I
Old Hezekiah leaned hard on his hoe
And squinted long at Eben, his lank son.
The silence shrilled with crickets. Day was done,
And, row on dusky row,
Tall bean poles ribbed with dark the gold-bright afterglow.
Eben stood staring: ever, one by one,
The tendril tops turned ashen as they flared.
Still Eben stared.
O, there is wonder on New Hampshire hills,
Hoeing the warm, bright furrows of brown earth,
And there is grandeur in the stone wall’s birth,
And in the sweat that spills
From rugged toil its sweetness; yet for wild young wills
There is no dew of wonder, but stark dearth,
In one old man who hoes his long bean rows,
And only hoes.
Old Hezekiah turned slow on his heel.
He touched his son. Thro’ all the carking day
There are so many littlish cares to weigh
Large natures down, and steel
The heart of understanding. “Son, how is’t ye feel?
What are ye starin’ on—a gal?” A ray
Flushed Eben from the fading afterglow:
He dropped his hoe.
He dropped his hoe, but sudden stooped again
And raised it where it fell. Nothing he spoke,
But bent his knee and—crack! the handle broke,
Splintering. With glare of pain,
He flung the pieces down, and stamped upon them; then—
Like one who leaps out naked from his cloak—
Ran. “Here, come back! Where are ye bound—you fool?”
He cried—“To school!”