Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Massachusetts Poets. 1922.

Fallen Fences

THE WOODS grew dark; black shadows rocked

And I could scarcely see

My way along the old tote road,

That long had seemed to me

To wind on aimlessly; but now

Came full to life; the rain

Would soon strike down; ahead I saw

A clearing, and a lane

Between gray, fallen fences and

Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;

So grim and gray I shrank from thought

Of weary, aching spalles.

On stony knoll great aspens swayed

And swung in browsing teeth

Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook

And shivered underneath.

Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent

And wrangled over roof

Of weatherbeaten house, and barn

Whose sag bespoke no hoof.

And ivy crawled up either end

Of house, to chimney, where

It lashed in futile anger at

The wind wolves of the air.

I thought the house abandoned, and

I ran to get inside,

When suddenly the old front door

Was opened and flung wide

And she stood there, with hand on knob,

As I went swiftly in,

Then closed the door most softly on

The storm and shrieking din.

A space I stood and looked at her,

So young; ’twas passing strange

That fifty years or more had gone

And brought no new style’s change.

The sweetness, daintiness of her

In starched and dotted gown

Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,

With ruffles winding down!

We had not much to say, and yet

Of words I felt no lack;

Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped

A moment, then dropped back.

I felt her pride of race; her taste

In silken rug and chair,

And quaintly fashioned furniture

Of patterns old and rare.

On window sill a rose bush stood;

’Twas bringing rose to bud;

One full bloomed there but yesterday,

Dropped petals, red as blood.

Quite soon, she asked to be excused

For just a moment, and

Went out, returning with a tray

In either slender hand.

My glance could not but linger on

Each thin and lovely cup;

“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed

The while she raised it up.

And when the storm was done and I

Arose, reluctantly

To go, she too was loath to have

Me go, it seemed to me.

When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,

Upon the Corner Road,

I went into the Upper Field

Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed

Potatoes, culling them with hoe

And practised, calloused hand,

In rounded piles that brownly glowed

Upon the fresh-turned land.

“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl

With beauty’s smiling charm,

That lives beyond that hemlock growth,

On that old grown-up farm?”

Joe listened, while I told him where

I’d been that afternoon,

Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,

Before he spoke, a tune.

“They cum ter thet old place ter live

Some sixty years ago;

Jest where they cum from, who they ware,

Wy, no one got to know.

“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s

Red racker an’ the gig;

We never heard from him nor could

We track the hoss or rig.

“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then

He went ter see the Wife;

He found her in thet settin’ room:

She’d taken of her life.

“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;

Some say ’tis haunted,—but

I ain’t no use fer foolishness,

So all I say’s tut! tut!”