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I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back,
And if I had there was no railroad track;
And driving East was what I couldn't endure:
I hadn't started on a circular tour.

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good,
And helped me every blessed way she could;
She seem'd to take to every rough old tree,
As sing'lar as when first she took to me.
She kep' our little log house neat as wax,
And once I caught her fooling with my axe.
She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart)
In outdoor work to take an active part;
She was delicious, both to hear and see,-
That pretty girl-wife that kep' house for me.

Well, neighborhood meant counties in those days;
The roads didn't have accommodating ways;
And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see-
And much less talk with-any one but me.
The Indians sometimes show'd their sun-baked faces,
But they didn't teem with conversational graces;
Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole,
But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul;
And finally I thought that I could trace
A half heart-hunger peering from her face.

One night, when I came home unusual late,
Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate,
Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow
She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow);
And, when I went to milk the cows, and found
They'd wandered from their usual feeding ground,
And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em,
Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke,
And in a trice these hot words I had spoke:
"You ought to've kept the animals in view,
And drove 'em in; you'd nothing else to do.
The heft of all our life on me must fall;
You just lie round, and let me do it all."

That speech,-it hadn't been gone half a minute
Before I saw the cold black poison in it;

And I'd have given all I had, and more,
To've only safely got it back in-door.
I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call:
I feel today as if I'd give it all,
Provided I through fifty years might reach
And kill and bury that half-minute speech.

She handed back no words, as I could hear;
She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear;

Half proud, half crushed, she stood and look'd me o'er, Like someone she had never seen before!

But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise

I never viewed before in human eyes.

(I've seen it oft enough since in a dream;

It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.)

Next morning, when, stone-faced but heavy-hearted,

With dinner-pail and sharpen'd axe I started

Away for my day's work, she watch'd the door,

And followed me half way to it or more;

And I was just a-turning round at this,
And asking for my usual good-bye kiss;

But on her lip I saw a proudish curve,
And in her eye a shadow of reserve;

And she had shown-perhaps half unawares-
Some little independent breakfast airs;
And so the usual parting didn't occur,
Although her eyes invited me to her;
Or rather half invited, for she

Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free:
You always had—that is, I had to pay

Full market price, and go more'n half the way.
So, with a short "Good-bye," I shut the door,
And left her as I never had before.

But, when at noon my lunch I came to eat,
Put up by her so delicately neat,-

Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been,
And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in,—

"Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant,—

It seem'd as if her kiss with me she'd sent;

Then I became once more her humble lover,

And said, "Tonight I'll ask forgiveness of her."

I went home overearly on that eve,
Having contrived to make myself believe,
By various signs I kind o' knew and guess'd,
A thunder-storm was coming from the west.
('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart,
How many honest ones will take its part:

A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right
That I should strike home early on that night.)

Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung,
With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue;
But all within look'd desolate and bare:

My house had lost its soul, she was not there!
A pencil'd note was on the table spread,

And these are something like the words it said:

"The cows are strayed again, I fear,

I watch'd them pretty close; don't scold me, dear.

And where they are I think I nearly know;

I heard the bell not very long ago.

I've hunted for them all the afternoon;

I'll try once more,-I think I'll find them soon.

Dear, if a burden I have been to you,
And haven't help'd you as I ought to do,
Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead;
I've tried to do my best,-I have, indeed.
Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack,
And have kind words for me when I get back."

Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue,-
Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung,
And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded:
My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed.
I rushed out-door. The air was stain'd with black:
Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back:
And everything kept dimming to the sight,
Save when the clouds threw their electric light:
When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view,

I'd think I saw her,-knowing 'twas not true.

Through my small clearing dash'd wide sheets of spray,
As if the ocean waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made,

In the bold clamour of its cannonade..

And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm,
Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm!

She who, when storm-frights found her at her best,

Had always hid her white face on my breast!

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Str. 2 1946

UNIV. OF MICH. LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

3 9015 03557 9344

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