Part 9

‘You think so, do you? You don’t know the kind. He’s getting up a miracle this minute. Privately--to himself, right now, he’s thinking He’ll make a case of it if he succeeds, But keep still if he fails.’

‘Keep still all over. He’ll be dead--dead and buried.’

‘Such a trouble! Not but I’ve every reason not to care What happens to him if it only takes Some of the sanctimonious conceit Out of one of those pious scalawags.’

‘Nonsense to that! You want to see him safe.’

‘You like the runt.’

‘Don’t you a little?’

‘Well, I don’t like what he’s doing, which is what You like, and like him for.’

‘Oh, yes you do. You like your fun as well as anyone; Only you women have to put these airs on To impress men. You’ve got us so ashamed Of being men we can’t look at a good fight Between two boys and not feel bound to stop it. Let the man freeze an ear or two, I say.-- He’s here. I leave him all to you. Go in And save his life.--All right, come in, Meserve. Sit down, sit down. How did you find the horses?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘And ready for some more? My wife here Says it won’t do. You’ve got to give it up.’

‘Won’t you to please me? Please! If I say please? Mr. Meserve, I’ll leave it to _your_ wife. What _did_ your wife say on the telephone?’

Meserve seemed to heed nothing but the lamp Or something not far from it on the table. By straightening out and lifting a forefinger, He pointed with his hand from where it lay Like a white crumpled spider on his knee: ‘That leaf there in your open book! It moved Just then, I thought. It’s stood erect like that, There on the table, ever since I came, Trying to turn itself backward or forward, I’ve had my eye on it to make out which; If forward, then it’s with a friend’s impatience-- You see I know--to get you on to things It wants to see how you will take, if backward It’s from regret for something you have passed And failed to see the good of. Never mind, Things must expect to come in front of us A many times--I don’t say just how many-- That varies with the things--before we see them. One of the lies would make it out that nothing Ever presents itself before us twice. Where would we be at last if that were so? Our very life depends on everything’s Recurring till we answer from within. The thousandth time may prove the charm.--That leaf! It can’t turn either way. It needs the wind’s help. But the wind didn’t move it if it moved. It moved itself. The wind’s at naught in here. It couldn’t stir so sensitively poised A thing as that. It couldn’t reach the lamp To get a puff of black smoke from the flame, Or blow a rumple in the collie’s coat. You make a little foursquare block of air, Quiet and light and warm, in spite of all The illimitable dark and cold and storm, And by so doing give these three, lamp, dog, And book-leaf, that keep near you, their repose; Though for all anyone can tell, repose May be the thing you haven’t, yet you give it. So false it is that what we haven’t we can’t give; So false, that what we always say is true. I’ll have to turn the leaf if no one else will. It won’t lie down. Then let it stand. Who cares?’

‘I shouldn’t want to hurry you, Meserve, But if you’re going--Say you’ll stay, you know. But let me raise this curtain on a scene, And show you how it’s piling up against you. You see the snow-white through the white of frost? Ask Helen how far up the sash it’s climbed Since last we read the gage.’

‘It looks as if Some pallid thing had squashed its features flat And its eyes shut with overeagerness To see what people found so interesting In one another, and had gone to sleep Of its own stupid lack of understanding, Or broken its white neck of mushroom stuff Short off, and died against the window-pane.’

‘Brother Meserve, take care, you’ll scare yourself More than you will us with such nightmare talk. It’s you it matters to, because it’s you Who have to go out into it alone.’

‘Let him talk, Helen, and perhaps he’ll stay.’

‘Before you drop the curtain--I’m reminded: You recollect the boy who came out here To breathe the air one winter--had a room Down at the Averys’? Well, one sunny morning After a downy storm, he passed our place And found me banking up the house with snow. And I was burrowing in deep for warmth, Piling it well above the window-sills. The snow against the window caught his eye. “Hey, that’s a pretty thought”--those were his words. “So you can think it’s six feet deep outside, While you sit warm and read up balanced rations. You can’t get too much winter in the winter.” Those were his words. And he went home and all But banked the daylight out of Avery’s windows. Now you and I would go to no such length. At the same time you can’t deny it makes It not a mite worse, sitting here, we three, Playing our fancy, to have the snowline run So high across the pane outside. There where There is a sort of tunnel in the frost More like a tunnel than a hole--way down At the far end of it you see a stir And quiver like the frayed edge of the drift Blown in the wind. I _like_ that--I like _that_. Well, now I leave you, people.’

‘Come, Meserve, We thought you were deciding not to go-- The ways you found to say the praise of comfort And being where you are. You want to stay.’

‘I’ll own it’s cold for such a fall of snow. This house is frozen brittle, all except This room you sit in. If you think the wind Sounds further off, it’s not because it’s dying; You’re further under in the snow--that’s all-- And feel it less. Hear the soft bombs of dust It bursts against us at the chimney mouth, And at the eaves. I like it from inside More than I shall out in it. But the horses Are rested and it’s time to say good-night, And let you get to bed again. Good-night, Sorry I had to break in on your sleep.’

‘Lucky for you you did. Lucky for you You had us for a half-way station To stop at. If you were the kind of man Paid heed to women, you’d take my advice And for your family’s sake stay where you are. But what good is my saying it over and over? You’ve done more than you had a right to think You could do--_now_. You know the risk you take In going on.’

‘Our snow-storms as a rule Aren’t looked on as man-killers, and although I’d rather be the beast that sleeps the sleep Under it all, his door sealed up and lost, Than the man fighting it to keep above it, Yet think of the small birds at roost and not In nests. Shall I be counted less than they are? Their bulk in water would be frozen rock In no time out to-night. And yet to-morrow They will come budding boughs from tree to tree Flirting their wings and saying Chickadee, As if not knowing what you meant by the word storm.’

‘But why when no one wants you to go on? Your wife--she doesn’t want you to. We don’t, And you yourself don’t want to. Who else is there?’

‘Save us from being cornered by a woman. Well, there’s’--She told Fred afterward that in The pause right there, she thought the dreaded word Was coming, ‘God.’ But no, he only said ‘Well, there’s--the storm. That says I must go on. That wants me as a war might if it came. Ask any man.’

He threw her that as something To last her till he got outside the door. He had Cole with him to the barn to see him off. When Cole returned he found his wife still standing Beside the table near the open book, Not reading it.

‘Well, what kind of a man Do you call that?’ she said.

‘He had the gift Of words, or is it tongues, I ought to say?’

‘Was ever such a man for seeing likeness?’

‘Or disregarding people’s civil questions-- What? We’ve found out in one hour more about him Than we had seeing him pass by in the road A thousand times. If that’s the way he preaches! You didn’t think you’d keep him after all. Oh, I’m not blaming you. He didn’t leave you Much say in the matter, and I’m just as glad We’re not in for a night of him. No sleep If he had stayed. The least thing set him going. It’s quiet as an empty church without him.’

‘But how much better off are we as it is? We’ll have to sit here till we know he’s safe.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’ll want to, but I shouldn’t. He knows what he can do, or he wouldn’t try. Get into bed I say, and get some rest. He won’t come back, and if he telephones, It won’t be for an hour or two.’

‘Well then. We can’t be any help by sitting here And living his fight through with him, I suppose.’

* * * * *

Cole had been telephoning in the dark. Mrs. Cole’s voice came from an inner room: ‘Did she call you or you call her?’

‘She me. You’d better dress: you won’t go back to bed. We must have been asleep: it’s three and after.’

‘Had she been ringing long? I’ll get my wrapper. I want to speak to her.’

‘All she said was, He hadn’t come and had he really started.’

‘She knew he had, poor thing, two hours ago.’

‘He had the shovel. He’ll have made a fight.’

‘Why did I ever let him leave this house!’

‘Don’t begin that. You did the best you could To keep him--though perhaps you didn’t quite Conceal a wish to see him show the spunk To disobey you. Much his wife’ll thank you.’

‘Fred, after all I said! You shan’t make out That it was any way but what it was. Did she let on by any word she said She didn’t thank me?’

‘When I told her “Gone,” “Well then,” she said, and “Well then”--like a threat. And then her voice came scraping slow: “Oh, you, Why did you let him go?”’

‘Asked why we let him? You let me there. I’ll ask her why she let him. She didn’t dare to speak when he was here. Their number’s--twenty-one? The thing won’t work. Someone’s receiver’s down. The handle stumbles. The stubborn thing, the way it jars your arm! It’s theirs. She’s dropped it from her hand and gone.’

‘Try speaking. Say “Hello!”’

‘Hello. Hello.’

‘What do you hear?’

‘I hear an empty room-- You know--it sounds that way. And yes, I hear-- I think I hear a clock--and windows rattling. No step though. If she’s there she’s sitting down.’

‘Shout, she may hear you.’

‘Shouting is no good.’

‘Keep speaking then.’

‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You don’t suppose--? She wouldn’t go out doors?’

‘I’m half afraid that’s just what she might do.’

‘And leave the children?’

‘Wait and call again. You can’t hear whether she has left the door Wide open and the wind’s blown out the lamp And the fire’s died and the room’s dark and cold?’

‘One of two things, either she’s gone to bed Or gone out doors.’

‘In which case both are lost. Do you know what she’s like? Have you ever met her? It’s strange she doesn’t want to speak to us.’

‘Fred, see if you can hear what I hear. Come.’

‘A clock maybe.’

‘Don’t you hear something else?’

‘Not talking.’

‘No.’

‘Why, yes, I hear--what is it?’

‘What do you say it is?’

‘A baby’s crying! Frantic it sounds, though muffled and far off. Its mother wouldn’t let it cry like that, Not if she’s there.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘There’s only one thing possible to make, That is, assuming--that she has gone out. Of course she hasn’t though.’ They both sat down Helpless. ‘There’s nothing we can do till morning.’

‘Fred, I shan’t let you think of going out.’

‘Hold on.’ The double bell began to chirp. They started up. Fred took the telephone. ‘Hello, Meserve. You’re there, then!--And your wife? Good! Why I asked--she didn’t seem to answer. He says she went to let him in the barn.-- We’re glad. Oh, say no more about it, man. Drop in and see us when you’re passing.’

‘Well, She has him then, though what she wants him for I _don’t_ see.’

‘Possibly not for herself. Maybe she only wants him for the children.’

‘The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing. What spoiled our night was to him just his fun. What did he come in for?--To talk and visit? Thought he’d just call to tell us it was snowing. If he thinks he is going to make our house A half-way coffee house ’twixt town and nowhere--’

‘I thought you’d feel you’d been too much concerned.’

‘You think you haven’t been concerned yourself.’

‘If you mean he was inconsiderate To rout us out to think for him at midnight And then take our advice no more than nothing, Why, I agree with you. But let’s forgive him. We’ve had a share in one night of his life. What’ll you bet he ever calls again?’

_The Sound of the Trees_

I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place? We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone.

NEW HAMPSHIRE

_New Hampshire_

I met a lady from the South who said (You won’t believe she said it, but she said it): ‘None of my family ever worked, or had A thing to sell.’ I don’t suppose the work Much matters. You may work for all of me. I’ve seen the time I’ve had to work myself. The having anything to sell is what Is the disgrace in man or state or nation.

I met a traveller from Arkansas Who boasted of his state as beautiful For diamonds and apples. ‘Diamonds And apples in commercial quantities?’ I asked him, on my guard. ‘Oh yes,’ he answered, Off his. The time was evening in the Pullman. ‘I see the porter’s made your bed,’ I told him.

I met a Californian who would Talk California--a state so blessed, He said, in climate, none had ever died there A natural death, and Vigilance Committees Had had to organize to stock the graveyards And vindicate the state’s humanity. ‘Just the way Steffanson runs on,’ I murmured, ‘About the British Arctic. That’s what comes Of being in the market with a climate.’

I met a poet from another state, A zealot full of fluid inspiration, Who in the name of fluid inspiration, But in the best style of bad salesmanship, Angrily tried to make me write a protest (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act. He didn’t even offer me a drink Until I asked for one to steady _him_. This is called having an idea to sell.

It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

The only person really soiled with trade I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire Was someone who had just come back ashamed From selling things in California. He’d built a noble mansard roof with balls On turrets like Constantinople, deep In woods some ten miles from a railroad station, As if to put forever out of mind The hope of being, as we say, received. I found him standing at the close of day Inside the threshold of his open barn, Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage-- And recognized him through the iron grey In which his face was muffled to the eyes As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed A drover with me on the road to Brighton. His farm was ‘grounds,’ and not a farm at all; His house among the local sheds and shanties Rose like a factor’s at a trading station. And he was rich, and I was still a rascal. I couldn’t keep from asking impolitely, Where had he been and what had he been doing? How did he get so? (Rich was understood.) In dealing in ‘old rags’ in San Francisco. Oh it was terrible as well could be. We both of us turned over in our graves. Just specimens is all New Hampshire has, One each of everything as in a show-case Which naturally she doesn’t care to sell.

She had one President (pronounce him Purse, And make the most of it for better or worse. He’s your one chance to score against the state). She had one Daniel Webster. He was all The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be. She had the Dartmouth needed to produce him.

I call her old. She has one family Whose claim is good to being settled here Before the era of colonization, And before that of exploration even. John Smith remarked them as he coasted by Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharf At the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himself They weren’t Red Indians, but veritable Pre-primitives of the white race, dawn people, Like those who furnished Adam’s sons with wives; However uninnocent they may have been In being there so early in our history. They’d been there then a hundred years or more. Pity he didn’t ask what they were up to At that date with a wharf already built, And take their name. They’ve since told me their name-- Today an honored one in Nottingham. As for what they were up to more than fishing-- Suppose they weren’t behaving Puritanly, The hour had not yet struck for being good, Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical. It became an explorer of the deep Not to explore too deep in others’ business. Did you but know of him, New Hampshire has One real reformer who would change the world So it would be accepted by two classes, Artists the minute they set up as artists, Before, that is, they are themselves accepted, And boys the minute they get out of college. I can’t help thinking those are tests to go by.

And she has one I don’t know what to call him, Who comes from Philadelphia every year With a great flock of chickens of rare breeds He wants to give the educational Advantages of growing almost wild Under the watchful eye of hawk and eagle-- Dorkings because they’re spoken of by Chaucer, Sussex because they’re spoken of by Herrick.

She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold-- You may have heard of it. I had a farm Offered me not long since up Berlin way With a mine on it that was worked for gold; But not gold in commercial quantities. Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm. What gold more innocent could one have asked for? One of my children ranging after rocks Lately brought home from Andover or Canaan A specimen of beryl with a trace Of radium. I know with radium The trace would have to be the merest trace To be below the threshold of commercial; But trust New Hampshire not to have enough Of radium or anything to sell.

A specimen of everything, I said. She has one witch--old style. She lives in Colebrook. (The only other witch I ever met Was lately at a cut-glass dinner in Boston. There were four candles and four people present. The witch was young, and beautiful (new style), And open-minded. She was free to question Her gift for reading letters locked in boxes. Why was it so much greater when the boxes Were metal than it was when they were wooden? It made the world seem so mysterious. The S’ciety for Psychical Research Was cognizant. Her husband was worth millions. I think he owned some shares in Harvard College.)

New Hampshire _used_ to have at Salem A company we called the White Corpuscles, Whose duty was at any hour of night To rush in sheets and fools’ caps where they smelled A thing the least bit doubtfully perscented And give someone the Skipper Ireson’s Ride.

One each of everything as in a show-case. More than enough land for a specimen You’ll say she has, but there there enters in Something else to protect her from herself. There quality makes up for quantity. Not even New Hampshire farms are much for sale. The farm I made my home on in the mountains I had to take by force rather than buy. I caught the owner outdoors by himself Raking up after winter, and I said, ‘I’m going to put you off this farm: I want it.’ ‘Where are you going to put me? In the road?’ ‘I’m going to put you on the farm next to it.’ ‘Why won’t the farm next to it do for you?’ ‘I like this better.’ It was really better.

Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed, With no suspicion in stem-end or blossom-end Of vitriol or arsenate of lead, And so not good for anything but cider. Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariats Far up the birches out of reach of man.

A state producing precious metals, stones, And--writing; none of these except perhaps The precious literature in quantity Or quality to worry the producer About disposing of it. Do you know, Considering the market, there are more Poems produced than any other thing? No wonder poets sometimes have to _seem_ So much more business-like than business men. Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.

She’s one of the two best states in the Union. Vermont’s the other. And the two have been Yoke-fellows in the sap-yoke from of old In many Marches. And they lie like wedges, Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end, And are a figure of the way the strong Of mind and strong of arm should fit together, One thick where one is thin and vice versa. New Hampshire raises the Connecticut In a trout hatchery near Canada, But soon divides the river with Vermont. Both are delightful states for their absurdly Small towns--Lost Nation, Bungey, Muddy Boo, Poplin, Still Corners (so called not because The place is silent all day long, nor yet Because it boasts a whisky still--because It set out once to be a city and still Is only corners, cross-roads in a wood). And I remember one whose name appeared Between the pictures on a movie screen Election night once in Franconia, When everything had gone Republican And Democrats were sore in need of comfort: Easton goes Democratic, Wilson 4 Hughes 2. And everybody to the saddest Laughed the loud laugh, the big laugh at the little. New York (five million) laughs at Manchester, Manchester (sixty or seventy thousand) laughs At Littleton (four thousand), Littleton Laughs at Franconia (seven hundred), and Franconia laughs, I fear,--did laugh that night-- At Easton. What has Easton left to laugh at, And like the actress exclaim, ‘Oh my God’ at? There’s Bungey; and for Bungey there are towns, Whole townships named but without population.

Anything I can say about New Hampshire Will serve almost as well about Vermont, Excepting that they differ in their mountains. The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight; New Hampshire mountains curl up in a coil.