����˹�أ�Robert Frost)����������ʫ�ˡ�1874��3��26���������������ľɽ�ɽ�����ǵ�һ���Ĵλ�������߽����ˡ���Ҫʫ���С����ӵ���Ը��������ʿ���Ա��������º���ʲ����������ȥ��Ϫ�����������ǵļ���ߡ������ȱ��ļ���ߡ������ּ��еء��ȡ�
The Mountain ɽ Mending Wall ��ǽ�� The Star-Splitter ���������� Tree At My Window �����ҵĴ�ǰ Fire and Ice ��ͱ� Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ѩҹ�ֱ�פ�� After Apple-Picking ժ��ƻ�� The Housekeeper Ů�ܼ�
The Mountain The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed that I missed stars in the west, Where its black body cut into the sky. Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall Behind which I was sheltered from a wind. And yet between the town and it I found, When I walked forth at dawn to see new things, Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields. The river at the time was fallen away, And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones; But the signs showed what it had done in spring; Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark. I crossed the river and swung round the mountain. And there I met a man who moved so slow With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart, It seemed no hand to stop him altogether. "What town is this?" I asked. "This? Lunenburg." Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn, Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain, But only felt at night its shadowy presence. "Where is your village? Very far from here?" "There is no village--only scattered farms. We were but sixty voters last election. We can't in nature grow to many more: That thing takes all the room!" He moved his goad. The mountain stood there to be pointed at. Pasture ran up the side a little way, And then there was a wall of trees with trunks: After that only tops of trees, and cliffs Imperfectly concealed among the leaves. A dry ravine emerged from under boughs Into the pasture. "That looks like a path. Is that the way to reach the top from here?-- Not for this morning, but some other time: I must be getting back to breakfast now." "I don't advise your trying from this side. There is no proper path, but those that have Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd's. That's five miles back. You can't mistake the place: They logged it there last winter some way up. I'd take you, but I'm bound the other way." "You've never climbed it?" "I've been on the sides Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There's a brook That starts up on it somewhere--I've heard say Right on the top, tip-top--a curious thing. But what would interest you about the brook, It's always cold in summer, warm in winter. One of the great sights going is to see It steam in winter like an ox's breath, Until the bushes all along its banks Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles-- You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!" "There ought to be a view around the world From such a mountain--if it isn't wooded Clear to the top." I saw through leafy screens Great granite terraces in sun and shadow, Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up-- With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet; Or turn and sit on and look out and down, With little ferns in crevices at his elbow. "As to that I can't say. But there's the spring, Right on the summit, almost like a fountain. That ought to be worth seeing." "If it's there. You never saw it?" "I guess there's no doubt About its being there. I never saw it. It may not be right on the very top: It wouldn't have to be a long way down To have some head of water from above, And a good distance down might not be noticed By anyone who'd come a long way up. One time I asked a fellow climbing it To look and tell me later how it was." "What did he say?" "He said there was a lake Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top." "But a lake's different. What about the spring?" "He never got up high enough to see. That's why I don't advise your trying this side. He tried this side. I've always meant to go And look myself, but you know how it is: It doesn't seem so much to climb a mountain You've worked around the foot of all your life. What would I do? Go in my overalls, With a big stick, the same as when the cows Haven't come down to the bars at milking time? Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear? 'Twouldn't seem real to climb for climbing it." "I shouldn't climb it if I didn't want to-- Not for the sake of climbing. What's its name?" "We call it Hor: I don't know if that's right." "Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?" "You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg, But it's as much as ever you can do, The boundary lines keep in so close to it. Hor is the township, and the township's Hor-- And a few houses sprinkled round the foot, Like boulders broken off the upper cliff, Rolled out a little farther than the rest." "Warm in December, cold in June, you say?" "I don't suppose the water's changed at all. You and I know enough to know it's warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. But all the fun's in how you say a thing." "You've lived here all your life?" "Ever since Hor Was no bigger than a----" What, I did not hear. 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Mending Wall Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours." ��ǽ�� ��һ�ֶ�����ϲ��ǽ�ڣ� ��ʹ����ĵ�����ǽ�������ͣ� �������е����ر��Ĵ�ʯͷ�� ����ʹ���Ƴ��������˲���ļ�� ���˻�ǽ������һ�����飺 ��Ҫ�������Ǻ��������Ǿ��� �Ҳ���ʯͷ�Ż�ԭ���ĵط��� ���ǻ��������Ӳ��ٶ�أ� ��ȡ���ǷͽеĹ�������˵�����ƣ� û���˿������������������γɣ� ���ڴ�������ʱ���ῴ��ǧ���ٿס� ��Լ����λɽ�DZߵ��ھӣ� ��ij�������ߵ��Ƕ�ǽ�������� ��һ�ν�ǽ�ڸ������������м䡣 ���DZ��߱߰��Ƶ�ǽ���ϣ� ���������ǽ�ǵ�����ʯͷ�� ��Щ��ͬ���Ƭ��Щ���������� ����Ҫ��һ�η�����ʹ����ƽ�⣺ ������ת��֮ǰ�������������ڵ�λ�ã��� ��������ʹ���ǵ���ĥ�ôֲڡ� Ŷ��������һ�ֻ�����Ϸ�� һ��վһ�ߡ��е�о��ˣ� ��ʵ���������Dz���ǽ�ڵĵط��� ���Ƕ�ȫ�����������ҵ���ƻ���� �Ҹ��������ҵ�ƻ���������� ��Խ��ȥ�����������³��ɹ��� ��ֻ˵����ֻ�к�դ�����ܴٳɺ��ھӡ��� �������ﴺ���Ǹ�Σ���������� ���ܷ��������з�������һ���뷨�� ��Ϊʲôդ���ܴٳɺ��ھӣ��ѵ��� ������������ţ�ĵط����������û��ţ�� ���ҽ�ǽ��֮ǰ�Ҿ�֪�� ����Χǽ����Χס�Լ�����ʲô�� ���ֿ��ܻ����˭�� ��Щ������ϲ��ǽ�ڣ� ϣ��ǽ�ڵ��¡����һ����˵���ǡ�С���顱�� ����ȷ˵�Dz��ǣ������� �����Լ�˵����ʲô���ҿ��������� ��˫�ּ����ץ�� ��ʯͷ����ԭʼ�˵�ʯ����װ�� ���ҿ������ںڰ����ƶ��� ��ֹ��ľͷ������ľ����Ӱ�� ������ȥ̽��������˵�Ļ��� ����ϲ��������һ�����Ի��� ˵����ֻ�к�դ�����ܴٳɺ��ھӡ���
The Star-Splitter You know Orien always comes up sideways. Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something I should have done by daylight, and indeed, After the ground is frozen, I should have done Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney To make fun of my way of doing things, Or else fun of Orion's having caught me. Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights These forces are obliged to pay respect to?" So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming, Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming, He burned his house down for the fire insurance And spent the proceeds on a telescope To satisfy a life-long curiosity About our place among the infinities. "What do you want with one of those blame things?" I asked him well beforehand. "Don't you get one!" "Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything More blameless in the sense of being less A weapon in our human fight," he said. "I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it." There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move, Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years Trying to sell his farm and then not selling, He burned his house down for the fire insurance And bought the telescope with what it came to. He had been heard to say by several: "The best thing that we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's A telescope. Someone in every town Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one. In Littleton it may as well be me." After such loose talk it was no surprise When he did what he did and burned his house down. Mean laughter went about the town that day To let him know we weren't the least imposed on, And he could wait--we'd see to him to-morrow. But the first thing next morning we reflected If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with. For to be social is to be forgiving. Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us, We don't cut off from coming to church suppers, But what we miss we go to him and ask for. He promptly gives it back, that is if still Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of. It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad About his telescope. Beyond the age Of being given one's gift for Christmas,[1] He had to take the best way he knew how To find himself in one. Well, all we said was He took a strange thing to be roguish over. Some sympathy was wasted on the house, A good old-timer dating back along; But a house isn't sentient; the house Didn't feel anything. And if it did, Why not regard it as a sacrifice, And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire, Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction? Out of a house and so out of a farm At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn To earn a living on the Concord railroad, As under-ticket-agent at a station Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets, Was setting out up track and down, not plants As on a farm, but planets, evening stars That varied in their hue from red to green. He got a good glass for six hundred dollars. His new job gave him leisure for star-gazing. Often he bid me come and have a look Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside, At a star quaking in the other end. I recollect a night of broken clouds And underfoot snow melted down to ice, And melting further in the wind to mud. Bradford and I had out the telescope. We spread our two legs as it spread its three, Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it, And standing at our leisure till the day broke, Said some of the best things we ever said. That telescope was christened the Star-splitter, Because it didn't do a thing but split A star in two or three the way you split A globule of quicksilver in your hand With one stroke of your finger in the middle. It's a star-splitter if there ever was one And ought to do some good if splitting stars 'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood. We've looked and looked, but after all where are we? Do we know any better where we are, And how it stands between the night to-night And a man with a smoky lantern chimney? How different from the way it ever stood? [1]Of being given one for Christmas gift ���������� ����֪���Ի���������·ͷ������ ����һ���ȴ�������դ���Ƶ�Ⱥɽ�� Ȼ�������ֱۣ��������� �õ������ڻ���æµ��ijЩ �Ҹ��ڰ�����ɵ� ʲô���顣ȷʵ�� ��ؽᶳ�������������ᶳ ֮ǰӦ��ɵģ���罫һЩ ���õ���Ҷ������ð�̵� ���֣�ȡЦ����������ķ�ʽ�� ��ȡЦ�Ի������������ˡ� ��Ӧ�����ʣ�һ���ˣ��ѵ� û��Ȩ��������Щڤڤ��Ӱ�������� ��ô���ס�����������ʵذ� ���е����������ҵ�ũ�»�ϣ� ֱ�������������ҵ�ũ�£� ��Ϊ�Ż��ֱ��ս���ȫ���ջ��� Ȼ���õ�����Ǯ����̨��Զ�� �Դ�������������������֮�� ����֮����ġ������������ġ� ������Ҫ�Ǹ����Ķ�����ʲô���� ��Ԥ�����������㲻����һ������ ����Ҫ�����и�����û��ʲô ��������������������õ����� ��Ϊ��ʧ������˵�� �����������ũ���Ҿ�Ҫ��һ������ ��������Ϊ�Ÿ��ض�������ʯ�� �����������ܰᶯ��ʯ��֮����ţ� ũ����������ת�֣���������ʱ�� �������Լ���ũ��ȴ�������� ����Ϊ�Ż��ֱ��ս�����ȫ���ջ� Ȼ�������õ�����̨��Զ���� �м����˶���������˵�� ������������������¾��ǹۿ��� �������ǿ���Զ�Ķ������� ��Զ�����ƺ�ÿ������Ӧ�� ���ˣ���������Ū��һ���� �����ض��ٵ��˻�������á��� �������ں����ջ����Լ��ķ��� ���������������ģ���ʵ��ûʲô���档 ��������Ц���ڳ������Ĵ��߶� ������֪������һ��Ҳû��ƭ�� ���͵��Űɡ�����������Ҫע������ ���ڶ����糿������������� ����һ������С�Ĺ�ʧ�� ��������һ����һ�������㣬 ��ô�ܿ����Ǿͻ���ֻӰ���� ��ΪҪ�˴�������Ҫ����ʴȡ� ���ǵĵ������Ǹ�����������͵�Եģ� ����û�оܾ��������òμ�ʥ����ʽ�� ��Ϊ������ʧ�����ǻᵽ������ȥ��ȡ�� ����������Ȼû���ԣ�û��Ū���� ����û�д�����������Ѹ�ٵؽ����黹�� ���Բ�Ҫ��Ϊ������Զ�� ������̫�̱����Ͼ��������� �õ�����һ��ʥ����������䣬 ��Ҫ���Լ���֪������÷��� ���Լ��ṩһ�����ã�������Ҫ˵�ľ��� ����Ϊ�����ֵ��������ɻ���ء� ���˽�ͬ���˷������Ƿ����ϣ� ��һ�������Ĺ��ϵ�ԭľ���ݣ� ����û�и��飻���ݲ��� ���κθо���������У� Ϊʲô���ѵ�������ͬ��Ʒһ�����أ� һ����ʱ�Ļ���� ȡ������ʽ�Ŀ��������� �ڷ�������ͬ����ũ������ һ����һ���������ת�� ��Ҫ���ڿ��Ƶ���·ı���� ��������������վ�ĵ��� ����Ʊ����������������Ʊ�ˣ� ���Ϳ�ʼ���������ǣ������� ��ũ����æµ�����������ǣ����� �Ӻ�ɫ����ɫ�ظı�����ɫ�� ����������Ԫ�õ��˸��þ��ӡ� �¹���������ע�����ǵĿ��С� ��������ӭ������һ�� �ǻ�ͭɫ��ԲͲ�������������ĺ�ɫ�� ��һ�˶����������š� �һ�����һ���������ѵ��ƶ� ���ڽ����ڻ��ɱ���ѩ���� �ڷ��и�Զ���ڻ����������� �����¸�����һ��������Զ���� ������չ��˫����ͬ��չ����������֧�ܣ� �����ǵ��뷨�����������ŵķ��� �ڿ���ʱ����վ��ֱ������������ ��̸����Щ���Ǵ���û��˵�������顣 ����Զ��������Ϊ���������ߣ� ��Ϊ������ʹ������ͬ �������е�ˮ��С��һ�� ���м��ѿ����ֳ� ���������⣬�������κ����顣 ����������ڵĻ����������������� �����������Ǽ������뿳ľ�� ��Ƚϵ���������ҲӦ������Щ���¡� ���ǿ����ֿ����������վ������ �����ܸ��õ�֪�������������� ����������������ҹ�� ��������ð�̵����ĵ���֮�䣿 ����������վ����ʽ���ж���б仯��
Tree At My Window Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me. Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground, And thing next most diffuse to cloud, Not all your light tongues talking aloud Could be profound. But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed, And if you have seen me when I slept, You have seen me when I was taken and swept And all but lost. That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather. 1928 �����ҵĴ�ǰ �����ҵĴ�ǰ����ǰ������ ��ҹĻ�����ҷ��´��飻 ����û�����´��� �������֮�䡣 ��������ٳ��˵��棬 �������ɢ���ƶˣ� ����������и�̸���� ���ܽ�������֡� �����������ҿ�����ҡҷ������ �����������������˯�ߣ� ����Ҳ�������ҵ�������ܰ��� һ�о�ʧ�䶪ɢ�� �������˷����������������� �����ǵ�ͷ����һ�� ���ͷ������������������� �ҵ�ȴ��������ů��ء� 1928��
Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. ��ͱ� ����˵���罫��ֹ�ڻ�, ����˵����ֹ�ڱ��� �����Ҷ������������� ����ͬ��Щ�������ˡ� ��������ò���������, ����Ϊ�Ҷ���ʮ������ ȥ˵�ǻ����ԭ�� ��ͬ��ΰ����� ������������Ρ�
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know, His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here, To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer, To stop without a farmhouse near, Between the woods and frozen lake, The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake, To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep, Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. ѩҹ�ֱ�פ�� ��������ʶ�����ֵ����ˣ� ��������ס���ڴ�ׯ���档 �����ῴ������ͣ�ڴ˴��� �����������ֱ���ѩ������ �ҵ�С������Ϊ���ƹŹ֣� ͣ����û�п���ũ��һ�䣬 �����ֺͱ���ĺ������У� ����һ������������ҹ���� ��ҡ����һ�¾��ϵ������ ̽ѯ�Ƿ���ʲô������֡� ��ΨһƮ�ӹ��ı������죬 ���紵����������ѩƬ�� ���ֿɰ����������Զ�� �����Ѿ��������ҵ�ŵ�ԣ� ����˯ǰ��������·Ҫ�ϣ� ����˯ǰ��������·Ҫ�ϡ�
After Apple-Picking My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep. ժ��ƻ�� ���ݴ�������������������� ����������� ���ӽ��£���һֻľͰ�� �һ�û��װ����Ҳ�� ����������ƻ������֦ͷ �һ�ûժ�¡����������� �����ǰ�ժƻ���������ˡ� ҹ����ɢ���Ŷ��ߵ���Ϣ �������˱ǵ�ƻ���㣻 �����ڴ��˯���� �������۾��� ȴ�����ǰ����֡��� ��־������Խ����糿�� �Ҵ���ˮ�������һ������� ��һ�鴰�������������� һ���ݿ�˪�ص����硣 �����ˣ����������£������ ��������û��أ������ ��췾�࣬�������˯�硣 �һ�˵�ó����ҵ��� ������ô��һ����״�� ���͵úô��ƻ�����������֣� һͷ�ǹ�֦��һͷ�ǻ����� ���ɫ�İߵ㣬ȫ�����롣 �������ģ��ҵĽŵװ壮 �ɻ���ʹ����ס���ӵ��ķ����� �Ҹе������� �����䵹����֦����ҡ�Ρ� ����ֻ���ò��ϵ�¡¡������ һͰ��һͱƻ�����ؽ����͡� ժ��ôЩƻ���� ���������ˣ��ұ������� ��������գ����������ۻ��ˣ� ��ǧǧ�����ƻ�����ȥ���� �������ȥ�ã������ȥ�ţ� ���������ϵ���ֻҪһ���أ� ��ʹû���ˣ�Ҳû�вݹ����ƣ� ֻ��ȫ������һ�ߣ�ȥ��ƻ���ƣ� ���Dz�ֵһǮ�� �㿴�ɣ�������˯һ������ʲô�� �Ҳ������㲻��˯һ���� ���������û���߿��� ���ҽ�˯���������������ߣ� �����Ϳ���˵�� ������Ķ��ߵ���Щ�� ����˵���ⲻ��������Ķ��ߡ� ����ƽ�룩
The Housekeeper I let myself in at the kitchen door. "It's you," she said. "I can't get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock. I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out. I'm getting too old for my size, I tell them. My fingers are about all I've the use of So's to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can." "That's a smart pair of pumps you're beading there. Who are they for?" "You mean?--oh, for some miss. I can't keep track of other people's daughters. Lord, if I were to dream of everyone Whose shoes I primped to dance in!" "And where's John?" "Haven't you seen him? Strange what set you off To come to his house when he's gone to yours. You can't have passed each other. I know what: He must have changed his mind and gone to Garlands. He won't be long in that case. You can wait. Though what good you can be, or anyone-- It's gone so far. You've heard? Estelle's run off." "Yes, what's it all about? When did she go?" "Two weeks since." "She's in earnest, it appears." "I'm sure she won't come back. She's hiding somewhere. I don't know where myself. John thinks I do. He thinks I only have to say the word, And she'll come back. But, bless you, I'm her mother-- I can't talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!" "It will go hard with John. What will he do? He can't find anyone to take her place." "Oh, if you ask me that, what will he do? He gets some sort of bakeshop meals together, With me to sit and tell him everything, What's wanted and how much and where it is. But when I'm gone--of course I can't stay here: Estelle's to take me when she's settled down. He and I only hinder one another. I tell them they can't get me through the door, though: I've been built in here like a big church organ. We've been here fifteen years." "That's a long time To live together and then pull apart. How do you see him living when you're gone? Two of you out will leave an empty house." "I don't just see him living many years, Left here with nothing but the furniture. I hate to think of the old place when we're gone, With the brook going by below the yard, And no one here but hens blowing about. If he could sell the place, but then, he can't: No one will ever live on it again. It's too run down. This is the last of it. What I think he will do, is let things smash. He'll sort of swear the time away. He's awful! I never saw a man let family troubles Make so much difference in his man's affairs. He's just dropped everything. He's like a child. I blame his being brought up by his mother. He's got hay down that's been rained on three times. He hoed a little yesterday for me: I thought the growing things would do him good. Something went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe Sky-high with both hands. I can see it now-- Come here--I'll show you--in that apple tree. That's no way for a man to do at his age: He's fifty-five, you know, if he's a day." "Aren't you afraid of him? What's that gun for?" "Oh, that's been there for hawks since chicken-time. John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends. I'll say that for him, John's no threatener Like some men folk. No one's afraid of him; All is, he's made up his mind not to stand What he has got to stand." "Where is Estelle? Couldn't one talk to her? What does she say? You say you don't know where she is." "Nor want to! She thinks if it was bad to live with him, It must be right to leave him." "Which is wrong!" "Yes, but he should have married her." "I know." "The strain's been too much for her all these years: I can't explain it any other way. It's different with a man, at least with John: He knows he's kinder than the run of men. Better than married ought to be as good As married--that's what he has always said. I know the way he's felt--but all the same!" "I wonder why he doesn't marry her And end it." "Too late now: she wouldn't have him. He's given her time to think of something else. That's his mistake. The dear knows my interest Has been to keep the thing from breaking up. This is a good home: I don't ask for better. But when I've said, 'Why shouldn't they be married,' He'd say, 'Why should they?' no more words than that." "And after all why should they? John's been fair I take it. What was his was always hers. There was no quarrel about property." "Reason enough, there was no property. A friend or two as good as own the farm, Such as it is. It isn't worth the mortgage." "I mean Estelle has always held the purse." "The rights of that are harder to get at. I guess Estelle and I have filled the purse. 'Twas we let him have money, not he us. John's a bad farmer. I'm not blaming him. Take it year in, year out, he doesn't make much. We came here for a home for me, you know, Estelle to do the housework for the board Of both of us. But look how it turns out: She seems to have the housework, and besides, Half of the outdoor work, though as for that, He'd say she does it more because she likes it. You see our pretty things are all outdoors. Our hens and cows and pigs are always better Than folks like us have any business with. Farmers around twice as well off as we Haven't as good. They don't go with the farm. One thing you can't help liking about John, He's fond of nice things--too fond, some would say. But Estelle don't complain: she's like him there. She wants our hens to be the best there are. You never saw this room before a show, Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned birds In separate coops, having their plumage done. The smell of the wet feathers in the heat! You spoke of John's not being safe to stay with. You don't know what a gentle lot we are: We wouldn't hurt a hen! You ought to see us Moving a flock of hens from place to place. We're not allowed to take them upside down, All we can hold together by the legs. Two at a time's the rule, one on each arm, No matter how far and how many times We have to go." "You mean that's John's idea." "And we live up to it; or I don't know What childishness he wouldn't give way to. He manages to keep the upper hand On his own farm. He's boss. But as to hens: We fence our flowers in and the hens range. Nothing's too good for them. We say it pays. John likes to tell the offers he has had, Twenty for this cock, twenty-five for that. He never takes the money. If they're worth That much to sell, they're worth as much to keep. Bless you, it's all expense, though. Reach me down The little tin box on the cupboard shelf, The upper shelf, the tin box. That's the one. I'll show you. Here you are." "What's this?" "A bill-- For fifty dollars for one Langshang cock-- Receipted. And the cock is in the yard." "Not in a glass case, then?" "He'd need a tall one: He can eat off a barrel from the ground. He's been in a glass case, as you may say, The Crystal Palace, London. He's imported. John bought him, and we paid the bill with beads-- Wampum, I call it. Mind, we don't complain. But you see, don't you, we take care of him." "And like it, too. It makes it all the worse." "It seems as if. And that's not all: he's helpless In ways that I can hardly tell you of. Sometimes he gets possessed to keep accounts To see where all the money goes so fast. You know how men will be ridiculous. But it's just fun the way he gets bedeviled-- If he's untidy now, what will he be----? "It makes it all the worse. You must be blind." "Estelle's the one. You needn't talk to me." "Can't you and I get to the root of it? What's the real trouble? What will satisfy her?" "It's as I say: she's turned from him, that's all." "But why, when she's well off? Is it the neighbours, Being cut off from friends?" "We have our friends. That isn't it. Folks aren't afraid of us." "She's let it worry her. You stood the strain, And you're her mother." "But I didn't always. I didn't relish it along at first. But I got wonted to it. And besides-- John said I was too old to have grandchildren. But what's the use of talking when it's done? She won't come back--it's worse than that--she can't." "Why do you speak like that? What do you know? What do you mean?--she's done harm to herself?" "I mean she's married--married someone else." "Oho, oho!" "You don't believe me." "Yes, I do, Only too well. I knew there must be something! So that was what was back. She's bad, that's all!" "Bad to get married when she had the chance?" "Nonsense! See what's she done! But who, who----" "Who'd marry her straight out of such a mess? Say it right out--no matter for her mother. The man was found. I'd better name no names. John himself won't imagine who he is." "Then it's all up. I think I'll get away. You'll be expecting John. I pity Estelle; I suppose she deserves some pity, too. You ought to have the kitchen to yourself To break it to him. You may have the job." "You needn't think you're going to get away. John's almost here. I've had my eye on someone Coming down Ryan's Hill. I thought 'twas him. Here he is now. This box! Put it away. And this bill." "What's the hurry? He'll unhitch." "No, he won't, either. He'll just drop the reins And turn Doll out to pasture, rig and all. She won't get far before the wheels hang up On something--there's no harm. See, there he is! My, but he looks as if he must have heard!" John threw the door wide but he didn't enter. "How are you, neighbour? Just the man I'm after. Isn't it Hell," he said. "I want to know. Come out here if you want to hear me talk. I'll talk to you, old woman, afterward. I've got some news that maybe isn't news. What are they trying to do to me, these two?" "Do go along with him and stop his shouting." She raised her voice against the closing door: "Who wants to hear your news, you--dreadful fool?" 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