“I’ll do the chores to home, you do ’em thar!”
“Dad!”—“Lad!” The men gripped hands and gazed upon
The mother, when the door flew wide. There shone
A young face like a star,
A gleam of bitter-sweet ’gainst snowy islands far,
A freshness, like the scent of cinnamon,
Tingeing the air with ardor and bright sheen.
Jock faltered: “Jean!”
“Jock, don’t you hear the drums? I dreamed all night
I heard ’em, and they woke me in black dark.
Quick, ain’t you comin’? Can’t you hear ’em? Hark!
The men-folks are to fight.
I wish I was a man!” Jock felt his throat clutch tight.
“Men-folks!” It lit his spirit like a spark
Flashing the pent gunpowder of his pride.
“Come on!” he cried.
“Here—wait!” The old man stumped to the back wall
And handed down his musket. “You’ll want this;
And mind what game you’re after, and don’t miss.
Good-by: I guess that’s all
For now. Come back and get your duds.”
Jock, looming tall
Beside his glowing sweetheart, stooped to kiss
The little shrunken mother. Tiptoe she rose
And clutched him—close.
In both her twisted hands she held his head
Clutched in the wild remembrance of dim years—
A baby head, suckling, half dewed with tears;
A tired boy abed
By candlelight; a laughing face beside the red
Log-fire; a shock of curls beneath her shears—
The bright hair falling. Ah, she tried to smother
Her wild thoughts.—“Mother!
“Mother!” he stuttered. “Baby Jock!” she moaned
And looked far in his eyes.—And he was gone.
The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn
All that she once had owned—
Her heart’s proud empire—passed, her life’s dream sank unthroned.
With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan.
“Hark, woman!” said the bowed old man. “What’s tolling?”
Drums—drums were rolling.
II
Shy wings flashed in the orchard, glitter, glitter;
Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves,
And Phœbe! Phœbe! whistled from gray eaves
Through water-shine and twitter
And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter
Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves
Of spring, save only in an old dame’s heart
That grieved apart.
Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep:
Creak went the pole; the bucket came up brimming.
On the bright water lay a cricket swimming
Whose brown legs tried to leap
But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep.
The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skimming.
“Dear Lord, he’s drowned,” she mumbled with dry lips;
“The ships! the ships!”
Gently she laid him in the sun and dried
The little dripping body. Suddenly
Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree
And “Look! a letter!” cried
A laughing voice; “and lots of news for us inside!”
“How’s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where—where is he?”
“Down in Vergennes—the ship-yards.” “Ships! Ah, no!
It can’t be so.”