"Happy Hollow" in the Winter, Looking From the House[ToList]
We had one poet in our midst—just one. He had lately completed a poem on the glories of our valley. Two men stooped to pick up the axe. Gaston and Alphonse like, they stooped together. As they did so the poet came along with a beaming face. "Stop!" he said; "listen, boys, listen."
We all straightened up, and stood at attention. He read:
"Not far from turmoil, strife, the mountain-vying waves
Of life's antagonisms that delude the world—
Amidst elysian valleys, slopes, majestic hills and caves
That mark the path where ages wrought their wrath and hurled
The crumbling sinews of the soil down to defeat,
To linger in the depth as symbols that all power
Is at the will of the Supreme—in this retreat,
Filled with the chirping music of the nightly hour,
And seeking rest from joyous toil, reward for which
Is given by the thought that all is mine, that none
Do rob, that love adds to each stroke its rich
And sweetening cheer: In such rare world that I have won——"
The housekeeper rudely broke the spell!
"You comrades had better eat that poetry for dinner," she said.
We all looked and all understood—all save the poet. He looked aghast, thinking in Yiddish.
"Go on," somebody said, but the poet was a sensitive youth and could sense an atmosphere quicker than most of us.