| |
| WE passed old farmer Boothby in the field. | |
| Rugged and straight he stood, his body steeled | |
| With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes | |
| That never flinched or turned to compromise, | |
| And “Luck!” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm, | 5 |
| Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm | |
| In all of Maine could boast of; and away | |
| He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay. | |
| We walked on leisurely until a bend | |
| Showed him once more, now working toward the end | 10 |
| Of one great path; wearing his eighty years | |
| Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers. | |
| |
| Then we turned off abruptly—took the road | |
| Cutting the village, the one with the commanding | |
| View of the river. And we strode | 15 |
| More briskly now to the long pier that showed | |
| Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing. | |
| In the canoe we stepped, our paddles dipped | |
| Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped | |
| More on than in the water. Smoothly then | 20 |
| We shot its nose against the rippling current, | |
| Feeling the rising river’s half-deterrent | |
| Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade | |
| To keep from swerving round; while we delayed | |
| To watch the curious wave-eaten locks; | 25 |
| Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks. | |
| Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted | |
| A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk. | |
| And over us the wise and noble-hearted | |
| Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted; | 30 |
| And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk | |
| Down the green alleys of the Kennebunk. | |
| |
| Motionless in the meadows | |
| The trees, the rocks, the cows. | |
| And quiet dripped from the shadows | 35 |
| Like rain from heavy boughs. | |
| |
| The tree-toads started ringing | |
| Their ceaseless silver bells; | |
| A land-locked breeze came swinging | |
| Its censer of earthy smells. | 40 |
| |
| The river’s tiny cañon | |
| Stretched into dusky lands; | |
| Like a dark and silent companion | |
| Evening held out her hands. | |
| |
| Hushed were the dawn’s bravados, | 45 |
| Loud noon was a silenced cry; | |
| And Quiet slipped from the shadows | |
| As stars slip out of the sky. | |
| |
| It must have been an hour more, or later, | |
| When, tramping homeward through the piney wood, | 50 |
| We felt the years fly back, the brotherhood | |
| Of forests took us—and we saw the satyr! | |
| There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood | |
| And grinned to see us stare, incredulous— | |
| Too startled to remember fear or flight. | 55 |
| Feeling the menace in the crafty night, | |
| We turned to run—when lo, he called to us!— | |
| Using our very names he called. We drew | |
| With creaking courage down the avenue | |
| Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight, | 60 |
| (No longer through a tricky pale-green light) | |
| Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path— | |
| And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath! | |
| The woods became his background; every tree | |
| Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared | 65 |
| The beauty of that gnarled serenity, | |
| The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared | |
| Its shoulders against Time. And even Night | |
| Flowed in and out of him, as though content | |
| With such an element; | 70 |
| Happy to move about a spirit quite | |
| As old, as placid and as confident. | |
| |
| Sideways we turned. All glistening and unclad | |
| He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad, | |
| His body in the moonlight dripping stars. | 75 |
| We went on homeward, through the pasture-bars. | |
| |
