Classic Poem

PELEG SKINNER

We drove up the hill to the County House;
On the way we met Peleg Skinner
Hobbling down to the corn field with his hoe.
He had been in the County House for years,
But the look of the free wild animal
Hunting for itself had never died out of his eyes.

" How do they use you up here now, Peleg? "
I asked; " do they give you any butter? "
" No, " he snorted, " there's never any butter
Except on Sundays; we get molasses,
But I never did like black molasses.
Oh, it's good enough, good enough for paupers;
Maybe if my rheumatism gets better
I can leave this Fall and go to farming
And look out for myself. But I'm afraid,
Because I talk with the other paupers
And they're afraid. So we keep on staying.
It's a disease that's catching; I hoe corn
To get the fear I can't make a living
Out of mind. When I first came up here
I was sure I could get away in the Spring,
But when Spring came I put off going out
Till Fall, and somehow kept just staying on.
It's all right if they'd give us china cups
Instead of tin ones to drink our tea out of,
And good butter instead of molasses. "

THE GREEN BOW

He went on and we drove up the long windy hill
And stopped the horse in front of the main building.
A little old woman who was sweeping
The low porch dropped her broom and ran.
The Wife of the Man Who Kept the County House
Stepped gingerly along the entryway,
And took grudging account of our errands.
" Why did the little old lady run away? " I asked.
The Wife of the Man Who Kept the County House
Laughed, and said, " Oh, she's crazy; she's been here
For twenty years; she has no folks at all.
No one ever comes up here to see her,
But someway — I don't know how she got it —
She found a green bow, a small satin thing
Such as you'd wear at your neck, — it's her knick-knack;
And when anyone drives up here she runs out
And pins that bow on her drilling dress.
She'll be here in a minute if you'll wait. "
She came soon — hitching down the corridor —
And picked up her broom. On her patched drilling dress,
Threadbare with age, faded, ugly, pathetic,
Hanging in coarse folds on her spare frame,
A green satin bow was pinned with a safety pin.
She curtsied to us and went on sweeping,
A look of satisfied vanity, immeasurable content
On her wrinkled face.

" She worships that bow, "
Said the Wife of the Man Who Kept the County House;
" I humor her and let her have it; she's a worker.
I wouldn't wonder, if she ever lost it
Or the thing wore out, but it might kill her. "