Part 4

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 peopled 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. Hell 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 halfway 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?"

IN THE HOME STRETCH

She stood against the kitchen sink, and looked Over the sink out through a dusty window At weeds the water from the sink made tall. She wore her cape; her hat was in her hand. Behind her was confusion in the room, Of chairs turned upside down to sit like people In other chairs, and something, come to look, For every room a house has—-parlor, bed-room, And dining-room—-thrown pell-mell in the kitchen. And now and then a smudged, infernal face Looked in a door behind her and addressed Her back. She always answered without turning.

"Where will I put this walnut bureau, lady?"

"Put it on top of something that's on top Of something else," she laughed. "Oh, put it where You can to-night, and go. It's almost dark; You must be getting started back to town." Another blackened face thrust in and looked And smiled, and when she did not turn, spoke gently, "What are you seeing out the window, _lady?_"

"Never was I beladied so before. Would evidence of having been called lady More than so many times make me a lady In common law, I wonder."

"But I ask, What are you seeing out the window, lady?"

"What I'll be seeing more of in the years To come as here I stand and go the round Of many plates with towels many times."

"And what is that? You only put me off."

"Rank weeds that love the water from the dish-pan More than some women like the dish-pan, Joe; A little stretch of mowing-field for you; Not much of that until I come to woods That end all. And it's scarce enough to call A view."

"And yet you think you like it, dear?"

"That's what you're so concerned to know! You hope I like it. Bang goes something big away Off there upstairs. The very tread of men As great as those is shattering to the frame Of such a little house. Once left alone, You and I, dear, will go with softer steps Up and down stairs and through the rooms, and none But sudden winds that snatch them from our hands Will ever slam the doors."

"I think you see More than you like to own to out that window."

"No; for besides the things I tell you of, I only see the years. They come and go In alternation with the weeds, the field, The wood."

"What kind of years?"

"Why, latter years—-

Different from early years."

"I see them, too.

You didn't count them?"

"No, the further off So ran together that I didn't try to. It can scarce be that they would be in number We'd care to know, for we are not young now. And bang goes something else away off there. It sounds as if it were the men went down, And every crash meant one less to return To lighted city streets we, too, have known, But now are giving up for country darkness."

"Come from that window where you see too much for me, And take a livelier view of things from here. They're going. Watch this husky swarming up Over the wheel into the sky-high seat, Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his nose At the flame burning downward as he sucks it."

"See how it makes his nose-side bright, a proof How dark it's getting. Can you tell what time It is by that? Or by the moon? The new moon! What shoulder did I see her over? Neither. A wire she is of silver, as new as we To everything. Her light won't last us long. It's something, though, to know we're going to have her Night after night and stronger every night To see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe, The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window; Ask them to help you get it on its feet. We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!"

"They're not gone yet."

"We've got to have the stove, Whatever else we want for. And a light. Have we a piece of candle if the lamp And oil are buried out of reach?"

Again The house was full of tramping, and the dark, Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove. A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall, To which they set it true by eye; and then Came up the jointed stovepipe in their hands, So much too light and airy for their strength It almost seemed to come ballooning up, Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling. "A fit!" said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder. "It's good luck when you move in to begin With good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind, It's not so bad in the country, settled down, When people 're getting on in life. You'll like it." Joe said: "You big boys ought to find a farm, And make good farmers, and leave other fellows The city work to do. There's not enough For everybody as it is in there." "God!" one said wildly, and, when no one spoke: "Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm." But Jimmy only made his jaw recede Fool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to say He saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boy Who said with seriousness that made them laugh, "Ma friend, you ain't know what it is you're ask." He doffed his cap and held it with both hands Across his chest to make as 'twere a bow: "We're giving you our chances on de farm." And then they all turned to with deafening boots And put each other bodily out of the house. "Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think—- I don't know what they think we see in what They leave us to: that pasture slope that seems The back some farm presents us; and your woods To northward from your window at the sink, Waiting to steal a step on us whenever We drop our eyes or turn to other things, As in the game 'Ten-step' the children play."

"Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city. All they could say was 'God!' when you proposed Their coming out and making useful farmers."

"Did they make something lonesome go through you? It would take more than them to sicken you—- Us of our bargain. But they left us so As to our fate, like fools past reasoning with. They almost shook _me._"

"It's all so much What we have always wanted, I confess It's seeming bad for a moment makes it seem Even worse still, and so on down, down, down. It's nothing; it's their leaving us at dusk. I never bore it well when people went. The first night after guests have gone, the house Seems haunted or exposed. I always take A personal interest in the locking up At bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off." He fetched a dingy lantern from behind A door. "There's that we didn't lose! And these!" Some matches he unpocketed. "For food—- The meals we've had no one can take from us. I wish that everything on earth were just As certain as the meals we've had. I wish The meals we haven't had were, anyway. What have you you know where to lay your hands on?"

"The bread we bought in passing at the store. There's butter somewhere, too."

"Let's rend the bread. I'll light the fire for company for you; You'll not have any other company Till Ed begins to get out on a Sunday To look us over and give us his idea Of what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up. He'll know what he would do if he were we, And all at once. He'll plan for us and plan To help us, but he'll take it out in planning. Well, you can set the table with the loaf. Let's see you find your loaf. I'll light the fire. I like chairs occupying other chairs Not offering a lady—-"

"There again, Joe! _You're tired._"

"I'm drunk-nonsensical tired out; Don't mind a word I say. It's a day's work To empty one house of all household goods And fill another with 'em fifteen miles away, Although you do no more than dump them down."

"Dumped down in paradise we are and happy."

"It's all so much what I have always wanted, I can't believe it's what you wanted, too."

"Shouldn't you like to know?"

"I'd like to know If it is what you wanted, then how much You wanted it for me."

"A troubled conscience! You don't want me to tell if _I_ don't know."

"I don't want to find out what can't be known. But who first said the word to come?"

My dear, It's who first thought the thought. You're searching, Joe, For things that don't exist; I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings—-there are no such things. There are only middles."

"What is this?"

"This life? Our sitting here by lantern-light together Amid the wreckage of a former home? You won't deny the lantern isn't new. The stove is not, and you are not to me, Nor I to you."

"Perhaps you never were?"

"It would take me forever to recite All that's not new in where we find ourselves. New is a word for fools in towns who think Style upon style in dress and thought at last Must get somewhere. I've heard you say as much. No, this is no beginning."

"Then an end?"

"End is a gloomy word."

"Is it too late To drag you out for just a good-night call On the old peach trees on the knoll to grope By starlight in the grass for a last peach The neighbors may not have taken as their right When the house wasn't lived in? I've been looking: I doubt if they have left us many grapes. Before we set ourselves to right the house, The first thing in the morning, out we go To go the round of apple, cherry, peach, Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook. All of a farm it is."

"I know this much: I'm going to put you in your bed, if first I have to make you build it. Come, the light."

When there was no more lantern in the kitchen, The fire got out through crannies in the stove And danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling, As much at home as if they'd always danced there.

VI

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveller, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—- I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference.

THE OVEN BIRD

There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.

A VANTAGE POINT

If tired of trees I seek again mankind, Well I know where to hie me—-in the dawn, To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn. There amid lolling juniper reclined, Myself unseen, I see in white defined Far off the homes of men, and farther still, The graves of men on an opposing hill, Living or dead, whichever are most to mind.

And if by noon I have too much of these, I have but to turn on my arm, and lo, The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze, I smell the earth, I smell the bruised plant, I look into the crater of the ant.

THE SOUND OF 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.

HYLA BROOK

By June our brook's run out of song and speed. Sought for much after that, it will be found Either to have gone groping underground (And taken with it all the Hyla breed That shouted in the mist a month ago, Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—- Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed, Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent Even against the way its waters went. Its bed is left a faded paper sheet Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—- A brook to none but who remember long. This as it will be seen is other far Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song. We love the things we love for what they are.

MY NOVEMBER GUEST

My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why.