Classic Poem

We sat on the horse-block by the church;
The sound of the preacher's voice came out
Through the window like the singing drone
Of the bumble bees in the red clover.
Beside the church in the weedy graveyard
There was a new-made grave.

“Who's dead?” I asked.

My friend answered: “Jim Pasco, the hunchback.
He went last week; the township will miss him.
There wasn't a man thought of, respected
More in these parts. We took advice from him,
Elected him Supervisor three times,
And nominated him for Assembly
Years back on the Republican ticket.
We were sorry he got beat at the polls.
I suppose being a cripple hurt him
Where he wasn't known.

“We had forgotten it;
He had a secret I've found out since he died—
Of contriving to seem what he wanted to be.
Jeff Gideon will tell you the story:—
Hi, Jeff, come out o' that smoky horse-shed.”
Jeff came, tall, gaunt, blue-eyed, stoop-shouldered,
Lagging along.

“You tell him the story
Humpy Pasco told you the night he died.”

Jeff sat down, flicked a straw from his coat-sleeve,
Looked to the westward and spoke of the weather.

“Fine weather we're having now; I reckon
Haying'll be done before camp-meeting.”
Took off his hat, mopped his brow, picked the straw
From the ground: “The winter'll be open,—
The oats ar'n't filling.” He looked at the grave
As if he tried to remember something.
We didn't speak, so Jeff told the story.

“I never carried anyone so light
As he was in his coffin—like a child;
There wasn't very much of him in body,
Yet he made a stir in the county
Like a man twice his size: which shows it don't
Depend on the way you're born, what you do
In the world. I think this made the difference—
He wanted us to see him different
From what he was. He succeeded, leastwise
We never thought about the way he looked
To strangers. I never saw a worse cripple—
One born so, four feet tall, humped like a camel,
Misshapen everywhere, left arm withered,
Fastened to his chest with a band of flesh.
They never took him to see a doctor
When he was young; you know how slack folks are
Even about improving flesh and blood
On these back farms here in the mountains.
Then he had no neck to speak of; you've noticed
That hunchbacks' heads grow out of their shoulders.
But he was strong; with his single good arm
He could keep even up with me hoeing,
And do everything a two-armed man could,—
Fight like a wildcat if you but crossed him.

“He was strong to the last; his heart trouble
Didn't weaken him much; it came sudden.
The doctor said he might live a month,
But he said a week—and he kept his word.
He didn't need watchers; still, he was lonely,
And I sat with him nights; I wasn't working
And slept days. The last night he kept talking
Just as if he was looking down at himself
From a long way off—

“He said: ‘'Tis a mystery
I never fathomed, why God made me crooked,
And science-books never made it plainer.
What is a “Cause”? There must be some reason
Behind it, and back of that, others—
Only God at the end of the tangle.
And we come into this world and go out
Not finding out any more about Him
Than we knew at the first, nor His reasons.

“‘I was born crooked—you don't sense it early
If you're born that way, or know what it means,
Mother kept it from me; I went to school
And found out, and my heart became bitter,
For I wanted everything that whole men want;
My heart beat as theirs; I was hungry for living
Free, out in the world. I wanted my woman,
A mate, children to grow up around me,
And here I was ugly as sin, and half broken—
Just a part of a man—a joke, a sight
To make you shudder or laugh, or weep maybe.

“‘Well, time went on, and I kept to myself,
Reading grandfather's books; he was a preacher
And had a chest full of Commentaries.
Reading those books, the miracle happened:
If faith could save souls, it must save the body;
What did Paul mean? Was he writing nonsense
With “Faith is the substance of things hoped for”?
No, the Word meant to me all I wanted;
I found “faith”; I fooled you,’ he chuckled,
Then went on again with a struggle for breathing:

“‘Yet, after all, I wonder if I did?
Or was the world so kind out of pity?
I played my part well, never faltered or wavered,
Seeing myself as I should be, forgot
At the last I was crooked—forgot it—
For I felt I was straight, and held my place
Among men, fooled them—even a woman
Saw me thirty years day in and day out,
And never once knew I was ugly as Satan.
I've had my heaven. Every time she looked at me
Her eyes lit as if she had seen a star
Come out in the sky, or a baby smile.
But I lived on the edge of hell all my life,
Fearing faith wouldn't hold out and she'd see
Me just as I was—’”
Jeff stopped a minute
And pulled the straw through his fingers,
Took off his hat, mopped his brow gently—

“He didn't say much more you could tell of.
Toward morning he slept; I dozed off for a minute
And when I woke up—he was gone.”