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it here?
I can see how you might. But I donā€™t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we donā€™t. Weā€™ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I donā€™t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks Iā€™ll be all right
With doctoring. But itā€™s not medicineā ā€”
Lowe is the only doctorā€™s dared to say soā ā€”
Itā€™s rest I wantā ā€”there, I have said it outā ā€”
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after themā ā€”from doing
Things over and over that just wonā€™t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but throughā ā€”
Leastways for meā ā€”and then theyā€™ll be convinced.
Itā€™s not that Len donā€™t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to liveā ā€”ten miles from anywhere.
We didnā€™t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His workā€™s a manā€™s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I doā ā€”
Though thereā€™s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ainā€™t all. Len undertakes too much.
Heā€™s into everything in town. This year
Itā€™s highways, and heā€™s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasnā€™t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I donā€™t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
Iā€™m not afraid of them, though, if theyā€™re not
Afraid of me. Thereā€™s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My fatherā€™s brother wasnā€™t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
Iā€™ve been away onceā ā€”yes, Iā€™ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldnā€™t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old ideaā ā€”the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But itā€™s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you arenā€™t darkening other peopleā€™s livesā ā€”
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you canā€™t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
Iā€™ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My fatherā€™s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But itā€™s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he waā€™nā€™t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In fatherā€™s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceilingā ā€”
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
Heā€™d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beastā€™s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his armā ā€”all of his clothes.
Cruelā ā€”it sounds. I ā€™spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. Heā€™d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
Heā€™d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then heā€™d crow as if he thought that childā€™s playā ā€”
The only fun he had. Iā€™ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my timeā ā€”I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would sayā ā€”you know, half foolingā ā€”
ā€œItā€™s time I took my turn upstairs in jailā€ā ā€”
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didnā€™t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a whileā ā€”but I donā€™t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And thereā€™s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. Iā€™m past such helpā ā€”
Unless Len took the notion, which he wonā€™t,
And I wonā€™t ask himā ā€”itā€™s not sure enough.
I ā€™spose Iā€™ve got to go the road Iā€™m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldnā€™t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the groundā ā€”
But it might be, come night, I shouldnā€™t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
Iā€™ve lain awake thinking of you, Iā€™ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents werenā€™t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I havenā€™t courage for a risk like that.
Bless
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