| |
| THE WOODS grew dark; black shadows rocked | |
| And I could scarcely see | |
| My way along the old tote road, | |
| That long had seemed to me | |
| |
| To wind on aimlessly; but now | 5 |
| Came full to life; the rain | |
| Would soon strike down; ahead I saw | |
| A clearing, and a lane | |
| |
| Between gray, fallen fences and | |
| Wide, grayer, grim stone walls; | 10 |
| So grim and gray I shrank from thought | |
| Of weary, aching spalles. | |
| |
| On stony knoll great aspens swayed | |
| And swung in browsing teeth | |
| Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook | 15 |
| And shivered underneath. | |
| |
| Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent | |
| And wrangled over roof | |
| Of weatherbeaten house, and barn | |
| Whose sag bespoke no hoof. | 20 |
| |
| And ivy crawled up either end | |
| Of house, to chimney, where | |
| It lashed in futile anger at | |
| The wind wolves of the air. | |
| |
| I thought the house abandoned, and | 25 |
| I ran to get inside, | |
| When suddenly the old front door | |
| Was opened and flung wide | |
| |
| And she stood there, with hand on knob, | |
| As I went swiftly in, | 30 |
| Then closed the door most softly on | |
| The storm and shrieking din. | |
| |
| A space I stood and looked at her, | |
| So young; ’twas passing strange | |
| That fifty years or more had gone | 35 |
| And brought no new style’s change. | |
| |
| The sweetness, daintiness of her | |
| In starched and dotted gown | |
| Of creamy whiteness, over hoops, | |
| With ruffles winding down! | 40 |
| |
| We had not much to say, and yet | |
| Of words I felt no lack; | |
| Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped | |
| A moment, then dropped back. | |
| |
| I felt her pride of race; her taste | 45 |
| In silken rug and chair, | |
| And quaintly fashioned furniture | |
| Of patterns old and rare. | |
| |
| On window sill a rose bush stood; | |
| ’Twas bringing rose to bud; | 50 |
| One full bloomed there but yesterday, | |
| Dropped petals, red as blood. | |
| |
| Quite soon, she asked to be excused | |
| For just a moment, and | |
| Went out, returning with a tray | 55 |
| In either slender hand. | |
| |
| My glance could not but linger on | |
| Each thin and lovely cup; | |
| “This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed | |
| The while she raised it up. | 60 |
| |
| And when the storm was done and I | |
| Arose, reluctantly | |
| To go, she too was loath to have | |
| Me go, it seemed to me. | |
| |
| When I reached old Joe Webber’s place, | 65 |
| Upon the Corner Road, | |
| I went into the Upper Field | |
| Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed | |
| |
| Potatoes, culling them with hoe | |
| And practised, calloused hand, | 70 |
| In rounded piles that brownly glowed | |
| Upon the fresh-turned land. | |
| |
| “Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl | |
| With beauty’s smiling charm, | |
| That lives beyond that hemlock growth, | 75 |
| On that old grown-up farm?” | |
| |
| Joe listened, while I told him where | |
| I’d been that afternoon, | |
| Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed, | |
| Before he spoke, a tune. | 80 |
| |
| “They cum ter thet old place ter live | |
| Some sixty years ago; | |
| Jest where they cum from, who they ware, | |
| Wy, no one got to know. | |
| |
| “An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s | 85 |
| Red racker an’ the gig; | |
| We never heard from him nor could | |
| We track the hoss or rig. | |
| |
| “Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then | |
| He went ter see the Wife; | 90 |
| He found her in thet settin’ room: | |
| She’d taken of her life. | |
| |
| “An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence; | |
| Some say ’tis haunted,—but | |
| I ain’t no use fer foolishness, | 95 |
| So all I say’s tut! tut!” | |
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