 | New poems by Madison Cawein |  |
197
[They said he'd sold tobacco; and he knew]
They said he'd sold tobacco; and he knewThey ought to kill him, burn his house and barn,
And would unless he gave them (this with scorn)
The money he'd received. What could he do?
He had a little money, it was true,
Hid in an old pot underneath the corn
There in the crib, he told them. 'Twas a yarn
To get away. They were a desperate crew.
They set to work upon the crib; and he
Got loose and on a horse and took to flight:
They shot at him.—Whatever might occur
He did not care now; they had burned, you see,
His home: for miles its glare lit up the night.—
His wife and daughters?—God knows where they were.
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