Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father
Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked,
And working, thought of Dora—all day long
Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after.
But it was now, and none of all the three men
Home to be her messenger! The doctor—
How could he be told the time had come
For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,
Moaning, was so helpless at the door,
Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?