THE LONG BET
The mountain road will lead you past The shack. It’s easily told, the last Old tumbledown this side the ridge Of snags; a little bridge Is there that hasn’t yet dropped through. I don’t know how it is with you, But every time I see that shack It gets me somehow—calls me back And tries to speak. The caved-in shed Where some poor nag was fed His mighty little, and the rakes Upstanding still—and scattered shakes, Tell how they labored to deceive The man with hope. In make-believe They played a barn—and over there The several-acre clearing where A few anæmic blades of grain Still volunteer; but oh That Potter’s Field where grow In broken rows of twos and threes The little, weazened apple-trees.
Mere stalks are some, that died Beside the stakes where they were tied, While others held tenaciously Their stunted semblance to a tree— Their dangling leaves are sparse And bloodless—so the farce Goes on. I know he stood that day He planted them and looked away Across his claim—beyond that draw Where all the ghost-trees are, and saw Them fade away and in their stead A smiling orchard with its red Fruit-laden boughs. At any rate He likely staked with fate What all he had—all he could get, And made his one long bet.
He staked the woman too— That calico of faded blue Still waving by the kitchen door, The shreds of curtains on the four Wee windows on the front, proclaim There was a woman in the game. Lord, how he must have strung Her on—to drag her up among Those snags! And what it must have been In winter! Think of living in That tumbly hut—eight feet of snow Outside—and ten below. Suppose the woman took her bed, Caved in, just like the shed Is now—upon her back laid flat, (The work alone would tend to that).
The mountain road will lead you past The shack. It’s easily told, the last Old tumbledown this side the ridge Of snags.
Of course they had a kid. The broken go-cart shows they did, It’s shy a wheel and tongue— You’ll find it there among The weeds just by the front door stoop. It’s ten to one he’d have the croup And scarcely likely he’d get off Without the whooping-cough. Good God! It’s fiendish anywhere, But think of whooping-cough up there In winter! All that gloom— A little room With stuffy stove and candle-light, And whooping, whooping through the night.
And when the man gave in At last and found he couldn’t win, Found apples couldn’t keep alive Or thrive Or come to any good One bit more than a human could Up there, and when the day Came that they went away— Packed up their leavings in a load And joggled down the mountain road, I’ll bet they both looked back And cursed that shack. And it is hard to think That even that rose-pink Of early sunrise on the top Of that old mountain had one drop Of beauty left for them. It might Be that the white Ghost-trees bespoke their mood Of helplessness and solitude That day. It’s easily told, The old Ramshackle place this side the ridge Of snags—the little bridge That hasn’t yet dropped through, Will point it out to you.