Harold Crawford Stearns

A LITTLE fellow, brown with wind—

I saw him in the street

Peering at numbers on the posts,

But most discreet:

For when a woman came outdoors,

Or slyly peeped instead,

He turned away, took off his hat,

And scratched his head.

I watched him from my garden-wall

Perhaps an hour or more,

For something in his attitude,

The clothes he wore,

Awoke the dimmest memories

Of when I was a boy

And knew the story of a man

Named Reuben Roy.

It seems that Reuben went to sea

The night his wife decried

The fence he built before their house

And up the side.

He wanted it but she did not,

Because it hid from view

The spot in which her mignonette

And tulips grew.

Nobody saw his face again,

But each year, unawares,

He sent a sum for taxes due—

And fence repairs.

My curiosity aroused,

I sauntered forth to see

Whether this individual

Were really he.

“Who are you looking for?” I asked.

His eyes, like two bright pence,

Sparkled at mine; and then he said:

“A fence.”

“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en,

When people were in bed;

Before the judge could prosecute,

The culprit fled.”

Well, Reuben only touched his hat

And mumbled, “Thank you, sir,”

And asked me whereabouts to find

A carpenter.