silver, as new as we

To everything. Her light won’t last us long.

It’s something, though, to know we’re going to have her

Night after night and stronger every night

To see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe,

The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window;

Ask them to help you get it on its feet.

We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!”

 

“They’re not gone yet.”

 

19

“We’ve got to have the stove,

Whatever else we want for. And a light.

Have we a piece of candle if the lamp

And oil are buried out of reach?”

Again

The house was full of tramping, and the dark,

Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove.

A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall,

To which they set it true by eye; and then

Came up the jointed stovepipe in their hands,

So much too light and airy for their strength

It almost seemed to come ballooning up,

Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling.

“A fit!” said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder.

“It’s good luck when you move in to begin

With good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind,

It’s not so bad in the country, settled down,

When people’re getting on in life. You’ll like it.”

Joe said: “You big boys ought to find a farm,

And make good farmers, and leave other fellows

The city work to do. There’s not enough

For everybody as it is in there.”

“God!” one said wildly, and, when no one spoke:

“Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm.”

But Jimmy only made his jaw recede

Fool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to say

He saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boy

Who said with seriousness that made them laugh,

“Ma friend, you ain’t know what it is you’re ask.”

He doffed his cap and held it with both hands

Across his chest to make as ’twere a bow:

“We’re giving you our chances on de farm.”

And then they all turned to with deafening boots

And put each other bodily out of the house.

“Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think––

20

I don’t know what they think we see in what

They leave us to: that pasture slope that seems

The back some farm presents us; and your woods

To northward from your window at the sink,

Waiting to steal a step on us whenever

We drop our eyes or turn to other things,

As in the game ‘Ten-step’ the children play.”

 

“Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city.

All they could say was ‘God!’ when you proposed

Their coming out and making useful farmers.”

 

“Did they make something lonesome go through you?

It would take more than them to sicken you––

Us of our bargain. But they left us so

As to our fate, like fools past reasoning with.

They almost shook me.”

 

“It’s all so much

What we have always wanted, I confess

It’s seeming bad for a moment makes it seem

Even worse still, and so on down, down, down.

It’s nothing; it’s their leaving us at dusk.

I never bore it well when people went.

The first night after guests have gone, the house

Seems haunted or exposed. I always take

A personal interest in the locking up

At bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off.”

He fetched a dingy lantern from behind

A door. “There’s that we didn’t lose! And these!”––

Some matches he unpocketed. “For food––

The meals we’ve had no one can take from us.

I wish that everything on earth were just

As certain as the meals we’ve had. I wish

21

The meals we haven’t had were, anyway.

What have you you know where to lay your hands on?”

 

“The bread we bought in passing at the store.

There’s butter somewhere, too.”

 

“Let’s rend the bread.

I’ll light the fire for company for you;

You’ll not have any other company

Till Ed begins to get out on a Sunday

To look us over and give us his idea

Of what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up.

He’ll know what he would do if he were we,

And all at once. He’ll plan for us and plan

To help us, but he’ll take it out in planning.

Well, you can set the table with the loaf.

Let’s see you find your loaf. I’ll light the fire.

I like chairs occupying other chairs

Not offering a lady––”

 

“There again, Joe!

You’re tired.”

 

“I’m drunk-nonsensical tired out;

Don’t mind a word I say. It’s a day’s work

To empty one house of all household goods

And fill another with ’em fifteen miles away,

Although you do no more than dump them down.”

 

“Dumped down in paradise we are and happy.”

 

“It’s all so much what I have always wanted,

I can’t believe it’s what you wanted, too.”

 

“Shouldn’t you like to know?”

 

22

“I’d like to know

If it is what you wanted, then how much

You wanted it for me.”

 

“A troubled conscience!

You don’t want me to tell if I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t want to find out what can’t be known.

 

But who first said the word to come?”

 

“My dear,

It’s who first thought the thought. You’re searching, Joe,

For things that don’t exist; I mean beginnings.

Ends and beginnings––there are no such things.

There are only middles.”

 

“What is this?”

“This life?

Our sitting here by lantern-light together

Amid the wreckage of a former home?

You won’t deny the lantern isn’t new.

The stove is not, and you are not to me,

Nor I to you.”

 

“Perhaps you never were?”

 

“It would take