 | An idyl of work |  |
127
X.
The colors of the far hills came and went,
Flushing to rosy purple through soft gray,
As if they heard the voice of Eleanor
And would reply. The gentle girl spoke on:
“I shall not have one memory of pain
To carry hence. That mountain-range is now
Woven, dyed into the texture of my mind;
And, standing at my loom, I shall behold
Its changes making tapestry of the web
My shuttle flies across, so beautiful!
I scarce can call these hills by common names.
They seem like human beings; not dull earth.”
Flushing to rosy purple through soft gray,
As if they heard the voice of Eleanor
And would reply. The gentle girl spoke on:
“I shall not have one memory of pain
To carry hence. That mountain-range is now
Woven, dyed into the texture of my mind;
And, standing at my loom, I shall behold
Its changes making tapestry of the web
My shuttle flies across, so beautiful!
I scarce can call these hills by common names.
They seem like human beings; not dull earth.”
“Earth under heavenly veils, transfigured earth,”
Responded Miriam; “God's great messengers,
Prophets anointed, uttering His word.
Draw near to sage or poet, he is man,
Differing from others but in breadth and height,
And power of strange withdrawal into heaven
To win refreshment for the common fields
He lives in, which are life of his own life.
Mountains are human, friendly, personal,
And that is why we love them,—fear them, too;
For loftiest human nature holds untamed
Caverns of isolation.”
“I shall read
My Wordsworth better now,” said Esther; “he,
The poet of the mountains, whom I liked
Least in his long Excursion, hitherto.
It has its flowerless, barren stretches, like
Any bleak mountain-road; but the surprise
Of sunlit peak or crag makes up for aught
Tedious in either; and along the way
Echoes from the deep forests welcome us.”
Responded Miriam; “God's great messengers,
Prophets anointed, uttering His word.
Draw near to sage or poet, he is man,
Differing from others but in breadth and height,
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To win refreshment for the common fields
He lives in, which are life of his own life.
Mountains are human, friendly, personal,
And that is why we love them,—fear them, too;
For loftiest human nature holds untamed
Caverns of isolation.”
“I shall read
My Wordsworth better now,” said Esther; “he,
The poet of the mountains, whom I liked
Least in his long Excursion, hitherto.
It has its flowerless, barren stretches, like
Any bleak mountain-road; but the surprise
Of sunlit peak or crag makes up for aught
Tedious in either; and along the way
Echoes from the deep forests welcome us.”
Then Eleanor: “I wish there were no rule
Against our reading in the mills. Sometimes
A line of poetry is such a lift
From the monotonous clatter.”
“To the praise
Of mill-girls be the need of such a rule,”
Said Miriam Willoughby. “Far be the time
When no one shall have reason to forbid
Fruit now desired. And yet I wonder much
How you could be obedient.”
Esther smiled:
“We are not; we rebel; at least, evade.
Few girls but keep some volume hid away
For stealthy reading. Some tear out the leaves
Of an old Bible, and so get the whole;
For books, not leaves, are tabooed. Others paste
The window-sills with poem, story, sketch:
No one objects to papering bare walls.
I have a memory-book well filled so. There 's
The minstrel of the Merrimack, who sings
For freedom, and is every toiler's friend:
He walks our streets sometimes, and we all know
His ‘Yankee Girl,’ ‘Angel of Patience,’ too.
There 's Bryant's ‘Thanatopsis,’ ‘Death of the Flowers,’
Hood's ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ likewise his ‘Song of the Shirt,’
With Shelley's ‘Skylark,’ Coleridge's ‘Mont Blanc.’
These, and more waifs of lovely verse, I 've learned
Between my window and my shuttle's flight.
As well forbid us Yankee girls to breathe
As read; we cannot help it.”
Eleanor smiled:
“One of your favorites, Esther, I 've recalled
Often, among these farms,—about a girl
Who liked a farmer better than a fop,—
And what girl would not? But this poem read
As if the girl had looked down from some height
On working-men, before. Miss Willoughby,
Somehow it vexed our Isabel. And, to stir
Her face into odd, nettled prettiness,—
Pretty even when she 's cross, Esther sometimes
Would make her listen. Esther, say it now!”
Against our reading in the mills. Sometimes
A line of poetry is such a lift
From the monotonous clatter.”
“To the praise
Of mill-girls be the need of such a rule,”
Said Miriam Willoughby. “Far be the time
When no one shall have reason to forbid
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How you could be obedient.”
Esther smiled:
“We are not; we rebel; at least, evade.
Few girls but keep some volume hid away
For stealthy reading. Some tear out the leaves
Of an old Bible, and so get the whole;
For books, not leaves, are tabooed. Others paste
The window-sills with poem, story, sketch:
No one objects to papering bare walls.
I have a memory-book well filled so. There 's
The minstrel of the Merrimack, who sings
For freedom, and is every toiler's friend:
He walks our streets sometimes, and we all know
His ‘Yankee Girl,’ ‘Angel of Patience,’ too.
There 's Bryant's ‘Thanatopsis,’ ‘Death of the Flowers,’
Hood's ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ likewise his ‘Song of the Shirt,’
With Shelley's ‘Skylark,’ Coleridge's ‘Mont Blanc.’
These, and more waifs of lovely verse, I 've learned
Between my window and my shuttle's flight.
As well forbid us Yankee girls to breathe
As read; we cannot help it.”
Eleanor smiled:
“One of your favorites, Esther, I 've recalled
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Who liked a farmer better than a fop,—
And what girl would not? But this poem read
As if the girl had looked down from some height
On working-men, before. Miss Willoughby,
Somehow it vexed our Isabel. And, to stir
Her face into odd, nettled prettiness,—
Pretty even when she 's cross, Esther sometimes
Would make her listen. Esther, say it now!”
HER CHOICE.
Strange, strange to herself it seemed for a moment's time,—no more,—
As he turned to smile from his plough in sight of the cottage door,
And she smiled back, and went in under the woodbine leaves,
And sang at her work with the bird that wove a nest in the eaves.
As he turned to smile from his plough in sight of the cottage door,
And she smiled back, and went in under the woodbine leaves,
And sang at her work with the bird that wove a nest in the eaves.
It was not the man of her dreams, out there in his coarse farm-frock,
Sturdy and firm on the earth as a tree or a lichened rock,
With an eye sun-clear in its health, and a cheek red-bronzed with tan!—
No; that shadow shrank into mist, and fled from this living man.
Sturdy and firm on the earth as a tree or a lichened rock,
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No; that shadow shrank into mist, and fled from this living man.
She had shaped a pretty ideal, as a child might fashion a doll;
She had clothed him with such perfection as never Heaven let fall
On the shoulders of mortal wight; but slowly, one after one,
From her idol fluttered away the shreds by fantasy spun.
She had clothed him with such perfection as never Heaven let fall
On the shoulders of mortal wight; but slowly, one after one,
From her idol fluttered away the shreds by fantasy spun.
And what of him then was left? There seemed to scatter in air
An eyebrow's curve, a weak mouth with a delicate fringe of hair,
And a town-bred curl of contempt for the boors who till the land.—
She shuddered, to think how empty sometimes is a wedded hand!
An eyebrow's curve, a weak mouth with a delicate fringe of hair,
And a town-bred curl of contempt for the boors who till the land.—
She shuddered, to think how empty sometimes is a wedded hand!
Yet once she had pictured herself that pitiful stripling's bride;
Would have laid her heart on a shrine of a puppet deified!
For the first commands of the ten all maidens are prone to break,
In bowing down to such gods as their own crude fancies make.
Would have laid her heart on a shrine of a puppet deified!
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In bowing down to such gods as their own crude fancies make.
And this had been her first love! To her forehead rushed a flame
As memory taunted and laughed,—the blush of a matron's shame
At her girlhood's shallowness. Ah! the poets falsely sing
That the loveliest blossoms of all are gathered in early spring.
As memory taunted and laughed,—the blush of a matron's shame
At her girlhood's shallowness. Ah! the poets falsely sing
That the loveliest blossoms of all are gathered in early spring.
Many a May-day past she had found under leafless trees
A crowfoot, perhaps, or a tuft of pallid anemones;
Could these compare with the rose, grown shapely in summer's heat,
Or the lily's late-brimmed cup, or the spice of the meadow-sweet?
A crowfoot, perhaps, or a tuft of pallid anemones;
Could these compare with the rose, grown shapely in summer's heat,
Or the lily's late-brimmed cup, or the spice of the meadow-sweet?
The high sun deepens the scent and color of slow-blown flowers;
Intense with the white warmth of heaven, glows earth, in her mid-noon hours.
The more life, richer the love, else life itself is a lie;
And aspiration and faith on the gusts of April die.
Intense with the white warmth of heaven, glows earth, in her mid-noon hours.
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And aspiration and faith on the gusts of April die.
And—there the furrow he turned,—her husband, whose cheerful years
Looked out of his eyes with a light that conquered her foolish fears
Of the coming loneliness, when the world would be chill with rime;
Stanch friends and honest were he and his elder fieldmate, Time.
Looked out of his eyes with a light that conquered her foolish fears
Of the coming loneliness, when the world would be chill with rime;
Stanch friends and honest were he and his elder fieldmate, Time.
And Time, laying by his scythe at their hearth, in the evenings long,
Would read from his ancient scroll, would charm them with noble song.
And life would mellow with love, and the future would open fair
And grand, as the silver of age fell softly upon their hair.
Would read from his ancient scroll, would charm them with noble song.
And life would mellow with love, and the future would open fair
And grand, as the silver of age fell softly upon their hair.
For she had not wedded a clod, whose heart was earthy, of earth,
Whose cattle and acres and crops were the measure of his worth.
He knew the ring of a truth, and the shape of a royal thought,
And how at integrity's mint the wealth of a land is wrought.
Whose cattle and acres and crops were the measure of his worth.
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And how at integrity's mint the wealth of a land is wrought.
He labored with mind and strength, and yet he could wisely rest;
He toiled for his daily bread, and ate it with wholesome zest
At the world-wide human board, the brother and friend of all
With whom he could share a hope, on whom let a blessing fall.
He toiled for his daily bread, and ate it with wholesome zest
At the world-wide human board, the brother and friend of all
With whom he could share a hope, on whom let a blessing fall.
She had chosen a working-man; never idler at heart was she;
And her possible fate had been the fate of a homesick bee
In a butterfly's leash, driven on amid scentless and useless bloom,—
What drudgery were not bliss to inanities of that doom?
And her possible fate had been the fate of a homesick bee
In a butterfly's leash, driven on amid scentless and useless bloom,—
What drudgery were not bliss to inanities of that doom?
Woman's lot at the best is hard; but hardest of all to share
No growth into larger thought, no struggle, burden, or prayer.
And again she caught his smile, and silently, proudly said:
“This man, with the love of my heart and the life of my soul, I wed.”
No growth into larger thought, no struggle, burden, or prayer.
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“This man, with the love of my heart and the life of my soul, I wed.”
“A sensible choice! But farm-life has two sides,”
Said Miriam, “and the wife must share the worst.
Woman's toil is too hard here: she grows old
Before her time. Life's afternoon means rest:
She cannot take it. This ought not to be.
Labor is beautiful: but not too much;
For that kills beauty in the laborer.”
Said Miriam, “and the wife must share the worst.
Woman's toil is too hard here: she grows old
Before her time. Life's afternoon means rest:
She cannot take it. This ought not to be.
Labor is beautiful: but not too much;
For that kills beauty in the laborer.”
“But labor is not always beautiful.
To much that is distasteful we 're compelled
By circumstances. For our daily bread,
We, who must earn it, have to suffocate
The cry of conscience, sometimes.
“When I 've thought,
Miss Willoughby, what soil the cotton-plant
We weave, is rooted in, what waters it,—
The blood of souls in bondage,—I have felt
That I was sinning against light, to stay
And turn the accursed fibre into cloth
For human wearing. I have hailed one name,
You know it—‘Garrison’—as a slave might hail
His soul's deliverer. Am not I enslaved
In finishing what slavery has begun?”
To much that is distasteful we 're compelled
By circumstances. For our daily bread,
We, who must earn it, have to suffocate
The cry of conscience, sometimes.
“When I 've thought,
Miss Willoughby, what soil the cotton-plant
We weave, is rooted in, what waters it,—
The blood of souls in bondage,—I have felt
That I was sinning against light, to stay
And turn the accursed fibre into cloth
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You know it—‘Garrison’—as a slave might hail
His soul's deliverer. Am not I enslaved
In finishing what slavery has begun?”
“And I, dear Esther Hale, in wearing cloth
So rooted, and so woven, am as wrong
As you are. We all share the nation's sin.
The time may come, when with our dearest blood
This blood must be repaid.”
“Some other work,”
Said Esther, “many times I 've meant to try:
Housework, for instance: but I could not earn
In that way, aught for others; nor could have
My first wish answered—freedom for my books,
Freedom of my own movements. Every one,
Not wife or daughter, in a land like ours,
Who does much thinking, must prefer to be
Mistress of her own plans; no housemaid can.”
So rooted, and so woven, am as wrong
As you are. We all share the nation's sin.
The time may come, when with our dearest blood
This blood must be repaid.”
“Some other work,”
Said Esther, “many times I 've meant to try:
Housework, for instance: but I could not earn
In that way, aught for others; nor could have
My first wish answered—freedom for my books,
Freedom of my own movements. Every one,
Not wife or daughter, in a land like ours,
Who does much thinking, must prefer to be
Mistress of her own plans; no housemaid can.”
“No housemaid, Esther, but the old-time ‘help,’—
In our Republic, service means just that,
And all house-masters and house-mistresses
Should hold to that idea,—‘help,’ that came
Into a family of ample wealth
And not luxurious tastes, or into one
Less favored, bringing kindness, conscience, strength,
Would be given leisure, would find sympathy,
Also abundant freedom. This has been,—
May be once more—in the millennium!”
In our Republic, service means just that,
And all house-masters and house-mistresses
Should hold to that idea,—‘help,’ that came
Into a family of ample wealth
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Less favored, bringing kindness, conscience, strength,
Would be given leisure, would find sympathy,
Also abundant freedom. This has been,—
May be once more—in the millennium!”
The theme drew on their thoughts, and as they talked
They were descending, plucking here and there
A lady-fern, an everlasting-flower,
Or stopping where a rock invited them
To rest, and watch the changes of the hills.
And now they passed into a grove of pines,
Through which the winds were singing.
Up the road
Came Minta and the Wizard. Seeing them,
She left the weary roadster tied, and drew
Into their covert.
“Esther, by your looks,
There 's preaching or exhorting going on,
And I need talking to. What is it, pray?”
They were descending, plucking here and there
A lady-fern, an everlasting-flower,
Or stopping where a rock invited them
To rest, and watch the changes of the hills.
And now they passed into a grove of pines,
Through which the winds were singing.
Up the road
Came Minta and the Wizard. Seeing them,
She left the weary roadster tied, and drew
Into their covert.
“Esther, by your looks,
There 's preaching or exhorting going on,
And I need talking to. What is it, pray?”
“We spoke of work,” said Esther.
“Oh! of work!
I'm wiser on that subject than you all,—
A farmer's daughter, taught to cook and churn
As soon as I could toddle. But, indeed,
I came to agitate this very theme,—
What labor I'm best fit for. I'm possessed
By some old Indian's restless ghost, I think.
I long for—what I know not!—to strike out
For something new,—to learn what's in me. Work?
As well as quit living as quit work, and yet
Heads like to be employed, as well as hands;
Is there no way to give each a fair chance?”
“Oh! of work!
I'm wiser on that subject than you all,—
A farmer's daughter, taught to cook and churn
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I came to agitate this very theme,—
What labor I'm best fit for. I'm possessed
By some old Indian's restless ghost, I think.
I long for—what I know not!—to strike out
For something new,—to learn what's in me. Work?
As well as quit living as quit work, and yet
Heads like to be employed, as well as hands;
Is there no way to give each a fair chance?”
“Why, yes,” said Miriam. “Have you never heard
Of the Brook Farm experiment, now being tried?
A well-born friend of mine was there, for weeks,
Doing her share of menial work, to give
Others free hours for study: and she learned,
In that community, to reverence hands
Hardened by useful toil, no less than brows
Bent with the weight of thought.”
Of the Brook Farm experiment, now being tried?
A well-born friend of mine was there, for weeks,
Doing her share of menial work, to give
Others free hours for study: and she learned,
In that community, to reverence hands
Hardened by useful toil, no less than brows
Bent with the weight of thought.”
“But there 's no home
For any one, in everybody's home;
And home's the very best of selfish things
In all this selfish world,” said Eleanor.
“‘In families He sets the solitary’;
‘In phalansteries,’ Fourier would say.
Esther, and our one little room, is more
To me than ten Brook Farms.”
For any one, in everybody's home;
And home's the very best of selfish things
In all this selfish world,” said Eleanor.
“‘In families He sets the solitary’;
‘In phalansteries,’ Fourier would say.
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To me than ten Brook Farms.”
“And, on the whole,
Miss Willoughby, I 'd rather struggle on,
And puzzle out my problem by myself,”
Said Minta; “'t is the simplest thing to do;
I will ask no man's help or blessing. Laugh!
And laugh you will; but I am bound to be
A scholar or a writer, if I can!”
Miss Willoughby, I 'd rather struggle on,
And puzzle out my problem by myself,”
Said Minta; “'t is the simplest thing to do;
I will ask no man's help or blessing. Laugh!
And laugh you will; but I am bound to be
A scholar or a writer, if I can!”
Frowning and smiling in her earnestness,
Fresh from defying Solon the Unwise,
Minta went on:
“If I had but your gifts,
Esther!—for do you know, Miss Willoughby,
She studies History, and German, too,
And Moral Science, somehow, between work;
And—do not mind her threatening shake of head—
She can write prose and poetry; I 've seen both
In the ‘Offering,’—you know the magazine
That the girls publish. Esther, I won't tell
Whether you 're ‘Blanche’ or ‘Stella’!
“Evening schools
We have, Miss Willoughby, and I have known
Girls to keep up with their Academy class
By studying on, while earning at the mills
Their graduating dresses; why not I?
I might, perhaps, go to Mount Holyoke School
And work my way through, by and by. We have
Our evenings, seven to ten,—that 's three hours clear,
For study. And you know a spinner's work,
Esther, is not the kind that pins one close
As yours, a weaver's. There are hours and hours,
When the warp spins well, I just sit and think,
And do sums in my head, build air-castles,
Or take the world to pieces; and I might
Learn the whole algebra and geometry
By snatches, so; and puzzle through the rules
Of Latin Grammar. Now Ruth Woodburn 's there,
Who 'd ask a better teacher?
“I 've a plan,
Esther! Do you and she set up a school,
And take me in, and Eleanor, to assist.
She can do beautiful fine sewing; girls
Ought to be proud to learn of her. And I
Will run the home-department, make the bread,
And teach girls how. We'll have all ages in,
And show the elder, while they 're growing up,
How to be mothers to the younger. Why,
Esther, I more than half believe I 've found
Old Archimedes' secret! Only now
Give me a money-lever, and I'll move
The world into a new thought about girls
And schools to train them in.
“Alas! alas!
Instead of money, because names are cheap,
Our parents give us country girls grand names:
Mine, now, is Araminta Summerfield,
Written out, full? But in this school of ours,
We'll work up to our names or over them.
My hands in dough, my thoughts upon my books,
I'll come out with you wise ones, in the end.”
Fresh from defying Solon the Unwise,
Minta went on:
“If I had but your gifts,
Esther!—for do you know, Miss Willoughby,
She studies History, and German, too,
And Moral Science, somehow, between work;
And—do not mind her threatening shake of head—
She can write prose and poetry; I 've seen both
In the ‘Offering,’—you know the magazine
That the girls publish. Esther, I won't tell
Whether you 're ‘Blanche’ or ‘Stella’!
“Evening schools
We have, Miss Willoughby, and I have known
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By studying on, while earning at the mills
Their graduating dresses; why not I?
I might, perhaps, go to Mount Holyoke School
And work my way through, by and by. We have
Our evenings, seven to ten,—that 's three hours clear,
For study. And you know a spinner's work,
Esther, is not the kind that pins one close
As yours, a weaver's. There are hours and hours,
When the warp spins well, I just sit and think,
And do sums in my head, build air-castles,
Or take the world to pieces; and I might
Learn the whole algebra and geometry
By snatches, so; and puzzle through the rules
Of Latin Grammar. Now Ruth Woodburn 's there,
Who 'd ask a better teacher?
“I 've a plan,
Esther! Do you and she set up a school,
And take me in, and Eleanor, to assist.
She can do beautiful fine sewing; girls
Ought to be proud to learn of her. And I
Will run the home-department, make the bread,
And teach girls how. We'll have all ages in,
And show the elder, while they 're growing up,
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Esther, I more than half believe I 've found
Old Archimedes' secret! Only now
Give me a money-lever, and I'll move
The world into a new thought about girls
And schools to train them in.
“Alas! alas!
Instead of money, because names are cheap,
Our parents give us country girls grand names:
Mine, now, is Araminta Summerfield,
Written out, full? But in this school of ours,
We'll work up to our names or over them.
My hands in dough, my thoughts upon my books,
I'll come out with you wise ones, in the end.”
And Miriam, listening, though amused, was moved
By thoughts new-wakened. On the working-side
She had not stood, with working-girls, before.
She asked herself if she, in girlhood's dawn,
Would have striven through such hindrances, if she
Would not have yielded to despair, and drudged,
And only drudged, her daily fourteen hours,—
Their work-day's length, nor ever touched a book,
Or nursed an aspiration.
Miriam shared
With all New-Englanders an honest pride
In the provincial energy and sense;
But this was waste,—this woman-faculty
Tied to machinery, part of the machine
That wove cloth, when it might be clothing hearts
And minds with queenly raiment. She foresaw
The time must come when mind itself would yield
To the machine, or leave the work to hands
Which were hands only.
Just to think of it!
Minta, so full of health, ability,
And right aspirings; Esther, whom she felt
At least an intellectual equal; and—
This most unfit of all—sweet Eleanor,
A flower of delicate birth and saintly-pure;—
These counted but as “hands!” named such!
No! no!
It must not be at all; or else their toil
Must be made easier, larger its reward!
These girls, too, from their talk, were not so far
Above the rest. Here was a problem, then,
For the political theorist: how to save
Mind from machinery's clutches. And, meanwhile,
She would help out of their entanglements,
Into such freedom as she could, these girls.
Jogging on with the white horse, by this time
They reached the Inn. Strangers about the door
Were loitering as they entered. “Can it be?”
Eleanor whispered. “It is Doctor Mann!”
He grasped her hand. “Now,” Minta said, aside,
To Esther, roguishly, “I'll only take
You home with me, although I came for both.”
But Miriam overheard, just bringing up
Another new-arrived, her nephew Ralph.
“Not one goes back to-night! Wizard and all
Must stay; to-morrow will be time enough,
And better time than this.”
She had her way,
Esther demurring, for to her it seemed
As if Fate's messenger had surely come,
Shaped as a young physician, to bear off
Her more than sister, Eleanor. Shutting back
Her jealous thoughts, she joined the company
Around the maple-blaze on the wide hearth,
And heard these guests retrace their journeyings.
By thoughts new-wakened. On the working-side
She had not stood, with working-girls, before.
She asked herself if she, in girlhood's dawn,
Would have striven through such hindrances, if she
Would not have yielded to despair, and drudged,
And only drudged, her daily fourteen hours,—
Their work-day's length, nor ever touched a book,
Or nursed an aspiration.
Miriam shared
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In the provincial energy and sense;
But this was waste,—this woman-faculty
Tied to machinery, part of the machine
That wove cloth, when it might be clothing hearts
And minds with queenly raiment. She foresaw
The time must come when mind itself would yield
To the machine, or leave the work to hands
Which were hands only.
Just to think of it!
Minta, so full of health, ability,
And right aspirings; Esther, whom she felt
At least an intellectual equal; and—
This most unfit of all—sweet Eleanor,
A flower of delicate birth and saintly-pure;—
These counted but as “hands!” named such!
No! no!
It must not be at all; or else their toil
Must be made easier, larger its reward!
These girls, too, from their talk, were not so far
Above the rest. Here was a problem, then,
For the political theorist: how to save
Mind from machinery's clutches. And, meanwhile,
She would help out of their entanglements,
Into such freedom as she could, these girls.
143
They reached the Inn. Strangers about the door
Were loitering as they entered. “Can it be?”
Eleanor whispered. “It is Doctor Mann!”
He grasped her hand. “Now,” Minta said, aside,
To Esther, roguishly, “I'll only take
You home with me, although I came for both.”
But Miriam overheard, just bringing up
Another new-arrived, her nephew Ralph.
“Not one goes back to-night! Wizard and all
Must stay; to-morrow will be time enough,
And better time than this.”
She had her way,
Esther demurring, for to her it seemed
As if Fate's messenger had surely come,
Shaped as a young physician, to bear off
Her more than sister, Eleanor. Shutting back
Her jealous thoughts, she joined the company
Around the maple-blaze on the wide hearth,
And heard these guests retrace their journeyings.
The young physician had been following up
The Pemigewasset's windings, and had seen
A sunrise from the fields of Bethlehem,
A sunset on the Saco meadows; while
The stranger, Ralph, had travelled from the east
Among gigantic mountain-majesties
Skirting the Androscoggin. They had met
Under Moat Mountain's shadow; had grown friends
Tossing together in the stage-coach, through
Oak-barren sands, from Conway to the Inn;
And, like two meeting streams, they seemed to bring
Freshness of unimagined distances
About the little group, where laughter rose,
Rippled, and billowed, only eddying down
At some long repetition of the hour
From the old timepiece underneath the stairs.
Hearing which warning, one by one dropped out,
Till Miriam and her nephew Ralph were left
Alone beside the smouldering ember-glow.
The Pemigewasset's windings, and had seen
A sunrise from the fields of Bethlehem,
A sunset on the Saco meadows; while
144
Among gigantic mountain-majesties
Skirting the Androscoggin. They had met
Under Moat Mountain's shadow; had grown friends
Tossing together in the stage-coach, through
Oak-barren sands, from Conway to the Inn;
And, like two meeting streams, they seemed to bring
Freshness of unimagined distances
About the little group, where laughter rose,
Rippled, and billowed, only eddying down
At some long repetition of the hour
From the old timepiece underneath the stairs.
Hearing which warning, one by one dropped out,
Till Miriam and her nephew Ralph were left
Alone beside the smouldering ember-glow.
| An idyl of work | |