways, that would have run her on the stoveIn time, had she not realized her dangerAnd caught herself up bodily, chair and all,And set herself back where she started from.“She ain’t spick too much Henglish—dat’s too bad.”I was afraid, in brightening first on me,Then on Baptiste, as if she understoodWhat passed between us, she was only feigning.Baptiste was anxious for her; but no moreThan for himself, so placed he couldn’t hopeTo keep his bargain of the morning with meIn time to keep me from suspecting himOf really never having meant to keep it.Needlessly soon he had his axe-helves out,A quiverful to choose from, since he wished meTo have the best he had, or had to spare—Not for me to ask which, when what he tookHad beauties he had to point me out at lengthTo insure their not being wasted on me.He liked to have it slender as a whipstock,Free from the least knot, equal to the strainOf bending like a sword across the knee.He showed me that the lines of a good helveWere native to the grain before the knifeExpressed them, and its curves were no false curvesPut on it from without. And there its strength layFor the hard work. He chafed its long white bodyFrom end to end with his rough hand shut round it.He tried it at the eye-hole in the axe-head.“Hahn, hahn,” he mused, “don’t need much taking down.”Baptiste knew how to make a short job longFor love of it, and yet not waste time either.Do you know, what we talked about was knowledge?Baptiste on his defence about the childrenHe kept from school, or did his best to keep—Whatever school and children and our doubtsOf laid-on education had to doWith the curves of his axe-helves and his havingUsed these unscrupulously to bring meTo see for once the inside of his house.Was I desired in friendship, partly as some oneTo leave it to, whether the right to holdSuch doubts of education should dependUpon the education of those who held them?But now he brushed the shavings from his kneeAnd stood the axe there on its horse’s hoof,Erect, but not without its waves, as whenThe snake stood up for evil in the Garden,—Top-heavy with a heaviness his short,Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn downAnd in a little—a French touch in that.Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased;“See how she’s cock her head!”

I’ve known ere now an interfering branchOf alder catch my lifted axe behind me.But that was in the woods, to hold my handFrom striking at another alder’s roots,And that was, as I say, an alder branch.This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one dayBehind me on the snow in my own yardWhere I was working at the chopping-block,And cutting nothing not cut down already.He caught my axe expertly on the rise,When all my strength put forth was in his favor,Held it a moment where it was, to calm me,Then took it from me—and I let him take it.I didn’t know him well enough to knowWhat it was all about. There might be somethingHe had in mind to say to a bad neighborHe might prefer to say to him disarmed.But all he had to tell me in French-EnglishWas what he thought of—not me, but my axe;Me only as I took my axe to heart.It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me—“Made on machine,” he said, ploughing the grainWith a thick thumbnail to show how it ranAcross the handle’s long drawn serpentine,Like the two strokes across a dollar sign.“You give her one good crack, she’s snap raght off.Den where’s your hax-ead flying t’rough de hair?”Admitted; and yet, what was that to him?

I’ve known ere now an interfering branch

Of alder catch my lifted axe behind me.

But that was in the woods, to hold my hand

From striking at another alder’s roots,

And that was, as I say, an alder branch.

This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one day

Behind me on the snow in my own yard

Where I was working at the chopping-block,

And cutting nothing not cut down already.

He caught my axe expertly on the rise,

When all my strength put forth was in his favor,

Held it a moment where it was, to calm me,

Then took it from me—and I let him take it.

I didn’t know him well enough to know

What it was all about. There might be something

He had in mind to say to a bad neighbor

He might prefer to say to him disarmed.

But all he had to tell me in French-English

Was what he thought of—not me, but my axe;

Me only as I took my axe to heart.

It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me—

“Made on machine,” he said, ploughing the grain

With a thick thumbnail to show how it ran

Across the handle’s long drawn serpentine,

Like the two strokes across a dollar sign.

“You give her one good crack, she’s snap raght off.

Den where’s your hax-ead flying t’rough de hair?”

Admitted; and yet, what was that to him?

“Come on my house and I put you one inWhat’s las’ awhile—good hick’ry what’s grow crooked,De second growt’ I cut myself—tough, tough!”

“Come on my house and I put you one in

What’s las’ awhile—good hick’ry what’s grow crooked,

De second growt’ I cut myself—tough, tough!”

Something to sell? That wasn’t how it sounded.

Something to sell? That wasn’t how it sounded.

“Den when you say you come? It’s cost you nothing.To-naght?”

“Den when you say you come? It’s cost you nothing.

To-naght?”

As well to-night as any night.

As well to-night as any night.

Beyond an over-warmth of kitchen stoveMy welcome differed from no other welcome.Baptiste knew best why I was where I was.So long as he would leave enough unsaid,I shouldn’t mind his being overjoyed(If overjoyed he was) at having got meWhere I must judge if what he knew about an axeThat not everybody else knew was to countFor nothing in the measure of a neighbor.Hard if, though cast away for life with Yankees,A Frenchman couldn’t get his human rating!

Beyond an over-warmth of kitchen stove

My welcome differed from no other welcome.

Baptiste knew best why I was where I was.

So long as he would leave enough unsaid,

I shouldn’t mind his being overjoyed

(If overjoyed he was) at having got me

Where I must judge if what he knew about an axe

That not everybody else knew was to count

For nothing in the measure of a neighbor.

Hard if, though cast away for life with Yankees,

A Frenchman couldn’t get his human rating!

Mrs. Baptiste came in and rocked a chairThat had as many motions as the world:One back and forward, in and out of shadow,That got her nowhere; one more gradual,Sideways, that would have run her on the stoveIn time, had she not realized her dangerAnd caught herself up bodily, chair and all,And set herself back where she started from.“She ain’t spick too much Henglish—dat’s too bad.”

Mrs. Baptiste came in and rocked a chair

That had as many motions as the world:

One back and forward, in and out of shadow,

That got her nowhere; one more gradual,

Sideways, that would have run her on the stove

In time, had she not realized her danger

And caught herself up bodily, chair and all,

And set herself back where she started from.

“She ain’t spick too much Henglish—dat’s too bad.”

I was afraid, in brightening first on me,Then on Baptiste, as if she understoodWhat passed between us, she was only feigning.Baptiste was anxious for her; but no moreThan for himself, so placed he couldn’t hopeTo keep his bargain of the morning with meIn time to keep me from suspecting himOf really never having meant to keep it.

I was afraid, in brightening first on me,

Then on Baptiste, as if she understood

What passed between us, she was only feigning.

Baptiste was anxious for her; but no more

Than for himself, so placed he couldn’t hope

To keep his bargain of the morning with me

In time to keep me from suspecting him

Of really never having meant to keep it.

Needlessly soon he had his axe-helves out,A quiverful to choose from, since he wished meTo have the best he had, or had to spare—Not for me to ask which, when what he tookHad beauties he had to point me out at lengthTo insure their not being wasted on me.He liked to have it slender as a whipstock,Free from the least knot, equal to the strainOf bending like a sword across the knee.He showed me that the lines of a good helveWere native to the grain before the knifeExpressed them, and its curves were no false curvesPut on it from without. And there its strength layFor the hard work. He chafed its long white bodyFrom end to end with his rough hand shut round it.He tried it at the eye-hole in the axe-head.“Hahn, hahn,” he mused, “don’t need much taking down.”Baptiste knew how to make a short job longFor love of it, and yet not waste time either.

Needlessly soon he had his axe-helves out,

A quiverful to choose from, since he wished me

To have the best he had, or had to spare—

Not for me to ask which, when what he took

Had beauties he had to point me out at length

To insure their not being wasted on me.

He liked to have it slender as a whipstock,

Free from the least knot, equal to the strain

Of bending like a sword across the knee.

He showed me that the lines of a good helve

Were native to the grain before the knife

Expressed them, and its curves were no false curves

Put on it from without. And there its strength lay

For the hard work. He chafed its long white body

From end to end with his rough hand shut round it.

He tried it at the eye-hole in the axe-head.

“Hahn, hahn,” he mused, “don’t need much taking down.”

Baptiste knew how to make a short job long

For love of it, and yet not waste time either.

Do you know, what we talked about was knowledge?Baptiste on his defence about the childrenHe kept from school, or did his best to keep—Whatever school and children and our doubtsOf laid-on education had to doWith the curves of his axe-helves and his havingUsed these unscrupulously to bring meTo see for once the inside of his house.Was I desired in friendship, partly as some oneTo leave it to, whether the right to holdSuch doubts of education should dependUpon the education of those who held them?

Do you know, what we talked about was knowledge?

Baptiste on his defence about the children

He kept from school, or did his best to keep—

Whatever school and children and our doubts

Of laid-on education had to do

With the curves of his axe-helves and his having

Used these unscrupulously to bring me

To see for once the inside of his house.

Was I desired in friendship, partly as some one

To leave it to, whether the right to hold

Such doubts of education should depend

Upon the education of those who held them?

But now he brushed the shavings from his kneeAnd stood the axe there on its horse’s hoof,Erect, but not without its waves, as whenThe snake stood up for evil in the Garden,—Top-heavy with a heaviness his short,Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn downAnd in a little—a French touch in that.Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased;“See how she’s cock her head!”

But now he brushed the shavings from his knee

And stood the axe there on its horse’s hoof,

Erect, but not without its waves, as when

The snake stood up for evil in the Garden,—

Top-heavy with a heaviness his short,

Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn down

And in a little—a French touch in that.

Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased;

“See how she’s cock her head!”

THE GRINDSTONEHaving a wheel and four legs of its ownHas never availed the cumbersome grindstoneTo get it anywhere that I can see.These hands have helped it go, and even race;Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,Not all the miles it may have thought it went,Have got it one step from the starting place.It stands beside the same old apple tree.The shadow of the apple tree is thinUpon it now, its feet are fast in snow.All other farm machinery’s gone in,And some of it on no more legs and wheelThan the grindstone can boast to stand or go.(I’m thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)For months it hasn’t known the taste of steel,Washed down with rusty water in a tin.But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,Except in towns at night, is not a sin.And, anyway, its standing in the yardUnder a ruinous live apple treeHas nothing any more to do with me,Except that I remember how of oldOne summer day, all day I drove it hard,And someone mounted on it rode it hard,And he and I between us ground a blade.I gave it the preliminary spin,And poured on water (tears it might have been);And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed,A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.He turned on will-power to increase the loadAnd slow me down—and I abruptly slowed,Like coming to a sudden railroad station.I changed from hand to hand in desperation.I wondered what machine of ages goneThis represented an improvement on.For all I knew it may have sharpened spearsAnd arrowheads itself. Much use for yearsHad gradually worn it an oblateSpheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,Appearing to return me hate for hate;(But I forgive it now as easilyAs any other boyhood enemyWhose pride has failed to get him anywhere).I wondered who it was the man thought ground—The one who held the wheel back or the oneWho gave his life to keep it going round?I wondered if he really thought it fairFor him to have the say when we were done.Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.Not for myself was I so much concerned.Oh no!—although, of course, I could have foundA better way to pass the afternoonThan grinding discord out of a grindstone,And beating insects at their gritty tune.Nor was I for the man so much concerned.Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearingIt looked as if he might be badly thrownAnd wounded on his blade. So far from caring,I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster,(It ran as if it wasn’t greased but glued);I’d welcome any moderate disasterThat might be calculated to postponeWhat evidently nothing could conclude.The thing that made me more and more afraidWas that we’d ground it sharp and hadn’t known,And now were only wasting precious blade.And when he raised it dripping once and triedThe creepy edge of it with wary touch,And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,Only disinterestedly to decideIt needed a turn more, I could have criedWasn’t there danger of a turn too much?Mightn’t we make it worse instead of better?I was for leaving something to the whetter.What if it wasn’t all it should be? I’dBe satisfied if he’d be satisfied.

Having a wheel and four legs of its ownHas never availed the cumbersome grindstoneTo get it anywhere that I can see.These hands have helped it go, and even race;Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,Not all the miles it may have thought it went,Have got it one step from the starting place.It stands beside the same old apple tree.The shadow of the apple tree is thinUpon it now, its feet are fast in snow.All other farm machinery’s gone in,And some of it on no more legs and wheelThan the grindstone can boast to stand or go.(I’m thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)For months it hasn’t known the taste of steel,Washed down with rusty water in a tin.But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,Except in towns at night, is not a sin.And, anyway, its standing in the yardUnder a ruinous live apple treeHas nothing any more to do with me,Except that I remember how of oldOne summer day, all day I drove it hard,And someone mounted on it rode it hard,And he and I between us ground a blade.

Having a wheel and four legs of its own

Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone

To get it anywhere that I can see.

These hands have helped it go, and even race;

Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,

Not all the miles it may have thought it went,

Have got it one step from the starting place.

It stands beside the same old apple tree.

The shadow of the apple tree is thin

Upon it now, its feet are fast in snow.

All other farm machinery’s gone in,

And some of it on no more legs and wheel

Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go.

(I’m thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)

For months it hasn’t known the taste of steel,

Washed down with rusty water in a tin.

But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,

Except in towns at night, is not a sin.

And, anyway, its standing in the yard

Under a ruinous live apple tree

Has nothing any more to do with me,

Except that I remember how of old

One summer day, all day I drove it hard,

And someone mounted on it rode it hard,

And he and I between us ground a blade.

I gave it the preliminary spin,And poured on water (tears it might have been);And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed,A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.He turned on will-power to increase the loadAnd slow me down—and I abruptly slowed,Like coming to a sudden railroad station.I changed from hand to hand in desperation.I wondered what machine of ages goneThis represented an improvement on.For all I knew it may have sharpened spearsAnd arrowheads itself. Much use for yearsHad gradually worn it an oblateSpheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,Appearing to return me hate for hate;(But I forgive it now as easilyAs any other boyhood enemyWhose pride has failed to get him anywhere).I wondered who it was the man thought ground—The one who held the wheel back or the oneWho gave his life to keep it going round?I wondered if he really thought it fairFor him to have the say when we were done.Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.

I gave it the preliminary spin,

And poured on water (tears it might have been);

And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed,

A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,

Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.

He turned on will-power to increase the load

And slow me down—and I abruptly slowed,

Like coming to a sudden railroad station.

I changed from hand to hand in desperation.

I wondered what machine of ages gone

This represented an improvement on.

For all I knew it may have sharpened spears

And arrowheads itself. Much use for years

Had gradually worn it an oblate

Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,

Appearing to return me hate for hate;

(But I forgive it now as easily

As any other boyhood enemy

Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere).

I wondered who it was the man thought ground—

The one who held the wheel back or the one

Who gave his life to keep it going round?

I wondered if he really thought it fair

For him to have the say when we were done.

Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.

Not for myself was I so much concerned.Oh no!—although, of course, I could have foundA better way to pass the afternoonThan grinding discord out of a grindstone,And beating insects at their gritty tune.Nor was I for the man so much concerned.Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearingIt looked as if he might be badly thrownAnd wounded on his blade. So far from caring,I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster,(It ran as if it wasn’t greased but glued);I’d welcome any moderate disasterThat might be calculated to postponeWhat evidently nothing could conclude.The thing that made me more and more afraidWas that we’d ground it sharp and hadn’t known,And now were only wasting precious blade.And when he raised it dripping once and triedThe creepy edge of it with wary touch,And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,Only disinterestedly to decideIt needed a turn more, I could have criedWasn’t there danger of a turn too much?Mightn’t we make it worse instead of better?I was for leaving something to the whetter.What if it wasn’t all it should be? I’dBe satisfied if he’d be satisfied.

Not for myself was I so much concerned.

Oh no!—although, of course, I could have found

A better way to pass the afternoon

Than grinding discord out of a grindstone,

And beating insects at their gritty tune.

Nor was I for the man so much concerned.

Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing

It looked as if he might be badly thrown

And wounded on his blade. So far from caring,

I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster,

(It ran as if it wasn’t greased but glued);

I’d welcome any moderate disaster

That might be calculated to postpone

What evidently nothing could conclude.

The thing that made me more and more afraid

Was that we’d ground it sharp and hadn’t known,

And now were only wasting precious blade.

And when he raised it dripping once and tried

The creepy edge of it with wary touch,

And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,

Only disinterestedly to decide

It needed a turn more, I could have cried

Wasn’t there danger of a turn too much?

Mightn’t we make it worse instead of better?

I was for leaving something to the whetter.

What if it wasn’t all it should be? I’d

Be satisfied if he’d be satisfied.

PAUL’S WIFETo drive Paul out of any lumber campAll that was needed was to say to him,“How is the wife, Paul?”—and he’d disappear.Some said it was because he had no wife,And hated to be twitted on the subject.Others because he’d come within a dayOr so of having one, and then been jilted.Others because he’d had one once, a good one,Who’d run away with some one else and left him.And others still because he had one nowHe only had to be reminded of,—He was all duty to her in a minute:He had to run right off to look her up,As if to say, “That’s so, how is my wife?I hope she isn’t getting into mischief.”No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.He’d been the hero of the mountain campsEver since, just to show them, he had slippedThe bark of a whole tamarack off whole,As clean as boys do off a willow twigTo make a willow whistle on a SundayIn April by subsiding meadow brooks.They seemed to ask him just to see him go,“How is the wife, Paul?” and he always went.He never stopped to murder anyoneWho asked the question. He just disappeared—Nobody knew in what direction,Although it wasn’t usually longBefore they heard of him in some new camp,The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.The question everywhere was why should PaulObject to being asked a civil question—A man you could say almost anything toShort of a fighting word. You have the answers.And there was one more not so fair to Paul:That Paul had married a wife not his equal.Paul was ashamed of her. To match a hero,She would have had to be a heroine;Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.But if the story Murphy told was true,She wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone’sHeard how he thrashed the horses on a loadThat wouldn’t budge until they simply stretchedTheir rawhide harness from the load to camp.Paul told the boss the load would be all right,“The sun will bring your load in”—and it did—By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.That’s what is called a stretcher. But I guessThe one about his jumping so’s to landWith both his feet at once against the ceiling,And then land safely right side up again,Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.Well this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wifeOut of a white-pine log. Murphy was there,And, as you might say, saw the lady born.Paul worked at anything in lumbering.He’d been hard at it taking boards awayFor—I forget—the last ambitious sawyerTo want to find out if he couldn’t pileThe lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.They’d sliced the first slab off a big butt log,And the sawyer had slammed the carriage backTo slam end on again against the saw teeth.To judge them by the way they caught themselvesWhen they saw what had happened to the log,They must have had a guilty expectationSomething was going to go with their slambanging.Something had left a broad black streak of greaseOn the new wood the whole length of the logExcept, perhaps, a foot at either end.But when Paul put his finger in the grease,It wasn’t grease at all, but a long slot.The log was hollow. They were sawing pine.“First time I ever saw a hollow pine.That comes of having Paul around the place.Take it to hell for me,” the sawyer said.Everyone had to have a look at it,And tell Paul what he ought to do about it.(They treated it as his.) “You take a jack-knife,And spread the opening, and you’ve got a dug-outAll dug to go a-fishing in.” To PaulThe hollow looked too sound and clean and emptyEver to have housed birds or beasts or bees.There was no entrance for them to get in by.It looked to him like some new kind of hollowHe thought he’dbettertake his jack-knife to.So after work that evening he came backAnd let enough light into it by cuttingTo see if it was empty. He made out in thereA slender length of pith, or was it pith?It might have been the skin a snake had castAnd left stood up on end inside the treeThe hundred years the tree must have been growing.More cutting and he had this in both hands,And, looking from it to the pond near by,Paul wondered how it would respond to water.Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of airHe made in walking slowly to the beachBlew it once off his hands and almost broke it.He laid it at the edge where it could drink.At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.At the next drink it grew invisible.Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers,And thought it must have melted. It was gone.And then beyond the open water, dim with midges,Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom,It slowly rose a person, rose a girl,Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet,Who, leaning on a log looked back at Paul.And that made Paul in turn look backTo see if it was anyone behind himThat she was looking at instead of him.Murphy had been there watching all the time,But from a shed where neither of them could see him.There was a moment of suspense in birthWhen the girl seemed too water-logged to live,Before she caught her first breath with a gaspAnd laughed. Then she climbed slowly to her feet,And walked off talking to herself or PaulAcross the logs like backs of alligators,Paul taking after her around the pond.Next evening Murphy and some other fellowsGot drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount,From the bare top of which there is a viewTo other hills across a kettle valley.And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it,They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.It was the only glimpse that anyoneHas had of Paul and her since Murphy saw themFalling in love across the twilight mill-pond.More than a mile across the wildernessThey sat together half-way up a cliffIn a small niche let into it, the girlBrightly, as if a star played on the place,Paul darkly, like her shadow. All the lightWas from the girl herself, though, not from a star,As was apparent from what happened next.All those great ruffians put their throats together,And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle,As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.Of course the bottle fell short by a mile,But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.She went out like a firefly, and that was all.So there were witnesses that Paul was married,And not to anyone to be ashamed of.Everyone had been wrong in judging Paul.Murphy told me Paul put on all those airsAbout his wife to keep her to himself.Paul was what’s called a terrible possessor.Owning a wife with him meant owning her.She wasn’t anybody else’s business,Either to praise her, or so much as name her,And he’d thank people not to think of her.Murphy’s idea was that a man like PaulWouldn’t be spoken to about a wifeIn any way the world knew how to speak.

To drive Paul out of any lumber campAll that was needed was to say to him,“How is the wife, Paul?”—and he’d disappear.Some said it was because he had no wife,And hated to be twitted on the subject.Others because he’d come within a dayOr so of having one, and then been jilted.Others because he’d had one once, a good one,Who’d run away with some one else and left him.And others still because he had one nowHe only had to be reminded of,—He was all duty to her in a minute:He had to run right off to look her up,As if to say, “That’s so, how is my wife?I hope she isn’t getting into mischief.”No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.He’d been the hero of the mountain campsEver since, just to show them, he had slippedThe bark of a whole tamarack off whole,As clean as boys do off a willow twigTo make a willow whistle on a SundayIn April by subsiding meadow brooks.They seemed to ask him just to see him go,“How is the wife, Paul?” and he always went.He never stopped to murder anyoneWho asked the question. He just disappeared—Nobody knew in what direction,Although it wasn’t usually longBefore they heard of him in some new camp,The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.The question everywhere was why should PaulObject to being asked a civil question—A man you could say almost anything toShort of a fighting word. You have the answers.And there was one more not so fair to Paul:That Paul had married a wife not his equal.Paul was ashamed of her. To match a hero,She would have had to be a heroine;Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.But if the story Murphy told was true,She wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

To drive Paul out of any lumber camp

All that was needed was to say to him,

“How is the wife, Paul?”—and he’d disappear.

Some said it was because he had no wife,

And hated to be twitted on the subject.

Others because he’d come within a day

Or so of having one, and then been jilted.

Others because he’d had one once, a good one,

Who’d run away with some one else and left him.

And others still because he had one now

He only had to be reminded of,—

He was all duty to her in a minute:

He had to run right off to look her up,

As if to say, “That’s so, how is my wife?

I hope she isn’t getting into mischief.”

No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.

He’d been the hero of the mountain camps

Ever since, just to show them, he had slipped

The bark of a whole tamarack off whole,

As clean as boys do off a willow twig

To make a willow whistle on a Sunday

In April by subsiding meadow brooks.

They seemed to ask him just to see him go,

“How is the wife, Paul?” and he always went.

He never stopped to murder anyone

Who asked the question. He just disappeared—

Nobody knew in what direction,

Although it wasn’t usually long

Before they heard of him in some new camp,

The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.

The question everywhere was why should Paul

Object to being asked a civil question—

A man you could say almost anything to

Short of a fighting word. You have the answers.

And there was one more not so fair to Paul:

That Paul had married a wife not his equal.

Paul was ashamed of her. To match a hero,

She would have had to be a heroine;

Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.

But if the story Murphy told was true,

She wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone’sHeard how he thrashed the horses on a loadThat wouldn’t budge until they simply stretchedTheir rawhide harness from the load to camp.Paul told the boss the load would be all right,“The sun will bring your load in”—and it did—By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.That’s what is called a stretcher. But I guessThe one about his jumping so’s to landWith both his feet at once against the ceiling,And then land safely right side up again,Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.Well this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wifeOut of a white-pine log. Murphy was there,And, as you might say, saw the lady born.Paul worked at anything in lumbering.He’d been hard at it taking boards awayFor—I forget—the last ambitious sawyerTo want to find out if he couldn’t pileThe lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.They’d sliced the first slab off a big butt log,And the sawyer had slammed the carriage backTo slam end on again against the saw teeth.To judge them by the way they caught themselvesWhen they saw what had happened to the log,They must have had a guilty expectationSomething was going to go with their slambanging.Something had left a broad black streak of greaseOn the new wood the whole length of the logExcept, perhaps, a foot at either end.But when Paul put his finger in the grease,It wasn’t grease at all, but a long slot.The log was hollow. They were sawing pine.“First time I ever saw a hollow pine.That comes of having Paul around the place.Take it to hell for me,” the sawyer said.Everyone had to have a look at it,And tell Paul what he ought to do about it.(They treated it as his.) “You take a jack-knife,And spread the opening, and you’ve got a dug-outAll dug to go a-fishing in.” To PaulThe hollow looked too sound and clean and emptyEver to have housed birds or beasts or bees.There was no entrance for them to get in by.It looked to him like some new kind of hollowHe thought he’dbettertake his jack-knife to.So after work that evening he came backAnd let enough light into it by cuttingTo see if it was empty. He made out in thereA slender length of pith, or was it pith?It might have been the skin a snake had castAnd left stood up on end inside the treeThe hundred years the tree must have been growing.More cutting and he had this in both hands,And, looking from it to the pond near by,Paul wondered how it would respond to water.Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of airHe made in walking slowly to the beachBlew it once off his hands and almost broke it.He laid it at the edge where it could drink.At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.At the next drink it grew invisible.Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers,And thought it must have melted. It was gone.And then beyond the open water, dim with midges,Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom,It slowly rose a person, rose a girl,Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet,Who, leaning on a log looked back at Paul.And that made Paul in turn look backTo see if it was anyone behind himThat she was looking at instead of him.Murphy had been there watching all the time,But from a shed where neither of them could see him.There was a moment of suspense in birthWhen the girl seemed too water-logged to live,Before she caught her first breath with a gaspAnd laughed. Then she climbed slowly to her feet,And walked off talking to herself or PaulAcross the logs like backs of alligators,Paul taking after her around the pond.

You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone’s

Heard how he thrashed the horses on a load

That wouldn’t budge until they simply stretched

Their rawhide harness from the load to camp.

Paul told the boss the load would be all right,

“The sun will bring your load in”—and it did—

By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.

That’s what is called a stretcher. But I guess

The one about his jumping so’s to land

With both his feet at once against the ceiling,

And then land safely right side up again,

Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.

Well this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wife

Out of a white-pine log. Murphy was there,

And, as you might say, saw the lady born.

Paul worked at anything in lumbering.

He’d been hard at it taking boards away

For—I forget—the last ambitious sawyer

To want to find out if he couldn’t pile

The lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.

They’d sliced the first slab off a big butt log,

And the sawyer had slammed the carriage back

To slam end on again against the saw teeth.

To judge them by the way they caught themselves

When they saw what had happened to the log,

They must have had a guilty expectation

Something was going to go with their slambanging.

Something had left a broad black streak of grease

On the new wood the whole length of the log

Except, perhaps, a foot at either end.

But when Paul put his finger in the grease,

It wasn’t grease at all, but a long slot.

The log was hollow. They were sawing pine.

“First time I ever saw a hollow pine.

That comes of having Paul around the place.

Take it to hell for me,” the sawyer said.

Everyone had to have a look at it,

And tell Paul what he ought to do about it.

(They treated it as his.) “You take a jack-knife,

And spread the opening, and you’ve got a dug-out

All dug to go a-fishing in.” To Paul

The hollow looked too sound and clean and empty

Ever to have housed birds or beasts or bees.

There was no entrance for them to get in by.

It looked to him like some new kind of hollow

He thought he’dbettertake his jack-knife to.

So after work that evening he came back

And let enough light into it by cutting

To see if it was empty. He made out in there

A slender length of pith, or was it pith?

It might have been the skin a snake had cast

And left stood up on end inside the tree

The hundred years the tree must have been growing.

More cutting and he had this in both hands,

And, looking from it to the pond near by,

Paul wondered how it would respond to water.

Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of air

He made in walking slowly to the beach

Blew it once off his hands and almost broke it.

He laid it at the edge where it could drink.

At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.

At the next drink it grew invisible.

Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers,

And thought it must have melted. It was gone.

And then beyond the open water, dim with midges,

Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom,

It slowly rose a person, rose a girl,

Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet,

Who, leaning on a log looked back at Paul.

And that made Paul in turn look back

To see if it was anyone behind him

That she was looking at instead of him.

Murphy had been there watching all the time,

But from a shed where neither of them could see him.

There was a moment of suspense in birth

When the girl seemed too water-logged to live,

Before she caught her first breath with a gasp

And laughed. Then she climbed slowly to her feet,

And walked off talking to herself or Paul

Across the logs like backs of alligators,

Paul taking after her around the pond.

Next evening Murphy and some other fellowsGot drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount,From the bare top of which there is a viewTo other hills across a kettle valley.And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it,They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.It was the only glimpse that anyoneHas had of Paul and her since Murphy saw themFalling in love across the twilight mill-pond.More than a mile across the wildernessThey sat together half-way up a cliffIn a small niche let into it, the girlBrightly, as if a star played on the place,Paul darkly, like her shadow. All the lightWas from the girl herself, though, not from a star,As was apparent from what happened next.All those great ruffians put their throats together,And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle,As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.Of course the bottle fell short by a mile,But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.She went out like a firefly, and that was all.

Next evening Murphy and some other fellows

Got drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount,

From the bare top of which there is a view

To other hills across a kettle valley.

And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it,

They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.

It was the only glimpse that anyone

Has had of Paul and her since Murphy saw them

Falling in love across the twilight mill-pond.

More than a mile across the wilderness

They sat together half-way up a cliff

In a small niche let into it, the girl

Brightly, as if a star played on the place,

Paul darkly, like her shadow. All the light

Was from the girl herself, though, not from a star,

As was apparent from what happened next.

All those great ruffians put their throats together,

And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle,

As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.

Of course the bottle fell short by a mile,

But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.

She went out like a firefly, and that was all.

So there were witnesses that Paul was married,And not to anyone to be ashamed of.Everyone had been wrong in judging Paul.Murphy told me Paul put on all those airsAbout his wife to keep her to himself.Paul was what’s called a terrible possessor.Owning a wife with him meant owning her.She wasn’t anybody else’s business,Either to praise her, or so much as name her,And he’d thank people not to think of her.Murphy’s idea was that a man like PaulWouldn’t be spoken to about a wifeIn any way the world knew how to speak.

So there were witnesses that Paul was married,

And not to anyone to be ashamed of.

Everyone had been wrong in judging Paul.

Murphy told me Paul put on all those airs

About his wife to keep her to himself.

Paul was what’s called a terrible possessor.

Owning a wife with him meant owning her.

She wasn’t anybody else’s business,

Either to praise her, or so much as name her,

And he’d thank people not to think of her.

Murphy’s idea was that a man like Paul

Wouldn’t be spoken to about a wife

In any way the world knew how to speak.

WILD GRAPESWhat tree may not the fig be gathered from?The grape may not be gathered from the birch?It’s all you know the grape, or know the birch.As a girl gathered from the birch myselfEqually with my weight in grapes, one autumn,I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.I was born, I suppose, like anyone,And grew to be a little boyish girlMy brother could not always leave at home.But that beginning was wiped out in fearThe day I swung suspended with the grapes,And was come after like EurydiceAnd brought down safely from the upper regions;And the life I live now’s an extra lifeI can waste as I please on whom I please.So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,And give myself out as two different ages,One of them five years younger than I look—One day my brother led me to a gladeWhere a white birch he knew of stood alone,Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,And heavy on her heavy hair behind,Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.One bunch of them, and there began to beBunches all round me growing in white birches,The way they grew round Lief the Lucky’s German;Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,As the moon used to seem when I was younger,And only freely to be had for climbing.My brother did the climbing; and at firstThrew me down grapes to miss and scatterAnd have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;Which gave him some time to himself to eat,But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth,And put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.“Here, take a tree-top, I’ll get down another.Hold on with all your might when I let go.”I said I had the tree. It wasn’t true.The opposite was true. The tree had me.The minute it was left with me aloneIt caught me up as if I were the fishAnd it the fishpole. So I was translatedTo loud cries from my brother of “Let go!Don’t you know anything, you girl? Let go!”But I, with something of the baby gripAcquired ancestrally in just such treesWhen wilder mothers than our wildest nowHung babies out on branches by the handsTo dry or wash or tan, I don’t know which(You’ll have to ask an evolutionist)—I held on uncomplainingly for life.My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.“What are you doing up there in those grapes?Don’t be afraid. A few of them won’t hurt you.I mean, they won’t pick you if you don’t them.”Much danger of my picking anything!By that time I was pretty well reducedTo a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.“Now you know how it feels,” my brother said,“To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,That when it thinks it has escaped the foxBy growing where it shouldn’t—on a birch,Where a fox wouldn’t think to look for it—And if he looked and found it, couldn’t reach it—Just then come you and I to gather it.Only you have the advantage of the grapesIn one way: you have one more stem to cling by,And promise more resistance to the picker.”One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,And still I clung. I let my head fall back,And shut my eyes against the sun, my earsAgainst my brother’s nonsense; “Drop,” he said,“I’ll catch you in my arms. It isn’t far.”(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)“Drop or I’ll shake the tree and shake you down.”Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.“Why, if she isn’t serious about it!Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.I’ll bend the tree down and let you down by it.”I don’t know much about the letting down;But once I felt ground with my stocking feetAnd the world came revolving back to me,I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.My brother said: “Don’t you weigh anything?Try to weigh something next time, so you won’tBe run off with by birch trees into space.”It wasn’t my not weighing anythingSo much as my not knowing anything—My brother had been nearer right before.I had not taken the first step in knowledge;I had not learned to let go with the hands,As still I have not learned to with the heart,And have no wish to with the heart—nor need,That I can see. The mind—is not the heart.I may yet live, as I know others live,To wish in vain to let go with the mind—Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells meThat I need learn to let go with the heart.

What tree may not the fig be gathered from?The grape may not be gathered from the birch?It’s all you know the grape, or know the birch.As a girl gathered from the birch myselfEqually with my weight in grapes, one autumn,I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.I was born, I suppose, like anyone,And grew to be a little boyish girlMy brother could not always leave at home.But that beginning was wiped out in fearThe day I swung suspended with the grapes,And was come after like EurydiceAnd brought down safely from the upper regions;And the life I live now’s an extra lifeI can waste as I please on whom I please.So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,And give myself out as two different ages,One of them five years younger than I look—

What tree may not the fig be gathered from?

The grape may not be gathered from the birch?

It’s all you know the grape, or know the birch.

As a girl gathered from the birch myself

Equally with my weight in grapes, one autumn,

I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.

I was born, I suppose, like anyone,

And grew to be a little boyish girl

My brother could not always leave at home.

But that beginning was wiped out in fear

The day I swung suspended with the grapes,

And was come after like Eurydice

And brought down safely from the upper regions;

And the life I live now’s an extra life

I can waste as I please on whom I please.

So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,

And give myself out as two different ages,

One of them five years younger than I look—

One day my brother led me to a gladeWhere a white birch he knew of stood alone,Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,And heavy on her heavy hair behind,Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.One bunch of them, and there began to beBunches all round me growing in white birches,The way they grew round Lief the Lucky’s German;Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,As the moon used to seem when I was younger,And only freely to be had for climbing.My brother did the climbing; and at firstThrew me down grapes to miss and scatterAnd have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;Which gave him some time to himself to eat,But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth,And put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.“Here, take a tree-top, I’ll get down another.Hold on with all your might when I let go.”I said I had the tree. It wasn’t true.The opposite was true. The tree had me.The minute it was left with me aloneIt caught me up as if I were the fishAnd it the fishpole. So I was translatedTo loud cries from my brother of “Let go!Don’t you know anything, you girl? Let go!”But I, with something of the baby gripAcquired ancestrally in just such treesWhen wilder mothers than our wildest nowHung babies out on branches by the handsTo dry or wash or tan, I don’t know which(You’ll have to ask an evolutionist)—I held on uncomplainingly for life.My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.“What are you doing up there in those grapes?Don’t be afraid. A few of them won’t hurt you.I mean, they won’t pick you if you don’t them.”Much danger of my picking anything!

One day my brother led me to a glade

Where a white birch he knew of stood alone,

Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,

And heavy on her heavy hair behind,

Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.

Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.

One bunch of them, and there began to be

Bunches all round me growing in white birches,

The way they grew round Lief the Lucky’s German;

Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,

As the moon used to seem when I was younger,

And only freely to be had for climbing.

My brother did the climbing; and at first

Threw me down grapes to miss and scatter

And have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;

Which gave him some time to himself to eat,

But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.

So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,

He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth,

And put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.

“Here, take a tree-top, I’ll get down another.

Hold on with all your might when I let go.”

I said I had the tree. It wasn’t true.

The opposite was true. The tree had me.

The minute it was left with me alone

It caught me up as if I were the fish

And it the fishpole. So I was translated

To loud cries from my brother of “Let go!

Don’t you know anything, you girl? Let go!”

But I, with something of the baby grip

Acquired ancestrally in just such trees

When wilder mothers than our wildest now

Hung babies out on branches by the hands

To dry or wash or tan, I don’t know which

(You’ll have to ask an evolutionist)—

I held on uncomplainingly for life.

My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.

“What are you doing up there in those grapes?

Don’t be afraid. A few of them won’t hurt you.

I mean, they won’t pick you if you don’t them.”

Much danger of my picking anything!

By that time I was pretty well reducedTo a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.“Now you know how it feels,” my brother said,“To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,That when it thinks it has escaped the foxBy growing where it shouldn’t—on a birch,Where a fox wouldn’t think to look for it—And if he looked and found it, couldn’t reach it—Just then come you and I to gather it.Only you have the advantage of the grapesIn one way: you have one more stem to cling by,And promise more resistance to the picker.”

By that time I was pretty well reduced

To a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.

“Now you know how it feels,” my brother said,

“To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,

That when it thinks it has escaped the fox

By growing where it shouldn’t—on a birch,

Where a fox wouldn’t think to look for it—

And if he looked and found it, couldn’t reach it—

Just then come you and I to gather it.

Only you have the advantage of the grapes

In one way: you have one more stem to cling by,

And promise more resistance to the picker.”

One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,And still I clung. I let my head fall back,And shut my eyes against the sun, my earsAgainst my brother’s nonsense; “Drop,” he said,“I’ll catch you in my arms. It isn’t far.”(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)“Drop or I’ll shake the tree and shake you down.”Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.“Why, if she isn’t serious about it!Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.I’ll bend the tree down and let you down by it.”I don’t know much about the letting down;But once I felt ground with my stocking feetAnd the world came revolving back to me,I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.My brother said: “Don’t you weigh anything?Try to weigh something next time, so you won’tBe run off with by birch trees into space.”

One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,

And still I clung. I let my head fall back,

And shut my eyes against the sun, my ears

Against my brother’s nonsense; “Drop,” he said,

“I’ll catch you in my arms. It isn’t far.”

(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)

“Drop or I’ll shake the tree and shake you down.”

Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,

My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.

“Why, if she isn’t serious about it!

Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.

I’ll bend the tree down and let you down by it.”

I don’t know much about the letting down;

But once I felt ground with my stocking feet

And the world came revolving back to me,

I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,

Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.

My brother said: “Don’t you weigh anything?

Try to weigh something next time, so you won’t

Be run off with by birch trees into space.”

It wasn’t my not weighing anythingSo much as my not knowing anything—My brother had been nearer right before.I had not taken the first step in knowledge;I had not learned to let go with the hands,As still I have not learned to with the heart,And have no wish to with the heart—nor need,That I can see. The mind—is not the heart.I may yet live, as I know others live,To wish in vain to let go with the mind—Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells meThat I need learn to let go with the heart.

It wasn’t my not weighing anything

So much as my not knowing anything—

My brother had been nearer right before.

I had not taken the first step in knowledge;

I had not learned to let go with the hands,

As still I have not learned to with the heart,

And have no wish to with the heart—nor need,

That I can see. The mind—is not the heart.

I may yet live, as I know others live,

To wish in vain to let go with the mind—

Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me

That I need learn to let go with the heart.

PLACE FOR A THIRDNothing to say to all those marriages!She had made three herself to three of his.The score was even for them, three to three.But come to die she found she cared so much:She thought of children in a burial row;Three children in a burial row were sad.One man’s three women in a burial rowSomehow made her impatient with the man.And so she said to Laban, “You have doneA good deal right; don’t do the last thing wrong.Don’t make me lie with those two other women.”Laban said, No, he would not make her lieWith anyone but that she had a mind to,If that was how she felt, of course, he said.She went her way. But Laban having caughtThis glimpse of lingering person in Eliza,And anxious to make all he could of itWith something he remembered in himself,Tried to think how he could exceed his promise,And give good measure to the dead, though thankless.If that was how she felt, he kept repeating.His first thought under pressure was a graveIn a new boughten grave plot by herself,Under he didn’t care how great a stone:He’d sell a yoke of steers to pay for it.And weren’t there special cemetery flowers,That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest:The flowers will go on with grief awhile,And no one seem neglecting or neglected?A prudent grief will not despise such aids.He thought of evergreen and everlasting.And then he had a thought worth many of these.Somewhere must be the grave of the young boyWho married her for playmate more than helpmate,And sometimes laughed at what it was between them.How would she like to sleep her last with him?Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name?He found the grave a town or two away,The headstone cut withJohn, Beloved Husband,Beside it room reserved, the say a sister’s,A never-married sister’s of that husband,Whether Eliza would be welcome there.The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister.So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothingOf where Eliza wantednotto lie,And who had thought to lay her with her first love,Begged simply for the grave. The sister’s faceFell all in wrinkles of responsibility.She wanted to do right. She’d have to think.Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care;And she was old and poor—but she cared, too.They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him,Then turned him out to go on other errandsShe said he might attend to in the village,While she made up her mind how much she cared—And how much Laban cared—and why he cared,(She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.)She’d looked Eliza up her second time,A widow at her second husband’s grave,And offered her a home to rest awhileBefore she went the poor man’s widow’s way,Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock.She and Eliza had been friends through all.Who was she to judge marriage in a worldWhose Bible’s so confused in marriage counsel?The sister had not come across this Laban;A decent product of life’s ironing-out;She must not keep him waiting. Time would pressBetween the death day and the funeral day.So when she saw him coming in the streetShe hurried her decision to be readyTo meet him with his answer at the door.Laban had known about what it would beFrom the way she had set her poor old mouth,To do, as she had put it, what was right.She gave it through the screen door closed between them:“No, not with John. There wouldn’t be no sense.Eliza’s had too many other men.”Laban was forced to fall back on his planTo buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in:Which gives him for himself a choice of lotsWhen his time comes to die and settle down.

Nothing to say to all those marriages!She had made three herself to three of his.The score was even for them, three to three.But come to die she found she cared so much:She thought of children in a burial row;Three children in a burial row were sad.One man’s three women in a burial rowSomehow made her impatient with the man.And so she said to Laban, “You have doneA good deal right; don’t do the last thing wrong.Don’t make me lie with those two other women.”

Nothing to say to all those marriages!

She had made three herself to three of his.

The score was even for them, three to three.

But come to die she found she cared so much:

She thought of children in a burial row;

Three children in a burial row were sad.

One man’s three women in a burial row

Somehow made her impatient with the man.

And so she said to Laban, “You have done

A good deal right; don’t do the last thing wrong.

Don’t make me lie with those two other women.”

Laban said, No, he would not make her lieWith anyone but that she had a mind to,If that was how she felt, of course, he said.She went her way. But Laban having caughtThis glimpse of lingering person in Eliza,And anxious to make all he could of itWith something he remembered in himself,Tried to think how he could exceed his promise,And give good measure to the dead, though thankless.If that was how she felt, he kept repeating.His first thought under pressure was a graveIn a new boughten grave plot by herself,Under he didn’t care how great a stone:He’d sell a yoke of steers to pay for it.And weren’t there special cemetery flowers,That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest:The flowers will go on with grief awhile,And no one seem neglecting or neglected?A prudent grief will not despise such aids.He thought of evergreen and everlasting.And then he had a thought worth many of these.Somewhere must be the grave of the young boyWho married her for playmate more than helpmate,And sometimes laughed at what it was between them.How would she like to sleep her last with him?Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name?

Laban said, No, he would not make her lie

With anyone but that she had a mind to,

If that was how she felt, of course, he said.

She went her way. But Laban having caught

This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza,

And anxious to make all he could of it

With something he remembered in himself,

Tried to think how he could exceed his promise,

And give good measure to the dead, though thankless.

If that was how she felt, he kept repeating.

His first thought under pressure was a grave

In a new boughten grave plot by herself,

Under he didn’t care how great a stone:

He’d sell a yoke of steers to pay for it.

And weren’t there special cemetery flowers,

That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest:

The flowers will go on with grief awhile,

And no one seem neglecting or neglected?

A prudent grief will not despise such aids.

He thought of evergreen and everlasting.

And then he had a thought worth many of these.

Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy

Who married her for playmate more than helpmate,

And sometimes laughed at what it was between them.

How would she like to sleep her last with him?

Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name?

He found the grave a town or two away,The headstone cut withJohn, Beloved Husband,Beside it room reserved, the say a sister’s,A never-married sister’s of that husband,Whether Eliza would be welcome there.The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister.So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothingOf where Eliza wantednotto lie,And who had thought to lay her with her first love,Begged simply for the grave. The sister’s faceFell all in wrinkles of responsibility.She wanted to do right. She’d have to think.Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care;And she was old and poor—but she cared, too.They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him,Then turned him out to go on other errandsShe said he might attend to in the village,While she made up her mind how much she cared—And how much Laban cared—and why he cared,(She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.)She’d looked Eliza up her second time,A widow at her second husband’s grave,And offered her a home to rest awhileBefore she went the poor man’s widow’s way,Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock.She and Eliza had been friends through all.Who was she to judge marriage in a worldWhose Bible’s so confused in marriage counsel?The sister had not come across this Laban;A decent product of life’s ironing-out;She must not keep him waiting. Time would pressBetween the death day and the funeral day.So when she saw him coming in the streetShe hurried her decision to be readyTo meet him with his answer at the door.Laban had known about what it would beFrom the way she had set her poor old mouth,To do, as she had put it, what was right.

He found the grave a town or two away,

The headstone cut withJohn, Beloved Husband,

Beside it room reserved, the say a sister’s,

A never-married sister’s of that husband,

Whether Eliza would be welcome there.

The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister.

So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing

Of where Eliza wantednotto lie,

And who had thought to lay her with her first love,

Begged simply for the grave. The sister’s face

Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility.

She wanted to do right. She’d have to think.

Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care;

And she was old and poor—but she cared, too.

They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him,

Then turned him out to go on other errands

She said he might attend to in the village,

While she made up her mind how much she cared—

And how much Laban cared—and why he cared,

(She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.)

She’d looked Eliza up her second time,

A widow at her second husband’s grave,

And offered her a home to rest awhile

Before she went the poor man’s widow’s way,

Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock.

She and Eliza had been friends through all.

Who was she to judge marriage in a world

Whose Bible’s so confused in marriage counsel?

The sister had not come across this Laban;

A decent product of life’s ironing-out;

She must not keep him waiting. Time would press

Between the death day and the funeral day.

So when she saw him coming in the street

She hurried her decision to be ready

To meet him with his answer at the door.

Laban had known about what it would be

From the way she had set her poor old mouth,

To do, as she had put it, what was right.

She gave it through the screen door closed between them:“No, not with John. There wouldn’t be no sense.Eliza’s had too many other men.”

She gave it through the screen door closed between them:

“No, not with John. There wouldn’t be no sense.

Eliza’s had too many other men.”

Laban was forced to fall back on his planTo buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in:Which gives him for himself a choice of lotsWhen his time comes to die and settle down.

Laban was forced to fall back on his plan

To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in:

Which gives him for himself a choice of lots

When his time comes to die and settle down.

TWO WITCHESI. THE WITCH OF COÖSCirca1922I staid the night for shelter at a farmBehind the mountain, with a mother and son,Two old-believers. They did all the talking.Mother.Folks think a witch who has familiar spiritsShe could call up to pass a winter evening,But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,Who’s got the button,” I would have them know.Son.Mother can make a common table rearAnd kick with two legs like an army mule.Mother.And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?Rather than tip a table for you, let meTell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.He said the dead had souls, but when I asked himHow could that be—I thought the dead were souls,He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspiciousThat there’s something the dead are keeping back?Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.Son.You wouldn’t want to tell him what we haveUp attic, mother?Mother.Bones—a skeleton.Son.But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushedAgainst the attic door: the door is nailed.It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the nightHalting perplexed behind the barrierOf door and headboard. Where it wants to getIs back into the cellar where it came from.Mother.We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never!Son.It left the cellar forty years agoAnd carried itself like a pile of dishesUp one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,Another from the bedroom to the attic,Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.I was a baby: I don’t know where I was.Mother.The only fault my husband found with me—I went to sleep before I went to bed,Especially in winter when the bedMight just as well be ice and the clothes snow.The night the bones came up the cellar-stairsToffile had gone to bed alone and left me,But left an open door to cool the room offSo as to sort of turn me out of it.I was just coming to myself enoughTo wonder where the cold was coming from,When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroomAnd thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod onWhen there was water in the cellar in springStruck the hard cellar bottom. And then someoneBegan the stairs, two footsteps for each step,The way a man with one leg and a crutch,Or a little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:It wasn’t anyone who could be there.The bulkhead double-doors were double-lockedAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.The cellar windows were banked up with sawdustAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.My first impulse was to get to the knobAnd hold the door. But the bones didn’t tryThe door; they halted helpless on the landing,Waiting for things to happen in their favor.The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.I never could have done the thing I didIf the wish hadn’t been too strong in meTo see how they were mounted for this walk.I had a vision of them put togetherNot like a man, but like a chandelier.So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.A moment he stood balancing with emotion,And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fireFlashed out and licked along his upper teeth.Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,The way he did in life once; but this timeI struck the hand off brittle on the floor,And fell back from him on the floor myself.The finger-pieces slid in all directions.(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile,It’s coming up to you.” It had its choiceOf the door to the cellar or the hall.It took the hall door for the novelty,And set off briskly for so slow a thing,Still going every which way in the joints, though,So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,From the slap I had just now given its hand.I listened till it almost climbed the stairsFrom the hall to the only finished bedroom,Before I got up to do anything;Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door,Toffile, for my sake!” “Company,” he said,“Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.”So lying forward weakly on the handrailI pushed myself upstairs, and in the light(The kitchen had been dark) I had to ownI could see nothing. “Toffile, I don’t see it.It’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.”“What bones?” “The cellar bones—out of the grave.”That made him throw his bare legs out of bedAnd sit up by me and take hold of me.I wanted to put out the light and seeIf I could see it, or else mow the room,With our arms at the level of our knees,And bring the chalk-pile down. “I’ll tell you what—It’s looking for another door to try.The uncommonly deep snow has made him thinkOf his old song,The Wild Colonial Boy,He always used to sing along the tote-road.He’s after an open door to get out-doors.Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.”Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,Almost the moment he was given an opening,The steps began to climb the attic stairs.I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.“Quick!” I slammed to the door and held the knob.“Toffile, get nails.” I made him nail the door shut,And push the headboard of the bed against it.Then we asked was there anythingUp attic that we’d ever want again.The attic was less to us than the cellar.If the bones liked the attic, let them have it,Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimesCome down the stairs at night and stand perplexedBehind the door and headboard of the bed,Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,That’s what I sit up in the dark to say—To no one any more since Toffile died.Let them stay in the attic since they went there.I promised Toffile to be cruel to themFor helping them be cruel once to him.Son.We think they had a grave down in the cellar.Mother.We know they had a grave down in the cellar.Son.We never could find out whose bones they were.Mother.Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.They were a man’s his father killed for me.I mean a man he killed instead of me.The least I could do was to help dig their grave.We were about it one night in the cellar.Son knows the story: but ’twas not for himTo tell the truth, suppose the time had come.Son looks surprised to see me end a lieWe’d kept all these years between ourselvesSo as to have it ready for outsiders.But tonight I don’t care enough to lie—I don’t remember why I ever cared.Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believeCould tell you why he ever cared himself . . .She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wantedAmong the buttons poured out in her lap.I verified the name next morning: Toffile.The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.II. THE PAUPER WITCH OF GRAFTONNow that they’ve got it settled whose I be,I’m going to tell them something they won’t like:They’ve got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.Flattered I must be to have two towns fightingTo make a present of me to each other.They don’t dispose me, either one of them,To spare them any trouble. Double trouble’sAlways the witch’s motto anyway.I’ll double theirs for both of them—you watch me.They’ll find they’ve got the whole thing to do over,That is, if facts is what they want to go by.They set a lot (now don’t they?) by a recordOf Arthur Amy’s having once been upFor Hog Reeve in March Meeting here in Warren.I could have told them any time this twelvemonthThe Arthur Amy I was married toCouldn’t have been the one they say was upIn Warren at March Meeting for the reasonHe wa’n’t but fifteen at the time they say.The Arthur Amy I was married toVoted the only times he ever voted,Which wasn’t many, in the town of Wentworth.One of the times was when ’twas in the warrantTo see if the town wanted to take overThe tote road to our clearing where we lived.I’ll tell you who’d remember—Heman Lapish.Their Arthur Amy was the father of mine.So now they’ve dragged it through the law courts onceI guess they’d better drag it through again.Wentworth and Warren’s both good towns to live in,Only I happen to prefer to liveIn Wentworth from now on; and when all’s said,Right’s right, and the temptation to do rightWhen I can hurt someone by doing itHas always been too much for me, it has.I know of some folks that’d be set upAt having in their town a noted witch:But most would have to think of the expenseThat even I would be. They ought to knowThat as a witch I’d often milk a batAnd that’d be enough to last for days.It’d make my position stronger, think,If I was to consent to give some signTo make it surer that I was a witch?It wa’n’t no sign, I s’pose, when Mallice HuseSaid that I took him out in his old ageAnd rode all over everything on himUntil I’d had him worn to skin and bones.And if I’d left him hitched unblanketedIn front of one Town Hall, I’d left him hitchedIn front of every one in Grafton County.Some cried shame on me not to blanket him,The poor old man. It would have been all rightIf some one hadn’t said to gnaw the postsHe stood beside and leave his trade mark on them,So they could recognize them. Not a postThat they could hear tell of was scarified.They made him keep on gnawing till he whined.Then that same smarty someone said to look—He’d bet Huse was a cribber and had gnawedThe crib he slept in—and as sure’s you’re bornThey found he’d gnawed the four posts of his bed,All four of them to splinters. What did that prove?Not that he hadn’t gnawed the hitching postsHe said he had besides. Because a horseGnaws in the stable ain’t no proof to meHe don’t gnaw trees and posts and fences too.But everybody took it for a proof.I was a strapping girl of twenty then.The smarty someone who spoiled everythingWas Arthur Amy. You know who he was.That was the way he started courting me.He never said much after we were married,But I mistrusted he was none too proudOf having interfered in the Huse business.I guess he found he got more out of meBy having me a witch. Or something happenedTo turn him round. He got to saying thingsTo undo what he’d done and make it right,Like, “No, she ain’t come back from kiting yet.Last night was one of her nights out. She’s kiting.She thinks when the wind makes a night of itShe might as well herself.” But he liked bestTo let on he was plagued to death with me:If anyone had seen me coming homeOver the ridgepole, ’stride of a broomstick,As often as he had in the tail of the night,He guessed they’d know what he had to put up with.Well, I showed Arthur Amy signs enoughOff from the house as far as we could keepAnd from barn smells you can’t wash out of ploughed groundWith all the rain and snow of seven years;And I don’t mean just skulls of Roger’s RangersOn Moosilauke, but woman signs to man,Only bewitched so I would last him longer.Up where the trees grow short, the mosses tall,I made him gather me wet snow berriesOn slippery rocks beside a waterfall.I made him do it for me in the dark.And he liked everything I made him do.I hope if he is where he sees me nowHe’s so far off he can’t see what I’ve come to.Youcancome down from everything to nothing.All is, if I’d a-known when I was youngAnd full of it, that this would be the end,It doesn’t seem as if I’d had the courageTo make so free and kick up in folks’ faces.I might have, but it doesn’t seem as if.

I staid the night for shelter at a farmBehind the mountain, with a mother and son,Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

I staid the night for shelter at a farm

Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,

Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

Mother.Folks think a witch who has familiar spiritsShe could call up to pass a winter evening,But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,Who’s got the button,” I would have them know.

Mother.Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits

She could call up to pass a winter evening,

But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.

Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,

Who’s got the button,” I would have them know.

Son.Mother can make a common table rearAnd kick with two legs like an army mule.

Son.Mother can make a common table rear

And kick with two legs like an army mule.

Mother.And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?Rather than tip a table for you, let meTell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.He said the dead had souls, but when I asked himHow could that be—I thought the dead were souls,He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspiciousThat there’s something the dead are keeping back?Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.

Mother.And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?

Rather than tip a table for you, let me

Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.

He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him

How could that be—I thought the dead were souls,

He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious

That there’s something the dead are keeping back?

Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.

Son.You wouldn’t want to tell him what we haveUp attic, mother?

Son.You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have

Up attic, mother?

Mother.Bones—a skeleton.

Mother.Bones—a skeleton.

Son.But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushedAgainst the attic door: the door is nailed.It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the nightHalting perplexed behind the barrierOf door and headboard. Where it wants to getIs back into the cellar where it came from.

Son.But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed

Against the attic door: the door is nailed.

It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night

Halting perplexed behind the barrier

Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get

Is back into the cellar where it came from.

Mother.We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never!

Mother.We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never!

Son.It left the cellar forty years agoAnd carried itself like a pile of dishesUp one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,Another from the bedroom to the attic,Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.I was a baby: I don’t know where I was.

Son.It left the cellar forty years ago

And carried itself like a pile of dishes

Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,

Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,

Another from the bedroom to the attic,

Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.

Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.

I was a baby: I don’t know where I was.

Mother.The only fault my husband found with me—I went to sleep before I went to bed,Especially in winter when the bedMight just as well be ice and the clothes snow.The night the bones came up the cellar-stairsToffile had gone to bed alone and left me,But left an open door to cool the room offSo as to sort of turn me out of it.I was just coming to myself enoughTo wonder where the cold was coming from,When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroomAnd thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod onWhen there was water in the cellar in springStruck the hard cellar bottom. And then someoneBegan the stairs, two footsteps for each step,The way a man with one leg and a crutch,Or a little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:It wasn’t anyone who could be there.The bulkhead double-doors were double-lockedAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.The cellar windows were banked up with sawdustAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.My first impulse was to get to the knobAnd hold the door. But the bones didn’t tryThe door; they halted helpless on the landing,Waiting for things to happen in their favor.The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.I never could have done the thing I didIf the wish hadn’t been too strong in meTo see how they were mounted for this walk.I had a vision of them put togetherNot like a man, but like a chandelier.So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.A moment he stood balancing with emotion,And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fireFlashed out and licked along his upper teeth.Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,The way he did in life once; but this timeI struck the hand off brittle on the floor,And fell back from him on the floor myself.The finger-pieces slid in all directions.(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile,It’s coming up to you.” It had its choiceOf the door to the cellar or the hall.It took the hall door for the novelty,And set off briskly for so slow a thing,Still going every which way in the joints, though,So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,From the slap I had just now given its hand.I listened till it almost climbed the stairsFrom the hall to the only finished bedroom,Before I got up to do anything;Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door,Toffile, for my sake!” “Company,” he said,“Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.”So lying forward weakly on the handrailI pushed myself upstairs, and in the light(The kitchen had been dark) I had to ownI could see nothing. “Toffile, I don’t see it.It’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.”“What bones?” “The cellar bones—out of the grave.”That made him throw his bare legs out of bedAnd sit up by me and take hold of me.I wanted to put out the light and seeIf I could see it, or else mow the room,With our arms at the level of our knees,And bring the chalk-pile down. “I’ll tell you what—It’s looking for another door to try.The uncommonly deep snow has made him thinkOf his old song,The Wild Colonial Boy,He always used to sing along the tote-road.He’s after an open door to get out-doors.Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.”Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,Almost the moment he was given an opening,The steps began to climb the attic stairs.I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.“Quick!” I slammed to the door and held the knob.“Toffile, get nails.” I made him nail the door shut,And push the headboard of the bed against it.Then we asked was there anythingUp attic that we’d ever want again.The attic was less to us than the cellar.If the bones liked the attic, let them have it,Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimesCome down the stairs at night and stand perplexedBehind the door and headboard of the bed,Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,That’s what I sit up in the dark to say—To no one any more since Toffile died.Let them stay in the attic since they went there.I promised Toffile to be cruel to themFor helping them be cruel once to him.

Mother.The only fault my husband found with me—

I went to sleep before I went to bed,

Especially in winter when the bed

Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.

The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs

Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,

But left an open door to cool the room off

So as to sort of turn me out of it.

I was just coming to myself enough

To wonder where the cold was coming from,

When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom

And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.

The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on

When there was water in the cellar in spring

Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone

Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,

The way a man with one leg and a crutch,

Or a little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:

It wasn’t anyone who could be there.

The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked

And swollen tight and buried under snow.

The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust

And swollen tight and buried under snow.

It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.

My first impulse was to get to the knob

And hold the door. But the bones didn’t try

The door; they halted helpless on the landing,

Waiting for things to happen in their favor.

The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.

I never could have done the thing I did

If the wish hadn’t been too strong in me

To see how they were mounted for this walk.

I had a vision of them put together

Not like a man, but like a chandelier.

So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.

A moment he stood balancing with emotion,

And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire

Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.

Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)

Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,

The way he did in life once; but this time

I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,

And fell back from him on the floor myself.

The finger-pieces slid in all directions.

(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?

Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)

I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile,

It’s coming up to you.” It had its choice

Of the door to the cellar or the hall.

It took the hall door for the novelty,

And set off briskly for so slow a thing,

Still going every which way in the joints, though,

So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,

From the slap I had just now given its hand.

I listened till it almost climbed the stairs

From the hall to the only finished bedroom,

Before I got up to do anything;

Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door,

Toffile, for my sake!” “Company,” he said,

“Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.”

So lying forward weakly on the handrail

I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light

(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own

I could see nothing. “Toffile, I don’t see it.

It’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.”

“What bones?” “The cellar bones—out of the grave.”

That made him throw his bare legs out of bed

And sit up by me and take hold of me.

I wanted to put out the light and see

If I could see it, or else mow the room,

With our arms at the level of our knees,

And bring the chalk-pile down. “I’ll tell you what—

It’s looking for another door to try.

The uncommonly deep snow has made him think

Of his old song,The Wild Colonial Boy,

He always used to sing along the tote-road.

He’s after an open door to get out-doors.

Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.”

Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,

Almost the moment he was given an opening,

The steps began to climb the attic stairs.

I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.

“Quick!” I slammed to the door and held the knob.

“Toffile, get nails.” I made him nail the door shut,

And push the headboard of the bed against it.

Then we asked was there anything

Up attic that we’d ever want again.

The attic was less to us than the cellar.

If the bones liked the attic, let them have it,

Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes

Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed

Behind the door and headboard of the bed,

Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,

With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,

That’s what I sit up in the dark to say—

To no one any more since Toffile died.

Let them stay in the attic since they went there.

I promised Toffile to be cruel to them

For helping them be cruel once to him.

Son.We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

Son.We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

Mother.We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

Mother.We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

Son.We never could find out whose bones they were.

Son.We never could find out whose bones they were.

Mother.Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.They were a man’s his father killed for me.I mean a man he killed instead of me.The least I could do was to help dig their grave.We were about it one night in the cellar.Son knows the story: but ’twas not for himTo tell the truth, suppose the time had come.Son looks surprised to see me end a lieWe’d kept all these years between ourselvesSo as to have it ready for outsiders.But tonight I don’t care enough to lie—I don’t remember why I ever cared.Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believeCould tell you why he ever cared himself . . .

Mother.Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.

They were a man’s his father killed for me.

I mean a man he killed instead of me.

The least I could do was to help dig their grave.

We were about it one night in the cellar.

Son knows the story: but ’twas not for him

To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.

Son looks surprised to see me end a lie

We’d kept all these years between ourselves

So as to have it ready for outsiders.

But tonight I don’t care enough to lie—

I don’t remember why I ever cared.

Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believe

Could tell you why he ever cared himself . . .

She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wantedAmong the buttons poured out in her lap.I verified the name next morning: Toffile.The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.

She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted

Among the buttons poured out in her lap.

I verified the name next morning: Toffile.

The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.

Now that they’ve got it settled whose I be,I’m going to tell them something they won’t like:They’ve got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.Flattered I must be to have two towns fightingTo make a present of me to each other.They don’t dispose me, either one of them,To spare them any trouble. Double trouble’sAlways the witch’s motto anyway.I’ll double theirs for both of them—you watch me.They’ll find they’ve got the whole thing to do over,That is, if facts is what they want to go by.They set a lot (now don’t they?) by a recordOf Arthur Amy’s having once been upFor Hog Reeve in March Meeting here in Warren.I could have told them any time this twelvemonthThe Arthur Amy I was married toCouldn’t have been the one they say was upIn Warren at March Meeting for the reasonHe wa’n’t but fifteen at the time they say.The Arthur Amy I was married toVoted the only times he ever voted,Which wasn’t many, in the town of Wentworth.One of the times was when ’twas in the warrantTo see if the town wanted to take overThe tote road to our clearing where we lived.I’ll tell you who’d remember—Heman Lapish.Their Arthur Amy was the father of mine.So now they’ve dragged it through the law courts onceI guess they’d better drag it through again.Wentworth and Warren’s both good towns to live in,Only I happen to prefer to liveIn Wentworth from now on; and when all’s said,Right’s right, and the temptation to do rightWhen I can hurt someone by doing itHas always been too much for me, it has.I know of some folks that’d be set upAt having in their town a noted witch:But most would have to think of the expenseThat even I would be. They ought to knowThat as a witch I’d often milk a batAnd that’d be enough to last for days.It’d make my position stronger, think,If I was to consent to give some signTo make it surer that I was a witch?It wa’n’t no sign, I s’pose, when Mallice HuseSaid that I took him out in his old ageAnd rode all over everything on himUntil I’d had him worn to skin and bones.And if I’d left him hitched unblanketedIn front of one Town Hall, I’d left him hitchedIn front of every one in Grafton County.Some cried shame on me not to blanket him,The poor old man. It would have been all rightIf some one hadn’t said to gnaw the postsHe stood beside and leave his trade mark on them,So they could recognize them. Not a postThat they could hear tell of was scarified.They made him keep on gnawing till he whined.Then that same smarty someone said to look—He’d bet Huse was a cribber and had gnawedThe crib he slept in—and as sure’s you’re bornThey found he’d gnawed the four posts of his bed,All four of them to splinters. What did that prove?Not that he hadn’t gnawed the hitching postsHe said he had besides. Because a horseGnaws in the stable ain’t no proof to meHe don’t gnaw trees and posts and fences too.But everybody took it for a proof.I was a strapping girl of twenty then.The smarty someone who spoiled everythingWas Arthur Amy. You know who he was.That was the way he started courting me.He never said much after we were married,But I mistrusted he was none too proudOf having interfered in the Huse business.I guess he found he got more out of meBy having me a witch. Or something happenedTo turn him round. He got to saying thingsTo undo what he’d done and make it right,Like, “No, she ain’t come back from kiting yet.Last night was one of her nights out. She’s kiting.She thinks when the wind makes a night of itShe might as well herself.” But he liked bestTo let on he was plagued to death with me:If anyone had seen me coming homeOver the ridgepole, ’stride of a broomstick,As often as he had in the tail of the night,He guessed they’d know what he had to put up with.Well, I showed Arthur Amy signs enoughOff from the house as far as we could keepAnd from barn smells you can’t wash out of ploughed groundWith all the rain and snow of seven years;And I don’t mean just skulls of Roger’s RangersOn Moosilauke, but woman signs to man,Only bewitched so I would last him longer.Up where the trees grow short, the mosses tall,I made him gather me wet snow berriesOn slippery rocks beside a waterfall.I made him do it for me in the dark.And he liked everything I made him do.I hope if he is where he sees me nowHe’s so far off he can’t see what I’ve come to.Youcancome down from everything to nothing.All is, if I’d a-known when I was youngAnd full of it, that this would be the end,It doesn’t seem as if I’d had the courageTo make so free and kick up in folks’ faces.I might have, but it doesn’t seem as if.

Now that they’ve got it settled whose I be,

I’m going to tell them something they won’t like:

They’ve got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.

Flattered I must be to have two towns fighting

To make a present of me to each other.

They don’t dispose me, either one of them,

To spare them any trouble. Double trouble’s

Always the witch’s motto anyway.

I’ll double theirs for both of them—you watch me.

They’ll find they’ve got the whole thing to do over,

That is, if facts is what they want to go by.

They set a lot (now don’t they?) by a record

Of Arthur Amy’s having once been up

For Hog Reeve in March Meeting here in Warren.

I could have told them any time this twelvemonth

The Arthur Amy I was married to

Couldn’t have been the one they say was up

In Warren at March Meeting for the reason

He wa’n’t but fifteen at the time they say.

The Arthur Amy I was married to

Voted the only times he ever voted,

Which wasn’t many, in the town of Wentworth.

One of the times was when ’twas in the warrant

To see if the town wanted to take over

The tote road to our clearing where we lived.

I’ll tell you who’d remember—Heman Lapish.

Their Arthur Amy was the father of mine.

So now they’ve dragged it through the law courts once

I guess they’d better drag it through again.

Wentworth and Warren’s both good towns to live in,

Only I happen to prefer to live

In Wentworth from now on; and when all’s said,

Right’s right, and the temptation to do right

When I can hurt someone by doing it

Has always been too much for me, it has.

I know of some folks that’d be set up

At having in their town a noted witch:

But most would have to think of the expense

That even I would be. They ought to know

That as a witch I’d often milk a bat

And that’d be enough to last for days.

It’d make my position stronger, think,

If I was to consent to give some sign

To make it surer that I was a witch?

It wa’n’t no sign, I s’pose, when Mallice Huse

Said that I took him out in his old age

And rode all over everything on him

Until I’d had him worn to skin and bones.

And if I’d left him hitched unblanketed

In front of one Town Hall, I’d left him hitched

In front of every one in Grafton County.

Some cried shame on me not to blanket him,

The poor old man. It would have been all right

If some one hadn’t said to gnaw the posts

He stood beside and leave his trade mark on them,

So they could recognize them. Not a post

That they could hear tell of was scarified.

They made him keep on gnawing till he whined.

Then that same smarty someone said to look—

He’d bet Huse was a cribber and had gnawed

The crib he slept in—and as sure’s you’re born

They found he’d gnawed the four posts of his bed,

All four of them to splinters. What did that prove?

Not that he hadn’t gnawed the hitching posts

He said he had besides. Because a horse

Gnaws in the stable ain’t no proof to me

He don’t gnaw trees and posts and fences too.

But everybody took it for a proof.

I was a strapping girl of twenty then.

The smarty someone who spoiled everything

Was Arthur Amy. You know who he was.

That was the way he started courting me.

He never said much after we were married,

But I mistrusted he was none too proud

Of having interfered in the Huse business.

I guess he found he got more out of me

By having me a witch. Or something happened

To turn him round. He got to saying things

To undo what he’d done and make it right,

Like, “No, she ain’t come back from kiting yet.

Last night was one of her nights out. She’s kiting.

She thinks when the wind makes a night of it

She might as well herself.” But he liked best

To let on he was plagued to death with me:

If anyone had seen me coming home

Over the ridgepole, ’stride of a broomstick,

As often as he had in the tail of the night,

He guessed they’d know what he had to put up with.

Well, I showed Arthur Amy signs enough

Off from the house as far as we could keep

And from barn smells you can’t wash out of ploughed ground

With all the rain and snow of seven years;

And I don’t mean just skulls of Roger’s Rangers

On Moosilauke, but woman signs to man,

Only bewitched so I would last him longer.

Up where the trees grow short, the mosses tall,

I made him gather me wet snow berries

On slippery rocks beside a waterfall.

I made him do it for me in the dark.

And he liked everything I made him do.

I hope if he is where he sees me now

He’s so far off he can’t see what I’ve come to.

Youcancome down from everything to nothing.

All is, if I’d a-known when I was young

And full of it, that this would be the end,

It doesn’t seem as if I’d had the courage

To make so free and kick up in folks’ faces.

I might have, but it doesn’t seem as if.

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