RAMBUNCTO

Well, they're quite dead, Rambuncto; thoroughly dead.

It was a natural thing enough; my eyes

Stared baffled down the forest-aisles, brown and green,

Not learning what the marks were. Still, who learns?

Not I, who stooped and picked the things that day,

Scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough!

And she's in a vault now, old Jane Fotheringham,

My mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts,

And that cursed bird that used to sit and croak

Upon their pear-tree—they threw scraps to him—

My wife, too. Lord, that was a curious thing!

Because—"I don't like mushrooms much," I said,

And they ate all I picked. And then they died.

But ... Well, who knows it isn't better that way?

It's quieter, at least.... Rambuncto—friend—

Why, you're not going?... Well—it's a stupid year,

And the world's very useless.... Sorry.... Still

The dusk intransience that I much prefer

Leaves place for little hope and less regret.

I don't suppose he'd care, to stay to dine

Under the circumstances.... What's life for?

Robert Frost

(Rather nervously, retreating with haste in the wake of Mr. Robinson as soon as he had finished.)