North of Boston | Page 8

say. Here's looking at you then.--
And now
I'm leaving you a little while.
You'll rest easier when I'm gone,
perhaps--
Lie down--let yourself go and get some sleep.
But
first--let's see--what was I going to ask you?
Those collars--who shall
I address them to,
Suppose you aren't awake when I come back?"

"Really, friend, I can't let you. You--may need them."
"Not till I
shrink, when they'll be out of style."
"But really I--I have so many
collars."
"I don't know who I rather would have have them.
They're
only turning yellow where they are.
But you're the doctor as the
saying is.

I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me:
I've just
begun the night. You get some sleep.
I'll knock so-fashion and peep
round the door
When I come back so you'll know who it is.
There's
nothing I'm afraid of like scared people.
I don't want you should
shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?

There now, you get some sleep."
He shut the door.
The Doctor slid
a little down the pillow.

Home Burial
HE saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She
was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.

She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look
again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: "What is it you see
From
up there always--for I want to know."
She turned and sank upon her
skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to
gain time: "What is it you see,"
Mounting until she cowered under
him.
"I will find out now--you must tell me, dear."
She, in her place,
refused him any help
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.

She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
Blind creature; and a
while he didn't see.
But at last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh."

"What is it--what?" she said.
"Just that I see."
"You don't," she
challenged. "Tell me what it is."
"The wonder is I didn't see at once.

I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it--that's
the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the
window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom,
is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,

Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We
haven't to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the
child's mound----"
"Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried.
She
withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister,
and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,

He said twice over before he knew himself:
"Can't a man speak of his
own child he's lost?"
"Not you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need
it!
I must get out of here. I must get air.
I don't know rightly
whether any man can."
"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.


Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs."
He sat and fixed his chin
between his fists.
"There's something I should like to ask you, dear."

"You don't know how to ask it."
"Help me, then."
Her fingers
moved the latch for all reply.
"My words are nearly always an offence.

I don't know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I

might be taught
I should suppose. I can't say I see how.
A man must
partly give up being a man
With women-folk. We could have some
arrangement
By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything
special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt
those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them.

But two that do can't live together with them."
She moved the latch a
little. "Don't--don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell
me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so
much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make
me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.

What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your
mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably--in the face of love.

You'd think his memory might be satisfied----"
"There you go
sneering now!"
"I'm not, I'm not!
You make me angry. I'll come
down to you.
God, what a woman! And it's come to this,
A man
can't speak of his own child that's dead."
"You can't because you
don't know how.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your
own hand--how could you?--his little grave;
I saw you from that very
window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like
that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound
beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.
And
I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your
spade kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice

Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I went near to see with
my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of
the fresh