Still, there certainly were attractive new houses, and among them appeared to be some of a different pattern from any in our "collection." One in particular attracted us, and a blockade of cars ahead just then gave us time to observe it more closely.
There were ornamental iron gates at the front entrance, and there was a spot of shells and pebbles next the pavement—almost a touch of seashore, and altogether different from the cheerless welcome of most apartment houses. Then, of course, the street car passing right by the door would be convenient——
The blockade ahead showed no sign of opening that we could see. By silent but common consent we rose and left the car. Past the little plot of sea beach, through the fancy iron gates, up to the scarcely finished, daintily decorated, latest improved apartment we went, conducted by a dignified, newly-uniformed colored janitor, who quoted prices and inducements.
I looked at the Little Woman—she looked at me. Each saw that the other was thinking of the long, hard walk from the station on dark, wet nights, the dead grasshoppers, and the gray, gloomy fields. We were both silent all the way home, remembering the iron gates, the clean janitor, the spot of shells, and a beautiful palm that stood in the vestibule. We were both silent and we were thinking, but we did not move until nearly a week later.
VII.
Owed to the Moving Man.
WRITTEN TO GET EVEN.
He pledged his solemn word for ten,
And lo, he cometh not till noon—
So ready his excuses then,
We wonder why he came so soon.
He whistles while our goods and gods
He storeth in his mighty van—
No lurking sting of conscience prods
The happy-hearted moving man.
Upon the pavement in a row,
Beneath the cruel noonday glare,
The things we do not wish to show
He places, and he leaves them there.
There hour by hour will they remain
For all the gaping world to scan,
The while we coax and chide in vain
The careless-hearted moving man.
When darkness finds our poor array
Like drift upon a barren shore,
Perchance we gaze on it and say
With vigor, "We will roam no more."
But when the year its course hath run,
And May completes the rhythmic span,
Again, I wot, we'll call upon
The happy-hearted moving man.