The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry Page 8

  in the Malamute saloon:

  The kid that handles the music-box

  was hitting a jag-time tune;

  Back of the bar, in a solo game,

  sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,

  And watching his luck was his light-o'-love,

  the lady that's known as Lou.

  When out of the night, which was fifty below,

  and into the din and the glare,

  There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks,

  dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

  He looked like a man with a foot in the grave

  and scarcely the strength of a louse,

  Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar,

  and he called for drinks for the house.

  There was none could place the stranger's face,

  though we searched ourselves for a clue;

  But we drank his health, and the last to drink

  was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

  There's men that somehow just grip your eyes,

  and hold them hard like a spell;

  And such was he, and he looked to me

  like a man who had lived in hell;

  With a face most hair, and the dreary stare

  of a dog whose day is done,

  As he watered the green stuff in his glass,

  and the drops fell one by one.

  Then I got to figgering who he was,

  and wondering what he'd do,

  And I turned my head—and there watching him

  was the lady that's known as Lou.

  His eyes went rubbering round the room,

  and he seemed in a kind of daze,

  Till at last that old piano fell

  in the way of his wandering gaze.

  The rag-time kid was having a drink;

  there was no one else on the stool,

  So the stranger stumbles across the room,

  and flops down there like a fool.

  In the buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt

  he sat, and I saw him sway;

  Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands—

  my God! but that man could play.

  Were you ever out in the Great Alone,

  when the moon was awful clear,

  And the icy mountains hemmed you in

  with a silence you most could hear;

  With only the howl of a timber wolf,

  and you camped there in the cold,

  A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world,

  clear mad for the muck called gold;

  While high overhead, green, yellow and red,

  the North Lights swept in bars?—

  Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . .

  hunger and night and the stars.

  And hunger not of the belly kind,

  that's banished with bacon and beans,

  But the gnawing hunger of lonely men

  for a home and all that it means;

  For a fireside far from the cares that are,

  four walls and a roof above;

  But oh so cramful of cozy joy,

  and crowned with a woman's love—

  A woman dearer than all the world,

  and true as Heaven is true—

  (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge—

  the lady that's known as Lou.)

  Then on a sudden the music changed,

  so soft that you scarce could hear;

  But you felt that your life had been looted clean

  of all that it once held dear;

  That someone had stolen the woman you loved;

  that her love was a devil's lie;

  That your guts were gone, and the best for you

  was to crawl away and die.

  Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair,

  and it thrilled you through and through—

  "I guess I'll make it a spread misère,"

  said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

  The music almost died away . . .

  then it burst like a pent-up flood;

  And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay,"

  and my eyes were blind with blood.

  The thought came back of an ancient wrong,

  and it stung like a frozen lash,

  And the lust awoke to kill, to kill . . .

  then the music stopped with a crash,

  And the stranger turned, and his eyes they

  burned in a most peculiar way;

  In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt

  he sat, and I saw him sway;

  Then his lips went in in a kind of grin,

  and spoke, and his voice was calm,

  And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me,

  and none of you care a damn;

  But I want to state, and my words are straight,

  and I'll bet my poke they're true,

  That one of you is a hound of hell . . .

  and that one is Dan McGrew."

  Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out,

  and two guns blazed in the dark,

  And a woman screamed, and the lights went up,

  and two men lay stiff and stark.

  Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead,

  was Dangerous Dan McGrew,

  While the man from the creeks lay clutched to

  the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

  These are the simple facts of the case,

  and I guess I ought to know.

  They say that the stranger was crazed with hooch,

  and I'm not denying it's so.

  I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys,

  but strictly between us two—

  The woman that kissed him—and pinched his

  poke—was the lady that's known as Lou.

  Robert Service, 1907

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Robinson

  Richard Cory

  Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

  We people on the pavement looked at him:

  He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

  Clean favored, and imperially slim.

  And he was always quietly arrayed,

  And he was always human when he talked;

  But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

  "Good-morning," and he glittered when

  he walked.

  And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

  And admirably schooled in every grace:

  In fine, we thought that he was everything

  To make us wish that we were in his place.

  So on we worked, and waited for the light,

  And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

  And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

  Went home and put a bullet through his head.

  Edward Arlington Robinson, 1896

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Frost

  The Death of the Hired Man

  Mary sat musing on the lamp flame at the table

  Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,

  She ran on tiptoe down the darkened passage

  To meet him in the doorway with the news

  And put him on his guard. 'Silas is back.'

  She pushed him outward with her

  through the door

  And shut it after her. "Be kind," she said.

  She took the market things from Warren's arms

  And set them on the porch, then drew him down

  To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

  'When was I ever anything but kind to him?

  But I'll not have the fellow back,' he said.

  'I told him so last haying, didn't I?

  'If he left then,' I said, 'that ended it.'

  What good is he? Who else will harbor him

  At his age for the little he can do?

  What help he is there's no depending on.

  Off he goes always when I need him most.

  'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,

  Enough at least to buy tobacco w
ith,

  So he won't have to beg and be beholden.'

  'All right,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay

  Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.'

  'Someone else can.' 'Then someone else

  will have to.'

  I shouldn't mind his bettering himself

  If that was what it was. You can be certain,

  When he begins like that, there's someone at him

  Trying to coax him off with pocket money,

  In haying time, when any help is scarce.

  In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.'

  'Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you,' Mary said.

  'I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.'

  'He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.

  When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,

  Huddled against the barn door fast asleep,

  A miserable sight, and frightening, too.

  You needn't smile. I didn't recognize him.

  I wasn't looking for him, and he's changed.

  Wait till you see.'

  'Where did you say he'd been?'

  'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,

  And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.

  I tried to make him talk about his travels.

  Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.'

  'What did he say? Did he say anything?'

  'But little.'

  'Anything? Mary, confess

  He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.'

  'Warren!'

  'But did he? I just want to know.'

  'Of course he did. What would you have him say?

  Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man

  Some humble way to save his self-respect.

  He added, if you really care to know,

  He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.

  That sounds like something you have

  heard before?

  Warren, I wish you could have heard the way

  He jumbled everything. I stopped to look

  Two or three times—he made me feel so queer,

  To see if he was talking in his sleep.

  He ran on Harold Wilson, you remember,

  The boy you had in haying four years since.

  He's finished school, and teaching in his college.

  Silas declares you'll have to get him back.

  He says they two will make a team for work:

  Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!

  The way he mixed that in with other things.

  He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft

  On education, you know how they fought

  All through July under the blazing sun,

  Silas up on the cart to build the load,

  Harold along beside to pitch it on.'

  'Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.'

  'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.

  You wouldn't think they would. How some

  things linger!

  Harold's young college boy's assurance

  piqued him.

  After so many years he still keeps finding

  Good arguments he sees he might have used.

  I sympathize. I know just how it feels

  To think of the right thing to say too late.

  Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.

  He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying

  He studied Latin like the violin

  Because he liked it, that an argument!

  He said he couldn't make the boy believe

  He could find water with a hazel prong—

  Which showed how much good school had ever

  done him.

  He wanted to go over that. But most of all

  He thinks if he could have another chance

  To teach him how to build a load of hay—'

  'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.

  He bundles every forkful in its place,

  And tags and numbers it for future reference,

  So he can find and easily dislodge it

  In the unloading. Silas does that well.

  He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.

  You never see him standing on the hay

  He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.'

  'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be

  Some good perhaps to someone in the world.

  He hates to see a boy the fool of books.

  Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,

  And nothing to look backward to with pride,

  And nothing to look forward to with hope,

  So now and never any different.'

  Part of a moon was falling down the west,

  Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.

  Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw

  And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand

  Among the harp-like morning glory strings,

  Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,

  As if she played unheard the tenderness

  That wrought on him beside her in the night.

  'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die:

  You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.'

  'Home,' he mocked gently.

  'Yes, what else but home?

  It all depends on what you mean by home.

  Of course he's nothing to us, any more

  Than was the hound that came a stranger to us

  Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.'

  'Home is the place where, when you have to

  go there,

  They have to take you in.'

  'I should have called it

  Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'

  Warren leaned out and took a step or two,

  Picked up a little stick, and brought it back

  And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.

  'Silas has better claim on us you think

  Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles

  As the road winds would bring him to his door.

  Silas has walked that far no doubt today.

  Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,

  A somebody, director in the bank.'

  'He never told us that.'

  'We know it though.'

  'I think his brother ought to help, of course.

  I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right

  To take him in, and might be willing to—

  He may be better than appearances.

  But have some pity on Silas. Do you think

  If he'd had any pride in claiming kin

  Or anything he looked for from his brother,

  He'd keep so still about him all this time?'

  'I wonder what's between them.'

  'I can tell you.

  Silas is what he is—we wouldn't mind him—

  But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.

  He never did a thing so very bad.

  He don't know why he isn't quite as good

  As anyone. Worthless though he is,

  He won't be made ashamed to please his brother.'

  'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.'

  'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay

  And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged

  chair back.

  He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.

  You must go in and see what you can do.

  I made the bed up for him there tonight.

  You'll be surprised at him, how much he's broken.

  His working days are done; I'm sure of it.'

  'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.'

  'I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.

  But, Warren, please remember how it is:

  He's come to help you ditch the meadow.

  He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him.

  He may not speak of it, and then he may.

  I'll
sit and see if that small sailing cloud

  Will hit or miss the moon.'

  It hit the moon.

  Then there were three there, making a dim row,

  The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

  Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her,

  Slipped to her side, caught up her hand

  and waited.

  'Warren?' she questioned.

  'Dead,' was all he answered.

  Robert Frost, 1914

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Dickey

  The Performance

  The last time I saw Donald Armstrong

  He was staggering oddly off into the sun,

  Going down, off the Philippine Islands.

  I let my shovel fall, and put that hand

  Above my eyes, and moved some way to one side

  That his body might pass through the sun,

  And I saw how well he was not

  Standing there on his hands,

  On his spindle-shanked forearms balanced,

  Unbalanced, with his big feet looming and waving

  In the great, untrustworthy air

  He flew in each night, when it darkened.

  Dust fanned in scraped puffs from the earth

  Between his arms, and blood turned his face

  inside out,

  To demonstrate its suppleness

  Of veins, as he perfected his role.

  Next day, he toppled his head off

  On an island beach to the south,

  And the enemy's two-handed sword

  Did not fall from anyone's hands

  At that miraculous sight,

  As the head rolled over upon

  Its wide-eyed face, and fell

  Into the inadequate grave

  He had dug for himself, under pressure.

  Yet I put my flat hand to my eyebrows

  Months later, to see him again

  In the sun, when I learned how he died,

  And imagined him, there,

  Come, judged, before his small captors,

  Doing all his lean tricks to amaze them—

  The back somersault, the kip-up—

  And at last, the stand on his hands,