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by Alice Duer Miller |

The White Cliffs

 I 
I have loved England, dearly and deeply, 
Since that first morning, shining and pure, 
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply 
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover, I was a traveller, the guest of a week; Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover', Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger, Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger, Only the English are really her own.
II It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.
— Lives there a novel-reader who has not At some time wept for those delightful girls, Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls, In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques, Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those Whose owners now abandon hats and hose? Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill Loving against her noble parent's will A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night Before his regiment goes off to fight; And see him the next morning, in the park, Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child, Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde But many novels of an earlier day— Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey, Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose, Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows What others.
Now, I thought, I was to see Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee, I cared for none and no one cared for me.
III A light blue carpet on the stair And tall young footmen everywhere, Tall young men with English faces Standing rigidly in their places, Rows and rows of them stiff and staid In powder and breeches and bright gold braid; And high above them on the wall Hung other English faces-all Part of the pattern of English life— General Sir Charles, and his pretty wife, Admirals, Lords-Lieutenant of Shires, Men who were served by these footmen's sires At their great parties-none of them knowing How soon or late they would all be going In plainer dress to a sterner strife- Another pattern of English life.
I went up the stairs between them all, Strange and frightened and shy and small, And as I entered the ballroom door, Saw something I had never seen before Except in portraits— a stout old guest With a broad blue ribbon across his breast— That blue as deep as the southern sea, Bluer than skies can ever be— The Countess of Salisbury—Edward the Third— No damn merit— the Duke— I heard My own voice saying; 'Upon my word, The garter!' and clapped my hands like a child.
Some one beside me turned and smiled, And looking down at me said: "I fancy, You're Bertie's Australian cousin Nancy.
He toId me to tell you that he'd be late At the Foreign Office and not to wait Supper for him, but to go with me, And try to behave as if I were he.
" I should have told him on the spot That I had no cousin—that I was not Australian Nancy—that my name Was Susan Dunne, and that I came From a small white town on a deep-cut bay In the smallest state in the U.
S.
A.
I meant to tell him, but changed my mind— I needed a friend, and he seemed kind; So I put my gloved hand into his glove, And we danced together— and fell in love.
IV Young and in love-how magical the phrase! How magical the fact! Who has not yearned Over young lovers when to their amaze They fall in love and find their love returned, And the lights brighten, and their eyes are clear To see God's image in their common clay.
Is it the music of the spheres they hear? Is it the prelude to that noble play, The drama of Joined Lives? Ah, they forget They cannot write their parts; the bell has rung, The curtain rises and the stage is set For tragedy-they were in love and young.
V We went to the Tower, We went to the Zoo, We saw every flower In the gardens at Kew.
We saw King Charles a-prancing On his long-tailed horse, And thought him more entrancing Than better kings, of course.
At a strange early hour, In St.
James's palace yard, We watched in a shower The changing of the guard.
And I said, what a pity, To have just a week to spend, When London is a city Whose beauties never end! VI When the sun shines on England, it atones For low-hung leaden skies, and rain and dim Moist fogs that paint the verdure on her stones And fill her gentle rivers to the brim.
When the sun shines on England, shafts of light Fall on far towers and hills and dark old trees, And hedge-bound meadows of a green as bright— As bright as is the blue of tropic seas.
When the sun shines, it is as if the face Of some proud man relaxed his haughty stare, And smiled upon us with a sudden grace, Flattering because its coming is so rare.
VII The English are frosty When you're no kith or kin Of theirs, but how they alter When once they take you in! The kindest, the truest, The best friends ever known, It's hard to remember How they froze you to a bone.
They showed me all London, Johnnie and his friends; They took me to the country For long week-ends; I never was so happy, I never had such fun, I stayed many weeks in England Instead of just one.
VIII John had one of those English faces That always were and will always be Found in the cream of English places Till England herself sink into the sea— A blond, bowed face with prominent eyes A little bit bluer than English skies.
You see it in ruffs and suits of armour, You see it in wigs of many styles, Soldier and sailor, judge and farmer— That face has governed the British Isles, By the power, for good or ill bestowed, Only on those who live by code.
Oh, that inflexible code of living, That seems so easy and unconstrained, The Englishman's code of taking and giving Rights and privileges pre-ordained, Based since English life began On the prime importance of being a man.
IX And what a voice he had-gentle, profound, Clear masculine!—I melted at the sound.
Oh, English voices, are there any words Those tones to tell, those cadences to teach! As song of thrushes is to other birds, So English voices are to other speech; Those pure round 'o's '—those lovely liquid 'l's' Ring in the ears like sound of Sabbath bells.
Yet I have loathed those voices when the sense Of what they said seemed to me insolence, As if the dominance of the whole nation Lay in that clear correct enunciation.
Many years later, I remember when One evening I overheard two men In Claridge's— white waistcoats, coats I know Were built in Bond Street or in Savile Row— So calm, so confident, so finely bred— Young gods in tails— and this is what they said: 'Not your first visit to the States?' 'Oh no, I'd been to Canada two years ago.
' Good God, I thought, have they not heard that we Were those queer colonists who would be free, Who took our desperate chance, and fought and won Under a colonist called Washington? One does not lose one's birthright, it appears.
I had been English then for many years.
X We went down to Cambridge, Cambridge in the spring.
In a brick court at twilight We heard the thrushes sing, And we went to evening service In the chapel of the King.
The library of Trinity, The quadrangle of Clare, John bought a pipe from Bacon, And I acquired there The Anecdotes of Painting From a handcart in the square.
The Playing fields at sunset Were vivid emerald green, The elms were tall and mighty, And many youths were seen, Carefree young gentlemen In the Spring of 'Fourteen.
XI London, just before dawn-immense and dark— Smell of wet earth and growth from the empty Park, Pall Mall vacant-Whitehall deserted.
Johnnie and I Strolling together, averse to saying good-bye— Strolling away from some party in silence profound, Only far off in Mayfair, piercing, the sound Of a footman's whistle—the rhythm of hoofs on wood, Further and further away.
.
.
.
And now we stood On a bridge, where a poet came to keep Vigil while all the city lay asleep— Westminster Bridge, and soon the sun would rise, And I should see it with my very eyes! Yes, now it came— a broad and awful glow Out of the violet mists of dawn.
'Ah, no', I said.
'Earth has not anything to show More fair— changed though it is— than this.
' A curious background surely for a kiss— Our first— Westminster Bridge at break of day— Settings by Wordsworth, as John used to say.
XII Why do we fall in love? I do believe That virtue is the magnet, the small vein Of ore, the spark, the torch that we receive At birth, and that we render back again.
That drop of godhood, like a precious stone, May shine the brightest in the tiniest flake.
Lavished on saints, to sinners not unknown; In harlot, nun, philanthropist, and rake, It shines for those who love; none else discern Evil from good; Men's fall did not bestow That threatened wisdom; blindly still we yearn After a virtue that we do not know, Until our thirst and longing rise above The barriers of reason—and we love.
XIII And still I did not see my life was changed, Utterly different—by this love estranged For ever and ever from my native land; That I was now of that unhappy band Who lose the old, and cannot gain the new However loving and however true To their new duties.
I could never be An English woman, there was that in me Puritan, stubborn that would not agree To English standards, though I did not see The truth, because I thought them, good or ill, So great a people—and I think so still.
But a day came when I was forced to face Facts.
I was taken down to see the place, The family place in Devon— and John's mother.
'Of course, you understand,' he said, 'my brother Will have the place.
' He smiled; he was so sure The world was better for primogeniture.
And yet he loved that place, as Englishmen Do love their native countryside, and when The day should be as it was sure to be— When this was home no more to him— when he Could go there only when his brother's wife Should ask him—to a room not his— his life Would shrink and lose its meaning.
How unjust, I thought.
Why do they feel it must Go to that idle, insolent eldest son? Well, in the end it went to neither one.
XIV A red brick manor-house in Devon, In a beechwood of old grey trees, Ivy climbing to the clustered chimneys, Rustling in the wet south breeze.
Gardens trampled down by Cromwell's army, Orchards of apple-trees and pears, Casements that had looked for the Armada, And a ghost on the stairs.
XV Johnnie's mother, the Lady Jean, Child of a penniless Scottish peer, Was handsome, worn high-coloured, lean, With eyes like Johnnie's—more blue and clear— Like bubbles of glass in her fine tanned face.
Quiet, she was, and so at ease, So perfectly sure of her rightful place In the world that she felt no need to please.
I did not like her—she made me feel Talkative, restless, unsure, as if I were a cross between parrot and eel.
I thought her blank and cold and stiff.
XVI And presently she said as they Sooner or later always say: 'You're an American, Miss Dunne? Really you do not speak like one.
' She seemed to think she'd said a thing Both courteous and flattering.
I answered though my wrist were weak With anger: 'Not at all, I speak— At least I've always thought this true— As educated people do In any country-even mine.
' 'Really?' I saw her head incline, I saw her ready to assert Americans are easily hurt.
XVII Strange to look back to the days So long ago When a friend was almost a foe, When you hurried to find a phrase For your easy light dispraise Of a spirit you did not know, A nature you could not plumb In the moment of meeting, Not guessing a day would come When your heart would ache to hear Other men's tongues repeating Those same light phrases that jest and jeer At a friend now grown so dear— so dear.
Strange to remember long ago When a friend was almost a foe.
XVIII I saw the house with its oaken stair, And the Tudor Rose on the newel post, The panelled upper gallery where They told me you heard the family ghost— 'A gentle unhappy ghost who sighs Outside one's door on the night one dies.
' 'Not,' Lady Jean explained, 'at all Like the ghost at my father's place, St.
Kitts, That clanks and screams in the great West Hall And frightens strangers out of their wits.
' I smiled politely, not thinking I Would hear one midnight that long sad sigh.
I saw the gardens, after our tea (Crumpets and marmalade, toast and cake) And Drake's Walk, leading down to the sea; Lady Jean was startled I'd heard of Drake, For the English always find it a mystery That Americans study English history.
I saw the picture of every son— Percy, the eldest, and John; and Bill In Chinese Customs, and the youngest one Peter, the sailor, at Osborne still; And the daughter, Enid, married, alas, To a civil servant in far Madras.
A little thing happened, just before We left— the evening papers came; John, flicking them over to find a score, Spoke for the first time a certain name— The name of a town in a distant land Etched on our hearts by a murderer's hand.
Mother and son exchanged a glance, A curious glance of strength and dread.
I thought: what matter to them if Franz Ferdinand dies? One of them said: This might be serious.
' 'Yes, you're right.
' The other answered, 'It really might.
' XIX Dear John: I'm going home.
I write to say Goodbye.
My boat-train leaves at break of day; It will be gone when this is in your hands.
I've had enough of lovely foreign lands, Sightseeing, strangers, holiday and play; I'm going home to those who think the way I think, and speak as I do.
Will you try To understand that this must be good-bye? We both rooted deeply in the soil Of our own countries.
But I could not spoil Our happy memories with the stress and strain Of parting; if we never meet again Be sure I shall remember till I die Your love, your laugh, your kindness.
But—goodbye.
Please do not hate me; give the devil his due, This is an act of courage.
Always, Sue.
XX The boat-train rattling Through the green country-side; A girl within it battling With her tears and pride.
The Southampton landing, Porters, neat and quick, And a young man standing, Leaning on his stick.
'Oh, John, John, you shouldn't Have come this long way.
.
.
'Did you really think I wouldn't Be here to make you stay?' I can't remember whether There was much stress and strain, But presently, together, We were travelling back again.
XXI The English love their country with a love Steady, and simple, wordless, dignified; I think it sets their patriotism above All others.
We Americans have pride— We glory in our country's short romance.
We boast of it and love it.
Frenchmen when The ultimate menace comes, will die for France Logically as they lived.
But Englishmen Will serve day after day, obey the law, And do dull tasks that keep a nation strong.
Once I remember in London how I saw Pale shabby people standing in a long Line in the twilight and the misty rain To pay their tax.
I then saw England plain.
XXII Johnnie and I were married.
England then Had been a week at war, and all the men Wore uniform, as English people can, Unconscious of it.
Percy, the best man, As thin as paper and as smart as paint, Bade us good-by with admirable restraint, Went from the church to catch his train to hell; And died-saving his batman from a shell.
XXIII We went down to Devon, In a warm summer rain, Knowing that our happiness Might never come again; I, not forgetting, 'Till death us do part,' Was outrageously happy With death in my heart.
Lovers in peacetime With fifty years to live, Have time to tease and quarrel And question what to give; But lovers in wartime Better understand The fullness of living, With death close at hand.
XXIV My father wrote me a letter— My father, scholarly, indolent, strong, Teaching Greek better Than high-school students repay— Teaching Greek in the winter, but all summer long Sailing a yawl in Narragansett Bay; Happier perhaps when I was away, Free of an anxious daughter, He could sail blue water Day after day, Beyond Brenton Reef Lightship, and Beavertail, Past Cuttyhunk to catch a gale Off the Cape, while he thought of Hellas and Troy, Chanting with joy Greek choruses— those lines that he said Must be written some day on a stone at his head: 'But who can know As the long years go That to live is happy, has found his heaven.
' My father, so far away— I thought of him, in Devon, Anchoring in a blind fog in Booth Bay.
XXV 'So, Susan, my dear,' the letter began, 'You've fallen in love with an Englishman.
Well, they're a manly, attractive lot, If you happen to like them, which I do not.
I am a Yankee through and through, And I don't like them, or the things they do.
Whenever it's come to a knock-down fight With us, they were wrong, and we right; If you don't believe me, cast your mind Back over history, what do you find? They certainly had no justification For that maddening plan to impose taxation Without any form of representation.
Your man may be all that a man should be, Only don't you bring him back to me Saying he can't get decent tea— He could have got his tea all right In Boston Harbour a certain night, When your great-great-grandmother— also a Sue— Shook enough tea from her husband's shoe To supply her house for a week or two.
The war of 1812 seems to me About as just as a war could be.
How could we help but come to grips With a nation that stopped and searched our ships, And took off our seamen for no other reason Except that they needed crews that season.
I can get angry still at the tale Of their letting the Alabama sail, And Palmerston being insolent To Lincoln and Seward over the Trent.
All very long ago, you'll say, But whenever I go up Boston-way, I drive through Concord—that neck of the wood, Where once the embattled farmers stood, And I think of Revere, and the old South Steeple, And I say, by heck, we're the only people Who licked them not only once, but twice.
Never forget it-that's my advice.
They have their points—they're honest and brave, Loyal and sure—as sure as the grave; They make other nations seem pale and flighty, But they do think England is god almighty, And you must remind them now and then That other countries breed other men.
From all of which you will think me rather Unjust.
I am.
Your devoted Father.
XXVI I read, and saw my home with sudden yearning— The small white wooden house, the grass-green door, My father's study with the fire burning, And books piled on the floor.
I saw the moon-faced clock that told the hours, The crimson Turkey carpet, worn and frayed, The heavy dishes—gold with birds and flowers— Fruits of the China trade.
I saw the jack o' lanterns, friendly, frightening, Shine from our gateposts every Hallow-e'en; I saw the oak tree, shattered once by lightning, Twisted, stripped clean.
I saw the Dioscuri— two black kittens, Stalking relentlessly an empty spool; I saw a little girl in scarlet mittens Trudging through snow to school.
XXVII John read the letter with his lovely smile.
'Your father has a vigorous English style, And what he says is true, upon my word; But what's this war of which I never heard? We didn't fight in 1812.
' 'Yes, John, That was the time when you burnt Washington.
' 'We couldn't have, my dear.
.
.
' 'I mean the city.
' 'We burnt it?' 'Yes, you did.
' 'What a pity! No wonder people hate us.
But, I say, I'll make your father like me yet, some day.
' XXVIII I settled down in Devon, When Johnnie went to France.
Such a tame ending To a great romance— Two lonely women With nothing much to do But get to know each other; She did and I did, too.
Mornings at the rectory Learning how to roll Bandages, and always Saving light and coal.
Oh, that house was bitter As winter closed in, In spite of heavy stockings And woollen next the skin.
I was cold and wretched, And never unaware Of John more cold and wretched In a trench out there.
XXIX All that long winter I wanted so much to complain, But my mother-in-Iaw, as far as I could see, Felt no such impulse, though she was always in pain, An, as the winter fogs grew thick, Took to walking with a stick, Heavily.
Those bubble-like eyes grew black Whenever she rose from a chair— Rose and fell back, Unable to bear The sure agonizing Torture of rising.
Her hands, those competent bony hands, Grew gnarled and old, But never ceased to obey the commands Of her will— only finding new hold Of bandage and needle and pen.
And not for the blinking Of an eye did she ever stop thinking Of the suffering of Englishmen And her two sons in the trenches.
Now and then I could forget for an instant in a book or a letter, But she never, never forgot— either one— Percy and John—though I knew she loved one better— Percy, the wastrel, the gambler, the eldest son.
I think I shall always remember Until I die Her face that day in December, When in a hospital ward together, she and I Were writing letters for wounded men and dying, Writing and crying Over their words, so silly and simple and loving, Suddenly, looking up, I saw the old Vicar moving Like fate down the hospital ward, until He stood still Beside her, where she sat at a bed.
'Dear friend, come home.
I have tragic news,' he said She looked straight at him without a spasm of fear, Her face not stern or masked— 'Is it Percy or John?' she asked.
'Percy.
' She dropped her eyes.
'I am needed here.
Surely you know I cannot go Until every letter is written.
The dead Must wait on the living,' she said.
'This is my work.
I must stay.
' And she did— the whole long day.
XXX Out of the dark, and dearth Of happiness on earth, Out of a world inured to death and pain; On a fair spring mom To me a son was born, And hope was born-the future lived again.
To me a son was born, The lonely hard forlorn Travail was, as the Bible tells, forgot.
How old, how commonplace To look upon the face Of your first-born, and glory in your lot.
To look upon his face And understand your place Among the unknown dead in churchyards lying, To see the reason why You lived and why you die— Even to find a certain grace in dying.
To know the reason why Buds blow and blossoms die, Why beauty fades, and genius is undone, And how unjustified Is any human pride In all creation— save in this common one.
XXXI Maternity is common, but not so It seemed to me.
Motherless, I did not know— I was all unprepared to feel this glow, Holy as a Madonna's, and as crude As any animal's beatitude— Crude as my own black cat's, who used to bring Her newest litter to me every spring, And say, with green eyes shining in the sun: 'Behold this miracle that I have done.
' And John came home on leave, and all was joy And thankfulness to me, because my boy Was not a baby only, but the heir— Heir to the Devon acres and a name As old as England.
Somehow I became Almost an English woman, almost at one With all they ever did— all they had done.
XXXII 'I want him called John after you, or if not that I'd rather—' 'But the eldest son is always called Percy, dear.
' 'I don't ask to call him Hiram, after my father—' 'But the eldest son is always called Percy, dear.
' 'But I hate the name Percy.
I like Richard or Ronald, Or Peter like your brother, or Ian or Noel or Donald—' 'But the eldest is always called Percy, dear.
' So the Vicar christened him Percy; and Lady Jean Gave to the child and me the empty place In hr heart.
Poor Lady, it was as if she had seen The world destroyed— the extinction of her race, Her country, her class, her name— and now she saw Them live again.
And I would hear her say: 'No.
I admire Americans; my daughter-in-law Was an American.
' Thus she would well repay The debt, and I was grateful— the English made Life hard for those who did not come to her aid.
XXXIII 'They must come in in the spring.
' 'Don't they care sixpence who's right?' 'What a ridiculous thing— Saying they're too proud to fight.
' 'Saying they're too proud to fight.
' 'Wilson's pro-German, I'm told.
' 'No, it's financial.
' 'Oh, quite, All that they care for is gold.
' 'All that they care for is gold.
' 'Seem to like writing a note.
' 'Yes, as a penman, he's bold.
' 'No.
It's the Irish vote.
' 'Oh, it's the Irish vote.
' 'What if the Germans some night Sink an American boat?' 'Darling, they're too proud to fight.
' XXXIV What could I do, but ache and long That my country, peaceful, rich, and strong, Should come and do battle for England's sake.
What could I do, but long and ache.
And my father's letters I hid away Lest some one should know the things he'd say.
'You ask me whether we're coming in— We are.
The English are clever as sin, Silently, subtly they inspire Most of youth with a holy fire To shed their blood for the British Empire We'll come in— we'll fight and die Humbly to help them, and by and by, England will do us in the eye.
They'll get colonies, gold and fame, And we'll get nothing at all but blame.
Blame for not having come before, Blame for not having sent them more Money and men and war supplies, Blame if we venture to criticise.
We're so damn simple— our skins so thin We'll get nothing whatever, but we'll come in.
' XXXV And at last—at last—like the dawn of a calm, fair day After a night of terror and storm, they came— My young light-hearted countrymen, tall and gay, Looking the world over in search of fun and fame, Marching through London to the beat of a boastful air, Seeing for the first time Piccadilly and Leicester Square, All the bands playing: 'Over There, Over There, Send the word, send the word to beware—' And as the American flag went fluttering by Englishmen uncovered, and I began to cry.
XXXVI 'We're here to end it, by jingo.
' 'We'll lick the Heinies okay.
' 'I can't get on to the lingo.
' 'Dumb-they don't get what we say.
' 'Call that stuff coffee? You oughter Know better.
Gee, take it away.
' 'Oh, for a drink of ice water! ' 'They think nut-sundae's a day.
' 'Say, is this chicken feed money?' 'Say, does it rain every day?' 'Say, Lady, isn't it funny Every one drives the wrong way?' XXXVII How beautiful upon the mountains, How beautiful upon the downs, How beautiful in the village post-office, On the pavements of towns— How beautiful in the huge print of newspapers, Beautiful while telegraph wires hum, While telephone bells wildly jingle, The news that peace has come— That peace has come at last—that all wars cease.
How beautiful upon the mountains are the footsteps Of the messengers of peace! XXXVIII In the depth of the night betwixt midnight and morning, In the darkness and silence forerunning the dawn, The throb of my heart was a drum-beat of warning, My ears were a-strain and my breath was undrawn.
In the depth of the night, when the old house was sleeping, I lying alone in a desolate bed, Heard soft on the staircase a slow footstep creeping— The ear of the living—the step of the dead.
In the depth of the night betwixt midnight and morning A step drawing near on the old oaken floor— On the stair— in the gallery— the ghost that gives warning Of death, by that heartbreaking sigh at my door.
XXXIX Bad news is not broken, By kind tactful word; The message is spoken Ere the word can be heard.
The eye and the bearing, The breath make it clear, And the heart is despairing Before the ears hear.
I do not remember The words that they said: 'Killed—Douai—November—' I knew John was dead.
All done and over— That day long ago— The while cliffs of Dover— Little did I know.
XL As I grow older, looking back, I see Not those the longest planted in the heart Are the most missed.
Some unions seem to be Too close for even death to tear apart.
Those who have lived together many years, And deeply learnt to read each other's mind, Vanities, tempers, virtues, hopes, and fears— One cannot go—nor is one left behind.
Alas, with John and me this was not so; I was defrauded even of the past.
Our days had been so pitifully few, Fight as I would, I found the dead go fast.
I had lost all—had lost not love alone, But the bright knowledge it had been my own.
XLI Oh, sad people, buy not your past too dearly, Live not in dreams of the past, for understand, If you remember too much, too long, too clearly, If you grasp memory with too heavy a hand, You will destroy memory in all its glory For the sake of the dreams of your head upon your bed.
You will be left with only the worn dead story You told yourself of the dead.
XLII Nanny brought up my son, as his father before him, Austere on questions of habits, manners, and food.
Nobly yielding a mother's right to adore him, Thinking that mothers never did sons much good.
A Scot from Lady Jean's own native passes, With a head as smooth and round as a silver bowl, A crooked nose, and eyes behind her glasses Grey and bright and wise—a great soul ! Ready to lay down her life for her charge, and ready To administer discipline without consulting me: 'Is that the way for you to answer my leddy? I think you'll get no sweet tonight to your tea.
' Bringing him up better than I could do it, Teaching him to be civil and manly and cool In the face of danger.
And then before I knew it The time came for him to go off to school.
Off to school to be free of women's teaching, Into a world of men— at seven years old; Into a world where a mother's hands vainly reaching Will never again caress and comfort and hold.
XLIII My father came over now and then To look at the boy and talk to me, Never staying long, For the urge was strong To get back to his yawl and the summer sea.
He came like a nomad passing by, Hands in his pockets, hat over one eye, Teasing every one great and small With a blank straight face and a Yankee drawl; Teasing the Vicar on Apostolic Succession And what the Thirty-Nine Articles really meant to convey, Teasing Nanny, though he did not Make much impression On that imperturbable Scot.
Teasing our local grandee, a noble peer, Who firmly believed the Ten Lost Tribes Of Israel had settled here— A theory my father had at his fingers' ends— Only one person was always safe from his jibes— My mother-in-law, for they were really friends.
XLIV Oh, to come home to your country After long years away, To see the tall shining towers Rise over the rim of the bay, To feel the west wind steadily blowing And the sunshine golden and hot, To speak to each man as an equal, Whether he is or not.
XLV Was this America—this my home? Prohibition and Teapot Dome— Speakeasies, night-clubs, illicit stills, Dark faces peering behind dark grills, Hold-ups, kidnappings, hootch or booze— Every one gambling—you just can't lose, Was this my country? Even the bay At home was altered, strange ships lay At anchor, deserted day after day, Old yachts in a rusty dim decay— Like ladies going the primrose way— At anchor, until when the moon was black, They sailed, and often never came back.
Even my father's Puritan drawl Told me shyly he'd sold his yawl For a fabulous price to the constable's son— My childhood's playmate, thought to be one Of a criminal gang, rum-runners all, Such clever fellows with so much money— Even the constable found it funny, Until one morning his son was found, Floating dead in Long Island Sound.
Was this my country? It seemed like heaven To get back, dull and secure, to Devon, Loyally hiding from Lady Jean And my English friends the horrors I'd seen.
XLVI That year she died, my nearest, dearest friend; Lady Jean died, heroic to the end.
The family stood about her grave, but none Mourned her as I did.
After, one by one, They slipped away—Peter and Bill—my son Went back to school.
I hardly was aware Of Percy's lovely widow, sitting there In the old room, in Lady Jean's own chair.
An English beauty glacially fair Was Percy's widow Rosamund, her hair Was silver gilt, and smooth as silk, and fine, Her eyes, sea-green, slanted away from mine, From any one's, as if to meet the gaze Of others was too intimate a phase For one as cool and beautiful as she.
We were not friends or foes.
She seemed to be Always a little irked— fretted to find That other women lived among mankind.
Now for the first time after years of meeting, Never exchanging more than formal greeting, She spoke to me— that sharp determined way People will speak when they have things to say.
XLVII ROSAMUND: Susan, go home with your offspring.
Fly.
Live in America.
SUSAN: Rosamund, why? ROSAMUND: Why, my dear girl, haven't you seen What English country life can mean With too small an income to keep the place Going? Already I think I trace A change in you, you no longer care So much how you look or what you wear.
That coat and skirt you have on, you know You wouldn't have worn them ten years ago.
Those thick warm stockings— they make me sad, Your ankles were ankles to drive men mad.
Look at your hair— you need a wave.
Get out— go home— be hard— be brave, Or else, believe me, you'll be a slave.
There's something in you— dutiful— meek— You'll be saving your pin-money every week To mend the roof.
Well, let it leak.
Why should you care? SUSAN: But I do care, John loved this place and my boy's the heir.
ROSAMUND: The heir to what? To a tiresome life Drinking tea with the vicar's wife, Opening bazaars, and taking the chair At meetings for causes that you don't care Sixpence about and never will; Breaking your heart over every bill.
I've been in the States, where everyone, Even the poor, have a little fun.
Don't condemn your son to be A penniless country squire.
He Would be happier driving a tram over there Than mouldering his life away as heir.
SUSAN: Rosamund dear, this may all be true.
I'm an American through and through.
I don't see things as the English do, But it's clearly my duty, it seems to me, To bring up John's son, like him, to be A country squire—poor alas, But true to that English upper class That does not change and does not pass.
ROSAMUND: Nonsense; it's come to an absolute stop.
Twenty years since we sat on top Of the world, amusing ourselves and sneering At other manners and customs, jeering At other nations, living in clover— Not any more.
That's done and over.
No one nowadays cares a button For the upper classes— they're dead as mutton.
Go home.
SUSAN: I notice that you don't go.
ROSAMUND: My dear, that shows how little you know.
I'm escaping the fate of my peers, Marrying one of the profiteers, Who hasn't an 'aitch' where an 'aitch' should be, But millions and millions to spend on me.
Not much fun— but there wasn't any Other way out.
I haven't a penny.
But with you it's different.
You can go away, And oh, what a fool you'd be to stay.
XLVIII Rabbits in the park, Scuttling as we pass, Little white tails Against the green grass.
'Next time, Mother, I must really bring a gun, I know you don't like shooting, But—!' John's own son, That blond bowed face, Those clear steady eyes, Hard to be certain That the dead don't rise.
Jogging on his pony Through the autumn day, 'Bad year for fruit, Mother, But good salt hay.
' Bowling for the village As his father had before; Coming home at evening To read the cricket score, Back to the old house Where all his race belong, Tired and contented— Rosamund was wrong.
XLIX If some immortal strangers walked our land And heard of death, how could they understand That we—doomed creatures—draw our meted breath Light-heartedly—all unconcerned with death.
So in these years between the wars did men From happier continents look on us when They brought us sympathy, and saw us stand Like the proverbial ostrich-head in sand— While youth passed resolutions not to fight, And statesmen muttered everything was right— Germany, a kindly, much ill-treated nation— Russia was working out her own salvation Within her borders.
As for Spain, ah, Spain Would buy from England when peace came again! I listened and believed— believed through sheer Terror.
I could not look whither my fear Pointed— that agony that I had known.
I closed my eyes, and was not alone.
Later than many, earlier than some, I knew the die was cast— that war must come; That war must come.
Night after night I lay Steeling a broken heart to face the day When he, my son— would tread the very same Path that his father trod.
When the day came I was not steeled— not ready.
Foolish, wild Words issued from my lips— 'My child, my child, Why should you die for England too?' He smiled: 'Is she not worth it, if I must?' he said.
John would have answered yes— but John was dead.
L Is she worth dying for? My love, my one And only love had died, and now his son Asks me, his alien mother, to assay The worth of England to mankind today— This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea— Ah, no, not that—not Shakespeare—I must be A sterner critic.
I must weigh the ill Against the good, must strike the balance, till I know the answer— true for me alone— What is she worth— this country— not my own? I thought of my father's deep traditional wrath Against England— the redcoat bully— the ancient foe— That second reaping of hate, that aftermath Of a ruler's folly and ignorance long ago— Long, long ago— yet who can honestly say England is utterly changed— not I— not I.
Arrogance, ignorance, folly are here today, And for these my son must die? I thought of these years, these last dark terrible years When the leaders of England bade the English believe Lies at the price of peace, lies and fears, Lies that corrupt, and fears that sap and deceive.
I though of the bars dividing man from man, Invisible bars that the humble may not pass, And how no pride is uglier, crueller than The pride unchecked of class.
Oh, those invisible bars of manners and speech, Ways that the proud man will not teach The humble lest they too reach Those splendid heights where a little band Have always stood and will always stand Ruling the fate of this small green land, Rulers of England—for them must I Send out my only son to die? LI And then, and then, I thought of Elizabeth stepping down Over the stones of Plymouth town To welcome her sailors, common men, She herself, as she used to say, Being' mere English' as much as they— Seafaring men who sailed away From rocky inlet and wooded bay, Free men, undisciplined, uncontrolled, Some of them pirates and all of them bold, Feeling their fate was England's fate, Coming to save it a little late, Much too late for the easy way, Much too late, and yet never quite Too late to win in that last worst fight.
And I thought of Hampden and men like him, St John and Eliot, Cromwell and Pym, Standing firm through the dreadful years, When the chasm was opening, widening, Between the Commons and the King; I thought of the Commons in tears— in tears, When Black Rod knocked at Parliament's door, And they saw Rebellion straight before— Weeping, and yet as hard as stone, Knowing what the English have always known Since then— and perhaps have known alone— Something that none can teach or tell— The moment when God's voice says; 'Rebel.
' Not to rise up in sudden gust Of passion— not, though the cause be just; Not to submit so long that hate, Lava torrents break out and spill Over the land in a fiery spate; Not to submit for ever, until The will of the country is one man's will, And every soul in the whole land shrinks From thinking—except as his neighbour thinks.
Men who have governed England know That dreadful line that they may not pass And live.
Elizabeth long ago Honoured and loved, and bold as brass, Daring and subtle, arrogant, clever, English, too, to her stiff backbone, Somewhat a bully, like her own Father— yet even Elizabeth never Dared to oppose the sullen might Of the English, standing upon a right.
LII And were they not English, our forefathers, never more English than when they shook the dust of her sod From their feet for ever, angrily seeking a shore Where in his own way a man might worship his God.
Never more English than when they dared to be Rebels against her-that stem intractable sense Of that which no man can stomach and still be free, Writing: 'When in the course of human events.
.
.
' Writing it out so all the world could see Whence come the powers of all just governments.
The tree of Liberty grew and changed and spread, But the seed was English.
I am American bred, I have seen much to hate here— much to forgive, But in a world where England is finished and dead, I do not wish to live.


by Charles Webb |

Suitcase

 Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.
There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct "U.
S.
Trunk Company.
" The frame is wood— big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather, its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful.
Much too expensive," she told Dad, and kissed him.
The lining is pink, quilted acetate.
Three sides have pouches with elastic tops— stretched out now, like old underwear.
I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.
(I could have choked the baggage handler.
) The handle—blue plastic doorknocker— is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta, U.
S.
Air (which crunched the hole, flying the suitcase back from Houston).
I'd gone there to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood relics before my sister gave them to Good Will.
"Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full.
"I won't need luggage, the next place I go.
"


by Charles Webb |

The Death Of Santa Claus

 He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing.
He can't breathe, and the beautiful white world he loves goes black, and he drops on his jelly belly in the snow and Mrs.
Claus tears out of the toy factory wailing, and the elves wring their little hands, and Rudolph's nose blinks like a sad ambulance light, and in a tract house in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, telling my mom that stupid kids at school say Santa's a big fake, and she sits with me on our purple-flowered couch, and takes my hand, tears in her throat, the terrible news rising in her eyes.


by Sharon Olds |

The Clasp

 She was four, he was one, it was raining, we had colds,
we had been in the apartment two weeks straight,
I grabbed her to keep her from shoving him over on his
face, again, and when I had her wrist
in my grasp I compressed it, fiercely, for a couple
of seconds, to make an impression on her,
to hurt her, our beloved firstborn, I even almost
savored the stinging sensation of the squeezing,
the expression, into her, of my anger,
"Never, never, again," the righteous
chant accompanying the clasp.
It happened very fast-grab, crush, crush, crush, release-and at the first extra force, she swung her head, as if checking who this was, and looked at me, and saw me-yes, this was her mom, her mom was doing this.
Her dark, deeply open eyes took me in, she knew me, in the shock of the moment she learned me.
This was her mother, one of the two whom she most loved, the two who loved her most, near the source of love was this.


by Denise Duhamel |

Snow Whites Acne

 At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice,
or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off
when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before.
But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek.
Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse.
Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence.
If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked.
Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion.
Soon came the greasy hair.
The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant.
Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks.
She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself.
She liked sappy music and romance novels.
She liked pies and cake instead of fruit.
The Queen remained the fairest in the land.
It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom.
She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns.
Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping.
" Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn.
Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes.
And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.


by Richard Brautigan |

Part 4 of Trout Fishing in America

 THE AUTOPSY OF

 TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA



This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout

Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in

Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores

of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot

Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America: "The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that had died suddenly of asphyxiation.
The bony cranial vault was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that the cranium was formed by one solitary bone.
.
.
.
The meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men was not sufficient.
.
.
.
The cerebrum with cerebellum weighed about six medical pounds.
The kidneys were very large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively small.
" On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the evening of June 29, 1824.
Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the Big Wood River.
THE MESSAGE Last night a blue thing, the smoke itself, from our campfire drifted down the valley, entering into the sound of the bell- mare until the blue thing and the bell could not be separated, no matter how hard you tried.
There was no crowbar big enough to do the job.
Yesterday afternoon we drove down the road from Wells Summit, then we ran into the sheep.
They also were being moved on the road.
A shepherd walked in front of the car, a leafy branch in his hand, sweeping the sheep aside.
He looked like a young, Skinny Adolf Hitler, but friendly.
I guess there were a thousand sheep on the road.
It was hot and dusty and noisy and took what seemed like a long time .
At the end of the sheep was a covered wagon being pulled by two horses.
There was a third horse, the bellmare, tied on the back of the wagon.
The white canvas rippled in the wind and the wagon had no driver.
The seat was empty.
Finally the Adolf Hitler, but friendly, shepherd got the last of them out of the way.
He smiled and we waved and said thank you.
We were looking for a good place to camp.
We drove down the road, following the Little Smoky about five miles and didn't see a place that we liked, so we decided to turn around and go back to a place we had seen just a ways up Carrie Creek.
"I hope those God-damn Sheep aren't on the road, " I said.
We drove back to where we had seen them on the road and, of course they were gone, but as we drove on up the road, we just kept fellowing sheep shit.
It was ahead of us for the next mile.
I kept looking down on the meadow by the Little Smokey, hoping to see the sheep down there, but there wasn't a sheep in sight.
only the shit in front of us on the road.
As if it were a game invented by the spincter muscle, we knew what the score was.
shaking our heads side to side, waiting.
Then we went around a bend and the sheep burst like a roman candle all over the road and again a thousand sheep and the shepherd in front of us, wondering what the fuck.
The same thing was in our minds.
There was some beer in the back seat.
It wasn't exactly cold, but it wasn't warm either.
I tell you I was really embarrassed.
I took a bottle of beer and got out of the car.
I walked up to the shepherd who looked like Adolf Hitler, but friendly.
"I'm sorry, " I said.
"It's the sheep, " he said.
(0 sweet and distant blossoms of Munich and Berlin!) "Sometimes they are a trouble but it all works out.
" "Would you like a bottle of beer?" I said.
"I'm sorry to put you through this again.
" "Thank you, " he said, shrugging his shoulders.
He took the beer over and put it on the empty seat of the wagon.
That's how it looked.
After a long time, we were free of the sheep.
They were like a net dragged finally away from the car.
We drove up to the place on Carrie Creek and pitched the tent and took our goods out of the car and piled them in the tent.
Then we drove up the creek a ways, above the place where there were beaver darns and the trout stared back at us like fallen leaves.
We filled the back of the car with wood for the fire and I caught a mess of those leaves for dinner.
They were small and dark and cold.
The autumn was good to us.
When we got back to our camp, I saw the shepherd's wagon down the road a ways and on the meadow I heard the bellmare and the very distant sound of the sheep.
It was the final circle with the Adolf Hitler, but friendly, shepherd as the diameter.
He was camping down there for the night.
So in the dusk, the blue smoke from our campfire went down and got in there with the bellmare.
The sheep lulled themselves into senseless sleep, one following another like the banners of a lost army.
I have here a very important message that just arrived a few moments ago.
It says "Stalingrad.
" TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA TERRORISTS Long live our friend the revolver ! Long live our friend the machine-gun! --Israeli terrorist chant One April morning in the sixth grade, we became, first by accident and then by premeditation, trout fishing in America terrorists.
It came about this way: we were a strange bunch of kids.
We were always being called in before the principal for daring and mischievous deeds.
The principal was a young man and a genius in the way he handled us.
One April morning we were standing around in the play yard, acting as if it were a huge open-air poolhall with the first-graders coming and going like poolballs.
We were all bored with the prospect of another day's school, studying Cuba.
One of us had a piece of white chalk and as a first-grader went walking by, the one of us absentmindedly wrote "Trout fishing in America" on the back of the first-grader.
The first-grader strained around, trying to read what was written on his back, but he couldn't see what it was, so he shrugged his shoulders and went off to play on the swings.
We watched the first-grader walk away with "Trout fishing in America" written on his back.
It looked good and seemed quite natural and pleasing to the eye that a first- grader should have "Trout fishing in America" written in chalk on his back.
The next time I saw a first-grader, I borrowed my friend's piece of chalk and said, "First-grader, you're wanted over here.
" The first-grader came over to me and I said, "Turn around.
" The first-grader turned around and I wrote "Trout fishing in America" on his back.
It looked even better on the second first-grader.
We couldn't help but admire it.
"Trout fishing in America.
" It certianly did add something to the first- graders.
It compleated them and gave them a kind of class "It reallt looks good, doesn't it?" "Yeah.
" "There are a lot more first-graders over there by the monkey- bars.
" "Yeah.
" "Lets get some more chalk.
" "Sure.
" We all got hold of chalk and later in the day, by the end of lunch period, almost all of the first-graders had "Trout fishing in America" written on their backs, girls included.
Complaints began arriving at the principal's office from the first-grade teachers.
One of the complaints was in the form of a little girl.
"Miss Robins sent me, " she said to the principal.
"She told me to have you look at this.
" "Look at what?" the principal said, staring at the empty child.
"At my back, " she said.
The little girl turned around and the principal read aloud, "Trout fishing in America.
" "Who did this?" the principal said.
That gang of sixth-graders," she said.
"The bad ones.
They've done it to all us first-graders.
We all look like this.
"Trout fishing in America.
' What does it mean? I just got this sweater new from my grandma.
" "Huh.
'Trout fishing in America, " the principal said.
"Tell Miss Robins I'11 be down to see her in a little while," and excused the girl and a short time later we terrorists were summoned up from the lower world.
We reluctantly stamped into the principal's office, fidgeting and pawing our feet and looking out the windows and yawning and one of us suddenly got an insane blink going and putting our hands into our pockets and looking away and then back again and looking up at the light fixture on the ceiling, how much it looked like a boiled potato, and down again and at the picture of the principal's mother on the wall.
She had been a star in the silent pictures and was tied to a railroad track.
"Does 'Trout fishing in America' seem at all familiar to you boys?" the principal said.
"I wonder if perhaps you've seen it written down anywhere today in your travels? 'Trout fishing in America.
' Think hard about it for a minute.
" We all thought hard about it.
There was a silence in the room, a silence that we all knew intimately, having been at the principal's office quite a few times in the past.
"Let me see if I can help you," the principal said.
"Perhaps you saw 'Trout fishing in America' written in chalk on the backs of the first-graders.
I wonder how it got there.
" We couldn't help but smile nervously.
"I just came back from Miss Robin's first-grade class," the principal said.
"I asked all those who had 'Trout fishing in America' written on their backs to hold up their hands,and all the children in the class held up their hands, except one and he had spent his whole lunch period hiding in the lavatory.
What do you boys make of it .
.
.
? This 'Trout fishing in America' business?" We didn't say anything.
The one of us still had his mad blink going.
I am certain that it was his guilty blink that always gave us away.
We should have gotten rid of him at the beginning of the sixth grade.
"You're all guilty, aren't you?" he said.
"Is there one of you who isn't guilty? If there is, speak up.
Now.
" We were all silent except for blink, blink, blink, blink, blink.
Suddenly I could hear his God-damn eye blinking.
It was very much like the sound of an insect laying the 1, 000, 000th egg of our disaster.
"The whole bunch of you did it.
Why? .
.
.
Why 'Trout fishing in America' on the backs of the first-graders?" And then the principal went into his famous E=MC2 sixth- grade gimmick, the thing he always used in dealing with us.
"Now wouldn't it look funny, " he said.
"If I asked all your teachers to come in here, and then I told the teachers all to turn around, and then I took a piece of chalk and wrote 'Trout fishing in America' on their backs?" We all giggled nervously and blushed faintly.
"Would you like to see your teachers walking around all day with 'Trout fishing in America' written on their backs, trying to teach you about Cuba? That would look silly, wouldn't it? You wouldn't like to see that would you? That wouldn't do at all, would it?" "No," we said like a Greek chorus some of us saying it with our voices and some of us by nodding our heads, and then there was the blink, blink, blink.
"That's what I thought, " he said.
"The first-graders look up to you and admire you like the teachers look up to me and admire me, It just won't do to write 'Trout fishing in America' on their backs.
Are we agreed, gentlemen?" We were agreed.
I tell you it worked every God-damn time.
Of course it had to work.
"All right, " he said.
"I'll consider trout fishing in Ameri- ca to have come to an end.
Agreed?" "Agreed.
" "Agreed ?" "Agreed.
" "Blink, blink.
" But it wasn't completely over, for it took a while to get trout fishing in America off the clothes of the first-graders.
A fair percentage of trout fishing in America was gone the next day.
The mothers did this by simply putting clean clothes on their children, but there were a lot of kids whose mothers just tried to wipe it off and then sent them back to school the next day with the same clothes on, but you could still see "Trout fishing in America" faintly outlined on their backs.
But after a few more days trout fishing in America disappeared altogether as it was destined to from its very beginning, and a kind of autumn fell over the first grade.
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA WITH THE FBI Dear Trout Fishing in America, last week walking along lower market on the way to work saw the pictures of the FBI's TEN MOST WANTED MEN in the window of a store.
the dodger under one of the pictures was folded under at both sides and you couldn't read all of it.
the picture showed a nice, clean-cut-looking guy with freckles and curly (red?) hair WANTED FOR: RICHARD LAWRENCE MARQUETTE Aliases: Richard Lawrence Marquette, Richard Lourence Marquette Description: 26, born Dec.
12, 1934, Portland, Oregon 170 to 180 pounds muscular light brown, cut short blue Complexion: ruddy Race: white Nationality: American Occupations: auto body w recapper, s survey rod arks: 6" hernia scar; tattoo "Mom" in wreath on ight forearm ull upper denture, may also have lower denture.
Reportedly frequents s, and is an avid trout fisherman.
(this is how the dodger looked cut off on both sides and you couldn't make out any more, even what he was wanted for.
) Your old buddy, Pard Dear Pard, Your letter explains why I saw two FBI agents watching a trout stream last week.
They watched a path that came down through the trees and then circled a large black stump and led to a deep pool.
Trout were rising in the pool.
The FBI agents watched the path, the trees, the black stump, the pool and the trout as if they were all holes punched in a card that had just come out of a computer.
The afternoon sun kept changing everything as it moved across the sky, and the FBI agents kept changing with the sun.
It appears to be part of their training.
Your friend, Trout Fishing in America


by Frank Bidart |

Herbert White

 "When I hit her on the head, it was good,

and then I did it to her a couple of times,--
but it was funny,--afterwards,
it was as if somebody else did it .
.
.
Everything flat, without sharpness, richness or line.
Still, I liked to drive past the woods where she lay, tell the old lady and the kids I had to take a piss, hop out and do it to her .
.
.
The whole buggy of them waiting for me made me feel good; but still, just like I knew all along, she didn't move.
When the body got too discomposed, I'd just jack off, letting it fall on her .
.
.
--It sounds crazy, but I tell you sometimes it was beautiful--; I don't know how to say it, but for a miute, everything was possible--; and then, then,-- well, like I said, she didn't move: and I saw, under me, a little girl was just lying there in the mud: and I knew I couldn't have done that,-- somebody else had to have done that,-- standing above her there, in those ordinary, shitty leaves .
.
.
--One time, I went to see Dad in a motel where he was staying with a woman; but she was gone; you could smell the wine in the air; and he started, real embarrassing, to cry .
.
.
He was still a little drunk, and asked me to forgive him for all he hasn't done--; but, What the shit? Who would have wanted to stay with Mom? with bastards not even his own kids? I got in the truck, and started to drive and saw a little girl-- who I picked up, hit on the head, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, then buried, in the garden of the motel .
.
.
--You see, ever since I was a kid I wanted to feel things make sense: I remember looking out the window of my room back home,-- and being almost suffocated by the asphalt; and grass; and trees; and glass; just there, just there, doing nothing! not saying anything! filling me up-- but also being a wall; dead, and stopping me; --how I wanted to see beneath it, cut beneath it, and make it somehow, come alive .
.
.
The salt of the earth; Mom once said, 'Man's spunk is the salt of the earth .
.
.
' --That night, at that Twenty-nine Palms Motel I had passed a million times on the road, everything fit together; was alright; it seemed like everything had to be there, like I had spent years trying, and at last finally finished drawing this huge circle .
.
.
--But then, suddenly I knew somebody else did it, some bastard had hurt a little girl--; the motel I could see again, it had been itself all the time, a lousy pile of bricks, plaster, that didn't seem to have to be there,--but was, just by chance .
.
.
--Once, on the farm, when I was a kid, I was screwing a goat; and the rope around his neck when he tried to get away pulled tight;--and just when I came, he died .
.
.
I came back the next day; jacked off over his body; but it didn't do any good .
.
.
Mom once said: 'Man's spunk is the salt of the earth, and grows kids.
' I tried so hard to come; more pain than anything else; but didn't do any good .
.
.
--About six months ago, I heard Dad remarried, so I drove over to Connecticut to see him and see if he was happy.
She was twenty-five years younger than him: she had lots of little kids, and I don't know why, I felt shaky .
.
.
I stopped in front of the address; and snuck up to the window to look in .
.
.
--There he was, a kid six months old on his lap, laughing and bouncing the kid, happy in his old age to play the papa after years of sleeping around,-- it twisted me up .
.
.
To think that what he wouldn't give me, he wanted to give them .
.
.
I could have killed the bastard .
.
.
--Naturally, I just got right back in the car, and believe me, was determined, determined, to head straight for home .
.
.
but the more I drove, I kept thinking about getting a girl, and the more I thought I shouldn't do it, the more I had to-- I saw her coming out of the movies, saw she was alone, and kept circling the blocks as she walked along them, saying, 'You're going to leave her alone.
' 'You're going to leave her alone.
' --The woods were scary! As the seasons changed, and you saw more and more of the skull show through, the nights became clearer, and the buds,--erect, like nipples .
.
.
--But then, one night, nothing worked .
.
.
Nothing in the sky would blur like I wanted it to; and I couldn't, couldn't, get it to seem to me that somebody else did it .
.
.
I tried, and tried, but there was just me there, and her, and the sharp trees saying, "That's you standing there.
You're .
.
.
just you.
' I hope I fry.
--Hell came when I saw MYSELF .
.
.
and couldn't stand what I see .
.
.
"


by Judith Viorst | by Judith Viorst. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23215/Some_Things_Dont_Make_Any_Sense_at_All' st_title='Some Things Don't Make Any Sense at All'>

Some Things Don't Make Any Sense at All

My mom says I'm her sugarplum.
My mom says I'm her lamb.
My mom says I'm completely perfect
Just the way I am.
My mom says I'm a super-special wonderful terrific little guy.
My mom just had another baby.
Why?


by Judith Viorst |

Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About

My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it.
"
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.
)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.

The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.


by Rudyard Kipling |

The Native-Born

 We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! --
 We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother,
 (But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,
 And the Cross swings low for the mom,
Last toast, and of Obligation,
 A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
 But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
 To call old England "home";
We read of the English skylark,
 Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
 As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends --
 Their tales of wrong and dearth --
Our fathers held by purchase,
 But we by the right of birth;
Our heart's where they rocked our cradle,
 Our love where we spent our toil,
And our faith and our hope and our honour
 We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your glasses --
 I charge you drink with me
To the men of the Four New Nations,
 And the Islands of the Sea --
To the last least lump of coral
 That none may stand outside,
And our own good pride shall teach us
 To praise our comrade's pride,

To the hush of the breathless morning
 On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
To the haze of the burned back-ranges
 And the dust of the shoeless hoofs --
To the risk of a death by drowning,
 To the risk of a death by drouth --
To the men ef a million acres,
 To the Sons of the Golden South!

To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
 And the life we live and know,
Let a felow sing o' the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
 With the weight o a single blow!

To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
 To the sheep on a thousand hills,
To the sun that never blisters,
 To the rain that never chills --
To the land of the waiting springtime,
 To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
 And the children nine and ten!

And the children nine and ten (Stand up!),
 And the life we live and know,
Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
 With the weight of a two-fold blow!

To the far-flung, fenceless prairie
 Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
To our neighbours' barn in the offing
 And the line of the new-cut rail;
To the plough in her league-long furrow
 With the grey Lake' gulls behind --
To the weight of a half-year's winter
 And the warm wet western wind!

To the home of the floods and thunder,
 To her pale dry healing blue --
To the lift of the great Cape combers,
 And the smell of the baked Karroo.
To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head -- To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled! To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung -- To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man's tongue.
To the cool of our deep verandah -- To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane! To the hearth of Our People's People -- To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altar Where The Abbey makes us We.
To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine -- To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line! We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! We've drunk to our mothers'land; We've drunk to our English brother (And we hope he'll understand).
We've drunk as much as we're able, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast-and your foot on the table! -- A health to the Native-born! A health to the Nativeborn (Stand up!), We're six white men arow, All bound to sing o' the Little things we care about, All bound to fight for the Little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow! By the might of our Cable-tow (Take hands!), From the Orkneys to the Horn All round the world (and a Little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a Little strap to buckle it).
A health to the Native-born!