By Robert
Frost
North of Boston is the volume of poetry that
was published in 1914 and established Robert Frost as the major force in modern
American poetry. Influenced by his friendship with Ezra Pound and the New
England landscape, the poems are marked by modern themes and concerns, dark
impressions of early twentieth-century rural life, and the nature of tragedy.
The poems are written exclusively in meter, and are often rhymed.
One of the most frequently read
poems from North of Boston is "Mending Wall," which contains the oft
repeated aphorism, "Good fences make good neighbors." However, taken
out of context, this line nearly reverses Frost’s original meaning. Other
notable poems in the collection include "Death of the Hired Man,"
"Home Burial," and "After Apple Picking."
North of Boston established
Frost's understated, mature poetic voice, which simultaneously adhered to a
formal tradition while quietly fighting the obvious, overstrained poetics of
the time. His most frequently anthologized poems tend to misrepresent his
oeuvre, painting him more as a regional poet than a modern master, which has
led to many casual misreadings of his poetics. However, while Frost was
immensely popular among the general public, he was also widely read and
analyzed by modernist and formalist critics alike. The variety of responses to
Frost’s work is astonishing, clearly establishing him as one of the greatest
and most beloved poets of the twentieth century.
Robert Frost was born in San
Francisco California, on March 26, 1874 to William Prescott Frost, Jr., a
former teacher and journalist and was
later an editor of the San Francisco Evening Bulletin and Isabelle
Moodie. The Frost family had arrived in New Hampshire from Devon England in
1634.
After his father’s death of
tuberculosis on May 5, 1885 when Frost was 11 (He left the family with just
eight dollars.) the Frost family moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts, where
Robert's grandfather, William Frost, Sr., ran a mill. Frost graduated from
Lawrence High School in 1892. (He
published his first poem in his high school's magazine.)
He went on to Dartmouth College for two months
but returned home to teach school. However, the young poet also held down a
number of other jobs as well, including newspaper delivery, factory worker and
carbon filament changer, all the while honing his skills as a poet. In 1894 he
sold his first poem, "My Butterfly. An Elegy" to the New York
Independent for $15 (Which would amount to several hundred dollars today)
The young scribe then proposed
marriage to Elinor Miriam White, but she declined, wisely, wishing to finish
college at St. Lawrence University before they married. Frost asked her once more before she accepted
(after she graduated) and the two were married in Lawrence, Massachusetts on
December 19, 1895.
The couple would have six
children, son Elliot would die of cholera in 1904. Daughter Lesley died in
1983, son Carol committed suicide in 1940, daughter Irma died in 1967, daughter
Marjorie died in 1934 as a result of puerperal fever after childbirth and
daughter Elinor Bettina died just three days after her birth in 1907. Only
Lesley and Irma outlived their father. Frost's wife, who had heart problems
throughout her life, developed breast cancer in 1937, and died of heart failure
in 1938.
Frost attended Harvard University
but left in 1899 due to illness. It was
around that time, that Robert's grandfather purchased a farm for Robert and
Elinor in Derry, New Hampshire (The grandfather died shortly afterwards)
Frost worked the farm for nine
years, writing early in the mornings and working the land during the rest of
the day. It was a productive time for him and most of his better known poems
were written during this period of his life.
In 1906 (His mother died of
cancer in 1900.) Frost left the back
breaking life of farmer to teach English at the prestigious New Hampshire
Pinkerton Academy from 1906 to 1911, then at the New Hampshire Normal School
(now Plymouth State University) in Plymouth, New Hampshire.
In 1912 Frost settled in England,
in Beaconsfield, a small town outside London and a year later, in 1913, his
first book of poetry, A Boy's Will, was published and in 1914 he followed up
with second book, North of Boston. Also while in England, Frost met many of the
leading writers and poets of his day including Edward Thomas , T.E. Hulme, and
Ezra Pound.
Frost returned to America in
1915, the inset of World War One and bought a farm in Franconia, New Hampshire,
where he settled back into his writing-teaching career. The family would live
there until 1938. (Today the farm is maintained as The Frost Place, a museum
and poetry conference site.)
In 1920, Frost, who suffered from
severe depression as his mother did, was forced to commit his younger sister
Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later. Later, in 1947,
Frost’s daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947 and his wife
also suffered bouts of depression as well.
The year 1924 sounded a brighter
note, Frost was awarded the first of four Pulitzer Prizes for the book New
Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes. He would win additional Pulitzers
for Collected Poems in 1931, A Further Range in 1937, and A Witness Tree in
1943.
At age 86, Frost read his poem
"The Gift Outright" at the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy
on January 20, 1961. He died in Boston two years later, on January 29, 1963, of
complications from surgery. He is buried at the Old Bennington Cemetery in
Bennington, Vermont. His epitaph quotes the last line from his poem, "The
Lesson for Today (1942): "I had a lover's quarrel with the world."
TO
E. M. F.
CONTENTS
The
Pasture
Mending
Wall
The Death
of the Hired Man
The
Mountain
A Hundred
Collars
Home
Burial
The Black
Cottage
Blueberries
A Servant
to Servants
After
Apple-picking
The Code
The
Generations of Men
The
Housekeeper
The Fear
The
Self-seeker
The
Wood-pile
Good
Hours
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
________________________________________
Mending
Wall
SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,
That
sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And
spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes
gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work
of hunters is another thing:
I have
come after them and made repair
Where
they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they
would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please
the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one
has seen them made or heard them made,
But at
spring mending-time we find them there.
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.
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.
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. 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."
________________________________________
The Death
of the Hired Man
MARY sat
musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting
for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran
on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet
him in the doorway with the news
And put
him on his guard. "Silas is back."
She
pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut
it after her. "Be kind," she said.
She took
the market things from Warren's arms
And set
them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit
beside her on the wooden steps.
"When
was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I'll
not have the fellow back," he said.
"I
told him so last haying, didn't I?
'If he
left then,' I said, 'that ended it.'
What good
is he? Who else will harbour him
At his
age for the little he can do?
What help
he is there's no depending on.
Off he
goes always when I need him most.
'He
thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at
least to buy tobacco with,
So he
won't have to beg and be beholden.'
'All
right,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay
Any fixed
wages, though I wish I could.'
'Someone
else can.' 'Then someone else will have to.'
I
shouldn't mind his bettering himself
If that
was what it was. You can be certain,
When he
begins like that, there's someone at him
Trying to
coax him off with pocket-money,—
In haying
time, when any help is scarce.
In winter
he comes back to us. I'm done."
"Sh!
not so loud: he'll hear you," Mary said.
"I
want him to: he'll have to soon or late."
"He's
worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.
When I
came up from Rowe's I found him here,
Huddled
against the barn-door fast asleep,
A
miserable sight, and frightening, too—
You
needn't smile—I didn't recognise him—
I wasn't
looking for him—and he's changed.
Wait till
you see."
"Where
did you say he'd been?"
"He
didn't say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave
him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried
to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing
would do: he just kept nodding off."
"What
did he say? Did he say anything?"
"But
little."
"Anything?
Mary, confess
He said
he'd come to ditch the meadow for me."
"Warren!"
"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. I stopped to look
Two or
three times—he made me feel so queer—
To see if
he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on
Harold Wilson—you remember—
The boy
you had in haying four years since.
He's
finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas
declares you'll have to get him back.
He says
they two will make a team for work:
Between
them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way
he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks
young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On
education—you know how they fought
All
through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up
on the cart to build the load,
Harold
along beside to pitch it on."
"Yes,
I took care to keep well out of earshot."
"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 said
he couldn't make the boy believe
He could
find water with a hazel prong—
Which
showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted
to go over that. But most of all
He thinks
if he could have another chance
To teach
him how to build a load of hay——"
"I
know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He
bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags
and numbers it for future reference,
So he can
find and easily dislodge it
In the
unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes
it out in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never
see him standing on the hay
He's
trying to lift, straining to lift himself."
"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."
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. She put out her hand
Among the
harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with
the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she
played unheard the tenderness
That
wrought on him beside her in the night.
"Warren,"
she said, "he has come home to die:
You
needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time."
"Home,"
he mocked gently.
"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.
"Silas
has better claim on us you think
Than on
his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the
road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has
walked that far no doubt to-day.
Why
didn't he go there? His brother's rich,
A
somebody—director in the bank."
"He
never told us that."
"We
know it though."
"I
think his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see
to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take
him in, and might be willing to—
He may be
better than appearances.
But have
some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he'd
had any pride in claiming kin
Or
anything he looked for from his brother,
He'd keep
so still about him all this time?"
"I
wonder what's between them."
"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
can't think Si ever hurt anyone."
"No,
but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And
rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He
wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
You must
go in and see what you can do.
I made
the bed up for him there to-night.
You'll be
surprised at him—how much he's broken.
His
working days are done; I'm sure of it."
"I'd
not be in a hurry to say that."
"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."
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.
"Warren,"
she questioned.
"Dead,"
was all he answered.
________________________________________
The
Mountain
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;
But the
signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good
grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of
sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed
the river and swung round the mountain.
And there
I met a man who moved so slow
With
white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed
no hand to stop him altogether.
"What
town is this?" I asked.
"This?
Lunenburg."
Then I
was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond
the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only
felt at night its shadowy presence.
"Where
is your village? Very far from here?"
"There
is no village—only scattered farms.
We were
but sixty voters last election.
We can't
in nature grow to many more:
That
thing takes all the room!" He moved his goad.
The
mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture
ran up the side a little way,
And then
there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After
that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly
concealed among the leaves.
A dry
ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the
pasture.
"That
looks like a path.
Is that
the way to reach the top from here?—
Not for
this morning, but some other time:
I must be
getting back to breakfast now."
"I
don't advise your trying from this side.
There is
no proper path, but those that have
Been up,
I understand, have climbed from Ladd's.
That's
five miles back. You can't mistake the place:
They
logged it there last winter some way up.
I'd take
you, but I'm bound the other way."
"You've
never climbed it?"
"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!"
"There
ought to be a view around the world
From such
a mountain—if it isn't wooded
Clear to
the top." I saw through leafy screens
Great
granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves
one could rest a knee on getting up—
With
depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn
and sit on and look out and down,
With
little ferns in crevices at his elbow.
"As
to that I can't say. But there's the spring,
Right on
the summit, almost like a fountain.
That
ought to be worth seeing."
"If
it's there.
You never
saw it?"
"I
guess there's no doubt
About its
being there. I never saw it.
It may
not be right on the very top:
It
wouldn't have to be a long way down
To have
some head of water from above,
And a
good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone
who'd come a long way up.
One time
I asked a fellow climbing it
To look
and tell me later how it was."
"What
did he say?"
"He
said there was a lake
Somewhere
in Ireland on a mountain top."
"But
a lake's different. What about the spring?"
"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."
"I
shouldn't climb it if I didn't want to—
Not for
the sake of climbing. What's its name?"
"We
call it Hor: I don't know if that's right."
"Can
one walk around it? Would it be too far?"
"You
can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it's
as much as ever you can do,
The
boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is
the township, and the township's Hor—
And a few
houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like
boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled
out a little farther than the rest."
"Warm
in December, cold in June, you say?"
"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."
"You've
lived here all your life?"
"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.
Sometimes
he joins them for a day or two
And sees
old friends he somehow can't get near.
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. Too tired
To think
of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned
to the hotel to find a bed.
"No room,"
the night clerk said. "Unless——"
Woodsville's
a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars
that shook and rattle—and one hotel.
"You
say 'unless.'"
"Unless
you wouldn't mind
Sharing a
room with someone else."
"Who
is it?"
"A
man."
"So
I should hope. What kind of man?"
"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?"
"He
was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do
you say?"
"I'll
have to have a bed."
The night
clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down
a narrow passage full of doors,
At the
last one of which he knocked and entered.
"Lafe,
here's a fellow wants to share your room."
"Show
him this way. I'm not afraid of him.
I'm not
so drunk I can't take care of myself."
The night
clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
"This
will be yours. Good-night," he said, and went.
"Lafe
was the name, I think?"
"Yes,
Layfayette.
You got
it the first time. And yours?"
"Magoon.
Doctor
Magoon."
"A
Doctor?"
"Well,
a teacher."
"Professor
Square-the-circle-till-you're-tired?
Hold on,
there's something I don't think of now
That I
had on my mind to ask the first
Man that
knew anything I happened in with.
I'll ask
you later—don't let me forget it."
The
Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? 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.
'Twas
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?"
The
Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
"Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen."
"Fourteen!
You say so!
I can
remember when I wore fourteen.
And come
to think I must have back at home
More than
a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad
to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They're
yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What
makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You're
not much furtherer than where Kike left you.
You act
as if you wished you hadn't come.
Sit down
or lie down, friend; you make me nervous."
The
Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And
propped himself at bay against a pillow.
"Not
that way, with your shoes on Kike's white bed.
You can't
rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off."
"Don't
touch me, please—I say, don't touch me, please.
I'll not
be put to bed by you, my man."
"Just
as you say. Have it your own way then.
'My man'
is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking
of who's afraid of who, however,
I'm
thinking I have more to lose than you
If
anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants
to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let's
have a show down as an evidence
Of good
faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if
you're not afraid."
"I'm
not afraid.
There's
five: that's all I carry."
"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."
"Will
you believe me if I put it there
Right on
the counterpane—that I do trust you?"
"You'd
say so, Mister Man.—I'm a collector.
My ninety
isn't mine—you won't think that.
I pick it
up a dollar at a time
All round
the country for the Weekly News,
Published
in Bow. You know the Weekly News?"
"Known
it since I was young."
"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;
The News
has always been Republican.
Fairbanks,
he says to me, 'Help us this year,'
Meaning
by us their ticket. 'No,' I says,
'I can't
and won't. You've been in long enough:
It's time
you turned around and boosted us.
You'll
have to pay me more than ten a week
If I'm
expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt
if I could do it anyway.'"
"You
seem to shape the paper's policy."
"You
see I'm in with everybody, know 'em all.
I almost
know their farms as well as they do."
"You
drive around? It must be pleasant work."
"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.
And later
still they all get driven in:
The
fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped
to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips
and poles. There's nobody about.
The
chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie
back and ride. I take the reins
Only when
someone's coming, and the mare
Stops
when she likes: 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."
"One
would suppose they might not be as glad
To see
you as you are to see them."
"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——?"
"No,
no, no, thank you."
"Just
as you say. Here's looking at you then.—
And now
I'm leaving you a little while.
You'll
rest easier when I'm gone, perhaps—
Lie
down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But
first—let's see—what was I going to ask you?
Those
collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose
you aren't awake when I come back?"
"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:
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."
He shut
the door.
The
Doctor slid a little down the pillow.
________________________________________
HE saw
her from the bottom of the stairs
Before
she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking
back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took
a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise
herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing
toward her: "What is it you see
From up
there always—for I want to know."
She
turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her
face changed from terrified to dull.
He said
to gain time: "What is it you see,"
Mounting
until she cowered under him.
"I
will find out now—you must tell me, dear."
She, in
her place, refused him any help
With the
least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let
him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
Blind
creature; and a while he didn't see.
But at
last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh."
"What
is it—what?" she said.
"Just
that I see."
"You
don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is."
"The
wonder is I didn't see at once.
I never
noticed it from here before.
I must be
wonted to it—that's the reason.
The
little graveyard where my people are!
So small
the window frames the whole of it.
Not so
much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are
three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered
little slabs there in the sunlight
On the
sidehill. We haven't to mind those.
But I
understand: it is not the stones,
But the
child's mound——"
"Don't,
don't, don't, don't," she cried.
She
withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm
That
rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And
turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said
twice over before he knew himself:
"Can't
a man speak of his own child he's lost?"
"Not
you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!
I must
get out of here. I must get air.
I don't
know rightly whether any man can."
"Amy!
Don't go to someone else this time.
Listen to
me. I won't come down the stairs."
He sat
and fixed his chin between his fists.
"There's
something I should like to ask you, dear."
"You
don't know how to ask it."
"Help
me, then."
Her
fingers moved the latch for all reply.
"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
women-folk. 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. 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 was
it brought you up to think it the thing
To take
your mother-loss of a first child
So
inconsolably—in the face of love.
You'd
think his memory might be satisfied——"
"There
you go sneering now!"
"I'm
not, I'm not!
You make
me angry. I'll come down to you.
God, what
a woman! And it's come to this,
A man
can't speak of his own child that's dead."
"You
can't because you don't know how.
If you
had any feelings, you that dug
With your
own hand—how could you?—his little grave;
I saw you
from that very window there,
Making
the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up,
like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll
back down the mound beside the hole.
I
thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.
And I
crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look
again, and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you
came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in
the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I
went near to see with my own eyes.
You could
sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the
fresh earth from your own baby's grave
And talk
about your everyday concerns.
You had
stood the spade up against the wall
Outside
there in the entry, for I saw it."
"I
shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I'm
cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed."
"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! 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: why keep it up.
Amy!
There's someone coming down the road!"
"You—oh,
you think the talk is all. I must go—
Somewhere
out of this house. How can I make you——"
"If—you—do!"
She was opening the door wider.
"Where
do you mean to go? First tell me that.
I'll
follow and bring you back by force. I will!—"
________________________________________
WE chanced in passing by that afternoon
To catch
it in a sort of special picture
Among
tar-banded ancient cherry trees,
Set well
back from the road in rank lodged grass,
The
little cottage we were speaking of,
A front
with just a door between two windows,
Fresh
painted by the shower a velvet black.
We
paused, the minister and I, to look.
He made
as if to hold it at arm's length
Or put
the leaves aside that framed it in.
"Pretty,"
he said. "Come in. No one will care."
The path
was a vague parting in the grass
That led
us to a weathered window-sill.
We
pressed our faces to the pane. "You see," he said,
"Everything's
as she left it when she died.
Her sons
won't sell the house or the things in it.
They say
they mean to come and summer here
Where
they were boys. They haven't come this year.
They live
so far away—one is out west—
It will
be hard for them to keep their word.
Anyway
they won't have the place disturbed."
A
buttoned hair-cloth lounge spread scrolling arms
Under a
crayon portrait on the wall
Done
sadly from an old daguerreotype.
"That
was the father as he went to war.
She
always, when she talked about war,
Sooner or
later came and leaned, half knelt
Against
the lounge beside it, though I doubt
If such
unlifelike lines kept power to stir
Anything
in her after all the years.
He fell
at Gettysburg or Fredericksburg,
I ought
to know—it makes a difference which:
Fredericksburg
wasn't Gettysburg, of course.
But what
I'm getting to is how forsaken
A little
cottage this has always seemed;
Since she
went more than ever, but before—
I don't
mean altogether by the lives
That had
gone out of it, the father first,
Then the
two sons, till she was left alone.
(Nothing
could draw her after those two sons.
She
valued the considerate neglect
She had at
some cost taught them after years.)
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.
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.
She
wouldn't have believed those ends enough
To have
given outright for them all she gave.
Her
giving somehow touched the principle
That all
men are created free and equal.
And to
hear her quaint phrases—so removed
From the
world's view to-day of all those things.
That's a
hard mystery of Jefferson's.
What did
he mean? Of course the easy way
Is to
decide it simply isn't true.
It may
not be. I heard a fellow say so.
But never
mind, the Welshman got it planted
Where it
will trouble us a thousand years.
Each age
will have to reconsider it.
You
couldn't tell her what the West was saying,
And what
the South to her serene belief.
She had
some art of hearing and yet not
Hearing
the latter wisdom of the world.
White was
the only race she ever knew.
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.
Do you
know but for her there was a time
When to
please younger members of the church,
Or rather
say non-members in the church,
Whom we
all have to think of nowadays,
I would
have changed the Creed a very little?
Not that
she ever had to ask me not to;
It never
got so far as that; but the bare thought
Of her
old tremulous bonnet in the pew,
And of
her half asleep was too much for me.
Why, I
might wake her up and startle her.
It was
the words 'descended into Hades'
That
seemed too pagan to our liberal youth.
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.
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 ftentimes, 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.
Scattered
oases where men dwelt, but mostly
Sand
dunes held loosely in tamarisk
Blown
over and over themselves in idleness.
Sand
grains should sugar in the natal dew
The babe
born to the desert, the sand storm
Retard
mid-waste my cowering caravans—
"There
are bees in this wall." He struck the clapboards,
Fierce
heads looked out; small bodies pivoted.
We rose
to go. Sunset blazed on the windows.
________________________________________
"YOU
ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the
village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries
as big as the end of your thumb,
Real
sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the
cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all
ripe together, not some of them green
And some
of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I
don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You
know where they cut off the woods—let me see—
It was
two years ago—or no!—can it be
No longer
than that?—and the following fall
The fire
ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why,
there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's
always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may
not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them
anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get
the pine out of the way, you may burn
The
pasture all over until not a fern
Or
grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And
presto, they're up all around you as thick
And hard
to explain as a conjuror's trick."
"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."
"Does
Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He
may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather
them for him—you know what he is.
He won't
make the fact that they're rightfully his
An excuse
for keeping us other folk out."
"I
wonder you didn't see Loren about."
"The
best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was
just getting through what the field had to show
And over
the wall and into the road,
When who
should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all
the young chattering Lorens alive,
But
Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
"He
saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?"
"He
just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know
how politely he always goes by.
But he
thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye—
Which
being expressed, might be this in effect:
'I have left
those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen
too long. I am greatly to blame.'"
"He's
a thriftier person than some I could name."
"He
seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With the
mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
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."
"I
wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where
all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries
in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the
boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met
them one day and each had a flower
Stuck
into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some
strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name."
"I've
told you how once not long after we came,
I almost
provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going
to him of all people on earth
To ask if
he knew any fruit to be had
For the
picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To tell
if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had
been some berries—but those were all gone.
He didn't
say where they had been. He went on:
'I'm
sure—I'm sure'—as polite as could be.
He spoke
to his wife in the door, 'Let me see,
Mame, we
don't know any good berrying place?'
It was
all he could do to keep a straight face.
"If
he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He'll
find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We'll
pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.
We'll go
in the morning, that is, if it's clear,
And the
sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It's so
long since I picked I almost forget
How we
used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank
out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw
nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless
when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from
its nest, and I said it was you.
'Well,
one of us is.' For complaining it flew
Around
and around us. And then for a while
We
picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I
thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud
for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when
you made answer, your voice was as low
As
talking—you stood up beside me, you know."
"We
sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy—
Not
likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll
be there to-morrow, 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."
________________________________________
A Servant
to Servants
I DIDN'T
make you know how glad I was
To have
you come and camp here on our land.
I
promised myself to get down some day
And see
the way you lived, but I don't know!
With a
houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess
you'd find.... 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.
I stand
and make myself repeat out loud
The
advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a
deep piece of some old running river
Cut short
off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight
away through the mountain notch
From the
sink window where I wash the plates,
And all
our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing
the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took
my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step
outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny
morning, or take the rising wind
About my
face and body and through my wrapper,
When a
storm threatened from the Dragon's Den,
And a
cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see
it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our
Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect,
though, everyone's heard of it.
In a book
about ferns? Listen to that!
You let
things more like feathers regulate
Your
going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see
how you might. But I don't know!
It would
be different if more people came,
For then
there would be business. 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. But it's not medicine—
Lowe is
the only doctor's dared to say so—
It's rest
I want—there, I have said it out—
From
cooking meals for hungry hired men
And
washing dishes after them—from doing
Things
over and over that just won't stay done.
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.
It was
his plan our moving over in
Beside
the lake from where that day I showed you
We used
to live—ten miles from anywhere.
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.
We have
four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling
about the kitchen with their talk
While I
fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more
put out in what they do or say
Than if I
wasn't in the room at all.
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
wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there;
You know
the old idea—the only asylum
Was the
poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather
than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them
at home; and it does seem more human.
But it's
not so: the place is the asylum.
There
they have every means proper to do with,
And you
aren't darkening other people's lives—
Worse
than no good to them, and they no good
To you in
your condition; you can't know
Affection
or the want of it in that state.
I've
heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My
father's brother, he went mad quite young.
Some
thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because
his violence took on the form
Of
carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it's
more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the
story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway
all he talked about was love.
They soon
saw he would do someone a mischief
If he
wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it ended
In
father's building him a sort of cage,
Or room
within a room, of hickory poles,
Like
stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,—
A narrow
passage all the way around.
Anything
they put in for furniture
He'd tear
to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they
made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a
beast's stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course
they had to feed him without dishes.
They
tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his
clothes on his arm—all of his clothes.
Cruel—it
sounds. I 'spose they did the best
They
knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father
and mother married, and mother came,
A bride,
to help take care of such a creature,
And
accommodate her young life to his.
That was
what marrying father meant to her.
She had
to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his
shouts in the night. He'd shout and shout
Until the
strength was shouted out of him,
And his
voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He'd pull
his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let
them go and make them twang until
His hands
had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then
he'd crow as if he thought that child's play—
The only
fun he had. I've heard them say, though,
They
found a way to put a stop to it.
He was
before my time—I never saw him;
But the
pen stayed exactly as it was
There in
the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of
catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often
think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so
I would say—you know, half fooling—
"It's
time I took my turn upstairs in jail"—
Just as
you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder
I was glad to get away.
Mind you,
I waited till Len said the word.
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:
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.
________________________________________
After
Apple-picking
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 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.
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.
________________________________________
The Code
THERE
were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering
up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an
eye always lifted toward the west
Where an
irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly
advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering
across its bosom. Suddenly
One
helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched
himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The
town-bred farmer failed to understand.
"What
is there wrong?"
"Something
you just now said."
"What
did I say?"
"About
our taking pains."
"To
cock the hay?—because it's going to shower?
I said
that more than half an hour ago.
I said it
to myself as much as you."
"You
didn't know. But James is one big fool.
He
thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That's
what the average farmer would have meant.
James
would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he
acted: he's just got round to act."
"He
is a fool if that's the way he takes me."
"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.
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.
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.
Them that
he couldn't lead he'd get behind
And
drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—
Keep at
their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I'd seen
about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call
that bulling). I'd been watching him.
So when
he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load
the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built
the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it
down with a rake and says, 'O. K.'
Everything
went well till we reached the barn
With a
big catch to empty in a bay.
You
understand that meant the easy job
For the
man up on top of throwing down
The hay
and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on
a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You
wouldn't think a fellow'd need much urging
Under
these circumstances, would you now?
But the
old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And
looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts
like an army captain, 'Let her come!'
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.
Two or
three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like
meditating, and then I just dug in
And
dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked
over the side once in the dust
And
caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping
his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says,
'That
gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was
the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned
the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat
mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort
of waiting to be asked about it,
One of
the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?'
'I left
him in the barn under the hay.
If ye
want him, ye can go and dig him out.'
They
realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than
was needed something must be up.
They
headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told
me afterward. First they forked hay,
A lot of
it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing!
They listened for him. Not a rustle.
I guess
they thought I'd spiked him in the temple
Before I
buried him, or I couldn't have managed.
They
excavated more. 'Go keep his wife
Out of
the barn.' Someone looked in a window,
And curse
me if he wasn't in the kitchen
Slumped
way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in
the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked
so clean disgusted from behind
There was
no one that dared to stir him up,
Or let
him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently
I hadn't buried him
(I may
have knocked him down); but my just trying
To bury
him had hurt his dignity.
He had
gone to the house so's not to meet me.
He kept
away from us all afternoon.
We tended
to his hay. We saw him out
After a
while picking peas in his garden:
He
couldn't keep away from doing something."
"Weren't
you relieved to find he wasn't dead?"
"No!
and yet I don't know—it's hard to say.
I went
about to kill him fair enough."
"You
took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?"
"Discharge
me? No! He knew I did just right."
________________________________________
The
Generations of Men
A
GOVERNOR it was proclaimed this time,
When all
who would come seeking in New Hampshire
Ancestral
memories might come together.
And those
of the name Stark gathered in Bow,
A
rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off,
And sprout-lands
flourish where the axe has gone.
Someone
had literally run to earth
In an old
cellar hole in a by-road
The
origin of all the family there.
Thence
they were sprung, so numerous a tribe
That now
not all the houses left in town
Made
shift to shelter them without the help
Of here
and there a tent in grove and orchard.
They were
at Bow, but that was not enough:
Nothing
would do but they must fix a day
To stand
together on the crater's verge
That
turned them on the world, and try to fathom
The past
and get some strangeness out of it.
But rain
spoiled all. The day began uncertain,
With
clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted.
The young
folk held some hope out to each other
Till well
toward noon when the storm settled down
With a
swish in the grass. "What if the others
Are
there," they said. "It isn't going to rain."
Only one
from a farm not far away
Strolled
thither, not expecting he would find
Anyone
else, but out of idleness.
One, and
one other, yes, for there were two.
The
second round the curving hillside road
Was a
girl; and she halted some way off
To
reconnoitre, and then made up her mind
At least
to pass by and see who he was,
And
perhaps hear some word about the weather.
This was
some Stark she didn't know. He nodded.
"No
fête to-day," he said.
"It
looks that way."
She swept
the heavens, turning on her heel.
"I
only idled down."
"I
idled down."
Provision
there had been for just such meeting
Of
stranger cousins, in a family tree
Drawn on
a sort of passport with the branch
Of the
one bearing it done in detail—
Some
zealous one's laborious device.
She made
a sudden movement toward her bodice,
As one
who clasps her heart. They laughed together.
"Stark?"
he inquired. "No matter for the proof."
"Yes,
Stark. And you?"
"I'm
Stark." He drew his passport.
"You
know we might not be and still be cousins:
The town
is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys,
All
claiming some priority in Starkness.
My mother
was a Lane, yet might have married
Anyone
upon earth and still her children
Would
have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day."
"You
riddle with your genealogy
Like a
Viola. I don't follow you."
"I
only mean my mother was a Stark
Several
times over, and by marrying father
No more
than brought us back into the name."
"One
ought not to be thrown into confusion
By a
plain statement of relationship,
But I own
what you say makes my head spin.
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."
"Not
from the rain. I think it's going to rain."
"It's
raining."
"No,
it's misting; let's be fair.
Does the
rain seem to you to cool the eyes?"
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.
"On
father's side, it seems, we're—let me see——"
"Don't
be too technical.—You have three cards."
"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."
"I
may 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. 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."
"The
Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc,
Which
means The Seven Caves that We Came out of.
This is
the pit from which we Starks were digged."
"You
must be learned. That's what you see in it?"
"And
what do you see?"
"Yes,
what do I see?
First let
me look. I see raspberry vines——"
"Oh,
if you're going to use your eyes, just hear
What I
see. It's a little, little boy,
As pale
and dim as a match flame in the sun;
He's
groping in the cellar after jam,
He thinks
it's dark and it's flooded with daylight."
"He's
nothing. Listen. When I lean like this
I can
make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,—
With his
pipe in his mouth and his brown jug—
Bless
you, it isn't Grandsir Stark, it's Granny,
But the
pipe's there and smoking and the jug.
She's
after cider, the old girl, she's thirsty;
Here's
hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely."
"Tell
me about her. Does she look like me?"
"She
should, shouldn't she, you're so many times
Over
descended from her. I believe
She does
look like you. Stay the way you are.
The nose
is just the same, and so's the chin—
Making
allowance, making due allowance."
"You
poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!"
"See
that you get her greatness right. Don't stint her."
"Yes,
it's important, though you think it isn't.
I won't
be teased. But see how wet I am."
"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. I used the roar
To set
the voices speaking out of it,
Speaking
or singing, and the band-music playing.
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."
"Then
I don't know. It must be strange enough.
I wonder
if it's not your make-believe.
What do
you think you're like to hear to-day?"
"From
the sense of our having been together—
But why
take time for what I'm like to hear?
I'll tell
you what the voices really say.
You will
do very well right where you are
A little
longer. I mustn't feel too hurried,
Or I
can't give myself to hear the voices."
"Is
this some trance you are withdrawing into?"
"You
must be very still; you mustn't talk."
"I'll
hardly breathe."
"The
voices seem to say——"
"I'm
waiting."
"Don't!
The voices seem to say:
Call her
Nausicaa, the unafraid
Of an
acquaintance made adventurously."
"I
let you say that—on consideration."
"I
don't see very well how you can help it.
You want
the truth. I speak but by the voices.
You see
they know I haven't had your name,
Though
what a name should matter between us——"
"I
shall suspect——"
"Be
good. The voices say:
Call her
Nausicaa, and take a timber
That you
shall find lies in the cellar charred
Among the
raspberries, and hew and shape it
For a
door-sill or other corner piece
In a new
cottage on the ancient spot.
The life
is not yet all gone out of it.
And come
and make your summer dwelling here,
And perhaps
she will come, still unafraid,
And sit
before you in the open door
With
flowers in her lap until they fade,
But not
come in across the sacred sill——"
"I
wonder where your oracle is tending.
You can
see that there's something wrong with it,
Or it would
speak in dialect. Whose voice
Does it
purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir's
Nor
Granny's, surely. Call up one of them.
They have
best right to be heard in this place."
"You
seem so partial to our great-grandmother
(Nine
times removed. Correct me if I err.)
You will
be likely to regard as sacred
Anything
she may say. But let me warn you,
Folks in
her day were given to plain speaking.
You think
you'd best tempt her at such a time?"
"It
rests with us always to cut her off."
"Well
then, it's Granny speaking: 'I dunnow!
Mebbe I'm
wrong to take it as I do.
There
ain't no names quite like the old ones though,
Nor never
will be to my way of thinking.
One
mustn't bear too hard on the new comers,
But
there's a dite too many of them for comfort.
I should
feel easier if I could see
More of
the salt wherewith they're to be salted.
Son, you
do as you're told! You take the timber—
It's as
sound as the day when it was cut—
And begin
over——' There, she'd better stop.
You can
see what is troubling Granny, though.
But don't
you think we sometimes make too much
Of the
old stock? What counts is the ideals,
And those
will bear some keeping still about."
"I
can see we are going to be good friends."
"I
like your 'going to be.' You said just now
It's
going to rain."
"I
know, and it was raining.
I let you
say all that. But I must go now."
"You
let me say it? on consideration?
How shall
we say good-bye in such a case?"
"How
shall we?"
"Will
you leave the way to me?"
"No,
I don't trust your eyes. You've said enough.
Now give
me your hand up.—Pick me that flower."
"Where
shall we meet again?"
"Nowhere
but here
Once more
before we meet elsewhere."
"In
rain?"
"It
ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain.
In rain
to-morrow, shall we, if it rains?
But if we
must, in sunshine." So she went.
________________________________________
The
Housekeeper
I LET myself in at the kitchen door.
"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."
"That's
a smart pair of pumps you're beading there.
Who are
they for?"
"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!"
"And
where's John?"
"Haven't
you seen him? Strange what set you off
To come
to his house when he's gone to yours.
You can't
have passed each other. I know what:
He must
have changed his mind and gone to Garlands.
He won't
be long in that case. You can wait.
Though
what good you can be, or anyone—
It's gone
so far. You've heard? Estelle's run off."
"Yes,
what's it all about? When did she go?"
"Two
weeks since."
"She's
in earnest, it appears."
"I'm
sure she won't come back. She's hiding somewhere.
I don't
know where myself. John thinks I do.
He thinks
I only have to say the word,
And
she'll come back. But, bless you, I'm her mother—
I can't
talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!"
"It
will go hard with John. What will he do?
He can't
find anyone to take her place."
"Oh,
if you ask me that, what will he do?
He gets
some sort of bakeshop meals together,
With me
to sit and tell him everything,
What's
wanted and how much and where it is.
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."
"That's
a long time
To live
together and then pull apart.
How do
you see him living when you're gone?
Two of
you out will leave an empty house."
"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. He's awful!
I never
saw a man let family troubles
Make so
much difference in his man's affairs.
He's just
dropped everything. He's like a child.
I blame
his being brought up by his mother.
He's got
hay down that's been rained on three times.
He hoed a
little yesterday for me:
I thought
the growing things would do him good.
Something
went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe
Sky-high
with both hands. I can see it now—
Come
here—I'll show you—in that apple tree.
That's no
way for a man to do at his age:
He's
fifty-five, you know, if he's a day."
"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."
"Where
is Estelle?
Couldn't
one talk to her? What does she say?
You say
you don't know where she is."
"Nor
want to!
She
thinks if it was bad to live with him,
It must
be right to leave him."
"Which
is wrong!"
"Yes,
but he should have married her."
"I
know."
"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!"
"I
wonder why he doesn't marry her
And end
it."
"Too
late now: she wouldn't have him.
He's
given her time to think of something else.
That's
his mistake. The dear knows my interest
Has been
to keep the thing from breaking up.
This is a
good home: I don't ask for better.
But when
I've said, 'Why shouldn't they be married,'
He'd say,
'Why should they?' no more words than that."
"And
after all why should they? John's been fair
I take
it. What was his was always hers.
There was
no quarrel about property."
"Reason
enough, there was no property.
A friend
or two as good as own the farm,
Such as
it is. It isn't worth the mortgage."
"I
mean Estelle has always held the purse."
"The
rights of that are harder to get at.
I guess
Estelle and I have filled the purse.
'Twas we
let him have money, not he us.
John's a
bad farmer. I'm not blaming him.
Take it
year in, year out, he doesn't make much.
We came
here for a home for me, you know,
Estelle
to do the housework for the board
Of both
of us. 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.
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! You ought to see us
Moving a
flock of hens from place to place.
We're not
allowed to take them upside down,
All we
can hold together by the legs.
Two at a
time's the rule, one on each arm,
No matter
how far and how many times
We have
to go."
"You
mean that's John's idea."
"And
we live up to it; or I don't know
What
childishness he wouldn't give way to.
He
manages to keep the upper hand
On his
own farm. 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."
"What's
this?"
"A
bill—
For fifty
dollars for one Langshang cock—
Receipted.
And the cock is in the yard."
"Not
in a glass case, then?"
"He'd
need a tall one:
He can
eat off a barrel from the ground.
He's been
in a glass case, as you may say,
The
Crystal Palace, London. He's imported.
John
bought him, and we paid the bill with beads—
Wampum, I
call it. Mind, we don't complain.
But you
see, don't you, we take care of him."
"And
like it, too. It makes it all the worse."
"It
seems as if. And that's not all: he's helpless
In ways
that I can hardly tell you of.
Sometimes
he gets possessed to keep accounts
To see
where all the money goes so fast.
You know
how men will be ridiculous.
But it's
just fun the way he gets bedeviled—
If he's
untidy now, what will he be——?
"It
makes it all the worse. You must be blind."
"Estelle's
the one. You needn't talk to me."
"Can't
you and I get to the root of it?
What's
the real trouble? What will satisfy her?"
"It's
as I say: she's turned from him, that's all."
"But
why, when she's well off? Is it the neighbours,
Being cut
off from friends?"
"We
have our friends.
That
isn't it. Folks aren't afraid of us."
"She's
let it worry her. You stood the strain,
And
you're her mother."
"But
I didn't always.
I didn't
relish it along at first.
But I got
wonted to it. And besides—
John said
I was too old to have grandchildren.
But
what's the use of talking when it's done?
She won't
come back—it's worse than that—she can't."
"Why
do you speak like that? What do you know?
What do
you mean?—she's done harm to herself?"
"I
mean she's married—married someone else."
"Oho,
oho!"
"You
don't believe me."
"Yes,
I do,
Only too
well. I knew there must be something!
So that
was what was back. She's bad, that's all!"
"Bad
to get married when she had the chance?"
"Nonsense!
See what's she done! But who, who——"
"Who'd
marry her straight out of such a mess?
Say it
right out—no matter for her mother.
The man
was found. I'd better name no names.
John
himself won't imagine who he is."
"Then
it's all up. I think I'll get away.
You'll be
expecting John. I pity Estelle;
I suppose
she deserves some pity, too.
You ought
to have the kitchen to yourself
To break
it to him. You may have the job."
"You
needn't think you're going to get away.
John's
almost here. I've had my eye on someone
Coming
down Ryan's Hill. I thought 'twas him.
Here he
is now. This box! Put it away.
And this
bill."
"What's
the hurry? He'll unhitch."
"No,
he won't, either. He'll just drop the reins
And turn
Doll out to pasture, rig and all.
She won't
get far before the wheels hang up
On
something—there's no harm. See, there he is!
My, but
he looks as if he must have heard!"
John
threw the door wide but he didn't enter.
"How
are you, neighbour? Just the man I'm after.
Isn't it
Hell," he said. "I want to know.
Come out
here if you want to hear me talk.
I'll talk
to you, old woman, afterward.
I've got
some news that maybe isn't news.
What are
they trying to do to me, these two?"
"Do
go along with him and stop his shouting."
She
raised her voice against the closing door:
"Who
wants to hear your news, you—dreadful fool?"
________________________________________
A LANTERN
light from deeper in the barn
Shone on
a man and woman in the door
And threw
their lurching shadows on a house
Near by,
all dark in every glossy window.
A horse's
hoof pawed once the hollow floor,
And the
back of the gig they stood beside
Moved in
a little. The man grasped a wheel,
The woman
spoke out sharply, "Whoa, stand still!"
"I
saw it just as plain as a white plate,"
She said,
"as the light on the dashboard ran
Along the
bushes at the roadside—a man's face.
You must
have seen it too."
"I
didn't see it.
Are you
sure——"
"Yes,
I'm sure!"
"—it
was a face?"
"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!"
"I
say it's someone passing."
"You
speak as if this were a travelled road.
You
forget where we are. What is beyond
That he'd
be going to or coming from
At such
an hour of night, and on foot too.
What was
he standing still for in the bushes?"
"It's
not so very late—it's only dark.
There's
more in it than you're inclined to say.
Did he
look like——?"
"He
looked like anyone.
I'll
never rest to-night unless I know.
Give me
the lantern."
"You
don't want the lantern."
She
pushed past him and got it for herself.
"You're
not to come," she said. "This is my business.
If the
time's come to face it, I'm the one
To put it
the right way. He'd never dare—
Listen!
He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that!
He's
coming towards us. Joel, go in—please.
Hark!—I
don't hear him now. But please go in."
"In
the first place you can't make me believe it's——"
"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!"
"But
it's nonsense to think he'd care enough."
"You
mean you couldn't understand his caring.
Oh, but
you see he hadn't had enough—
Joel, I
won't—I won't—I promise you.
We
mustn't say hard things. You mustn't either."
"I'll
be the one, if anybody goes!
But you
give him the advantage with this light.
What
couldn't he do to us standing here!
And if to
see was what he wanted, why
He has
seen all there was to see and gone."
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.
"There's
no one; so you're wrong," he said.
"There
is.—
What do
you want?" she cried, and then herself
Was
startled when an answer really came.
"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?"
"Nothing."
A pause: there seemed no more to say.
And then
the voice again: "You seem afraid.
I saw by
the way you whipped up the horse.
I'll just
come forward in the lantern light
And let
you see."
"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.
"Oh."
She looked and looked.
"You
don't see—I've a child here by the hand."
"What's
a child doing at this time of night——?"
"Out
walking. Every child should have the memory
Of at
least one long-after-bedtime walk.
What,
son?"
"Then
I should think you'd try to find
Somewhere
to walk——"
"The
highway as it happens—
We're
stopping for the fortnight down at Dean's."
"But
if that's all—Joel—you realize—
You won't
think anything. You understand?
You
understand that we have to be careful.
This is a
very, very lonely place.
Joel!"
She spoke as if she couldn't turn.
The
swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,
It
touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.
________________________________________
The
Self-seeker
"WILLIS,
I didn't want you here to-day:
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."
"With
you the feet have nearly been the soul;
And if
you're going to sell them to the devil,
I want to
see you do it. When's he coming?"
"I
half suspect you knew, and came on purpose
To try to
help me drive a better bargain."
"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?"
"He
thinks I'll hobble. It's both legs and feet."
"They
must be terrible—I mean to look at."
"I
haven't dared to look at them uncovered.
Through
the bed blankets I remind myself
Of a
starfish laid out with rigid points."
"The
wonder is it hadn't been your head."
"It's
hard to tell you how I managed it.
When I
saw the shaft had me by the coat,
I didn't
try too long to pull away,
Or fumble
for my knife to cut away,
I just
embraced the shaft and rode it out—
Till
Weiss shut off the water in the wheel-pit.
That's
how I think I didn't lose my head.
But my
legs got their knocks against the ceiling."
"Awful.
Why didn't they throw off the belt
Instead
of going clear down in the wheel-pit?"
"They
say some time was wasted on the belt—
Old
streak of leather—doesn't love me much
Because I
make him spit fire at my knuckles,
The way
Ben Franklin used to make the kite-string.
That must
be it. Some days he won't stay on.
That day
a woman couldn't coax him off.
He's on
his rounds now with his tail in his mouth
Snatched
right and left across the silver pulleys.
Everything
goes the same without me there.
You can
hear the small buzz saws whine, the big saw
Caterwaul
to the hills around the village
As they
both bite the wood. It's all our music.
One ought
as a good villager to like it.
No doubt
it has a sort of prosperous sound,
And it's
our life."
"Yes,
when it's not our death."
"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."
"You're
getting ready to do something foolish."
"Watch
for him, will you, Will? You let him in.
I'd
rather Mrs. Corbin didn't know;
I've
boarded here so long, she thinks she owns me.
You're
bad enough to manage without her."
"And
I'm going to be worse instead of better.
You've
got to tell me how far this is gone:
Have you
agreed to any price?"
"Five
hundred.
Five
hundred—five—five! One, two, three, four, five.
You
needn't look at me."
"I
don't believe you."
"I
told you, Willis, when you first came in.
Don't you
be hard on me. I have to take
What I
can get. You see they have the feet,
Which
gives them the advantage in the trade.
I can't
get back the feet in any case."
"But
your flowers, man, you're selling out your flowers."
"Yes,
that's one way to put it—all the flowers
Of every
kind everywhere in this region
For the
next forty summers—call it forty.
But I'm
not selling those, I'm giving them,
They
never earned me so much as one cent:
Money
can't pay me for the loss of them.
No, the
five hundred was the sum they named
To pay
the doctor's bill and tide me over.
It's that
or fight, and I don't want to fight—
I just
want to get settled in my life,
Such as
it's going to be, and know the worst,
Or
best—it may not be so bad. The firm
Promise
me all the shooks I want to nail."
"But
what about your flora of the valley?"
"You
have me there. But that—you didn't think
That was
worth money to me? Still I own
It goes
against me not to finish it
For the
friends it might bring me. By the way,
I had a
letter from Burroughs—did I tell you?—
About my
Cyprepedium reginæ;
He says
it's not reported so far north.
There!
there's the bell. He's rung. But you go down
And bring
him up, and don't let Mrs. Corbin.—
Oh, well,
we'll soon be through with it. I'm tired."
Willis
brought up besides the Boston lawyer
A little
barefoot girl who in the noise
Of heavy
footsteps in the old frame house,
And
baritone importance of the lawyer,
Stood for
a while unnoticed with her hands
Shyly
behind her.
"Well,
and how is Mister——"
The
lawyer was already in his satchel
As if for
papers that might bear the name
He hadn't
at command. "You must excuse me,
I dropped
in at the mill and was detained."
"Looking
round, I suppose," said Willis.
"Yes,
Well,
yes."
"Hear
anything that might prove useful?"
The
Broken One saw Anne. "Why, here is Anne.
What do
you want, dear? Come, stand by the bed;
Tell me
what is it?" Anne just wagged her dress
With both
hands held behind her. "Guess," she said.
"Oh,
guess which hand? My my! Once on a time
I knew a
lovely way to tell for certain
By
looking in the ears. But I forget it.
Er, let
me see. I think I'll take the right.
That's
sure to be right even if it's wrong.
Come,
hold it out. Don't change.—A Ram's Horn orchid!
A Ram's
Horn! What would I have got, I wonder,
If I had
chosen left. Hold out the left.
Another
Ram's Horn! Where did you find those,
Under
what beech tree, on what woodchuck's knoll?"
Anne
looked at the large lawyer at her side,
And
thought she wouldn't venture on so much.
"Were
there no others?"
"There
were four or five.
I knew
you wouldn't let me pick them all."
"I
wouldn't—so I wouldn't. You're the girl!
You see
Anne has her lesson learned by heart."
"I
wanted there should be some there next year."
"Of
course you did. You left the rest for seed,
And for
the backwoods woodchuck. You're the girl!
A Ram's
Horn orchid seedpod for a woodchuck
Sounds
something like. Better than farmer's beans
To a
discriminating appetite,
Though
the Ram's Horn is seldom to be had
In bushel
lots—doesn't come on the market.
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?"
"Well,
wait—it's common—it's too common."
"Common?
The
Purple Lady's Slipper's commoner."
"I
didn't bring a Purple Lady's Slipper
To You—to
you I mean—they're both too common."
The
lawyer gave a laugh among his papers
As if
with some idea that she had scored.
"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.
She's
going to do my scouting in the field,
Over
stone walls and all along a wood
And by a
river bank for water flowers,
The
floating Heart, with small leaf like a heart,
And at
the sinus under water a fist
Of little
fingers all kept down but one,
And that
thrust up to blossom in the sun
As if to
say, 'You! 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.
"Well,
Anne, go, dearie. Our affair will wait.
The
lawyer man is thinking of his train.
He wants
to give me lots and lots of money
Before he
goes, because I hurt myself,
And it
may take him I don't know how long.
But put
our flowers in water first. Will, help her:
The
pitcher's too full for her. There's no cup?
Just hook
them on the inside of the pitcher.
Now
run.—Get out your documents! You see
I have to
keep on the good side of Anne.
I'm a
great boy to think of number one.
And you
can't blame me in the place I'm in.
Who will
take care of my necessities
Unless I
do?"
"A
pretty interlude,"
The
lawyer said. "I'm sorry, but my train—
Luckily
terms are all agreed upon.
You only
have to sign your name. Right—there."
"You,
Will, stop making faces. Come round here
Where you
can't make them. What is it you want?
I'll put
you out with Anne. Be good or go."
"You
don't mean you will sign that thing unread?"
"Make
yourself useful then, and read it for me.
Isn't it
something I have seen before?"
"You'll
find it is. Let your friend look at it."
"Yes,
but all that takes time, and I'm as much
In haste
to get it over with as you.
But read
it, read it. That's right, draw the curtain:
Half the
time I don't know what's troubling me.—
What do
you say, Will? Don't you be a fool,
You!
crumpling folkses legal documents.
Out with
it if you've any real objection."
"Five
hundred dollars!"
"What
would you think right?"
"A
thousand wouldn't be a cent too much;
You know
it, Mr. Lawyer. The sin is
Accepting
anything before he knows
Whether
he's ever going to walk again.
It smells
to me like a dishonest trick."
"I
think—I think—from what I heard to-day—
And saw
myself—he would be ill-advised——"
"What
did you hear, for instance?" Willis said.
"Now
the place where the accident occurred——"
The
Broken One was twisted in his bed.
"This
is between you two apparently.
Where I
come in is what I want to know.
You stand
up to it like a pair of cocks.
Go
outdoors if you want to fight. Spare me.
When you
come back, I'll have the papers signed.
Will
pencil do? Then, please, your fountain pen.
One of
you hold my head up from the pillow."
Willis
flung off the bed. "I wash my hands—
I'm no
match—no, and don't pretend to be——"
The
lawyer gravely capped his fountain pen.
"You're
doing the wise thing: you won't regret it.
We're
very sorry for you."
Willis
sneered:
"Who's
we?—some stockholders in Boston?
I'll go
outdoors, by gad, and won't come back."
"Willis,
bring Anne back with you when you come.
Yes.
Thanks for caring. Don't mind Will: he's savage.
He thinks
you ought to pay me for my flowers.
You don't
know what I mean about the flowers.
Don't
stop to try to now. You'll miss your train.
Good-bye."
He flung his arms around his face.
________________________________________
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.
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 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.
And it
was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even
last year's or the year's before.
The wood
was grey and the bark warping off it
And the
pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound
strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held
it though on one side was a tree
Still
growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These
latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone
who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so
forget his handiwork on which
He spent
himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave
it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm
the frozen swamp as best it could
With the
slow smokeless burning of decay.
________________________________________
Frost
Career
Poet. Held various jobs between
college studies, including bobbin boy in a Massachusetts mill, cobbler, editor
of a country newspaper, schoolteacher, and farmer. Lived in England, 1912-15.
Tufts College, Medford, MA, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1915 and 1940; Amherst
College, Amherst, MA, professor of English and poet-in-residence, 1916-20,
1923-25, and 1926-28; Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, Phi Beta Kappa poet,
1916 and 1941; Middlebury College, Middlebury, VT, co-founder of the Bread-Loaf
School and Conference of English, 1920, annual lecturer, beginning 1920;
University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, professor and poet-in-residence, 1921-23,
fellow in letters, 1925-26; Columbia University, New York City, Phi Beta Kappa
poet, 1932; Yale University, New Haven, CT, associate fellow, beginning 1933;
Harvard University, Charles Eliot Norton Professor of Poetry, 1936, board
overseer, 1938-39, Ralph Waldo Emerson Fellow, 1939-41, honorary fellow,
1942-43; associate of Adams House; fellow in American civilization, 1941-42;
Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH, George Ticknor Fellow in Humanities, 1943-49,
visiting lecturer.
Bibliography
POETRY
Twilight, [Lawrence, MA], 1894,
reprinted, University of Virginia, 1966.
A Boy's Will, D. Nutt, 1913,
Holt, 1915.
North of Boston, D. Nutt, 1914,
Holt, 1915, reprinted, Dodd, 1977.
Mountain Interval, Holt, 1916.
New Hampshire, Holt, 1923,
reprinted, New Dresden Press, 1955.
Selected Poems, Holt, 1923.
Several Short Poems, Holt, 1924.
West-Running Brook, Holt, 1928.
Selected Poems, Holt, 1928.
The Lovely Shall Be Choosers,
Random House, 1929.
The Lone Striker, Knopf, 1933.
Two Tramps in Mud-Time, Holt,
1934.
The Gold Hesperidee, Bibliophile
Press, 1935.
Three Poems, Baker Library Press,
1935.
A Further Range, Holt, 1936.
From Snow to Snow, Holt, 1936.
A Witness Tree, Holt, 1942.
A Masque of Reason (verse drama),
Holt, 1942.
Steeple Bush, Holt, 1947.
A Masque of Mercy (verse drama),
Holt, 1947.
Greece, Black Rose Press, 1948.
Hard Not to Be King, House of Books,
1951.
Aforesaid, Holt, 1954.
The Gift Outright, Holt, 1961.
"Dedication" and
"The Gift Outright" (poems read at the presidential inaugural, 1961;
published with the inaugural address of J. F. Kennedy), Spiral Press, 1961.
In the Clearing, Holt, 1962.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy
Evening, Dutton, 1978.
Early Poems, Crown, 1981.
A Swinger of Birches: Poems of
Robert Frost for Young People (with audiocassette), Stemmer House, 1982.
Spring Pools, Lime Rock Press,
1983.
Birches, illustrated by Ed Young,
Holt, 1988.
The Runaway (juvenile poetry),
illustrated by Glenna Lang, Godine (Boston, MA), 1996.
Also author of And All We Call
American, 1958.
POEMS
ISSUED AS CHRISTMAS GREETINGS
Christmas Trees, Spiral Press,
1929.
Neither Out Far Nor In Deep,
Holt, 1935.
Everybody's Sanity, [Los
Angeles], 1936.
To a Young Wretch, Spiral Press,
1937.
Triple Plate, Spiral Press, 1939.
Our Hold on the Planet, Holt,
1940.
An Unstamped Letter in Our Rural
Letter Box, Spiral Press, 1944.
On Making Certain Anything Has
Happened, Spiral Press, 1945.
One Step Backward Taken, Spiral
Press, 1947.
Closed for Good, Spiral Press,
1948.
On a Tree Fallen Across the Road
to Hear Us Talk, Spiral Press, 1949.
Doom to Bloom, Holt, 1950.
A Cabin in the Clearing, Spiral
Press, 1951.
Does No One but Me at All Ever
Feel This Way in the Least, Spiral Press, 1952.
One More Brevity, Holt, 1953.
From a Milkweed Pod, Holt, 1954.
Some Science Fiction, Spiral
Press, 1955.
Kitty Hawk, 1894, Holt, 1956.
My Objection to Being Stepped On,
Holt, 1957.
Away, Spiral Press, 1958.
A-Wishing Well, Spiral Press,
1959.
Accidentally on Purpose, Holt,
1960.
The Woodpile, Spiral Press, 1961.
The Prophets Really Prophesy as
Mystics, the Commentators Merely by Statistics, Spiral Press, 1962.
The Constant Symbol, [New York],
1962.
COLLECTIONS
Collected Poems of Robert Frost,
Holt, 1930, new edition, 1939, reprinted, Buccaneer Books, 1983.
Selected Poems, Holt, 1934,
reprinted, 1963.
Come In, and Other Poems, edited
by Louis Untermeyer, Holt, 1943, reprinted, F. Watts, 1967, enlarged edition
published as The Road Not Taken: An Introduction to Robert Frost, reprinted as
The Pocket Book of Robert Frost's Poems, Pocket Books, 1956.
The Poems of Robert Frost, Modern
Library, 1946.
You Come Too: Favorite Poems for
Young Readers, Holt, 1959, reprinted, 1967.
A Remembrance Collection of New
Poems by Robert Frost, Holt, 1959.
Poems, Washington Square Press,
1961.
Longer Poems: The Death of the
Hired Man, Holt, 1966.
Selected Prose, edited by Hyde
Cox and Edward Connery Lathem, Holt, 1966, reprinted, Collier Books, 1968.
Complete Poems of Robert Frost,
Holt, 1968.
The Poetry of Robert Frost,
edited by Lathem, Holt, 1969.
Robert Frost: Poetry and Prose,
edited by Lawrence Thompson and Lathem, Holt, 1972.
Selected Poems, edited by Ian
Hamilton, Penguin, 1973.
Collected Poems, Plays, and
Prose, Library of America (New York, NY), 1995.
Early Frost: The First Three
Books, Ecco (Hopewell, NJ), 1996.
Versed in Country Things, edited
by Edward Connery Lathem, Little, Brown, 1996.
(With Christopher Burkett) Robert
Frost: Seasons, MJF (New York, NY), Books, 1996.
The Robert Frost Reader: Poetry
and Prose, edited by Edward Connery Lathem and Lawrance Thompson, Henry Holt
(New York, NY), 2002.
Robert Frost, compiled by S. L.
Berry, Creative Education (Mankato, MN), 2003.
LETTERS
The
Letters of Robert Frost to Louis Untermeyer, Holt, 1963.
Selected
Letters, edited by Thompson, Holt, 1964.
OTHER
A Way Out: A One-Act Play, Harbor
Press, 1929.
The Cow's in the Corn: A One-Act
Irish Play in Rhyme, Slide Mountain Press, 1929.
(Contributor) John Holmes,
editor, Writing Poetry, Writer, Inc., 1960.
(Contributor) Milton R. Konvitz
and Stephen E. Whicher, editors, Emerson, Prentice-Hall, 1962.
Robert Frost on
"Extravagance" (the text of Frost's last college lecture, Dartmouth
College, November 27, 1962), [Hanover, NH], 1963.
Robert Frost: A Living Voice
(contains speeches by Frost), edited by Reginald Cook, University of
Massachusetts Press, 1974.
(With Caroline Ford) The Less
Travelled Road, Bern Porter, 1982.
Stories for Lesley, edited by
Roger D. Sell, University Press of Virginia, 1984.
Frost's papers are collected at
the libraries of the University of Virginia, Amherst College, and Dartmouth
College, and the Huntington Library in San Marino, California.
Further
Reading
BOOKS
Anderson, Margaret, Robert Frost
and John Bartlett: The Record of a Friendship, Holt, 1963.
Barry, Elaine, compiler, Robert
Frost on Writing, Rutgers University Press, 1973.
Barry, Elaine, Robert Frost,
Ungar, 1973.
Bloom, Harold, ed., Robert Frost,
Chelsea House Publishers, 1998.
Breit, Harvey, The Writer
Observed, World Publishing, 1956.
Concise Dictionary of American
Literary Biography: The Twenties, 1917-1929, Gale, 1989.
Contemporary Literary Criticism,
Gale, Volume 1, 1973, Volume 3, 1975, Volume 4, 1975, Volume 9, 1978, Volume
10, 1979, Volume 13, 1980, Volume 15, 1980, Volume 26, 1983, Volume 34, 1985, Volume
44, 1987.
Cook, Reginald L., The Dimensions
of Robert Frost, Rinehart, 1958.
Cook, Reginald L., Robert Frost:
A Living Voice, University of Massachusetts Press, 1974.
Cox, James M., Robert Frost: A
Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, 1962.
Cox, Sidney, Swinger of Birches:
A Portrait of Robert Frost, New York University Press, 1957.
Cramer, Jefferey S., Robert Frost
among His Poems: A Literary Companion to the Poet's Own Biographical Contexts
and Associations, McFarland (Jefferson, NC), 1996.
Dictionary of Literary Biography,
Volume 54: American Poets, 1880-1945, Third Series, Gale, 1987.
Dodd, Loring Holmes, Celebrities
at Our Hearthside, Dresser, 1959.
Doyle, John R., Jr., Poetry of
Robert Frost: An Analysis, Hallier, 1965.
Evans, William R., editor, Robert
Frost and Sidney Cox: Forty Years of Friendship, University Press of New
England, 1981.
Faggen, Robert, Robert Frost and
the Challenge of Darwin, University of Michigan Press, 1997.
Fleissner, Robert F., Frost's
Road Taken, Peter Lang (New York), 1996.
Francis, Lesley Lee, The Frost
Family's Adventure in Poetry: Sheer Morning Gladness at the Brim, University of
Missouri Press (Columbia), 1994.
Francis, Robert, recorder, A Time
to Talk: Conversations and Indiscretions, University of Massachusetts Press,
1972.
Frost, Lesley, New Hampshire's
Child: Derry Journals of Lesley Frost, State University of New York Press,
1969.
Gerber, Philip L., Robert Frost,
Twayne, 1966.
Gould, Jean, Robert Frost: The
Aim Was Song, Dodd, 1964.
Grade, Arnold, editor, Family
Letters of Robert and Elinor Frost, State University of New York Press, 1972.
Greiner, Donald J., Checklist of
Robert Frost, Charles E. Merrill, 1969.
Greiner, Donald J. and Charles
Sanders, Robert Frost: The Poet and His Critics, American Library Association,
1974.
Hall, Donald, Remembering Poets,
Hater, 1977.
Ingebretsen, Ed, Robert Frost:
Star and a Stone Boat: Aspects of a Grammar of Belief, International Scholars
Publications (San Francisco), 1994.
Isaacs, Emily Elizabeth,
Introduction to Robert Frost, A. Swallow, 1962, reprinted, Haskell House, 1972.
Jarrell, Randall, Poetry and the
Age, Vintage, 1955.
Jennings, Elizabeth, Frost,
Barnes & Noble, 1966.
Kearns, Katherine, Robert Frost
and a Poetics of Appetite, Cambridge University Press (Cambridge, England),
1994.
Kilcup, Karen L., Robert Frost
and Feminine Literary Tradition, University of Michigan Press, 1998.
Lathem, Edward C. and Lawrence
Thompson, editors, Robert Frost: Farm Poultryman; The Story of Robert Frost's
Career As a Breeder and Fancier of Hens, Dartmouth Publishers, 1963.
Lathem, Edward C., editor,
Interviews with Robert Frost, Rinehart, 1966.
Lathem, Edward C., editor, A
Concordance to the Poetry of Robert Frost, Holt Information Systems, 1971.
Lentriccia, Frank, Robert Frost:
Modern Poetics and the Landscapes of Self, Duke University Press, 1975.
Lowell, Amy, Tendencies in Modern
American Poetry, Macmillan, 1917.
Maxson, H.A., On the Sonnets of
Robert Frost, McFarland and Co., 1997.
Mertins, Marshall Louis and
Esther Mertins, Intervals of Robert Frost: A Critical Bibliography, University
of California Press, 1947, reprinted, Russell, 1975.
Mertins, Marshall Louis, Robert
Frost: Life and Talks— Walking, University of Oklahoma Press, 1965.
Meyers, Jeffrey, Robert Frost: A
Biography, Houghton Mifflin (Boston, MA), 1996.
Muir, Helen, Frost in Florida: A
Memoir, Valiant Press (Miami), 1995.
Munson, Gorham B., Robert Frost:
A Study in Sensibility and Good Sense, G. H. Doran, 1927, reprinted, Haskell
House, 1969.
Newdick, Robert Spangler,
Newdick's Season of Frost: An Interrupted Biography of Robert Frost, edited by
William A. Sutton, State University of New York Press, 1976.
Orton, Vrest, Vermont Afternoons
with Robert Frost, Tuttle, 1971.
Pearce, Roy Harvey, The
Continuity of American Poetry, Princeton, 1961.
Poirier, Richard, Robert Frost,
Oxford University Press, 1977.
Pound, Ezra, The Literary Essays
of Ezra Pound, New Directions, 1954.
Pritchard, William H., Frost: A
Literary Life Reconsidered, Oxford University Press, 1984.
Reeve, Franklin D., Robert Frost
in Russia, Little, Brown, 1964.
Richardson, Mark, The Ordeal of
Robert Frost: The Poet and His Poetics, University of Illinois Press, 1997.
Rosenthal, M. L., The Modern
Poets, Oxford University Press, 1965.
Shepley, Elizabeth, Robert Frost:
The Trial by Existence, Holt, 1960.
Sohn, David A. and Richard Tyre,
Frost: The Poet and His Poetry, Holt, 1967.
Spiller, Robert E. and others,
Literary History of the United States, 4th revised edition, Macmillan, 1974.
Squires, Radcliffe, Major Themes
of Robert Frost, University of Michigan Press, 1969.
Tharpe, Jac, editor, Frost:
Centennial Essays II, University Press of Mississippi, 1976.
Thompson, Lawrence, Fire and Ice:
The Art and Thought of Robert Frost, Holt, 1942, reprinted, Russell, 1975.
Thompson, Lawrence, Robert Frost,
University of Minnesota Press, 1959.
Thompson, Lawrence, editor,
Selected Letters of Robert Frost, Holt, 1964.
Thompson, Lawrence, Robert Frost:
The Early Years, 1874-1915, Holt, 1966.
Thompson, Lawrence, Robert Frost:
The Years of Triumph, 1915-1938, Holt, 1970.
Thompson, Lawrence and R. H.
Winnick, Robert Frost: The Later Years, 1938-1963, Holt, 1976.
Tutein, David W., Robert Frost's
Reading: An Annotated Bibliography, Edwin Mellen, 1997.
Unger, Leonard and William Van
O'Connor, Poems for Study, Holt, 1953.
Untermeyer, Louis, Makers of the
Modern World, Simon & Schuster, 1955.
Untermeyer, Louis, Lives of the
Poets, Simon & Schuster, 1959.
Untermeyer, Louis, Robert Frost:
A Backward Look, U.S. Government Printing Office, 1964.
Van Egmond, Peter, The Critical
Reception of Robert Frost, G. K. Hall, 1974.
Waggoner, Hyatt H., American
Poetry from the Puritans to the Present, Houghton, 1968.
Wagner, Linda Welshimer, editor,
Robert Frost: The Critical Reception, B. Franklin, 1977.
West, Herbert Faulkner, Mind on
the Wing, Coward, 1947.
Wilcox, Earl J., His
"Incalculable" Influence on Others: Essays on Robert Frost in Our
Time, English Literary Studies, University of Victoria (Victoria, British
Columbia), 1994.
Winters, Yvor, The Function of
Criticism, A. Swallow, 1957.
PERIODICALS
America,
December 24, 1977.
American
Literature, January, 1948.
Atlantic,
February, 1964, November, 1966.
Bookman,
January, 1924.
Books,
May 10, 1942.
Boston
Transcript, December 2, 1916.
Commonweal,
May 4, 1962, April 1, 1977.
New
Republic, February 20, 1915.
New York
Herald Tribune, November 18, 1928.
New York
Times, October 19, 1986.
New York
Times Book Review, July 17, 1988.
New York
Times Magazine, June 11, 1972; August 18, 1974.
Poetry,
May, 1913.
Saturday
Review of Literature, May 30, 1936; April 25, 1942.
South
Atlantic Quarterly, summer, 1958.
Times
Literary Supplement, December 14, 1967.
Virginia
Quarterly Review, summer, 1957.
Wisconsin
Library Bulletin, July, 1962.
Yale
Review, spring, 1934, summer, 1948.
PERIODICALS
Current
Biography, March, 1963.
Illustrated
London News, February 9, 1963.
Newsweek,
February 11, 1963.
New York
Times, January 30, 1963.
Publishers
Weekly, February 11, 1963.