Not learning what the marks were. Still, who learns?
Not I, who stooped and picked the things that day,
Scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough!
And she's in a vault now, old Jane Fotheringham,
My mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts,
And that cursed bird that used to sit and croak
Upon their pear-tree—they threw scraps to him—
My wife, too. Lord, that was a curious thing!
Because—"I don't like mushrooms much," I said,
And they ate all I picked. And then they died.