There are the Ones, the Twos and the Threes,
The ablest, sagest counsellors, these....
The Threes soar higher than most,
The Twos have a most responsible post,
And the Ones—Oh! the separate lonely Ones—
Dreamers and Hopers and Prayers, the Ones!
Stretching their wings over the world,
Wavering over Humanity, hurled
Man against man, gun against gun,
Waiting until the madness be done....
Further and Further away from dust,
Higher and Higher and Higher and Higher,
Every separate, keen-eyed flier,
Their’s is the flight of trust!
The Woodcarver turns shamefacedly back to the American, who smiles understanding his little diversion.
American—You speak quaintly, in childish parlance; but I like the fancy. What was your drollery about those who fly singly?
The Woodcarver, his dark eyes lighting with imagination, stands before the stranger arms akimbo, explaining,—
Woodcarver shyly:
Why! Look you! I am a man
Without kith nor kin;
No wife, nor any child
But this adopted one,
Whose parents fled away,
And left him homeless here.
And it seems to me that I dwell
Closer to mine own heart,
Where many counsels come,
Than if a woman plunged
Her fingers in my brain,
And mixed my reason up.
The war correspondent laughs heartily at this, but the Woodcarver is quite serious. The old man stands slightly bent in the centre of the little place, regarding the stranger intently, and says slowly and gravely:
The lonely people know
Much that is shut away
From those that go in crowds,
Companioned all the time.
And look you—when the mass
Of human beings act,
’Tis on the thought of those
Who sit high up, alone,
Studying the Stars;
Or sit low down, alone,
Studying the Sands;
Or middle way, alone
Studying the Times.
The American, drawing on the last bit of his cigarette, looks through the light cloud of smoke, and nods smiling.
The Woodcarver: