Written by
Robert Frost |
A lantern light from deeper in the barn
Shone on a man and woman in the door
And threw their lurching shadows on a house
Near by, all dark in every glossy window.
A horse's hoof pawed once the hollow floor,
And the back of the gig they stood beside
Moved in a little.
The man grasped a wheel,
The woman spoke out sharply, "Whoa, stand still!"
"I saw it just as plain as a white plate,"
She said, "as the light on the dashboard ran
Along the bushes at the roadside--a man's face.
You must have seen it too.
"
"I didn't see it.
Are you sure----"
"Yes, I'm sure!"
"--it was a face?"
"Joel, I'll have to look.
I can't go in,
I can't, and leave a thing like that unsettled.
Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.
I always have felt strange when we came home
To the dark house after so long an absence,
And the key rattled loudly into place
Seemed to warn someone to be getting out
At one door as we entered at another.
What if I'm right, and someone all the time--
Don't hold my arm!"
"I say it's someone passing.
"
"You speak as if this were a travelled road.
You forget where we are.
What is beyond
That he'd be going to or coming from
At such an hour of night, and on foot too.
What was he standing still for in the bushes?"
"It's not so very late--it's only dark.
There's more in it than you're inclined to say.
Did he look like----?"
"He looked like anyone.
I'll never rest to-night unless I know.
Give me the lantern.
"
"You don't want the lantern.
"
She pushed past him and got it for herself.
"You're not to come," she said.
"This is my business.
If the time's come to face it, I'm the one
To put it the right way.
He'd never dare--
Listen! He kicked a stone.
Hear that, hear that!
He's coming towards us.
Joel, go in--please.
Hark!--I don't hear him now.
But please go in.
"
"In the first place you can't make me believe it's----"
"It is--or someone else he's sent to watch.
And now's the time to have it out with him
While we know definitely where he is.
Let him get off and he'll be everywhere
Around us, looking out of trees and bushes
Till I sha'n't dare to set a foot outdoors.
And I can't stand it.
Joel, let me go!"
"But it's nonsense to think he'd care enough.
"
"You mean you couldn't understand his caring.
Oh, but you see he hadn't had enough--
Joel, I won't--I won't--I promise you.
We mustn't say hard things.
You mustn't either.
"
"I'll be the one, if anybody goes!
But you give him the advantage with this light.
What couldn't he do to us standing here!
And if to see was what he wanted, why
He has seen all there was to see and gone.
"
He appeared to forget to keep his hold,
But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.
"What do you want?" she cried to all the dark.
She stretched up tall to overlook the light
That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.
"There's no one; so you're wrong," he said.
"There is.
--
What do you want?" she cried, and then herself
Was startled when an answer really came.
"Nothing.
" It came from well along the road.
She reached a hand to Joel for support:
The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.
"What are you doing round this house at night?"
"Nothing.
" A pause: there seemed no more to say.
And then the voice again: "You seem afraid.
I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.
I'll just come forward in the lantern light
And let you see.
"
"Yes, do.
--Joel, go back!"
She stood her ground against the noisy steps
That came on, but her body rocked a little.
"You see," the voice said.
"Oh.
" She looked and looked.
"You don't see--I've a child here by the hand.
"
"What's a child doing at this time of night----?"
"Out walking.
Every child should have the memory
Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.
What, son?"
"Then I should think you'd try to find
Somewhere to walk----"
"The highway as it happens--
We're stopping for the fortnight down at Dean's.
"
"But if that's all--Joel--you realize--
You won't think anything.
You understand?
You understand that we have to be careful.
This is a very, very lonely place.
Joel!" She spoke as if she couldn't turn.
The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,
It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.
|
Written by
James Whitcomb Riley |
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.
--
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do.
--
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man.
--
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' The Raggedy Man one time say he
Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree,
An' et 'em -- all ist roast' an' hot! --
An' it's so, too! -- 'cause a corn-crib got
Afire one time an' all burn' down
On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town --
On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes -- an' the hired han'
'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! --
Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' won't run off -- 'less you want him to!
I drived him wunst way down our lane
An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain,
An' ist rared up an' squealed and run
Purt' nigh away! -- an' it's all in fun!
Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can .
.
.
Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,
An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate,
He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said,
"Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!"
An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run
When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun
An' go "Bang! -- Bang!" nen 'tend he stan'
An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man!
He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on
We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone
To git more money, an' lef' us there --
And Robbers is ist thick ever'where;
An' nen -- ef we all won't cry, fer shore --
The Raggedy Man he'll come and "'splore
The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold" --
An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold
An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! -- An'
Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! --
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his --
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? --
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! --
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
A bullet through his heart at dawn.
On
the table a letter signed
with a woman's name.
A wind that goes howling round the
house,
and weeping as in shame.
Cold November dawn peeping through
the windows,
cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,
creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.
A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes.
Wind
howling
through bent branches.
A wind which never dies down.
Howling,
wailing.
The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight.
The lids are
frozen open
and the eyes glitter.
The thudding of a pick on hard earth.
A spade grinding
and crunching.
Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;
tortured twinings, tossings, creakings.
Wind flinging
branches apart,
drawing them together, whispering and whining among them.
A
waning,
lobsided moon cutting through black clouds.
A stream
of pebbles and earth
and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed
again
into the black earth.
Tramping of feet.
Men
and horses.
Squeaking of wheels.
"Whoa! Ready, Jim?"
"All ready.
"
Something falls, settles, is still.
Suicides
have no coffin.
"Give us the stake, Jim.
Now.
"
Pound! Pound!
"He'll never walk.
Nailed to the ground.
"
An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the
roots will hold him.
He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay.
Overhead
the branches sway,
and writhe, and twist in the wind.
He'll never walk with
a bullet
in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.
Six months he lay still.
Six months.
And the
water welled up in his body,
and soft blue spots chequered it.
He lay still, for the
ash stick
held him in place.
Six months! Then her face
came out of a mist of green.
Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley
at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her.
Under
the young
green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of
the chaise
scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing,
under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming
within
his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone.
What
has dimmed the sun?
The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes
a moan.
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,
tearing their stems.
There is a shower of young leaves,
and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees.
The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking,
and all the branches
are knocking -- knocking.
The sun in the sky is a flat,
red plate,
the branches creak and grate.
She screams and cowers,
for the green foliage
is a lowering wave surging to smother her.
But she sees
nothing.
The stake holds firm.
The body writhes, the body squirms.
The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well
in the deep, black ground.
It holds the body in the still,
black ground.
Two years! The body has been in the ground two years.
It
is worn away;
it is clay to clay.
Where the heart moulders, a greenish
dust, the stake
is thrust.
Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly
jewelled
with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises.
Down the road to Tilbury, silence -- and the slow flapping of large
leaves.
Down the road to Sutton, silence -- and the darkness of heavy-foliaged
trees.
Down the road to Wayfleet, silence -- and the whirring scrape of
insects
in the branches.
Down the road to Edgarstown, silence
-- and stars like
stepping-stones in a pathway overhead.
It is very quiet
at the cross-roads,
and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly
points
the way where nobody wishes to go.
A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton.
Shaking
the wide,
still leaves as he goes under them.
Striking sparks with
his iron shoes;
silencing the katydids.
Dr.
Morgan riding to a child-birth
over Tilbury way;
riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son.
One
o'clock from
Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And
a breeze
all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up
and down.
Dr.
Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and
curves away
from the sign-post.
An oath -- spurs -- a blurring of
grey mist.
A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing
down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.
The stake has wrenched, the stake has started,
the body, flesh from flesh,
has parted.
But the bones hold tight, socket and ball,
and clamping them down
in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and
spine.
The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them
still
in line.
The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine,
for the stake
holds the fleshless bones in line.
Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body
has powdered itself away;
it is clay to clay.
It is brown earth mingled with brown
earth.
Only flaky
bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone
is knit
to another.
The stake is there too, rotted through, but
upright still,
and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.
Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow
stillness is on the trees.
The leaves hang drooping, wan.
The four roads point four
yellow ways,
saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze.
A little swirl
of dust
blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to
do more;
it ceases, and the dust settles down.
A little whirl
of wind
comes up Tilbury road.
It brings a sound of wheels and
feet.
The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.
Wind again, wheels and feet louder.
Wind again -- again
-- again.
A drop of rain, flat into the dust.
Drop! -- Drop! Thick
heavy raindrops,
and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their
leaves.
Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain,
up Tilbury road,
comes the procession.
A funeral procession, bound for
the graveyard
at Wayfleet.
Feet and wheels -- feet and wheels.
And
among them
one who is carried.
The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull.
There
is a quiver
through the rotted stake.
Then stake and bones fall together
in a little puffing of dust.
Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down
behind the procession,
now well along the Wayfleet road.
He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind.
His
fingers blow out like smoke,
his head ripples in the gale.
Under the sign-post, in
the pouring rain,
he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down
the Wayfleet road.
Then swiftly he streams after it.
It
flickers
among the trees.
He licks out and winds about them.
Over,
under,
blown, contorted.
Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following
smoke.
There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,
and after it laughter -- laughter -- laughter, skirling up to the
black sky.
Lightning jags over the funeral procession.
A heavy clap
of thunder.
Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.
|
Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep,
Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun
Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run.
Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa;
And Amelia loved him truly -- but the course of love, if true,
Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.
Pondering o'er his predilection, Jimmy watched McGrath, the boss,
Riding past his lone selection, looking for a station 'oss
That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Mac the time of day exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child;
Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job,
And tomorrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
Will you come with me tomorrow? I will let the parson know,
And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.
"I will bring the nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine,
One more kiss -- don't think I'm greedy -- good-bye, lass, before I'm seen --
Just one more -- God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here,
Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.
"
* * * * *
The daylight shines on figures twain
That ride across Mylora Plain,
Laughing and talking -- Jim and Jane.
"Steady, darling.
There's lots of time,
Didn't we slip the old man prime!
I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob,
I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
They've beaten us all.
I had a try,
But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
That Sambo's a real good but of stuff
No doubt, but not quite good enough.
He'll have to gallop the livelong day,
To cut and come, to race and stay.
I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good;
To see us going I don't think would.
"
A turn in the road and, fair and square,
They meet the old man standing there.
"What's up?" "Why, running away, of course,"
Says Jim, emboldened.
The old man turned,
His eye with wild excitement burned.
"I've raced all day through the scorching heat
After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat.
But over that range I think you'll find
The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.
Will you go, and leave the mob behind?
Which will you do? Take the girl away,
Or ride like a white man should today,
And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?"
Says Jim, "I can't throw this away,
We can bolt some other day, of course --
Amelia Jane, get off that horse!
Up you get, Old Man.
Whoop, halloo!
Here goes to put old Bowneck through!"
Two distant specks om the mountain side,
Two stockwhips echoing far and wide.
.
.
.
Amelia Jane sat down and cried.
* * * * *
"Sakes, Amelia, what's up now?
Leading old Sambo, too, I vow,
And him deadbeat.
Where have you been?
'Bolted with Jim!' What do you mean>
'Met the old man with Sambo, licked
From running old Bowneck.
' Well, I'm kicked --
'Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped?'
What did Jim do when you were stopped?
Did you bolt from father across the plain?
'Jim made you get off Crazy Jane!
And father got on, and away again
The two of 'em went to the ranges grim.
'
Good boy, Jimmy! Oh, well done, Jim!
They're sure to get them now, of course,
That Tambourine is a spanking horse.
And Crazy Jane is good as gold.
And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold --
Not like your father, but very fair.
Jim will have to follow the mare.
"
"It never was yet in father's hide
To best my Jim on the mountain side.
Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.
"
But here again Amelia cried.
* * * * *
The sound of whip comes faint and far,
A rattle of hoofs, and here they are,
In all their tameless pride.
The fleet wild horses snort and fear,
And wheel and break as the yard draws near.
Now, Jim the Ringer, ride!
Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa!
And the foam flakes fly like the driven snow,
As under the whip the horses go
Adown the mountain side.
And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set,
On a horse that never has failed him yet,
Is after them down the range.
Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel -- whoa back!
And long and loud the stockwhips crack,
Their flying course they change;
"Steadily does it -- let Sambo go!
Open those sliprails down below.
Smart! or you'll be too late.
* * * * *
"They'll follow old Sambo up -- look out!
Whee! that black horse -- give Sam a clout.
They're in! Make fast the gate.
"
* * * * *
The mob is safely in the yard!
The old man mounts delighted guard.
No thought has he but for his prize.
* * * * *
Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes.
"Will you come after all? The job is done,
And Crazy Jane is fit to run
For a prince's life -- now don't say no;
Slip on while the old man's down below
At the inner yard, and away we'll go.
Will you come, my girl?" "I will, you bet;
We'll manage this here elopement yet.
"
* * * * *
By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim.
And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him.
He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done,
There'll be numerous "Six-fortys" taken on Mylora Run.
|
Written by
Barry Tebb |
They have vanished, the pop men with their varnished crates
Of Tizer and dandy, American ice-cream soda and one percent shandy.
The clunk of frothy quarts dumped on donkey-stoned doorsteps
Is heard no more, nor the neighs of restless mares between the shafts.
The shining brass of harness hangs in bar-rooms or droops
From imitation beams.
Gelded stallions no longer chomp and champ
In stalls beneath the slats of shadowed lofts with straw-bales
And hay-ricks as high as houses lazing in lantern light.
The ashes of the carts they pulled have smouldered into silence,
The clatter over cobbles of iron shoes and shouts of “Whoa, lass!”
Hushed in this last weariness.
|
Written by
Eugene Field |
Young Lochinvar came in from the West,
With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest;
The width of his hat-brim could nowhere be beat,
His No.
brogans were chuck full of feet,
His girdle was horrent with pistols and things,
And he flourished a handful of aces on kings.
The fair Mariana sate watching a star,
When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar!
Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow,
And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!"
Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin,
And modestly asked if he might n't step in.
With presence of mind that was marvellous quite,
The fair Mariana replied that he might;
So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar,
Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.
Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame,
He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.
|