XXI
The Picture
A pitchur of a feller hangin’ up
In thet ’ar little room o’ mine at Bill’s
Hez offen set my wond’rin’ works ter goin’.
He’s stannin’ on a stun verandy like,
A oldish sort o’ man with streaky hair,
Up high whar ’e kin see some ways away,
’N’ ’is clo’es is suthin’ like the ones I seen
In Bill’s ’lustrated fambly Bible, hung
All over ’im in drapish kind o’ folds,
An’ jes’ some in-soles fassen’d on ’is feet
With funny strings a-runnin’ threw ’is toes.
They’s trees an’ scen’ry out in front, green fiel’s,
A rollin’ hill or so, a crick, a bunch
O’ little houses whar they’s fokes at work,
An’ things looks peeceful, like they do here’bouts
In this ’ere Skillet deestric’ in Jooly.
But back o’ all them things yew seem ter see
A wall o’ clouds a-fencin’ on ’em in,
An’ yew cain’t tell ’f they’s mount’ins, sea, or what
A-layin’ off behind, it’s all so dim.
Afore I’ve blowed the light out menny nights
I’ve looked at thet thar chap, an’ almos’ tho’t
I knowed what he was sensin’, ’cos I seen
T’ ’e hed a far-off look, an’ sort o’ scrunched
’Is shoulders ’zif ’e’d clean fergot hisself.
One night in early Joon Bill come t’ my room
Ez I was goin’ ter bed, ’n’ I ast ’im, “Bill,”
I sez, “thet feller up thar gits me goin’;
Yew got a idee what ’e’s thinkin’? ’Pears
Ter me he’s fig’rin’ what it’s all about,
Same’s me an’ yew does sometimes when we’re ’lone.”
Bill ’lows ’e ain’t no pote, but fust I knowed
He ups an’ gits the foll’rin’ off ’is chist,
An’ damfino ’f ’e made it up hisself,
Or got it some’r’s outen readin’ books:
“I’m speckerlatin’ on the drift
O’ things I gotta face.
Mos’ ginally they ain’t no rift
In all them clouds o’ space
Thet seems ter narrer in my view
An’ shet the sky from me an’ yew.
“They was one onct tho’—when I’s young,
An’ never dreamt o’ trouble,
Jes’ whissled, hollered, played, an’ sung,
Nor knowed the hay from stubble.
What was it ripped them clouds apart,
An’ let the light shine on my heart?
“The kids they do’ know what it means
Thet ray thet perkles threw,
An’ makes ’em reely kings an’ queens,
Like I was onct an’ yew.
But ain’t it great ter feel thet way,
An’ not know hearts mus’ break some day!”
He quit, an’ then went on: “I reck’n yew might’s
Well cut them thissels out termorrer south
The barn. Goo’ night.” An’ never changed ’is voice.