Classic Poem

So you been peekin' int' th' winders o' th' old porch house to th' Four Corners,
Have ye?
Wall, I dunno as anybody wouldn't be puzzled
Not knowin' nothin' 'bout it, an' seein' it th' way 'tis.
I bet you had a time pushin' through them cat-briers
That's growed up all about it.
Terrible stiff bushes they be, an' th' scratchiest things goin'.
Oh, you needn't tell me!
Many's th' first-class tear I've got from 'mdash in my time.
Not those pertic'ler ones, I ain't no call to go shovin' through them,
An' what on earth you wanted to tackle 'mdash for beats me.
But, since you been ther',
It's just nater you should want to know.
A house all sagged down an' rotted, an' th' chimbley fell,
An' every room spick an' span with new wall-paper!
Sort o' creepy, was it?
I guess th' creeps is ther' all right,
But we figgered we'd smothered 'mdash with that rosebud paper.
Mrs. Pearson, th' doctor's wife, had th' choosin' of it.
She went to Boston a-purpose when th' town decided to put it on.
I al'ays thought 'twas kind o' gay for what they wanted it for,
But Mrs. Pearson said it had ought to be gay
An' she's a real tasty woman;
Nobody darsn't go agin her judgment in this town,
Least of all th' selectmen with th' doctor chairman o' th' board.
Well, Mr. Day, ther's a good long story to that wall-paper.
Th' beginnin's way back, all of thirty year, I guess.
Ther' was a storekeeper here at that time, name o' Amos Sears.
He warn't a native o' th' place,
I've heerd he come from somewheres down Cape Cod way,
He just sort o' drifted here an' stuck.
His wife was dead, an' he had a son, young Amos,
Who used to play around with us boys.
You know what boys be, al'ays in an' out o' one another's pockets.
Young Amos was a fine, upstandin' chap.
We all favoured him, but he an' Luke Bartlett was like a plum an' its skin,
You couldn't peel 'mdash apart.
They beat th' band for mischief an' high jinks,
Th' rest of us just follered along an' caught th' lickin's.
'Bout th' time we was gittin' through school, old Amos died.
We thought, o' course, young Amos'd settle right down to th' shop,
But he wouldn't hear to it, said he couldn't rest quiet without he'd done a bit o' trapesin'
Afore he took root for keeps;
An' first thing we knew, he'd hired Tom Wetherbee to look after th' business
An' was off.
He wanted Luke should go with him,
But Luke was a real steady youngster, he'd 'prenticed himself to a stonemason
An' wouldn't budge.
I guess now he wishes some he'd gone,
But I dunno, 'tain't easy seein' into other folks' minds.
I went studyin' surveyin' to Barre
An' warn't here when Amos left.
Luke heerd from him two or three times,
But pretty soon th' letters stopped.
Tom Wetherbee went on 'tendin' to th' shop
An' payin' his own wages out o' th' earnin's.
What he didn't need for repairin' an' to keep th' stock up, he put in th' bank for Amos,
But Amos never drawed any of it,
So it just piled up.
What Amos lived on, I dunno, he never told nobody to my knowledge.
But he lived somehow, an' after ten years
He come back with a wife.
Mrs. Amos was a fine figger of a woman,
With eyes like steel traps, an' a tongue like a mowin' machine.
She al'ays reminded me of a sumach when it's turned in th' Autumn,
Sort o' harsh an' bright. You couldn't see nothin' else
When she was around, but she warn't th' easy kind,
Her nerves was like a bundle o' fire-crackers,
An' it didn't take no slow-match to light 'mdash.
She could do anythin' she set her hand to,
But she made such a touse doin' it
You'd full as lives not have it done.
Amos found quite a bit o' money waitin' for him in th' Wiltshire bank,
An' he found th' store in extra good shape,
So th' first thing he done was to buy a house.
Not th' one you see, that didn't come till later,
Th' third house from th' post-office was his.
Then he took Tom Wetherbee into partnership
An' moved into his new house, an' things begun.
They begun with a vengeance, but we didn't know nothin' for some time.
Th' house, maybe you noticed, stands quite a piece above th' road.
Did you see anythin' queer 'bout th' grass either side th' steps?
Well, that was 'cause Amos an' Mrs. couldn't come to no agreement 'bout fixin' up th' lawn.
He set by a straight slope an' she wanted terraces,
So they had a straight slope to one side an' terraces to th' other.
Amos made a joke of it, but Mrs. Amos she made a grievance;
She made most everythin' a grievance.
She was al'ays runnin' roun' an' tattlin' aginst Amos.
I expect she had one o' them tongues they say's hung in th' middle;
If one end got tired, all she had to do was let it be an' go right along with th' other.
When she warn't scoldin' Amos, she was scoldin' 'bout him.
But in th' end 'twarn't him as give, t'was her.
She up an' runned away, boarded th' afternoon train to Boston
One day while he was mindin' th' shop.
When Amos found out she'd gone
He got Bill Rivers (Rivers kep' th' livery stable then) to hitch up his Morgan mare in a couple o' shakes
An' drive him over to th' junction, lickety split, to ketch th' night train from Fitchburg.
He ketched it all right, but 'twas nip an' tuck,
Th' conductor was hollerin' “All aboard!” when they come in sight o' th' depot.
I mind Rivers was some put out 'cause Amos didn't say a single word
All th' way over,
Didn't even think to thank him when he got him ther'.
Amos was back in a little over a week,
But he didn't bring Mrs. Amos with him.
Luke went up to see him right away,
An' he told Luke Mrs. Amos had gone for a stewardess on a Halifax steamboat.
She had th' sea in her blood, he said,
An' he guessed she couldn't be happy livin' so far from it.
It seems she was a New Bedford woman,
An' all her folks had been whalers.
Everybody supposed as how Amos would sell his house an' shop
An' go an' settle somewheres his wife would like.
But he didn't do no such thing.
He just hung on, lookin' as gloomy as a rainy Fourth o' July;
An' he kep' a-hangin', neither here nor ther' exactly,
He didn't seem fixed to stay, an' he didn't go.
Things went on like that for more'n a year,
An' then Amos bought that parcel o' land to th' Four Corners, an' put up th' house you see.
When 'twas finished, he sold th' old house an' moved in.
He druv into town every day to th' store,
But folks didn't go out to see him.
He'd turned terr'ble glum an' pernickety
An' Luke was th' only man on real terms with him.
You couldn't git anythin' out o' Luke,
He was mum as a fish,
That's how we didn't come to hear 'bout Mrs. Richards bein' with Amos
Till she'd been ther' quite a spell.
I dunno's we'd ever have heerd but for Bill Rivers drivin' some Summer boarders
Up Hog Back one August afternoon.
One o' th' ladies had a faintin' fit or somethin',
An' Rivers stopped to Amos's to ask if she couldn't rest ther' while th' others went on.
He was took all aback when Mrs. Richards come out.
Rivers was a awful talker,
He'd twist a bit o' news under his tongue same as if 'twas a chaw o' tobaccer
An' I never see a man take such relish in spreadin' it.
So th' whole town knowed 'bout Mrs. Richards 'fore he'd been back an hour.
You know how folks be, once git a story started
An' it's off rampagin' like a forest fire,
Somebody said Luke'd know, an' two or three went up to Luke's
An' asked him.
But Luke just said “Why not? Amos had to have some one to do for him,
An' Mrs. Richards was a respectable widow from Millbridge.”
Ther' warn't no gainsayin' that, when Luke pointed it out,
But what folks don't say ain't al'ays a handle to what they thinks.
Luke was a real smart man, an' he wouldn't listen to a word aginst her an' Amos,
An' nobody darsn't say a thing to Amos himself nat'rally.
So it went on. Amos had a hired house-keeper, said Luke;
Amos had somethin' he shouldn't have had, said others.
But that was only hearsay, an' Mrs. Richards' husband had been th' post-master to Millbridge for years
Until he'd been took off by th' pneumony three years before,
An' left nothin'.
“So his widow had to work,” said Luke's friends.
Amos's friends didn't say nothin' seein' he didn't rightly have any,
Barrin' Luke, but that was enough.
Luke was a powerful perseverin' man, an' wouldn't stand no nonsense.
But, spite o' Luke, ther' was talk, heaps of it.
You can't keep women from enjoyin' a story like that,
Nor men neither, I guess.
A good few o' th' boys went out to Amos's
An' they telled how cozy 'twas out ther',
With white curtings to th' winders
An' th' chiny on th' dresser all set out elegant,
Nothin' out o' place an' a sort o' cheery look to everythin'.
Amos had planted apple-trees an' they was just come to bear.
Early sugar apples they was, you know th' kind,
Yaller streaked with red an' sweet as honey.
To hear th' talk you'd think no one else in th' town
Had apples. Boys will be boys, even when they ain't,
An' ther' was somethin' 'bout Mrs. Richards menfolk couldn't have enough of.
But Amos didn't turn a hair, he know'd his woman.
'Twas al'ays th' same—apples, an' cookies, an' blackberry jam, an' a welcome.
Amos warn't like th' same man he was to th' store,
He'd laugh an' joke, for all th' world like he used to do in th' old days,
'Twas good to hear him.
Th' women didn't go, though I guess they was itchin' to,
But none on 'mdash darst begin.
Women is sticklers for custom,
An' all that whisperin' made a sort o' fence
They couldn't break through.
I've sometimes wondered if that ain't th' real use o' women,
To keep things goin' on even an' straight, with no bumps an' jumps to onsettle ye.
O' course ther's th' other kind o' women, th' Mrs. Amos kind,
But, praise th' Lord, I ain't had much to do with them.
But, however stiddy they be, women is terr'ble cur'ous critters,
They can't git along without a deal o' worritin' 'bout th' neighbours' concerns.
An' I do believe our Parson's wife was th' most cur'ous woman ever was.
She was at th' Parson from mornin' till night to go out to Amos's.
You see she wanted to know how things was at first hand,
But she know'd better'n to say so.
What she said was that his duty called him to go an' see if Amos was a errin' man;
If he kep' a scarlet woman to th' Corners, th' Parson ought to try an' git him away from her
An' save his soul.
'Twas a bitter strong argiment to use to a Parson,
An' she used it every day an' all day.
'Twas clear he wouldn't git no peace till he went,
An' Parson Eldridge loved peace.
He was a meek little man
An' didn't hold with pokin' in wher' 'twarn't agreeable,
But he had to go, an' he did.
Mrs. Eldridge must have been mortal disappointed,
For all he said when he come back was
That Amos didn't appear to be livin' in sin.
He didn't say he warn't, mind you,
But he 'lowed to his wife he couldn't see no openin' to start savin' his soul.
“Th' Almighty works in his own ways,” he said,
“An' Amos has had a heavy cross to bear.”
He didn't name no names, but it set us all to thinkin' o' Mrs. Amos
An' what a dance she'd led Amos.
It made us feel sorry for him,
An' after that we kind o' sidelooked his failin'
If so be as 'twas one,
An' th' tittle tattle an' speculatin' died down.
Also we was gittin' used to things, I guess.
Well, they kep' that way for a good fifteen year
An' then one night Amos called th' doctor on th' telephone.
His voice was gritty an' shakin', so th' doctor said afterwards,
An' he know'd at once somethin' had happened.
Mrs. Richards was real bad, Amos said,
Could th' doctor come right away.
So Dr. Pearson got out his flivver an' started for th' Corners.
'Twas just commencin' to snow, but 'twarn't so deep th' car couldn't run,
Nor it warn't so light it didn't matter.
'Twas one o' them stingin' snow-storms,
With th' flakes so little you can't hardly see 'mdash
But drivin' with a awful force.
That kind o' snow don't seem to lay none at first,
But ther' ain't no melt to it, an' it goes on an' on,
Comin' every way to oncet, an' blowin' up into drifts which you can't make out wher' they be or ain't till you're on 'mdash.
One side th' road'll be swep' clear,
An' th' other all piled up with snow higher'n your head,
An' all th' time you're as good as blind
'Count o' th' flakes bein' so sharp an' sheddin' down so almighty fast.
Some men wouldn't have gone out,
Dr. Blake to Millbridge wouldn't, I know,
But Dr. Pearson went wher' he was needed;
Battle an' murder an' suddin death couldn't stop him if any one was sick.
It took him all of an hour to git to th' Corners,
An' he know'd when he got ther' he couldn't git back.
Amos met him at th' door,
“I mistake but you're too late, Doctor,” says he.
And so 'twas. Mrs. Richards was dead.
She'd had a heart attack, and died while th' doctor was on his way.
Th' doctor done what he could just to comfort Amos by doin' somethin',
But in th' end he had to tell him 'twas all over.
Then th' doctor was scared, Amos acted so queer.
He turned as white as marble, an' as stiff.
He stood ther', lookin' down at th' bed,
Lookin' with his eyes like stones o' fire,
Froze an' burnin' at th' same time.
He never moved 'mdash from th' dead face,
Just stared still as ice, as if he was all shelled in it,
But somethin' hot an' hard was scaldin' him inside.
Th' doctor tried to rouse him, but he didn't seem to hear.
Then th' doctor took his hand an' raised it up,
But when he let it go, it fell down by his side agin,
An' Amos didn't seem to notice that he'd took it an' dropped it.
Dr. Pearson couldn't leave him ther' alone,
An' he couldn't go anyway 'cause o' th' storm.
Th' snow kep' risin' higher an' higher on th' winders.
Th' door was clean blocked, an' when mornin' come
Th' doctor couldn't see his car, 'twas all buried in.
All night long Amos had stood just th' same way
Starin' at th' dead woman.
He might have been dead himself, or a moniment.
He didn't give a sign he was livin',
Only ther' was mist on a hand-glass th' doctor held to his mouth.
Th' doctor tried to force some coffee down his throat,
But his jaw was clinched an' he couldn't prize it open.
He tried to throw him over so's he could git him layin' down,
But he couldn't budge him no more'n if he'd been a granite boulder.
Seem's he had th' stren'th o' ten men
Just to keep standin' ther' lookin' at that dead body.
'Twas a Sunday night Amos called th' doctor,
An' 'twas Wednesday mornin' afore th' storm broke.
An' all that time Amos had stood ther' without movin' a muscle,
Only he'd sort o' shrunk together; not stoopin', I don't mean,
But collapsin' in sideways.
Th' doctor put it he looked brittle
Like you might snap him in two but couldn't overset him nohow.
Maybe 'twas th' sunlight done it. The sun shone straight in his eyes,
But he never even winked 'mdash, just kep' on lookin' an' lookin'.
'Bout 'leven o'clock a sleigh come for th' doctor.
They'd been tryin' to git to him for two days
But couldn't, th' drifts was so high,
They'd had to shovel most o' th' way as 'twas.
When th' doctor let 'mdash in ('twas th' two Fowler boys an' Sam Gould)
Th' first thing he told 'mdash was to come upstairs an' help him with Amos.
But they hadn't hardly set foot in th' room
When Amos tumbled over on th' floor—same as a tree, they said,
Stiff from head to foot, not limp like a man in a faint.
Th' boys picked him up an' laid him on th' bed in th' next room,
An' th' doctor worked over him; but 'twas hours 'fore he give a sign o' life,
An' when he did, he went right out of his head with fever.
He warn't sensible for some days, an' by that time th' funeral was over an' done with.
They telled him how 'twas when they thought he could stand it,
But he didn't seem to care,
I guess he'd buried her in his mind long before,
Durin' th' storm.
Folks was awful sorry for Amos,
But he didn't act to take much stock in that neither.
He got up an' went about,
But he didn't go to th' store no more,
An' he didn't take no steps to git a new housekeeper.
Mrs. Eldridge had a string o' middle-aged women to suggest for th' place,
But th' Parson kep' her off him somehow.
I al'ays had a likin' for th' Parson after that;
Maybe he'd sensed more'n we thought, all along.
He was a good man, too good to go interferin' with th' Almighty's doin's,
An' that's what you can't say o' most pa