North of Boston Part 4

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!--"

The Black Cottage

WE chanced in pa.s.sing 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 gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.toned 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 pa.s.sed 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 oftentimes, I wish I could be monarch of a desert land I could devote and dedicate forever To the truths we keep coming back and back to.

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

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 r.e.t.a.r.d 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.

Blueberries

"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 gra.s.s-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.