North of Boston Robert Frost (desktop ebook reader TXT) š
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- Author: Robert Frost
Book online Ā«North of Boston Robert Frost (desktop ebook reader TXT) šĀ». Author Robert Frost
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
Thereās work enough to doā āthereās always that;
But behindās behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shaānāt catch up in this world, anyway.
Iād rather youād not go unless you must. After Apple-Picking
My long two-pointed ladderās sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And thereās a barrel that I didnāt fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didnāt pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether itās like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
āWhat is there wrong?ā
āSomething you just now said.ā
āWhat did I say?ā
āAbout our taking pains.ā
āTo cock the hay?ā ābecause itās going to shower?
I said that more than half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you.ā
āYou didnāt know. But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
Thatās what the average farmer would have meant.
James would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he acted: heās just got round to act.ā
āHe is a fool if thatās the way he takes me.ā
āDonāt let it bother you. Youāve found out something.
The hand that knows his business wonāt be told
To do work better or fasterā āthose two things.
Iām as particular as anyone:
Most likely Iād have served you just the same.
But I know you donāt understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you werenāt hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once:
I was up here in Salem at a manās
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a humped body nigh as bigās a biscuit.
But work! that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help. Iām not denying
He was hard on himself. I couldnāt find
That he kept any hoursā ānot for himself.
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:
Iāve heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldnāt lead heād get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowingā ā
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
Iād seen about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call that bulling). Iād been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with a rake and says, āOK.ā
Everything went well till we reached the barn
With a big catch to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldnāt think a fellowād need much urging
Under these circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, āLet her come!ā
Thinks I, Dāye mean it? āWhat was that you said?ā
I asked out loud, soās thereād be no mistake,
āDid you say, Let her come?ā āYes, let her come.ā
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is. God, Iād as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
Iād built the load and knew right where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above. āDamn ye,ā I says,
āThat gets ye!ā He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, āWhereās the old man?ā
āI left him in the barn under the hay.
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.ā
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed something must be up.
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward. First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle.
I guess they
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