Ellie
Mary Aldis
She came to do my nails.Came in my door and stood before me waiting,A great big lummox of a girl—A continent.Her dress was rusty blackAnd scant,Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.Her sullen eyes,Like a whipped animal’s,Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.She dropped her coat upon a chairAnd waited;Then, at a word, busied herselfWith files and delicate scissors,Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.She proved so deft and silentI bade her come again;And twice a weekWhile summer dawned and flushed and wanedShe used me in her parasitic trade.The dress grew rustier,The hat more melancholy,And Ellie fatter.Each time she came I wondered as she workedIf thought lay anywhereBehind that queer uncouthness.She had a trick of seizing with her eyesEach passing thing,An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;And yet she seemed enwrappedIn a kind of solemn patience,Large, aloof and waiting.We hardly ever spoke—I could not think of anything worth saying;One does not chatter with a continent.Finally it was homing time;The seashore town was raw and desolateAnd idlers flitted.The last day Ellie cameHer calm was gone, she had been crying.Fat people never ought to cry;It’s awful....The hot drops fell upon my handWhile Ellie dropped the scissors suddenlyAnd sniffed and blew and sobbedIn disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.I said the usual things;I would have patted her but for the grease,But Ellie was not comforted.Not until the storm was spentAnd only little catching breaths were leftI got the reason.“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fatThe boys won’t look at me.”And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:Could I not help?Could I not find a medicine?We talked and talkedAnd when at dusk she went, a teary smileHovered a moment on her mouthAnd in those sullen, swollen eyesA little hope perhaps;I did not know.The city and its interests soon engulfed me.A letter or two,A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,And Ellie and her woes passed from my mindUntil, as summer dawned again,I heard that she was dead.A curious letter written stiffly,From Ellie’s mother,Told me I was invited to the funeral“By wish of the Deceased.”Wondering I travelled to the little townWhere the sea beat and groanedAnd sorrowed endlessly,And made my way down the steep streetTo Ellie’s door.Her mother met me in the hallAnd motioned,—“She wanted you to see her,”Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—A place of emerald plush and golden oakSet round with pride and symmetry,And in the midstA black and silver coffin—Ellie’s coffin.Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.Somewhere in Florence Mino da FiesoleHas made a tombWhere deathless beauty lies with upturned face.Two gentle hands, palms meeting,Touch with their pointed forefingersA delicate chin, and over the vibrant bodyClings a white robeEnshrouding chastelyWarm curving lines of adolescent grace.No sleeper this,—The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen lifeAnd held imprisoned thereThe moment of attainmentRapt, imperishable and fair.Even so lay Ellie,And when from somewhere far I heardThe mother’s voiceI listened vacantly.The woman chattered on,“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—I never knew she had it,She must ’a made it by herself.It’s queer it fitted perfectlyAn’ her all thin like that—She must ’a thought—”Then black-robed relatives came streaming inTo look at Ellie.I watched them startAnd look around for explanation.The mother pinched my arm:“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;“Come back tonight.”Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,While everybody dutifully cried,And when the village parsonRhythmically proclaimed—And this mortal shall put on immortality,—With a great welcomingAnd a great lighteningI knew at last the ancient affirmation.When evening came I found the motherSitting amidst her golden oak and plushIn a kind of isolated stateliness.She led me in.“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’emAll labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity CureWarranted Safe and Rapid.”Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”And then she cried againAnd clung to me.
She came to do my nails.Came in my door and stood before me waiting,A great big lummox of a girl—A continent.Her dress was rusty blackAnd scant,Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.Her sullen eyes,Like a whipped animal’s,Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.She dropped her coat upon a chairAnd waited;Then, at a word, busied herselfWith files and delicate scissors,Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.She proved so deft and silentI bade her come again;And twice a weekWhile summer dawned and flushed and wanedShe used me in her parasitic trade.The dress grew rustier,The hat more melancholy,And Ellie fatter.Each time she came I wondered as she workedIf thought lay anywhereBehind that queer uncouthness.She had a trick of seizing with her eyesEach passing thing,An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;And yet she seemed enwrappedIn a kind of solemn patience,Large, aloof and waiting.We hardly ever spoke—I could not think of anything worth saying;One does not chatter with a continent.Finally it was homing time;The seashore town was raw and desolateAnd idlers flitted.The last day Ellie cameHer calm was gone, she had been crying.Fat people never ought to cry;It’s awful....The hot drops fell upon my handWhile Ellie dropped the scissors suddenlyAnd sniffed and blew and sobbedIn disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.I said the usual things;I would have patted her but for the grease,But Ellie was not comforted.Not until the storm was spentAnd only little catching breaths were leftI got the reason.“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fatThe boys won’t look at me.”And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:Could I not help?Could I not find a medicine?We talked and talkedAnd when at dusk she went, a teary smileHovered a moment on her mouthAnd in those sullen, swollen eyesA little hope perhaps;I did not know.The city and its interests soon engulfed me.A letter or two,A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,And Ellie and her woes passed from my mindUntil, as summer dawned again,I heard that she was dead.A curious letter written stiffly,From Ellie’s mother,Told me I was invited to the funeral“By wish of the Deceased.”Wondering I travelled to the little townWhere the sea beat and groanedAnd sorrowed endlessly,And made my way down the steep streetTo Ellie’s door.Her mother met me in the hallAnd motioned,—“She wanted you to see her,”Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—A place of emerald plush and golden oakSet round with pride and symmetry,And in the midstA black and silver coffin—Ellie’s coffin.Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.Somewhere in Florence Mino da FiesoleHas made a tombWhere deathless beauty lies with upturned face.Two gentle hands, palms meeting,Touch with their pointed forefingersA delicate chin, and over the vibrant bodyClings a white robeEnshrouding chastelyWarm curving lines of adolescent grace.No sleeper this,—The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen lifeAnd held imprisoned thereThe moment of attainmentRapt, imperishable and fair.Even so lay Ellie,And when from somewhere far I heardThe mother’s voiceI listened vacantly.The woman chattered on,“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—I never knew she had it,She must ’a made it by herself.It’s queer it fitted perfectlyAn’ her all thin like that—She must ’a thought—”Then black-robed relatives came streaming inTo look at Ellie.I watched them startAnd look around for explanation.The mother pinched my arm:“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;“Come back tonight.”Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,While everybody dutifully cried,And when the village parsonRhythmically proclaimed—And this mortal shall put on immortality,—With a great welcomingAnd a great lighteningI knew at last the ancient affirmation.When evening came I found the motherSitting amidst her golden oak and plushIn a kind of isolated stateliness.She led me in.“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’emAll labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity CureWarranted Safe and Rapid.”Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”And then she cried againAnd clung to me.
She came to do my nails.Came in my door and stood before me waiting,A great big lummox of a girl—A continent.Her dress was rusty blackAnd scant,Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.Her sullen eyes,Like a whipped animal’s,Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.
She came to do my nails.
Came in my door and stood before me waiting,
A great big lummox of a girl—
A continent.
Her dress was rusty black
And scant,
Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.
Her sullen eyes,
Like a whipped animal’s,
Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.
She dropped her coat upon a chairAnd waited;Then, at a word, busied herselfWith files and delicate scissors,Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.
She dropped her coat upon a chair
And waited;
Then, at a word, busied herself
With files and delicate scissors,
Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.
She proved so deft and silentI bade her come again;And twice a weekWhile summer dawned and flushed and wanedShe used me in her parasitic trade.The dress grew rustier,The hat more melancholy,And Ellie fatter.
She proved so deft and silent
I bade her come again;
And twice a week
While summer dawned and flushed and waned
She used me in her parasitic trade.
The dress grew rustier,
The hat more melancholy,
And Ellie fatter.
Each time she came I wondered as she workedIf thought lay anywhereBehind that queer uncouthness.She had a trick of seizing with her eyesEach passing thing,An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;And yet she seemed enwrappedIn a kind of solemn patience,Large, aloof and waiting.We hardly ever spoke—I could not think of anything worth saying;One does not chatter with a continent.
Each time she came I wondered as she worked
If thought lay anywhere
Behind that queer uncouthness.
She had a trick of seizing with her eyes
Each passing thing,
An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;
And yet she seemed enwrapped
In a kind of solemn patience,
Large, aloof and waiting.
We hardly ever spoke—
I could not think of anything worth saying;
One does not chatter with a continent.
Finally it was homing time;The seashore town was raw and desolateAnd idlers flitted.The last day Ellie cameHer calm was gone, she had been crying.Fat people never ought to cry;It’s awful....The hot drops fell upon my handWhile Ellie dropped the scissors suddenlyAnd sniffed and blew and sobbedIn disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.I said the usual things;I would have patted her but for the grease,But Ellie was not comforted.Not until the storm was spentAnd only little catching breaths were leftI got the reason.“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fatThe boys won’t look at me.”And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:Could I not help?Could I not find a medicine?We talked and talkedAnd when at dusk she went, a teary smileHovered a moment on her mouthAnd in those sullen, swollen eyesA little hope perhaps;I did not know.
Finally it was homing time;
The seashore town was raw and desolate
And idlers flitted.
The last day Ellie came
Her calm was gone, she had been crying.
Fat people never ought to cry;
It’s awful....
The hot drops fell upon my hand
While Ellie dropped the scissors suddenly
And sniffed and blew and sobbed
In disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.
I said the usual things;
I would have patted her but for the grease,
But Ellie was not comforted.
Not until the storm was spent
And only little catching breaths were left
I got the reason.
“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fat
The boys won’t look at me.”
And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:
Could I not help?
Could I not find a medicine?
We talked and talked
And when at dusk she went, a teary smile
Hovered a moment on her mouth
And in those sullen, swollen eyes
A little hope perhaps;
I did not know.
The city and its interests soon engulfed me.A letter or two,A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,And Ellie and her woes passed from my mindUntil, as summer dawned again,I heard that she was dead.A curious letter written stiffly,From Ellie’s mother,Told me I was invited to the funeral“By wish of the Deceased.”
The city and its interests soon engulfed me.
A letter or two,
A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,
And Ellie and her woes passed from my mind
Until, as summer dawned again,
I heard that she was dead.
A curious letter written stiffly,
From Ellie’s mother,
Told me I was invited to the funeral
“By wish of the Deceased.”
Wondering I travelled to the little townWhere the sea beat and groanedAnd sorrowed endlessly,And made my way down the steep streetTo Ellie’s door.Her mother met me in the hallAnd motioned,—“She wanted you to see her,”Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—A place of emerald plush and golden oakSet round with pride and symmetry,And in the midstA black and silver coffin—Ellie’s coffin.Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.
Wondering I travelled to the little town
Where the sea beat and groaned
And sorrowed endlessly,
And made my way down the steep street
To Ellie’s door.
Her mother met me in the hall
And motioned,—
“She wanted you to see her,”
Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—
A place of emerald plush and golden oak
Set round with pride and symmetry,
And in the midst
A black and silver coffin—
Ellie’s coffin.
Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.
Somewhere in Florence Mino da FiesoleHas made a tombWhere deathless beauty lies with upturned face.Two gentle hands, palms meeting,Touch with their pointed forefingersA delicate chin, and over the vibrant bodyClings a white robeEnshrouding chastelyWarm curving lines of adolescent grace.No sleeper this,—The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen lifeAnd held imprisoned thereThe moment of attainmentRapt, imperishable and fair.
Somewhere in Florence Mino da Fiesole
Has made a tomb
Where deathless beauty lies with upturned face.
Two gentle hands, palms meeting,
Touch with their pointed forefingers
A delicate chin, and over the vibrant body
Clings a white robe
Enshrouding chastely
Warm curving lines of adolescent grace.
No sleeper this,—
The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,
As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen life
And held imprisoned there
The moment of attainment
Rapt, imperishable and fair.
Even so lay Ellie,And when from somewhere far I heardThe mother’s voiceI listened vacantly.
Even so lay Ellie,
And when from somewhere far I heard
The mother’s voice
I listened vacantly.
The woman chattered on,“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—I never knew she had it,She must ’a made it by herself.It’s queer it fitted perfectlyAn’ her all thin like that—She must ’a thought—”
The woman chattered on,
“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—
I never knew she had it,
She must ’a made it by herself.
It’s queer it fitted perfectly
An’ her all thin like that—
She must ’a thought—”
Then black-robed relatives came streaming inTo look at Ellie.I watched them startAnd look around for explanation.The mother pinched my arm:“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;“Come back tonight.”
Then black-robed relatives came streaming in
To look at Ellie.
I watched them start
And look around for explanation.
The mother pinched my arm:
“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;
“Come back tonight.”
Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,While everybody dutifully cried,And when the village parsonRhythmically proclaimed—And this mortal shall put on immortality,—With a great welcomingAnd a great lighteningI knew at last the ancient affirmation.When evening came I found the motherSitting amidst her golden oak and plushIn a kind of isolated stateliness.
Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,
While everybody dutifully cried,
And when the village parson
Rhythmically proclaimed—
And this mortal shall put on immortality,—
With a great welcoming
And a great lightening
I knew at last the ancient affirmation.
When evening came I found the mother
Sitting amidst her golden oak and plush
In a kind of isolated stateliness.
She led me in.“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’emAll labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity CureWarranted Safe and Rapid.”Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”And then she cried againAnd clung to me.
She led me in.
“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”
She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.
The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’em
All labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity Cure
Warranted Safe and Rapid.”
Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;
“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”
And then she cried again
And clung to me.