North of Boston quotes

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring; I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha’n’t be gone long.⁠—You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.” Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: “Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: “Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.” Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: “Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather He said it for himself.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather He said it for himself.

I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father’s saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

I could say “Elves” to him, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father’s saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: “Stay where you are until our backs are turned!” We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: “Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

“But did he? I just want to know.” “Of course he did. What would you have him say?

Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man Some humble way to save his self-respect.

He added, if you really care to know, He meant to clear the upper pasture, too. That sounds like something you have heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard the way He jumbled everything.

“Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. You wouldn’t think they would. How some things linger! Harold’s young college boy’s assurance piqued him. After so many years he still keeps finding Good arguments he sees he might have used. I sympathise.

I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late.

Harold’s associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he liked it—that an argument!

“He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books.

Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.

”

“He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be Some good perhaps to someone in the world.

He hates to see a boy the fool of books.

Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.”

He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.”

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.

Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it.

“Yes, what else but home?

It all depends on what you mean by home.

Of course he’s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.”

“Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he’s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.”

“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”

“I should have called it Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.

“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”

“I should have called it Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”

Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. “Silas has better claim on us you think Than on his brother?

“I can tell you.

Silas is what he is⁠—we wouldn’t mind him⁠— But just the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide.

He never did a thing so very bad. He don’t know why he isn’t quite as good As anyone. He won’t be made ashamed To please his brother, worthless though he is.”

“I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself. But, Warren, please remember how it is: He’s come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may.

I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.

”

He’s come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may. I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.”

It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed that I missed stars in the west, Where its black body cut into the sky.

Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.

And yet between the town and it I found, When I walked forth at dawn to see new things, Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields. The river at the time was fallen away, And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;

“I’ve been on the sides Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing. But what would interest you about the brook,

It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.

One of the great sights going is to see It steam in winter like an ox’s breath, Until the bushes all along its banks Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles— You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”

“He never got up high enough to see. That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side. He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go And look myself, but you know how it is:

It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.

What would I do? Go in my overalls, With a big stick, the same as when the cows Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time? Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear? ’Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.”

What would I do? Go in my overalls, With a big stick, the same as when the cows Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time? Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?

’Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.

” “I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to— Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?”

“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all. You and I know enough to know it’s warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.

But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.

”

“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.

You and I know enough to know it’s warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.

But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.”

“Ever since Hor Was no bigger than a—” What, I did not hear. He drew the oxen toward him with light touches Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank, Gave them their marching orders and was moving.

Lancaster bore him⁠—such a little town, Such a great man.

It doesn’t see him often Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead And sends the children down there with their mother To run wild in the summer—a little wild.

They meet him in the general store at night, Pre-occupied with formidable mail, Rifling a printed letter as he talks. They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:

Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat, If not at heart, at least on principle.

Lately when coming up to Lancaster His train being late he missed another train And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction After eleven o’clock at night.

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man. Separate beds of course you understand.”

The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair? Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

A brute. Naked above the waist, He sat there creased and shining in the light, Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. “I’m moving into a size-larger shirt. I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it. I just found what the matter was to-night:

I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.

I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having. ’Tis nothing but my foolish hanging back, Not liking to own up I’d grown a size. Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it. I just found what the matter was to-night: I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.

’Tis nothing but my foolish hanging back, Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.

Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

“I can search you? Where are you moving over to? Stay still.

You’d better tuck your money under you And sleep on it the way I always do When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.

”

“Then you know me. Now we are getting on together—talking. I’m sort of Something for it at the front.

My business is to find what people want: They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.

Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor— Feel out the public sentiment—he says. A good deal comes on me when all is said. The only trouble is we disagree In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat— You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.

What I like best’s the lay of different farms, Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.

I like to find folks getting out in spring, Raking the dooryard, working near the house. Later they get out further in the fields. Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn; The family’s all away in some back meadow. There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.

I tell her when to go. I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. She’s got so she turns in at every house As if she had some sort of curvature, No matter if I have no errand there.

She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.

It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though. Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“Oh, Because I want their dollar. I don’t want Anything they’ve not got. I never dun. I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.

I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.

Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. I drink out of the bottle—not your style. Mayn’t I offer you—?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.” “I don’t know who I rather would have have them. They’re only turning yellow where they are. But you’re the doctor as the saying is. I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:

But you’re the doctor as the saying is. I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me: I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep. I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door When I come back so you’ll know who it is.

There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.

I don’t want you should shoot me in the head. What am I doing carrying off this bottle? There now, you get some sleep.”

“

My words are nearly always an offence.

I don’t know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can’t say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With womenfolk.

“My words are nearly always an offence. I don’t know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can’t say I see how.

A man must partly give up being a man With womenfolk.

We could have some arrangement By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you’re a-mind to name. Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love. Two that don’t love can’t live together without them.

A man must partly give up being a man With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you’re a-mind to name. Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love.

Two that don’t love can’t live together without them. But two that do can’t live together with them.

” She moved the latch a little. “Don’t—don’t go. Don’t carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it’s something human. Let me into your grief.

Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love. Two that don’t love can’t live together without them. But two that do can’t live together with them.” She moved the latch a little. “Don’t—don’t go. Don’t carry it to someone else this time.

Tell me about it if it’s something human. Let me into your grief.

I’m not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little.

What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour. You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.

No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone.

Friends make pretence of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world’s evil.

“I can repeat the very words you were saying.

‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.’

Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour. You couldn’t care!

You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone.

Friends make pretence of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand.

But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!” “There, you have said it all and you feel better. You won’t go now. You’re crying. Close the door. The heart’s gone out of it:

I mean by the world’s having passed it by— As we almost got by this afternoon. It always seems to me a sort of mark To measure how far fifty years have brought us.

Why not sit down if you are in no haste? These doorsteps seldom have a visitor.

The warping boards pull out their own old nails With none to tread and put them in their place. She had her own idea of things, the old lady. And she liked talk. She had seen Garrison And Whittier, and had her story of them.

It always seems to me a sort of mark To measure how far fifty years have brought us. Why not sit down if you are in no haste? These doorsteps seldom have a visitor.

The warping boards pull out their own old nails With none to tread and put them in their place.

She had her own idea of things, the old lady. And she liked talk. She had seen Garrison And Whittier, and had her story of them.

Why not sit down if you are in no haste? These doorsteps seldom have a visitor. The warping boards pull out their own old nails With none to tread and put them in their place.

She had her own idea of things, the old lady. And she liked talk.

She had seen Garrison And Whittier, and had her story of them. One wasn’t long in learning that she thought Whatever else the Civil War was for It wasn’t just to keep the States together, Nor just to free the slaves, though it did both.

Black she had scarcely seen, and yellow never. But how could they be made so very unlike By the same hand working in the same stuff? She had supposed the war decided that. What are you going to do with such a person?

Strange how such innocence gets its own way.

I shouldn’t be surprised if in this world It were the force that would at last prevail.

You know they suffered from a general onslaught. And well, if they weren’t true why keep right on Saying them like the heathen? We could drop them. Only—there was the bonnet in the pew. Such a phrase couldn’t have meant much to her.

But suppose she had missed it from the Creed As a child misses the unsaid Good-night, And falls asleep with heartache⁠—how should I feel?

I’m just as glad she made me keep hands off, For, dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true. Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes.

Such a phrase couldn’t have meant much to her. But suppose she had missed it from the Creed As a child misses the unsaid Good-night, And falls asleep with heartache—how should I feel? I’m just as glad she made me keep hands off,

For, dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true.

Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes. Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favour.

I’m just as glad she made me keep hands off, For, dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true.

Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes.

Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favour.

I’m just as glad she made me keep hands off, For, dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true. Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes.

Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favour.

As I sit here, and oftentimes, I wish I could be monarch of a desert land I could devote and dedicate forever To the truths we keep coming back and back to.

Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes. Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favour.

As I sit here, and oftentimes, I wish I could be monarch of a desert land I could devote and dedicate forever To the truths we keep coming back and back to.

So desert it would have to be, so walled By mountain ranges half in summer snow, No one would covet it or think it worth The pains of conquering to force change on.

“

It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.

And after all really they’re ebony skinned: The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.”

He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.”

“Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”

“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”

They’ll be there tomorrow, or even to-night. They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain.

You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.

”

As it is, The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them, Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore That ought to be worth something, and may yet. But I don’t count on it as much as Len.

He looks on the bright side of everything, Including me.

He thinks I’ll be all right With doctoring.

By good rights I ought not to have so much Put on me, but there seems no other way. Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.

He says the best way out is always through.

And I agree to that, or in so far As that I can see no way out but through— Leastways for me—and then they’ll be convinced. It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.

We didn’t change without some sacrifice, But Len went at it to make up the loss. His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun, But he works when he works as hard as I do—

Though there’s small profit in comparisons. (Women and men will make them all the same.)

But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much. He’s into everything in town. This year It’s highways, and he’s got too many men Around him to look after that make waste. They take advantage of him shamefully, And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.

Coming and going all the time, they are: I don’t learn what their names are, let alone Their characters, or whether they are safe To have inside the house with doors unlocked.

I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.

I have my fancies: it runs in the family. My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him Locked up for years back there at the old farm. I’ve been away once—yes, I’ve been away. The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;

I don’t learn what their names are, let alone Their characters, or whether they are safe To have inside the house with doors unlocked. I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.

I have my fancies: it runs in the family.

My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him Locked up for years back there at the old farm. I’ve been away once—yes, I’ve been away. The State Asylum. I was prejudiced; I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;

… It seems to me I can’t express my feelings any more Than I can raise my voice or want to lift My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to). Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.

It’s got so I don’t even know for sure Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.

There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside That seems to tell me how I ought to feel, And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong. You take the lake. I look and look at it. I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.

Did ever you feel so? I hope you never. It’s got so I don’t even know for sure Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.

There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside That seems to tell me how I ought to feel, And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.

You take the lake. I look and look at it. I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.

I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong. I was glad though, no end, when we moved out, And I looked to be happy, and I was, As I said, for a while—but I don’t know!

Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.

And there’s more to it than just window-views And living by a lake. I’m past such help— Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t, And I won’t ask him—it’s not sure enough. I ’spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:

Somehow the change wore out like a prescription. And there’s more to it than just window-views And living by a lake. I’m past such help— Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t, And I won’t ask him—it’s not sure enough.

I ’spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going: Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?

I almost think if I could do like you, Drop everything and live out on the ground— But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it, Or a long rain. I should soon get enough, And be glad of a good roof overhead.

I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant, More than you have yourself, some of these nights. The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away From over you as you lay in your beds. I haven’t courage for a risk like that.

Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work, But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.

There’s work enough to do—there’s always that; But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do Is set me back a little more behind. I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway. I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work, But the thing of it is, I need to be kept. There’s work enough to do—there’s always that; But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do Is set me back a little more behind.

I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway.

I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth.

Thinks I, D’ye mean it? ‘What was that you said?’ I asked out loud, so’s there’d be no mistake, ‘Did you say, Let her come?’ ‘Yes, let her come.’ He said it over, but he said it softer.

Never you say a thing like that to a man, Not if he values what he is.

God, I’d as soon Murdered him as left out his middle name. I’d built the load and knew right where to find it.

Tell you a story of what happened once: I was up here in Salem at a man’s Named Sanders with a gang of four or five Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.

He was one of the kind sports call a spider, All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy From a humped body nigh as big’s a biscuit.

But work! that man could work, especially If by so doing he could get more work Out of his hired help. I’m not denying He was hard on himself. I couldn’t find That he kept any hours—not for himself.

“Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.

The hand that knows his business won’t be told To do work better or faster⁠—those two things.

I’m as particular as anyone: Most likely I’d have served you just the same. But I know you don’t understand our ways. You were just talking what was in your mind, What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.

No one liked the boss. He was one of the kind sports call a spider, All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy From a humped body nigh as big’s a biscuit.

But work! that man could work, especially If by so doing he could get more work Out of his hired help.

I’m not denying He was hard on himself. I couldn’t find That he kept any hours—not for himself. Daylight and lantern-light were one to him: I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night. But what he liked was someone to encourage.

You take my card—you seem so good at such things— And see if you can reckon our cousinship. Why not take seats here on the cellar wall And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?”

“Under the shelter of the family tree.”

“Just so—that ought to be enough protection.”

The situation was like this: the road Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up, And disappeared and ended not far off. No one went home that way. The only house Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod.

And below roared a brook hidden in trees, The sound of which was silence for the place.

This he sat listening to till she gave judgment.

“Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch Of the Stark family I’m a member of.”

“D’you know a person so related to herself Is supposed to be mad.”

“You look so, sitting out here in the rain Studying genealogy with me You never saw before. What will we come to With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? I think we’re all mad.

“You look so, sitting out here in the rain Studying genealogy with me You never saw before. What will we come to With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? I think we’re all mad.

Tell me why we’re here Drawn into town about this cellar hole Like wild geese on a lake before a storm?

What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.”

“Yes, you must go; we can’t stay here for ever. But wait until I give you a hand up.

A bead of silver water more or less Strung on your hair won’t hurt your summer looks.

I wanted to try something with the noise That the brook raises in the empty valley. We have seen visions—now consult the voices. Something I must have learned riding in trains When I was young.

Perhaps you have the art of what I mean. I’ve never listened in among the sounds That a brook makes in such a wild descent. It ought to give a purer oracle.”

“It’s as you throw a picture on a screen: The meaning of it all is out of you; The voices give you what you wish to hear.”

“Strangely, it’s anything they wish to give.”

“Don’t! The voices seem to say:

Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid Of an acquaintance made adventurously.

”

“It’s you,” she said. “I can’t get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock. I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out.

I’m getting too old for my size, I tell them.

My fingers are about all I’ve the use of So’s to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can.”

“It’s you,” she said. “I can’t get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock.

I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out.

I’m getting too old for my size, I tell them. My fingers are about all I’ve the use of So’s to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can.”

“You mean?—oh, for some miss. I can’t keep track of other people’s daughters.

Lord, if I were to dream of everyone Whose shoes I primped to dance in!

”

But when I’m gone—of course I can’t stay here: Estelle’s to take me when she’s settled down. He and I only hinder one another. I tell them they can’t get me through the door, though:

I’ve been built in here like a big church organ.

We’ve been here fifteen years.”

“I don’t just see him living many years, Left here with nothing but the furniture.

I hate to think of the old place when we’re gone, With the brook going by below the yard, And no one here but hens blowing about.

If he could sell the place, but then, he can’t: No one will ever live on it again. It’s too run down. This is the last of it. What I think he will do, is let things smash. He’ll sort of swear the time away.

“Aren’t you afraid of him? What’s that gun for?” “Oh, that’s been there for hawks since chicken-time. John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends. I’ll say that for him, John’s no threatener Like some men folk. No one’s afraid of him;

All is, he’s made up his mind not to stand What he has got to stand.

”

“Nor want to!

She thinks if it was bad to live with him, It must be right to leave him.

”

“The strain’s been too much for her all these years: I can’t explain it any other way. It’s different with a man, at least with John: He knows he’s kinder than the run of men.

Better than married ought to be as good As married⁠—that’s what he has always said.

I know the way he’s felt—but all the same!”

But look how it turns out: She seems to have the housework, and besides, Half of the outdoor work, though as for that, He’d say she does it more because she likes it.

You see our pretty things are all outdoors.

Our hens and cows and pigs are always better Than folks like us have any business with. Farmers around twice as well off as we Haven’t as good. They don’t go with the farm.

They don’t go with the farm. One thing you can’t help liking about John, He’s fond of nice things—too fond, some would say. But Estelle don’t complain: she’s like him there. She wants our hens to be the best there are.

You never saw this room before a show, Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned birds In separate coops, having their plumage done.

The smell of the wet feathers in the heat! You spoke of John’s not being safe to stay with. You don’t know what a gentle lot we are: We wouldn’t hurt a hen!

He’s boss. But as to hens: We fence our flowers in and the hens range. Nothing’s too good for them. We say it pays. John likes to tell the offers he has had, Twenty for this cock, twenty-five for that. He never takes the money.

If they’re worth That much to sell, they’re worth as much to keep.

Bless you, it’s all expense, though. Reach me down The little tin box on the cupboard shelf, The upper shelf, the tin box. That’s the one. I’ll show you. Here you are.”

“Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in, I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled. Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.

I always have felt strange when we came home To the dark house after so long an absence, And the key rattled loudly into place Seemed to warn someone to be getting out At one door as we entered at another.

What if I’m right, and someone all the time— Don’t hold my arm!”

“It is—or someone else he’s sent to watch. And now’s the time to have it out with him While we know definitely where he is.

Let him get off and he’ll be everywhere Around us, looking out of trees and bushes Till I sha’n’t dare to set a foot outdoors.

And I can’t stand it. Joel, let me go!”

He appeared to forget to keep his hold, But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.

“What do you want?” she cried to all the dark.

She stretched up tall to overlook the light That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.

“Nothing.” It came from well along the road.

She reached a hand to Joel for support: The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.

“What are you doing round this house at night?”

“Yes, do.—Joel, go back!”

She stood her ground against the noisy steps That came on, but her body rocked a little.

“You see,” the voice said.

“Out walking.

Every child should have the memory Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.

What, son?”

“Willis, I didn’t want you here today: The lawyer’s coming for the company.

I’m going to sell my soul, or, rather, feet.

Five hundred dollars for the pair, you know.”

“Well, if it’s true! Yours are no common feet.

The lawyer don’t know what it is he’s buying: So many miles you might have walked you won’t walk.

You haven’t run your forty orchids down. What does he think?—How are the blessed feet? The doctor’s sure you’re going to walk again?”

“I haven’t dared to look at them uncovered.

Through the bed blankets I remind myself Of a starfish laid out with rigid points.

”

“You make that sound as if it wasn’t so With everything.

What we live by we die by.

I wonder where my lawyer is. His train’s in. I want this over with; I’m hot and tired.”

But, Anne, I’m troubled; have you told me all? You’re hiding something. That’s as bad as lying. You ask this lawyer man. And it’s not safe With a lawyer at hand to find you out.

Nothing is hidden from some people, Anne.

You don’t tell me that where you found a Ram’s Horn You didn’t find a Yellow Lady’s Slipper. What did I tell you? What? I’d blush, I would. Don’t you defend yourself. If it was there, Where is it now, the Yellow Lady’s Slipper?”

You’re the Heart’s desire.’

Anne has a way with flowers to take the place Of that she’s lost: she goes down on one knee And lifts their faces by the chin to hers And says their names, and leaves them where they are.

”

“I’ve broken Anne of gathering bouquets. It’s not fair to the child. It can’t be helped though:

Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.

Somehow I’ll make it right with her—she’ll see.

You’re the Heart’s desire.’ Anne has a way with flowers to take the place Of that she’s lost: she goes down on one knee And lifts their faces by the chin to hers And says their names, and leaves them where they are.”

The lawyer wore a watch the case of which Was cunningly devised to make a noise Like a small pistol when he snapped it shut At such a time as this.

He snapped it now.

Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day I paused and said, “I will turn back from here. No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.”

The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went down.

The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.

I was just far from home. A small bird flew before me. He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.

He thought that I was after him for a feather⁠— The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself.

One flight out sideways would have undeceived him. And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night.

He thought that I was after him for a feather— The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself.

One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.

And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night. He went behind it to make his last stand.

He thought that I was after him for a feather— The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself. One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.

And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night.

He went behind it to make his last stand. It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled—and measured, four by four by eight. And not another like it could I see. No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.