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.
THE CAVES OF JOSEPHINE
I’m sure if one could probe But deep enough, he’d find this globe Just tunneled through with catacombs And resonant with hollow domes And yawning gulfs, abysmal spaces And divers dark, unfathomed places Where echoes die through mere excess Of nothingness.
There’s mystery in holes—a solid thing Is never half so interesting; It’s fun to poke around in them—to draw the screen Away from things long hidden and unseen, Like those in Josephine. Ten miles of thickest Douglas green The little trail winds through, That leads you to Old Gray Back with his half-closed, Crooked eye. How long he’s dosed That way—without a blink, Who knows? Until Elijah found the chink That day he shot the bear— Just crippled her enough to tear Down through the rocks—a bloody track Into the big, black crack; And that was back Along there in the seventies. Dick Rawly tells the story—he’s The guide, And how he beams with pride To see outsiders rave About the marvels of his cave, As proud of every chamber, niche and shelf As if he’d chiseled it himself.