Chapter III: Stories in Metre (2)

“But tell me what he was in prison for?”
I said, and met the old man’s quick “What for?
Oh well, there wasn’t room enough outside.
Why do you want to know? What does it matter?
He was no common man. You’d think by now
I’d stop my foolish bothering. I’m used
Enough, God knows, to tangled human threads--
Oh what’s the use to try and tell it now?
I’m such a fool! I can’t go by his cell
Without the wondering clutching at me here!”
He laid his hand upon his breast; I thought
His mind had dwelt too long with pain, and now
His fancies troubled him. “Mad then, perhaps?”
I asked, and saw my blundering words had been
Salt to a wound. He turned away and said
“No, no, he was not that, not mad,” and stepped
Beside a shelf of little useless things
Fumbling among them.

Presently he turned
And placed within my hands a woman’s picture.
I took it silently, afraid to comment.
“Think what you please,” he said, “for I don’t know,
As no one came to take away his things
I kept the picture. It was dear to him.”

A gentle woman’s face looked up at me;
A tender face, lips parted, young grave eyes.
I seemed to see within their depths a question,
And turned to meet the old man’s twisted smile.
Nodding, he murmured, “So, you see it too?”
Then took the picture from me and began
Again, though haltingly, his troubled tale.

“At first he read and spoke and ate his food
As if he thought he would not be here long
And must be patient. Often he would ask
What time it was, or if it rained or shone,
Begging for outside news, and when I brought
Letters or papers, seized them greedily
And strained his eyes to get the contents quickly.
Sometimes he’d hail me as I passed along
With such a flow of eager questioning talk,
I wondered anyone so rich in words
Could bear his solitude and not go mad
With silence; but--our prison rules are stern.
I shot the bolts that dulled that silver voice,
And now I hear it echoing down the years.”

The old man rose and made a little pretence
To put the picture back upon the shelf.

“Well, time went on,” seating himself, he said,
“And as I made my rounds each day I thought
The prisoner seemed to draw himself away.
Not rudely; more as if he could not break
The current of his thoughts, and up and down
He’d walk; they all do that, but he as if
He had some light inside his mind. Don’t think
I’m crazy, but,--it’s hard to put in words.
Sometimes I’d have my little try to break
Across the distance. With a sudden smile
He’d lay his hand upon me--‘Yes, I know,
I know,’ and so would push me to the door.
I feared to go to him, and yet I loved
The man as if he’d been my son. I knew
The end was coming soon. My heart was sore,
But I was powerless.

“One thing alone
Could wean him from his strange expectancy,
A little written word that came half-yearly.
I knew that it was due, and when it came
I beat upon his door; I had the letter--
Slowly he turned to meet me and I stopped,
Seeing it was too late.

“Then from my hands
He took the letter, lifting it silently,
The way a priest lifts up the sacrament,
Then gave it slowly back to me and said,
‘Why bring me bread? So little, little bread?
Why eke my life along so grudgingly?
Take back the letter, I am far away,
Keep back the bread and I shall sooner know.’
And followed by his eyes, I left the cell
And soon he died.

“No no, he was not mad,
But only one to whom the Dawn was real.”

_ELLIE_

She came to do my nails.
Came in my door and stood before me waiting,
A great big lummox of a girl--
A continent.
Her dress was rusty black
And scant,
Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.
Her sullen eyes,
Like a whipped animal’s,
Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.

She dropped her coat upon a chair
And waited;
Then, at a word, busied herself
With files and delicate scissors,
Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger-tips.

She proved so deft and silent
I bade her come again;
And twice a week
While summer dawned and flushed and waned
She used me in her parasitic trade.
The dress grew rustier,
The hat more melancholy,
And Ellie fatter.

Each time she came I wondered as she worked
If thought lay anywhere
Behind that queer uncouthness.
She had a trick of seizing with her eyes
Each passing thing,
An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;
And yet she seemed enwrapped
In a kind of solemn patience,
Large, aloof and waiting.
We hardly ever spoke--
I could not think of anything worth saying;
One does not chatter with a continent.
Finally it was homing time;
The seashore town was raw and desolate
And idlers flitted.
The last day Ellie came
Her calm was gone, she had been crying.
Fat people never ought to cry;
It’s awful....
The hot drops fell upon my hand
While Ellie dropped the scissors suddenly
And sniffed and blew and sobbed
In disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.
I said the usual things;
I would have patted her but for the grease,
But Ellie was not comforted.

Not until the storm was spent
And only little catching breaths were left
I got the reason.
“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fat
The boys won’t look at me.”
And then it came, the stammered, passionate cry:
Could I not help?
Could I not find a medicine?
We talked and talked
And when at dusk she went, a teary smile
Hovered a moment on her mouth
And in those sullen, swollen eyes
A little hope perhaps;
I did not know.

The city and its interests soon engulfed me.
A letter or two,
A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,
And Ellie and her woes passed from my mind
Until, as summer dawned again,
I heard that she was dead.
A curious letter written stiffly,
From Ellie’s mother,
Told me I was invited to the funeral
“By wish of the Deceased.”

Wondering I travelled to the little town
Where the sea beat and groaned
And sorrowed endlessly,
And made my way down the steep street
To Ellie’s door.
Her mother met me in the hall
And motioned,
“She wanted you to see her,”
Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor--
A place of emerald plush and golden oak
Set round with pride and symmetry,
And in the midst
A black and silver coffin--
Ellie’s coffin.
Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.

Somewhere in Florence Mino da Fiesole
Has made a tomb
Where deathless beauty lies with upturned face.
Two gentle hands, palms meeting,
Touch with their pointed forefingers
A delicate chin, and over the vibrant body
Clings a white robe
Enshrouding chastely
Warm curving lines of adolescent grace.
No sleeper this,--
The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,
As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen life
And held imprisoned there
The moment of attainment
Rapt, imperishable and fair.

Even so lay Ellie,
And when from somewhere far I heard
The mother’s voice
I listened vacantly.

The woman chattered on,
“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress--
I never knew she had it,
She must ’a made it by herself.
It’s queer it fitted perfectly
An’ her all thin like that--
She must ’a thought--”

Then black-robed relatives came streaming in
To look at Ellie.
I watched them start
And glance around for explanation.
The mother pinched my arm:
“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;
“Come back tonight.”

Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,
While everybody dutifully cried,
And when the village parson
Rhythmically proclaimed,
And this mortal shall put on immortality,--
With a great welcoming
And a great lightening
I knew at last the ancient affirmation.

When evening came I found the mother
Sitting amidst her golden oak and plush
In a kind of isolated stateliness.
She led me in.
“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”
She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.
The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’em
All labelled ‘Caldwell’s Great Obesity Cure
Warranted Safe and Rapid.’
Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;
“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”
And then she cried again
And clung to me.

_THE PARK BENCH_

A STRANGER, A MAN, A WOMAN

_The pallid night wind touched their burning cheeks
With fetid breath, whispered a dim distress
And flickered out; while whirling insects danced
Their crazy steps with death around the light._

THE STRANGER

The night is hot and the crowds intolerable,
May I sit here between you on this bench?

THE MAN

I s’pose the bench is free to anybody.

THE STRANGER

I’ve been walking up and down and wondering
If I should speak. You sat here silently,
You two. I could not tell what troubled you.

THE WOMAN

I guess I was thinkin’, Mister. I didn’t know
There was any other person anywhere near.

THE MAN

I don’t know who she is. She’s nothin’ to me.
She’s got a kid there in her shawl, maybe
Her trouble’s there.

THE STRANGER

It’s hard to keep up courage;
The heat is sickening, it weighs you down.
I’d like to see the child; may I see its face?

THE WOMAN

He’s two weeks old today.

THE STRANGER

A sturdy youngster!
What do you call him? What’s his name, I mean?
Don’t turn away. I meant no harm, you know.

THE MAN

Didn’t I tell you? Something’s wrong, I guess. Maybe
He’s deserted, with another comin’ on.
Ask her again; likely she’s needin’ help.

THE STRANGER

You seem unhappy. Can’t you tell me why?
I’d like to help you if I can, because--
Well, once I had a little son like that.
Come! what have you got to tell? Out with the story.
See there, the boy is stretching out a hand,
He knows a friend is somewhere ’round, eh, Sonny?

THE WOMAN

You’d like to know what I have got to tell?
I guess you don’t know what you’re askin’, Mister.
You see that big house over there? You see
This baby blinkin’ here? Well, that’s the house
His father lives in. I just found it out,
Found where it was, I mean, then I come here--
Oh, what’s the sense o’ tellin’ any more?
That’s all there is, I guess.

THE STRANGER

I’d like the story;
Sometimes the pain is eased by speaking out.

THE WOMAN

I don’t know why you want to know about me,
It’s no concern of yours, but if you’ll promise
You’ll let him be, I’ll tell you all there is.

THE STRANGER

You have my promise.

THE WOMAN

More’n a year ago
It was, I seen him first, an’ ’twasn’t long
Before I thought a lot and so did he.
He said he’d take a flat and furnish it
And we’d keep house together all alone.
He said he had to travel, but he’d come
As often as he could, and stay as long.
I’d worked, you know; I never had a place
I liked to live in, an’ he let me buy
A lot of things I wanted; then he’d laugh
And say I liked the flat so much, perhaps
He’d better stay away and not muss up
The tidies on the chairs. He always had
A lot of money. When he gave me some
He’d never say how much it was, but just,
“Here’s more to buy the tidies with,” and laugh.
It wasn’t long--that little time. I like
To think about it, but it seems so far!
Just like another city or a place
That wasn’t any more; I don’t know why,
I guess the flat’s there still, if I should go--
Hush, honey, hush--don’t you be cryin’ now.

I s’pose I’d ought to tell you that he said
I mustn’t have the kid. I didn’t care;
I didn’t want it, neither. When I knew,
I had to tell, because I got so sick.
He didn’t say a word to make me cry,
Not much of anything. He put a lot
Of money in the drawer and went away--
I never seen him since, until--today.
Until--today--over there, this afternoon
I seen him laughin’ with another kid,
And mine right here, right here, do you understand?

THE STRANGER

I think I understand, but please go on.

THE WOMAN

I told you he’d put money in the drawer;
I hated takin’ it; but o’ course it lasted
For quite a while,--until I had to go
And be took care of at a hospital.
At first I tried to find him, but I knew
He didn’t want me to. I thought perhaps
When I could take the kid, he’d like it then.
When I was packin’ up I found a paper,
A bill, I guess, all rumpled, in a coat
He left. It had a name I didn’t know.
At first I didn’t think, but lyin’ there
All quiet in the hospital I saw
It was his name, his truly name, and where
He lived and all. This afternoon my time
Was up--by rights I’d oughta left the ward
Four days ago. They gave me this, for the food,
Directions how to fix it right, you know,
And told me I could go, and so I came.
I thought he’d surely want to see me now,
When I was well again, just like I was.

I waited in the park and watched the house,
It looked so big I couldn’t ring the bell.
Maybe ’twas six o’clock I saw him come;
Just by the steps a baby carriage turned
And waited for him comin’ up the street.
The woman wheelin’ it called out “Look there!
There’s Daddy! Can’t you throw a kiss to him?”
I saw him lift the baby ’way up high,
And carry it in the house. Then I come here.

THE STRANGER

I see. And that is all you plan to do?
I mean, you won’t go back?

THE WOMAN

What can I do?
You see, he doesn’t want me any more.
I’d like to die, but here’s the kid! I guess
I can’t leave him. An’ anyway I’m ’fraid
To die alone. I don’ know what I’ll do.

THE MAN

I wish that I could think of anything
To say that maybe’d help a little bit.
May I just--shake your hand?--Excuse me, Mister.

THE WOMAN

I didn’t know as you was listenin’ too.

THE MAN

Perhaps you’d like to hear what’s happened to me.
You’ll see that somebody has known the like
Of what you’re feelin’, maybe it will help.

THE STRANGER

Ah! I was right then? Both of you are troubled?
The night has brought us three together here;
We must be friends. It’s queer how loneliness
Makes one reach one, as I have reached, to you.
I think each one of us needs both the others.

THE MAN

Well, Mister, you don’t look as if you’d need
Our help, but maybe you do, maybe, who knows?
I’ll tell you what’s been happening to me.
I’m sick of thoughts goin’ round and round and round,
I wonder if anybody’ll ever know,
I mean to understand, what I’ve been thinkin’.

THE STRANGER

Why don’t you start? We’ll try to understand.

THE MAN

I’ll tell you first that I’m a drinking man,
And that’s a thing that causes lots of trouble.
She’s not to blame, she stood it for a while.
She had the children, there are two, you know,
But I was pretty bad. I hated it,
But there it was, and every day a fight,
And oftener and oftener I’d lose.
One day she went away and took the children.
They served some papers on me; I was drunk
And didn’t care; but pretty soon I knew
That she had gone for good. A lawyer came
And talked to me, after she’d talked to him.
And afterwards I saw her in the Court.
The Judge said I must leave our house, and if,
For two years, I could cut the liquor out
She’d let me back.

And so I got a room
About two blocks away where I could see
The children as they passed along to school.
Sometimes I’d walk a little way with them,
But when I couldn’t answer all their questions
I’d think I’d better let ’em be, and so
I’d only watch ’em from behind the blind.
Well, Ma’am, I tried my best; I made a calendar
To mark the days. I got a good promotion.
The time went by, and all the while I thought
Two years are only seven hundred days
And thirty over! I can stick it out!
And then one day I’ll dress myself up clean
And meet the children and we’ll go back home.
I’d marked the calendar six hundred off
And eighty-six, and forty-four were left.
The heat came on and took the starch all out
Of everything. I didn’t care what happened.
I thought she didn’t mean to keep her promise--
A week ago--oh, well, you know the rest.
I don’t know where I’ve been. I’d like to die,
Only I’ve been so lonesome in that room.
I seem to be afraid to die alone!

THE WOMAN

I’m awful sorry, Mister, awful sorry.
Seems like tonight most everybody’s luck
Has all gone back on ’em. Thank you for tellin’!

THE STRANGER

There’s no use sitting here in silence, is there?
We’ve got to find some way to help you both.
I’d like to if I can, but anyhow,
We’ve helped each other just by speaking out.
If you’ll wait here I’ll get a cab and take
You and the baby to the Sisters’ Home.
Perhaps you’ll come to my office in the morning;
I’d like to talk to you; I’m sure we’ll find
There’s something we can plan. Here is the address.
I sha’n’t be long, keep talking so’s to cheer her,
It was a kindly thought of yours to tell
Your story after hers. We’ll find some way.

THE WOMAN

What ’ud he mean? About the Sisters’ Home?

THE MAN

Some place where you an’ the kid can go, I s’pose.

THE WOMAN

It’s queer how everybody’s good to you
’Ceptin’ the only one you want to be.

THE MAN

He said it wasn’t any use to sit
Here silent; that you’d better speak it out;
It always helped. He said he’d find a way.
Do you believe there’s anything ahead
For you or me? I wonder if there is.

THE WOMAN

I’m done with wonderin’ long ago, I know!
I want to die! God, how I want to die!
But here’s the kid, he didn’t ask to come,
And he’s so little, what ’ud become of him?

THE MAN

Do you believe there’s anything--over there?

THE WOMAN

There’s rest.

THE MAN

I know there’s rest, but when I’ve sat
All by myself there in that little room
Thinking things out, sometimes it seemed there must
Be something more. I’d mighty well like to know.

THE WOMAN

If I could find someone to take the kid
I’d like to rest, just rest, I wouldn’t want
Much of anything more. There isn’t anything.
I wish I wasn’t scared to die alone.

THE MAN

You said that once before. Do you mean it, really?

THE WOMAN

What are you thinkin’ about? Say it out, say it out!

THE MAN

What if we went together, you and I?
There ain’t any use of livin’ any more.
We’d find out something, anyhow.

THE WOMAN

You mean--

THE MAN

I mean I’m sick o’ livin’, so are you.
Put the kid down there by the evergreens.
He’ll come and find it--he said he’d get a cab;
He’ll take it to the Sisters. Oh, I’m crazy!
Don’t put it there! Take it up again, I say!
A little kid like that! Don’t listen to me.

THE WOMAN

He’s sleeping now; he’ll never know what’s happened.

THE MAN

You’re goin’ to? Well, come along then fast
Or he’ll come back. We’re both of us crazy now,
But what’s the sense of livin’ any more?
Maybe there’s something better--over there.

THE WOMAN

Wait till I fix him comfortable. Say, Mister,
I was lookin’ at the river, by the pier,
Only I was afraid. Will you stay beside me?

THE MAN

Yes, that’s the place, come quickly, ’twon’t take long.

THE WOMAN

Maybe we could find a piece of iron
Or something heavy, so’s they wouldn’t find us;
There’s lots around the pier.

THE MAN

I’ll tell you what:
I’ll tie our hands together to the iron
So the waves won’t--

_THE SISTERS_

We four
Live here together
My three old sisters and I
In a white cottage
With flowers on each side of the path up to the door.
It is here we eat together,
At eight, one, and seven,
All the year round,
It is here we sew together
On garments for the Church sewing society
Here,--behind our fresh white dimity curtains
That I’ll soon have to do up and darn again.
It is this cottage we mean
When we use the word Home.
Is it not here we lie down and sleep
Each night all near together?

We never meet
My three old sisters and I.
We never look into each others’ eyes
We never look into each others’ souls,
Or if we do for a moment
We quickly begin to talk about the jam
How much sugar to put in and when.
We run away and hide, like mice before the light;
We are afraid to look into each others’ souls
So we keep on sewing, sewing.

My three old sisters are old
Very old.
It is not such a great while since they were born
Yet they are old.
I think it is because they will not look and see.
I am not old
But pretty soon I will be.
I was thinking of that when I went to him
Where he was waiting.

My sisters had been talking together all the long afternoon
While I sat sewing and silent,
Clacking, clacking away while the lilac scent came in at the window
And the branches beckoned and sighed.
This is what they said--
“How did that paper come into our house?”
“Fit to be burnt, don’t you think?”
Then the third, “It’s a shameless sheet
To print such a sensual thing.”
The paper lay on the table there, between my three sisters
With my poem in it,--
My little happy poem without any name.
I had been with him when I wrote it and I wanted him again.
The words arose in my heart clamouring for birth--
And there they were, between my three sisters.
Each read it in turn
Holding the paper far off with the tips of her fingers.
Then they hustled it into the fire
Giving it an extra poke with the tongs, a vicious poke.
Then each sister settled back to her sewing
With a satisfied air.
I looked at them and I wondered.
I looked at each one,
And I went to him that night--
Where he was waiting.

My three old sisters are dying
Though they do not know it.
They are not dying serenely
After life is over,
They are just getting dryer and dryer
And sharper and sharper;
Soon there will not be any more of them at all.

I am not like them
I cannot be
For I have a reason for living.
While they were picking their little pale odourless blossoms
I gathered my great red flower
And oh I am glad, glad,
For now when the time comes I can die serenely,
I can die after living.
But first what is to come?
I am going to give my three old sisters a shock
Then what a rumpus there will be!
They will upbraid and reproach
And then they will whisper to each other, nodding slowly and sadly
Telling each other it is not theirs to judge.
So they will become kind and pitiful
Affirming that I am their sister
And that they will stick by and see me through.
But underneath they will be touching me with the lifted tips of their fingers.
They would like to hustle me into the fire
With an extra poke of the tongs.

Perhaps I will pretend to hang my head,
Perhaps I will to please them,
I am very obliging--
But in my heart I shall be laughing with a great laughter,
A great exaltation.

Yes they will upbraid and reproach
In grave and sisterly accents
And mourn over me,
One who has fallen;
Yet I suspect
As each one goes to her cold little room,
Deep in her breast she will envy
With a terrible envy
The child that is mine
And the night
The incredible night
When the sun and the moon and the stars
Bent down
And gave me their secrets.

_REASON_

Doctor! Doctor! I want you to come in.
Doctor! Don’t you hear me? Don’t go by!
That’s right, come in here now and shut the door.
Sit down there in that chair
And listen.
Don’t sit there with that silly smile all over you.
I’m going to make you listen.

You know when I first came they wanted me to talk.
I could see them trying, with little tricks and questions.
Well, now I will,--
I’ll tell you if you’ll let me out.
Will you, Doctor? Will you?
Those bars there at the window make me sick,
And the screaming all around.
You have to holler too, to keep from hearing!
The nurse said I’d be in the padded room
If I kept on--
Say, Doctor, will you let me out
After I’ve told you everything there is?
Will you? Will you? Will you?

Oh very well,
You can open the door then now.
I don’t want you any more; I’ll never tell--
Say, Doctor, don’t go yet awhile;
Turn round, don’t go, I want to talk to you.
There, please sit down again, I’ll promise not to holler.
I’ll tell you all about it and then you’ll see--
You’ll let me go, I know you will.
I tell you I’ve got to go and find ’em,
Find ’em all--Father and Grandfather,
All that made me go back home,
That made me do it--
But you don’t know,
I’ll have to find some place to start at.

The first night that he tried to get at me, and he like that,
I cried,
Soon as he saw me crying he went off
And got a quilt
And made a bed out in the sitting-room.
He got up early so I didn’t see him.
I thought all day,
And I kissed him when he came at supper time.

That night he seemed just like he was at first,
I mean when we were married first,
I thought he wouldn’t do it ever again--
Say, Doctor, don’t you tell,
But somebody came when I was out
And fixed his food up so’s he’d want the stuff,
I know who it was, but I won’t tell,
Not till I’m out of here.

She did it out of spite, I know, I know--
Doctor, who is that hollerin’? Make her stop--
I guess you’d think it “mattered” some
If you heard it all the time--
Well, finally I couldn’t keep him in the sitting-room,
I had to let him in, he hammered so,
And then--Oh, Doctor, stop her please!
I don’t see what she’s hollerin’ for,
Nobody got in her bed reeling drunk--
I couldn’t help him coming--I couldn’t, an’ I tried!

Next day I went around and did the dishes up,
And cooked the dinner ready, and all the time I thought
“Supposing it’s happened--what’ll the child be then?
What’ll I have to bring into the world?
Supposing it’s happened--”

Perhaps it was nearly supper time,
I don’t know clearly,
But I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t!
I left a letter for him and went home.
I walked around the corner of the house and there they were
Sitting at supper, Father and Grandfather
And Ma and little Ben.
I stood and looked at them.
It seemed such a little while since I was sitting there
Not thinkin’ anything,
Finally I went in and said
“I’ve come home,--I’ve come away from Jim, I mean.
Don’t everybody look at me like that--
I tell you I’ve come home.”

Then Ma got up and took me in her room
And fixed the bed for me--
She said we’d talk it over in the morning.

I stayed pretty near two months at home,
And all the while Father and Grandfather
And even little Ben
Were at me to go back,
Father kept saying all he wanted was my happiness.
And then they got the clergyman
And he talked just the same.
And then Jim came.
They all were nice to him and Jim was dreadfully sorry.
He hadn’t had a drop, he said, and if I’d come
He’d never touch a single thing again--
Oh, Doctor, make her stop!
Go make her stop, I say, what’s she got to holler for?
Don’t forget you promised if I’d tell
You’d let me out--
Do you want to hear the rest?
I’m telling you straight enough, more’n I told the family--
I never told them anything,
I mean what I thought might happen,
And nobody ever had the sense to guess
What I was afraid of,
Nobody but Ma,
And after the first she didn’t do anything but cry
And say Father knew best.

The second time Jim came, I said I’d go,
I was so tired of everybody talkin’ at me--
Oh I don’t want to tell you any more--
I’m crazy with her hollerin’.
You know the rest--I squeezed his eyes out--
’Cause he was lookin’ at me
When I let him in--after his hammerin’--
Then they brought me here--

Doctor, I’ve told you everything.
Doctor, let me out!
Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!

_HER SECRET_

My secret and I stand here in front of the glass.
We are bedecking ourselves for an evening of gayety.
We look down and make our lips smile--
We look up and make ourselves laugh,
And then we turn and look into the glass again
To see if others will believe that our eyes are smiling too.

How long will it last, the evening?
It will be three hours at least, maybe four.
There will be music and bright dresses and clinking and chattering
And everybody will laugh; there will be a great deal of laughter.
Everybody will go about with smiling lips,
But if you stop and look
You will see that everybody’s eyes are hungry.

None of them shall know my secret
No one knows that--
Not any one in all the world.

There was one other knew
But he is dead.
I heard that he was dead just now--

A little while ago--
Just a few minutes ago by the clock.
I was putting on my beautiful dress
When I heard a list read out from the paper, many names,
A long, long list.
I went on fastening my embroidered slippers
While they read and read--
It came while I was buttoning my gloves, my long gloves;
There are a number of buttons.
No one shall guess my secret.

There is a woman somewhere,
I do not know where she is;
But all her friends are hastening,
Coming from all about
To surround her with their melancholy faces.

Soon they will get for her a black dress and a long black veil.
They will lead her faltering to a church,
Her two wondering children held to her side, one by each hand.
She will be very important.
They will say beautiful things about him--
Beautiful sad things--
And all the time, hid by her long black veil,
Her eyes will be smiling--smiling.

And what have I of him?
What shall I take with me to the party?
Only the memory of that last dawn
When I gave him all and bade him go.

_A LITTLE GIRL_

I

I see a little girl sitting bent over
On a white stone door-step.
In the street are other children running about;
The shadows of the waving trees flicker on their white dresses.

Some one opens the door of the house
And speaks to the child on the steps.
She looks up and asks an eager question.
The figure shakes her head and shuts the door.
The child covers up her face
To hide her tears.

II

Three children are playing in a garden--
Two boys and an awe-struck little girl;
They have plastered the summer-house with clay,
Making it an unlovely object.

A grown-up person comes along the path.
The little girl runs to her and stops,
Asking the same question--“Where is my Mother?”
The grown-up person does not make any answer.
She looks at the summer-house and passes along the path.

The little girl goes slowly into the house
And climbs the stairs.

III

The little girl is alone in the garden.
A white-haired lady of whom she is afraid
Comes to find her and tell her a joyful thing.

The little girl runs to the nursery.
The young nurse is doing her hair in front of the glass.
The little girl sees how white her neck is
And her uplifted arms.

Tomorrow they will be gone--they will not be here--
They are going to find--Her.
The young nurse turns and smiles
And takes the little girl in her arms.

IV

The little girl is travelling on a railway train,
Everything rushes by very fast,--
Houses, and children in front of them,
Children who are just staying at home.

The train cannot go fast enough,
The little girl is saying over and over again,
“My Mother--My onliest Mother--
I am coming to you, coming very fast.”

V

The little girl looks up at a great red building
With a great doorway.
It opens and the little girl is led in,
Looking all about her.
A Lady in a white dress and white cap comes.

After a long time
A man in a black coat comes in.
He says “She is not well enough, I am afraid.”
The little girl is led away.
She always remembers the words
The man in the black coat said.

VI

The little girl is waiting in the big hallway,
In the house of the white-haired lady.
At the end of the path she can see the summer-house
With its queer grey cover.

The hall clock ticks very slowly.
The hands must go all around again
Before the mother will come.

Now it is night.
The little girl is lying in her bed.
There is a piano going somewhere downstairs.
She is telling herself a story and waiting.
Soon She will come in at the door.

There will be a swift shaft of light
Across the floor.
And She will come in with a rustling sound.
She will lie down on the bed
And the little girl will stroke her dress and crinkle it
To make the sound again.

Pretty soon the mother will step slowly and softly to the door,
And quietly turn the handle.
The little girl will speak and stop her,
Asking something she has asked many times before,--“My Father?”
But the mother has never anything to answer.

VII

The mother and the little girl are sitting together sewing.
Outside there is snow.
A woman with a big white apron
Comes to the door of the room and speaks.

The mother drops her work on the floor
And runs down the stairs.
The little girl stands at the head of the stairs
And cries out “My Father!” but no one hears.
They pass along the hall--

The little girl creeps down the stairs,
But the door is closed.

VIII

The little girl is held and rocked,
Held so tightly it hurts her.
She moves herself free.

Then quickly she puts her face up close,
And there is a taste of salt on her tongue.

IX

In a bed in an upper chamber,
A bed with high curtains,
A woman sits bowed over.
Her hair streams over her shoulders,
Her arms are about two children.

The older one is trying to say comforting things,
The little girl wants to slip away,--
There are so many people at the foot of the bed--

Out of the window, across the yellow river
There are houses climbing up the hillside.
The little girl wonders if anything like this
Is happening in any of those houses.

X

Many children and grown-up people
Are standing behind their chairs around a bright table
Waiting for the youngest child to say grace.

It is very troublesome for the youngest child
To get the big words out properly.
The little girl interrupts and says the grace quickly.

The white-haired lady of whom the little girl is afraid
Is angry.
The little girl breaks away and runs
To the room of the bed with the high curtains.

She rushes in--
The room is empty.
She comes back to the table,
But she does not dare to ask the question.
She remembers the great red building
With the great doorway.

XI

The little girl is trying to read a fairy story.
There is nobody in the garden.
There is nobody in the house but the white-haired lady.

Someone comes to tell her her father is there--
She does not want to see him,
She is afraid.

XII

The front door is open.
There is rain, leaves are whirling about.
A carriage with two horses
And a coachman high up, holding a long whip,
Stands waiting in front of the door.

The little girl is holding onto the banisters.
They take away her hands from the banisters
And lead her to the carriage in front of the door.
Someone gets in behind her,
The carriage door is shut,
The little girl draws herself to the far corner.
They drive away.
The little girl looks back out of the window.

XIII

The little girl is in a strange house
Where there are young men called uncles
Who talk to her and laugh.
A large lady sits by the table and knits and smiles,
In her basket are different coloured balls of wool,
Pretty colours, but not enough to make a pattern.
There is a curly soft little black dog
That hides under the table.
The uncles pull him out,
And he tries to hold onto the carpet with his claws.
The little girl laughs--
But at the sound she turns away
And goes up to her room and shuts the door.
Pretty soon the large lady comes to her
And takes her on her lap and rocks and sings.

* * * * *

XIV

The little girl has grown taller,
She is fair and sweet and ready for love,
But over her is a great fear
As she remembers her mother’s weeping.

THE END