E. J. V. HUIGINN
MISS DOANE
Miss Doane was sixty, probably;
She rented third floor room
That opened on an airshaft full
Of cooking smells and gloom.
She worked in philanthropic man’s
Well-known department store;
Cashiered in basement, hot and close,
For forty years or more.
Each night when she came home she’d stand
A moment in the hall,
Before she went into her room
With low and tender call.
And often I would hear her voice
Repeat a childish prayer;
Or read some old, old fairy tale
Of Princess, grand and fair.
One night I went to visit her
And spied, in little chair
A great wax doll, in dainty dress,
And curls of flaxen hair.
I praised the doll; its prettiness;
Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.
She comforts me. I wanted so
A child to call my own.”
Each night I heard her softly sing
A childish lullaby;
But once, and just before she died,
I heard her cry and cry!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
FALLEN FENCES
The woods grew dark; black shadows
rocked
And I could scarcely see
My way along the old tote road,
That long had seemed to me
To wind on aimlessly; but now
Came full to life; the rain
Would soon strike down; ahead I saw
A clearing, and a lane
Between gray, fallen fences and
Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;
So grim and gray I shrank from thought
Of weary, aching spalles.
On stony knoll great aspens swayed
And swung in browsing teeth
Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook
And shivered underneath.
Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent
And wrangled over roof
Of weatherbeaten house, and barn
Whose sag bespoke no hoof.
And ivy crawled up either end
Of house, to chimney, where
It lashed in futile anger at
The wind wolves of the air.
I thought the house abandoned, and
I ran to get inside,
When suddenly the old front door
was opened and flung wide
And she stood there, with hand on knob,
As I went swiftly in,
Then closed the door most softly on
The storm and shrieking din.
A space I stood and looked at her,
So young; ’twas passing strange
That fifty years or more had gone
And brought no new style’s change.
The sweetness, daintiness of her
In starched and dotted gown
Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,
With ruffles winding down!
We had not much to say, and yet
Of words I felt no lack;
Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped
A moment, then dropped back.
I felt her pride of race; her taste
In silken rug and chair,
And quaintly fashioned furniture
Of patterns old and rare.
On window sill a rose bush stood;
’Twas bringing rose to bud;
One full bloomed there but yesterday,
Dropped petals, red as blood.
Quite soon, she asked to be excused
For just a moment, and
Went out, returning with a tray
In either slender hand.
My glance could not but linger on
Each thin and lovely cup;
“This came, dear thing, from home!” she sighed
The while she raised it up.
And when the storm was done and I
Arose, reluctantly
To go, she too was loath to have
Me go, it seemed to me.
When I reached old Joe Webber’s place,
Upon the Corner Road,
I went into the Upper Field
Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed
Potatoes, culling them with hoe
And practised, calloused hand,
In rounded piles that brownly glowed
Upon the fresh-turned land.
“Say, Joe,” I said, “who is that girl
With beauty’s smiling charm,
That lives beyond that hemlock growth,
On that old grown-up farm?”
Joe listened, while I told him where
I’d been that afternoon,
Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed,
Before he spoke, a tune
“They cum ter thet old place ter live
Some sixty years ago;
Jest where they cum from, who they ware,
Wy, no one got to know.
“An’ then, one day, he hired Hen’s
Red racker an’ the gig;
We never heard from him nor could
We track the hoss or rig.
“Hen waited ’bout a week, an’ then
He went ter see the Wife;
He found her in thet settin’ room:
She’d taken of her life.
“An’ no one’s lived in thet house sence;
Some say ’tis haunted,-but
I ain’t no use fer foolishness,
So all I say’s tut! tut!”
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
CROSS-CURRENTS
They wrapped my soul in eiderdown;
They placed me warm and snug
In carved chair; set me with care
Upon an old prayer rug.
They cased my feet in golden shoes
That hurt at toe and heel;
My restless feet, with youth all fleet,
Nor asked how they might feel.
And now they wonder where I am,
And search with shrill, cold cry;
But I crouch low where tall reeds grow,
And smile as they pass by!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON