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BILL BORAM 
 EGBERT NORWOOD 
 
By ROBERT NORWOOD 
 
 BILL BORAM 
 
 THE MAN OF KERIOTH 
 
 THE MODERNISTS 
 
 THE PIPER AND THE REED 
 
 THE WITCH OF ENDOR 
 
 HIS LADY OF THE SONNETS 
 
BILL BORAM 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT NORWOOD 
 
 I' 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the MAN OF KERIOTH," *'tHE MODEBN- 
 
 iSTs," "the witch of endob," etc. 
 
 WITH A FOEEWORD BY 
 GRACE BLACKBURN 
 
 NEW 'Hr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
^^ 
 
 
 COPTEIGHT, 1921, 
 BY 6E(AGE H. DOBAN COMPANY 
 
 AOG 3U lb2l 
 
 PanfTED IX THE TTNTTED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 g)Ci.A62435B 
 
TO 
 MY DEAR FRIEND 
 
 SKIPPER BILL 
 
 WHOSE TRANSFIGURATION 
 LED ME TO THIS POEM 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 In this strong and curiously beautiful poem, "Bill 
 Boram," with its rush of tidal waters and its welter of 
 elemental human passions, Mr. Norwood, it seems to 
 my mind, has sought to epitomize the evolution of the 
 spiritual universe, much as the writers of Holy Writ 
 epitomize the evolution of the physical universe in that 
 glorious choric outburst which we call the first chapter 
 of the Book of Genesis. 
 
 What matters it if the stage of the latter conflict, 
 in place of embracing as does the former, the round 
 world, the overhanging stars, all visible creation, is 
 confined to the adventure in development of a single 
 human soul? Dare we, indeed, employ the term "con- 
 fined" to that which no man yet has ever found con- 
 finable ; or is there aught to do with "great" or "small"" 
 in the realm of that which can neither be seen nor 
 handled? "That was not first which is spiritual but 
 that which is natural; and afterwards that which is 
 spiritual" ... all things, no matter how gross their 
 seeming, tend at the last to "spiritual results." The 
 poet has warranty for his philosophy not in Scripture 
 alone but in the conclusions of the choicest and the 
 
 vii 
 
most chosen of the race. For not only is it asked by 
 the prophets what that is which man shall give *'in 
 exchange" for the soul, but it is demanded of man how 
 and in what manner he shall weigh or measure that 
 which when put into the balances with the "whole 
 world" shows the world, by comparison, to be as light 
 as a moulted feather. 
 
 The physical universe with all its modifications from 
 star-dust to organic life, we assume, had its birth amid 
 convulsions of titanic forces poetically termed "Chaos 
 and old Night," and that at a period of time so re- 
 mote the contemplation of it staggers the intellect. 
 That universe would now seem to be perfected, in cer- 
 tain details decadent ; though with regard to both sup- 
 positions the wisest of our scientists consent to hold 
 but a tentative opinion. 
 
 The spiritual universe so far at least as it apper- 
 tains to this planet, we believe to have had its incep- 
 tion at that stupendous moment when physical man 
 first achieved an "inward eye," became conscious not 
 alone of the earth as an environmental fact but of 
 himself as a thinking and an aspiring entity, an en- 
 tity curious and critical in regard to himself as also 
 to the source and origin of himself . . . God. 
 
 This spiritual beginning, we argue, took place at a 
 period comparativel}^ modern — this side a million years 
 — while its perfectability presupposes the throes of an 
 infinity. Is it too much, then, logically to reason that 
 just as the physical universe rose amid a struggle of 
 colossal material forces, so the spiritual universe, in 
 
 viii 
 
the dawn of whose day we now dwell, is coming into 
 being amid "groanings that cannot be uttered"? 
 
 Our vision of the conflict in which humanity is 
 immersed is myopic, we suffer a false perspective, we 
 see men as trees walking and call their intentions and 
 actions by uncouth and unphilosophic names. 
 
 Thus that which we term "sin," it is possible, may 
 be but physical instinct raised to the plane where, by 
 right, spiritual understanding should prevail. 
 
 The two great instincts of the animal kingdom, it 
 will be allowed, are the instincts of stomach hunger 
 and of generative hunger. Both these instincts, whether 
 of physical man or of the beasts, are the outcome of 
 and are justified by the analogous instinct of self- 
 preservation by means of which Nature not only pro- 
 tects the individual but by which she maintains the 
 race. 
 
 In their proper kingdom stomach hunger and gen- 
 erative hunger have the primal blessing. . . . God saw 
 them and pronounced them "good." Transfer these 
 two hungers from the physical plane to the intellectual 
 plane, however, and it will be seen that they become 
 the impulse of innumerable evils and sub-evils, which 
 we call "sins." Simplicity has here become complexity. 
 The obvious has now passed over into the involved. 
 Matter has acquired the wings of mentality. Result: 
 Not a lust, not a hatred, not a greed, not an obsession, 
 but may be traced to those two originally innocent 
 and constructive instinctive forces — forces which hav- 
 ing added to them the efficiency of the intellect and the 
 
 ix 
 
enthusiasm of the imagination have enlarged their jur- 
 isdiction so as to pervade all consciousness. 
 
 Thus stomach hunger developed along the intellec- 
 tual, becomes that infinitely subtle and deceiving bias, 
 personal ambition — a mental appetite such as is seen 
 in Macbeth — an acquisitive rapacity such as that evi- 
 denced by Wilhelm Hohenzollem — ambition which when 
 once given its head is not to be soothed nor satisfied, 
 no, not by the kingdoms of the world nor the glory 
 of them. 
 
 Nor are history and experience silent as to the 
 effect produced upon human character and conduct in 
 cases where generative hunger is transferred from the 
 physical to the mental side of being. The great sadists 
 and sensualists whose careers darken the pages of the 
 race's story have oftentimes been men and women of 
 brilliant intellect . . . their "worm" died not because 
 it fed not upon mortal but upon immortal emotions. 
 
 These are but the peak waves in that stupendous 
 spiritual chaos across the face of which the Spirit of 
 God is moving to the end that there shall be "Light." 
 The deep beneath the darkness is the Soul . . . the 
 firmament with its stars is the Soul . . . the earth and 
 all that is therein is the Soul ... a new universe 
 slowly but surely evolving. 
 
 And if our poet chooses as the text of his discourse 
 not the grandiose universal Soul, but the soul of the 
 simple fisherman, Bill Boram, that is because Bill 
 Boram is important to the scheme of things, a seg- 
 ment of the All-Whole and the All-Holy, whose final 
 
 X 
 
destiny it is to be made in the "image and likeness" 
 of that God of whom Jesus said that He is "Spirit" 
 . . . and who, thus, could design for Himself none but 
 a spiritual counterpart. . . . 
 
 Like Bill's "tubers" humanity is "planted deep." 
 And again like them, it — 
 
 "tunnels 
 Upwards to meet the light, sartin that some 
 Place waits for it. . . ." 
 
 Grace Blackburn. 
 
 xi 
 
PERSONS OF THE STORY 
 
 Tom Blaylock — 
 
 The Parson's son and mate of the Flying Scud 
 — a whaler caught in the Arctic ice. Tom writes 
 this story of Bill Boram to escape the monotony 
 of the long Northern night, and at the same time 
 to clarify his thinking on "those things which per- 
 tain to the Kingdom of God." 
 
 Bill Boram — 
 
 Captain of the Lottie S» Bill's points of con- 
 tact with the Infinite are: His love of flowers and 
 all things that are physically beautiful; some 
 gratitude and feeling of fellowship for George 
 Conrad; a deep respect for Bobby Fox. 
 
 The Lottie S. — 
 
 Whose spars "a-tap'rin up'ard" told Bill a 
 "sight more'n most o' men" could tell. 
 
 Parson Blaylock — 
 
 A strong man with a frozen soul, whose ethical 
 sense has overpowered that charity without which 
 righteousness becomes as the sound of a smitten 
 gong. 
 
 Kate Coolin — 
 
 A type of that lure of sex which damns because 
 it is possessive. 
 
 George Conrad — 
 
 The Lottie's cook and Bill's loyal henchman. 
 George is the type of that Love which overcomes 
 
 xiii 
 
the world and gives its possessor the key to the 
 Kingdom of God. 
 
 Bobby Fox — 
 
 The sage of The Cove. He is one of those men 
 one occasionally meets among humble folk, a 
 thinker, a student, and very wise. We know him 
 well and thank God for his kind. 
 
 The She Weasel — 
 
 Her type belongs to every community and rep- 
 resents the only personal devil it has been our mis- 
 fortune to know, if malice is the only sin and we 
 think that it is. 
 
 Sam Publicover — 
 
 Rough, uncouth, and yet with a feeling for 
 beauty that makes his homely speech melodious 
 with a poet's gift of phrase. Sam is the local 
 blacksmith whose forge is a frequent resort for the 
 crew of the Lottie S. He is the She Weasel's 
 brother, but here all kinship ends. 
 
 Johnny Deal — 
 
 A blind fiddler. Johnny, in Sam Publicover's 
 opinion, surpasses Shakespeare who wrote blank 
 verse mainly because "he couldn't keep de jig.'* 
 We do not agree with Sam's opinion of Shakespeare 
 — Mr. George Bernard Shaw to the contrary. 
 
 Oram Hiltz — 
 
 Mate of the Lottie S. Oram, like most of us, 
 has moments of illumination, but is mainly baffled 
 by the mystery of Bill's adventure into the Infinite 
 through his love of beauty. 
 
 The Cov'ers, the crew of the Lottie S., Molly — Bill's 
 cow, flowers, birds, and the Spirit Who clothes Himself 
 in the "Light of setting suns/' 
 
 XIV 
 
PART ONE 
 
 "I think that those who have an imaginative comer 
 in their hearts are better than those who have not. 
 Thej have a shrine — to a shrine we bring our aspira- 
 tions ; there they accumulate and secretly influence our 
 
 lives." 
 
 — Richard Jeffries, 
 
BILL BORAM 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 Bill Boram was the bad man of The Cove 
 And skipper of the schooner Lottie S. — 
 A green-hulled cranky craft as ever drove 
 Her bowsprit into sea foam. I confess 
 Bill had no beauty, no redeeming grace 
 Of manner. He was almost always full. 
 In stature Bill was short and thick. His face 
 Was not unlike old Aaron Conrad's bull — 
 The ughest and the meanest brute I know — 
 A tangle of red hair above two eyes 
 Like balls of polished bronze that seemed to glow 
 With hot bell-fire. Bill's tongue was very wise 
 In all the art of antique blasphemy; 
 Art that was old ere out of towered Tyre 
 Great merchant triremes pushed their prows to sea. 
 Bill often boasted, "Cuss? I c'n cuss higher 
 Than pa'son Blaylock aims to p'int a prayer. 
 Cuss.'* I c'n cuss the devil out o' hell!" 
 Bill's whiskers were a fiery fringe of hair 
 
 17 
 
That from his jutting jaws and square chin fell 
 In curling fury half-way down his breast. 
 
 Yet there was virtue in the strength he had, 
 And cunning, too, that made him first and best 
 Of fishers from The Cove, though he was bad. 
 The Lottie S. was always sure to trip 
 Her anchor ere her sisters made for port, 
 With Bill blaspheming, "May God damn this ship 
 An' every bastard sailor, if we's short 
 O' half a quintal o' the 'customed catch 
 When we discharges cargo at The Belle. . . . 
 Tarp'hns there, you lubbers, on the hatch. . . . 
 Tops'ls. . . . Now let her drive to home or hell !" 
 
 The Cove lies partly landlocked from the sea. 
 Its arms enclose a huddle of white homes 
 Red-roofed above its shacks and wharves. To me, 
 Who have grown weary of old temple domes 
 And minster spires, of castles, gates and walls. 
 Earth has no beauty like those roofs of red 
 Against the dark green spruce when twilight falls 
 Upon The Cove. An island lifts its head 
 Midway between the shores that curve to form 
 A nearly oval harbor — quarter-mile 
 At widest point— where, safe from any storm, 
 A score of schooners, in the noisy while 
 Of their unloading cargoes of the catch, 
 Tug at their anchors. Where the deep Cove ends 
 In shoals of cobble stones— worn till they match—- 
 
 18 
 
A brown brook shallows, deepens, narrows, bends 
 
 Tumultuous among the alders, till, 
 
 Far back, it turns the wheel that grinds the grist 
 
 In Cyrus Jodrej'^'s hopper. On the hill 
 
 A steeple lifts the brave appeal of Christ. 
 
 "The Cov^ers," as they always have been called, 
 
 Are bred of Dutch and Anglo-Saxon stock. 
 
 The women go short-kirtled and red-shawled, 
 
 Clicking their needles on a gray wool sock 
 
 To time their talking. They can bake, weave, hem, 
 
 Bear husky babies to the lads they love, 
 
 Minding their business as the men mind them: 
 
 There are no suffrage squabbles at The Cove. 
 
 The men are short, broad-shouldered as a kedge. 
 
 With diapason voices of the sea 
 
 That breaks in throated thunder on the ledge 
 
 Near Dorey's Light. Rough-humored blasphemy 
 
 Cuts through their talk, like sudden saw-toothed reefs 
 
 At ebb of tide below the Scander Shoals. 
 
 Poor Parson Blaylock said they had beliefs 
 So pagan that he wondered how their souls 
 Could get to heaven ; for he was of that creed 
 Which limits God and grace to legal quarts 
 Or gallons ; held man is not saved by deed, 
 But by acceptance of the longs and shorts 
 In Hebrew written by the Holy Ghost, 
 Committed to the Church ; that he is bound 
 
 19 
 
To burn in hell forever with the lost 
 Who has not by his faith salvation found. 
 
 Where Scander Bay turns in to meet The Cove, 
 And where the road runs down to Dorey's Head, 
 Bill's house stands. Though he liked to rant and rove 
 With rum and cronies, it was often said, 
 "Bill at his best is when Bill's at his home.'* 
 Good reason why ; for deep in his bad heart 
 There lived a love for one black patch of loam 
 That was his garden. Bill was first to start 
 His hoeing, first to plant, before he sailed 
 Off in the green-hulled schooner Lottie S. 
 
 On certain noons when black North-easters flailed 
 The Grand Banks like a floor, and the duress 
 Of flailing made the sea a field of foam, 
 Bill thought of daisies down behind the barn, 
 And Molly tinkling up the cow-path home. 
 
 Yes, home was sweet to Bill, and he would yam 
 O' nights above the bottle with his mate 
 About old Molly: "That God-blasted cow 
 Knows more'n most o' the crew; airly or late, 
 She schemes an' plans. . . . Oram, I wonders how 
 The com is growin'. . . . They's a patch of blue 
 Hard by the fence, below the granite rock 
 Bill Dorey blasted, delercate as dew ; 
 They come as reg'lar as the schooner's clock, 
 The little fellers, all deep blue, as if 
 A'mighty God splashed it out o' the pot 
 
 20 
 
He paints the sky. . . . Damnation ! When a whiff 
 O' bilge comes up the fo^c'sle stinkin' hot, 
 I thinks o' flowers like a soul in hell !" 
 
 Below Bill's house a wharf and fish-house stand, 
 And underneath the gable scrawled: "The Belle 
 Mahone" — after the song, I think. A band 
 Of red borders a brown Avide-running door 
 That opens on the wharf — a wilderness 
 Of extra spars, rope, riggings, codlines for 
 The cranky green-hulled schooner Lottie S. 
 
 A fish-house at its best's a fearsome thing — 
 All smells and slop of ancient oily brine 
 With bulk of barrels for the seasoning 
 Of green cod. 'Tis no cellar rich with wine 
 That mellows for the goblet. 'Tis a place 
 For nastiness of evil wa3'^s and words, 
 l^Hien men are drunk and on them the disgrace 
 Of our ancestral beasthood falls like birds 
 Of carrion, squawking as their razor beaks 
 Tear at dead eyes ; for eyes are dead that fail 
 To look on beauty mth that awe which seeks 
 Truth in earth's loveliness that must prevail. 
 This have I learned since first I saw the sun : 
 Man's soul needs all the avenues of sense 
 For its high purpose ; ugly odors run 
 Cross current to the soul's experience. 
 With ugly sights and sounds, rank memories 
 Of olden griefs from which the body rose 
 
 21 
 
Uplifted by the soul. How hard to please 
 
 The God within the flesh, the God who knows 
 
 That dissonance is evil, be it sight 
 
 Or sound or smell, evil and therefore fraught 
 
 With anguish to the soul whose one delight 
 
 Is harmony. In hell the damned are caught, 
 
 Not by that beauty which the priests have banned, 
 
 But by that ugliness wMch walks abroad 
 
 Through earth's far loveliness, holding command 
 
 On every one who has insulted God 
 
 Who made things good. 
 
 The fish-house, Belle Mahone, 
 Was long and wide and high. Its westward gable 
 Had one round window like an eye that shone 
 Out on The Cove. A low deal gutting table 
 Stood left beside the door and near the post 
 That held the Lottie's bow when she warped in, 
 Discharging cargo at the wharf. Bill's boast, 
 "Hell meets wit' welcome when I feels for sin,'* 
 Was symboled by the fish-house Belle Mahone; 
 For in the great loft low above the barrels 
 Bill entertained his friends. Was it not known 
 That gambling bouts with rum and bloody quarrels 
 Marked many nights of Bill's return from sea? 
 Worse things are also said of what took place 
 Sometimes within the loft, things that must be 
 Passed by with veiled or with averted face. 
 And so the ugly odors and the sight 
 Between the barrels seemed a sacrament 
 
 22 
 
Of sin, a sign to signify the blight 
 Upon Bill Boram. 
 
 Parson Blaylock spent 
 His fervid eloquence in vain to move 
 This house of Beelial, praying it be hurled 
 To hottest hell, because it made The Cove 
 A hissing and a byword through the world; 
 But spite of all liis preaching and his praying, 
 Bill went his evil ways, and only turned 
 Aside from them when it was time for spraying 
 Tea roses and the lovely like that yearned 
 For fellowship even from this man of sin. 
 
 "The only time I ever says a prayer,'* 
 
 Bill used to say, "is when the buds begin, 
 
 An' honey-smells o' blossom loads the air 
 
 Wit' cargoes like them bloody ships that sail 
 
 From furrin ports o' Barbary an' Spain. 
 
 'Sa truth I tells you, fellers, I gets pale 
 
 At smells an' sights o' flowers from a pain 
 
 That starts inside me. . . . But — oh, hell! I say, 
 
 Come on, you stinkin' sculpins, have a drink." 
 
 Of course the gossips had their harpy way 
 On Bill's behavior, missing not a wink 
 Directed at that derelict of morals — 
 Kate Coolin — who could name as many lovers 
 As there were beads upon her string of corals. 
 Kate was a kitchen pot with many covers. 
 
 23 
 
She had a beauty of that faded kind 
 Which made one think of dahlias overblown; 
 And just because she laughed and did not mind 
 What women said, but gave to men her own 
 Wild drink of lust, Bill Boram and the others 
 Bowed do^vn to her and waited on her word, 
 Pledged her in rum and called themselves blood- 
 brothers, 
 While she looked on through green cat-eyes and purred. 
 Kate lived across The Cove, and owned her house 
 Within a garden that was walled with stone. 
 Kate often said, "A cat will hunt a mouse, 
 Why not a woman man? Else live alone. 
 Hell does I care fo' them old tabbies' talk!" 
 
 Then Bill would pour for her a dirty glass, 
 
 Laughing, "Their blood is milk, their bones is chalk; 
 
 You has more sense than any o' them, lass. 
 
 Life is a drink o' Forty-Over-Proof 
 
 For them as likes to take it at a gulp. 
 
 Old Blaylock needn't think that he c'n spoof 
 
 Us fellers who c'n beat Old Nick to pulp." 
 
 Kate's window opened on a bank of flowers 
 That grew in tangled glory near the wall; 
 Old-fashioned blossoms timing to the hours 
 And seasons of the year from spring to fall. 
 Her bleeding-hearts, nasturtiums, marigold, 
 Her hollyhocks. Sweet William and the rest. 
 Made Bill's heart ache for envy ; and Kate's bold 
 
 24* 
 
Green eyes, red mouth, full throat and buxom breast 
 Were sometimes more than rivaled by the blooms 
 Within her garden. 
 
 "Bill, ya damned red fool!" 
 Piqued, Kate would sa}^, "Again ya has tha glooms 
 From garden gazin' an' that kind o' drool. 
 Shet down tha windy an' come back ta cards. 
 Some day ya'll turn ta seed an' be a melon — 
 Tha mushy yalla kind in dunghill yards — 
 That's what ya'll grow ta be, mind what I'm tell'n." 
 
 For answer Bill would bow a humble head, 
 
 His shoulders quaking and his red brows bent : 
 
 "My God ! They makes me wish that I wuz dead — 
 
 Them flowers, Kate . . . they is so innercent . . . 
 
 An' we — what is we, Kate? When I guts fish 
 
 Or salts 'em down, I feels to home in hell, 
 
 An' drink an' whorin' is me only wish; 
 
 But when I comes upon the sight an' smell 
 
 O' bleedin' hearts or pansies, seems to me 
 
 As I've broke promise wit' some mate I know^ 
 
 The whitest, cleanest kind o' company 
 
 That I kept once — can't tell how long ago. 
 
 I sees his face an' knows it — yes I does — 
 
 Blue eyes like harebells — all the rest's in fog; 
 
 But them eyes tell me o' the man I wuz 
 
 Afore I . . . hell! give me a glass o' grog.'* 
 
 "Bill's tangled in tha riggin', fellas," Kate 
 Would toss her head and say, and look at him, 
 
 25 
 
Half fearful that the drink had turned his pate, 
 "Come, take a drink afore we douse tha glim." 
 
 Among The Cov'ers it was common talk 
 That drink and hellery had done for Bill. 
 They never trembled on a garden walk 
 At moonlit flowers when the night is still. 
 Earth-bound and blind, they never turned to see 
 What magic tapers burn above the grass 
 Among wild roses near the tracery 
 Of gray snake fences. Gleams within a glass, 
 Their world was. They were ordinary folk — 
 Regarding Bill's black passions devil-bom. 
 His moody love of flowers just a joke; 
 As Bill in turn regarded them with scorn. 
 
 Once on a time a voice called from a cross, 
 "Forgive them, for they know not what they do !" 
 That voice still calls where stupid people toss 
 Dice for man's seamless robe — not torn in two. 
 But raffled where he bleeds beneath the thorns — 
 The thorns that always pierce the brow of thought. 
 Crushed there by hands as ridged and hard as horns; 
 Hands of the people by the High Priest bought. 
 
 Bill's tragedy was this : No man could see 
 The Christ Who came to him upon a field 
 Where wild flowers are, in gardens where the tree 
 Stands sentinel above the phlox and Who appealed 
 To save Bill's soul through Bill's sweet love of flowers ; 
 And just because they could not see, they crowned 
 
 26 
 
Bill's head with mockery of thorns. The powers 
 Of darkness fain would follow with the hound — 
 His kennel is Convention, and his name 
 Public Opinion. When you hear their yell, 
 A soul is born and passes through the flame 
 Upward to God. Beware the stupid Good, 
 Who, being stupid, cannot therefore tell 
 Christ from the thief blaspheming on his rood. 
 
 Among Bill's cronies was a weakly one — 
 All trembling adoration of Bill's strength 
 And lust for sin — Elihu Conrad's son. 
 He was a man of an uncertain length, 
 Because his backbone could not keep his head 
 Upon a perpendicular. His hair — 
 Like floss from late October thistles shed — 
 Fell down to hide a slanting forehead where 
 A thin ridged crooked nose began to rise. 
 Sparse growths of floss were on his mouth and chin, 
 So weak, so empty and so gander-wise. 
 That one expected him to hiss. A thin 
 Throat met two forward-sloping shoulder blades 
 That bowed in meek acceptance of that yoke 
 Which all the unloved carry. "Ace of spades" 
 We called his awkward feet, and used to poke 
 Fun at his limp. Yet in this man's discord 
 One note was true: A sudden miracle 
 Of light and color, as from clear skies poured, 
 Would happen, like a kiss of love in hell. 
 When George in answer opened wide his eyes — • 
 
 27 
 
Blue as the harebells in a place of vines, 
 Blue as the moons on wings of butterflies; 
 Their color sent a prickling up the spines 
 Of men who left off cursing him to stare. 
 
 Bill loved him as a man might love a dog — 
 A thing for kicks, caresses, and a share 
 Of fragments from the table when the grog 
 Mellowed his mood ; but whether Bill was kind 
 Or cross, George serv^ed his master with a love 
 That seemed a very foolish and a blind 
 Passion to all the people at The Cove. 
 
 At sea George Conrad was Bill Boram's cook, 
 And he could cook as all the crew averred: 
 "G'arge Coonrad's figger-head ain't wo'th a look, 
 But G'arge's like fer cookin' ain't been heard, 
 Ner seen uv anywheres along ther Banks !" 
 
 Yet these same boasters of George Conrad's art 
 Played on their fo'c'sle cook rough oafish pranks, 
 Until his haunting harebell eyes would start 
 With overflowing tears; then he would clack, 
 "Gud-gud-guddamit, b'ys, leaf me erlone!" 
 
 His bunk behind the foremast had a sack — 
 Straw-stuff*ed — for bedding, hard as any stone, 
 With one rough dirty blanket for a cover. 
 Here midst the many noises and the smell 
 Of bilge and pickle brine, this loveless lover 
 Slept while the Lottie's bowsprit rose and fell. 
 
 28 
 
George seemed to us a half-wit harmless freak, 
 The bearer of the bladder and the bells ; 
 And when on Sunday nights we heard his meek 
 Voice quaver through the creaking and the smells 
 Down in the lantern-lighted fo'c'sle, we, 
 Playing at forty-fives, would turn to jeer: 
 
 "Nice thing ter have er parrot's company." . . . 
 
 "Vat iss dem tarn stranch noises vat I hear?" . . . 
 
 "Who let ther old gray gander from ther grate?" . . ^. 
 
 "It's jest er porpoise blowin'." . . . 
 
 "No it ain't." . . . 
 
 "VHiat is it then?" . . . 
 
 "A tomcat out too late." 
 
 Then George would cease to sing and make complaint, 
 "Gud-gud-guddamit, b'ys !" Within the murk 
 His eyes would seem to float and burn above. 
 Till we would feel afraid of further quirk 
 Or rough-mouthed laughter at this man of love 
 Who wanted nothing in the world to do — 
 So great his heart and simple all his soul — 
 But wait on bad Bill Boram and us crew. 
 He could not sing, he could not even pole 
 A clam scow; but he certainly could cook. 
 "Gud-gud-guddamit" was his only oath — 
 
 29 
 
He hissed it when excited — and his look 
 
 On Bill was worship. Bill was never loath 
 
 To take advantage of this utter love; 
 
 He treated it as we treat shrubs and trees — 
 
 All Nature's inexhaustive treasure trove 
 
 Of deep sea shells, polyps, anemones; 
 
 Shadows on inland lakes, when herds of hills 
 
 Crowd close together like wild buffaloes; 
 
 Fems and their fellows marching down deep rills 
 
 Of woodland water, guarding till it flows 
 
 Forth into rivers. We are casual 
 
 With Nature and but seldom moved to feel 
 
 Our debt to her. We must have ritual 
 
 And olden rites of prayer, who make appeal 
 
 To God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, 
 
 Forgetful that these high and holy Ones 
 
 Come down to men at evening Pentecost 
 
 Of skies that burn with westward setting suns. 
 
 When Bill was on a more than daily drunk 
 And helpless to ascend the long low hill, 
 Veering to leeward like a Chinese junk, 
 George came and towed him home, not minding Bill 
 Who roared on after, as a port-bound trawler 
 Comes roaring past the bar behind a tug, 
 Trailing a plume of steam, her black bow taller 
 Than that tug's funnel. George was used to lug 
 Bill's burdens made by many nasty sins. 
 He did not mind, he did not once complain. 
 When Bill in anger kicked him on the shins 
 
 30 
 
Or smashed him on the mouth. He bore his pain 
 Without a word and went on serving Bill. 
 For this we held George Conrad in deep scorn, 
 Adding our brutal horse-play with a will, 
 And made him curse the day that he was bom. 
 
 At sea Bill held himself apart from booze, 
 
 Because an aching head and rum-blurred eyes 
 
 Make bad Bank-Captains. There's too much to lose 
 
 By drinking, and Bill aimed to keep the prize 
 
 Won by the Lottie S. from year to year 
 
 For reaching port ahead of all her sisters. 
 
 So Bill would say, "They's time for rum an' beer 
 
 An' beatin' hell damnation into blisters. 
 
 When we discharges cargo at The Belle. 
 
 My creed is this : Pla}^ when they's time to play. 
 
 An' when thej^'s time to work, then work like hell — 
 
 That's what I alwuz said an' what I say." 
 
 So for that reason, there were golden hours 
 For Conrad and his meek soul's great desire — 
 Bill Boram — since they shared a love of flowers ; 
 And on that love unwitting they climbed higher 
 God's hidden spiral stairway to the stars ! 
 
 Oft when the dories left these two alone. 
 And George was humming hymns between the spars, 
 Peeling potatoes for the big beef-bone 
 Stew that we liked so well, or scouring pans, 
 Bill would come reeling down the quarter-deck 
 With what he used to call his Bible, Hans 
 
 31 
 
Gluck's Botany, calf-bound, without a speck, 
 Brass-cornered, margins of hand-tooled design — 
 Minute gilt vines — and center one red rose. 
 Then George would stop his dreary droning whine, 
 Cough, spit, or loudly blow his crooked nose, 
 And rise to meet his master, as a dog 
 In ecstasy of what he dumbly loves — 
 His eyes like blue rifts in a bank of fog. 
 As innocent as are the eyes of doves. 
 
 iSly mate and I would find them thus together — = 
 Our dory sliding down the hills of sea 
 To leeward of the Lottie — when the weather 
 Made fishing good and we sailed back to be 
 First on the home-trip, loaded to the gunwales; 
 And as we coasted, words like these would come: 
 
 "Them tubers must be planted deep. They tunnels 
 Up'ards to meet the light, sartin that some 
 Place waits for 'em — all blue sky an' green grass — 
 Wit' smells an' sights o' petals everywhere. 
 I tells you, G'arge, these facts is like a glass 
 In which you sees yourself. I doesn't care 
 A damn for chu'ch. The pa'sons is all wrong 
 'Bout hell an' heaven an' God an' Jesus Christ; 
 But surely somethin' seems to ache an' long 
 Deep down in me for blue sky-spaces. Twic't 
 Has I bored up'ards nearly through the ground 
 An' almost heard an' seen an' smelt the day 
 Jist on the other side o' dark an' sound ; 
 
 32 
 
Somethin' o' beauty mor'n the month o' May 
 
 When through the moss an' roots o' trees them stars 
 
 O' airly blossoms twinkles pink an' white. 
 
 I disagrees wit' pa'sons, an' these spars 
 
 A-tap'rin' up'ard tells to me a sight 
 
 More'n most o' men c'n tell. To hell wit' creeds! 
 
 Yet, begod, them dam tubers gets my goat. 
 
 I'm strong for fightin', an' I likes the deeds 
 
 O' deviltry; they is no man afloat 
 
 C'n lick Bill Boram, an' I'm surely bad; 
 
 But somethin' like a tuber's inside me, 
 
 That tunnels up'ard, somethin' that is glad 
 
 In darkness wors'n hell. What c'n it be?" 
 
 "Yersoul!" 
 
 "Oh, hell! they ain't no soul." 
 
 «Ther iz.*' 
 
 "You goddam gander, when we's dead we's dead!'* 
 
 "Ther hell yer sez zo? Then what wuz it riz 
 Right up within yer when them May flowers spread 
 Over the moss an' through ther roots o' trees ?" 
 
 Then Bill would spy us, close the book and go 
 Mumbling a Litany of blasphemies, 
 Climb quarter-deck and disappear below. 
 
 We thought these things a weakness in our Bill, 
 Nodded and looked at night across the cards, 
 
 33 
 
While one would say, "Th' ol' man has lost his skill 
 O' cu'sin', an' he'd better brace his yards 
 Afore he takes ter prayin' — damn his soul !" 
 
 And then another, "All Bill wants is grog." 
 
 Another, "This damn fo'c'sle is a hole 
 
 In hell — all smoke an' smell wors'n any fog!'* 
 
 And for'ard of the table George looked on, 
 His great eyes floating on a sea of smoke. 
 As I have seen two mountain peaks at dawn 
 Swim in a sea of mist before it broke. 
 
 "That gander's got him crazy," one would say 
 And squirt tobacco juice at patient George. 
 "What does we want wit' his likes anyway? . . . 
 Crawl in yer bunk, damn yer, yer gets me gorge !" 
 
 We did not like those moments of our Bill 
 When he was mooning after foolish flowers; 
 We wanted him to do as we did — kill 
 Time with a bottle, souse his idle hours 
 In brown and bitter Demarara rum 
 We always got in kegs from Foxey Doolin. 
 We did not like to see our Bill so glum. 
 And said, "It's time fer port an' grog an' foolin' 
 At Sister Kate's er at ther Belle Mahone." 
 We whooped like mad when Bill's word came at last, 
 That put within the Lottie's mouth a bone — 
 Her gunwale under and the main hatch fast. 
 
 34 
 
There only was one man whom Bill respected, 
 Old Bobby Fox who lived above The Cove ; 
 His running gear looked always much neglected, 
 And yet he had the austere face of Jove. 
 His forehead mounted upward to his hair — 
 The way a cliff keeps climbing to a cloud ; 
 His eyes would twinkle kindly or would stare; 
 His voice was seldom high and never loud. 
 He was a master builder. No man knew 
 The ins and outs of mill-dams more than he. 
 He could conduct a log raft and a crew 
 Of drunken drivers down the stream to sea, 
 And never lose a log or man. A bottle 
 Was nothing more to him than 'twas to Bill: 
 One gulp, and all of it went down his throttle, 
 Then he was ready for another fill. 
 
 I who am Parson Blaylock's vagrant son — 
 Mate of the Flying Scud that sails afar, 
 Cruising for whales, from Port o' Caledon, 
 Within the circle of the Polar star — 
 Hold Bobby Fox the finest man I know. 
 I got enough book-baiting from my sire — 
 A scholar of those solid sorts that grow 
 In English Alma Maters — to aspire 
 Beyond Bill Boram and his cook and crew; 
 So read and talked at times with Bobby Fox, 
 When they were drinking "Donald's Honey Dew" 
 Down at The Belle or where Kate's rows of phlox 
 Bordered the bank abloom with bleeding hearts. 
 
 35 
 
While it is true I vexed the Parson's soul, 
 Determined not to take a course in arts 
 At Windsor College, having for my goal 
 A Deep-Sea Captain's papers ; yet I owe 
 All that I have of love for English Letters 
 To Bobby Fox, who taught me how to know 
 The poets from those fools who ape their betters 
 With crooked lengths of raucous empty words. 
 He made me understand how mighty God 
 Transfigured scales and fins to feathered birds, 
 And shaped the throat of Helen from the clod. 
 Self-lifted from the welter of his world, 
 He made his mind a mirror of the ages. 
 
 Still do I see him, with his white beard curled 
 By clutching fingers, pondering the pages 
 Of some old book. I liked him best of all 
 His moments with me, when he read from Keats, 
 Expounding as he read. His voice would fall 
 In measured m^usic to those great-winged beats 
 That lift "The Nightingale" beyond the sun 
 Of Shakespeare or the flame of Shelley's star, 
 Until the deep dream of Endymion 
 Became in me one moment's avatar 
 Of beauty: then I drank the purple cup 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
 Flooding my soul with wine, and lifted up 
 By wings of fancy, fled away with him 
 To magic casements opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 36 
 
Vagrant and wastrel, without kith or home, 
 I know that then my spirit's self was bom. 
 
 The reason why Bob loved to drink with Bill 
 Was that he saw the mystical red rose 
 In Bill's sweet love of flowers, and found the still 
 Deep water which the Shepherd Spirit knows. 
 Tliough many people called Bob Fox a fool, 
 Laughed at his long white hair and tangled beard, 
 He was to Bill an angel of the pool — 
 Stagnant, scum-covered, pregnant with a weird 
 Wild family of things that skipped and twittered. 
 Till it was troubled by the breath of wings. 
 
 Old Bobby's house among the trees was littered 
 With books and papers. "I like to have the things 
 About me in a tumble. Books are selves ; 
 They should be made to feel like folks at home — 
 And not like strangers, stacked there on those shelves,' 
 He used to say. "Now look at Gibbon's 'Rome' 
 All torn and tattered lying on the floor 
 With Tacitus and Homer. Can't you hear 
 Them gossiping? They are old friends. Before 
 You, Bill, were bom, or ever thought of beer, 
 They were old cronies toddling down the road 
 Together. See how Keats and Burns debate 
 Odd matters of their craft. They need no goad 
 To prick their wit. There Lamb and Shelley wait 
 For Wordsworth — always slow and pondering. 
 Coleridge has come, half-crazed from taking dope, 
 
 37 
 
But Godlike in his madness, wondering 
 
 At what he hears, wistful, too weak to cope 
 
 With Hfe, yet loving it, and humble — glad 
 
 To be among his fellows. Tliat great hunch 
 
 Of cheekbones and red hair is Byron. Mad 
 
 He was, all right, and all hell flame — could crunch 
 
 A cockney's chest-bone with his fist. He swam 
 
 The Hellespont — could beat you, Bill, at swearing. 
 
 He stood alone and did not give a damn 
 
 For hfe, divine and beautiful in daring." 
 
 Bob was a rebel. His gray eyes had seen 
 
 Too many lies go garbed in honest worth 
 
 For him to acquiesce. "It gets my spleen 
 
 The way those actors walk about the earth 
 
 As if they owned it.'* . . . 
 
 People of The Cove, 
 The parson and the local pedagogue. 
 Held this man with the austere face of Jove 
 Demented or hell-bound. He had a dog 
 Named "Tob" — an English bull — the tawny kind — 
 All growl and teeth and wrinkles. When Bob closed 
 His gate and took the road, Tob went behind. 
 Snuffling and coughing. When Bob sat, he dozed 
 Between his feet. WTien Bob got up to go, 
 Tob came to life and wagged his stumpy tail. 
 Barking. Bob thought him wise and liked to show 
 What Tob could do — Bill laughing hke a gusty gale. 
 
 Bob liked to call himself agnostic, said, 
 "Nobody knows how man came here at all. . , « 
 
 88 
 
Don't quote the Bible! 'tis a guess-book — ^read 
 Only by those who hold to Adam's fall — 
 A book of fables and of prophet-stuff. 
 Prophets are just good guessers. As for priests"- 
 Here Bob Fox always swore — "I hate their guff 
 About the Sabbath and their fasts and feasts. 
 I cannot see that they have changed so much 
 Since Annas and his son-in-law hung Christ 
 On Golgotha. . . . There was a man! No touch 
 Of snobbishness on him. He had the gist 
 Of common sense. If he survives the cross 
 And lives somewhere among those distant stars — 
 I don't deny, Bill, it's a pitch and toss 
 Tliat he's alive somewhere without the scars 
 His poor dead face had when they took him down — 
 If he's alive somewhere and hears the drool 
 Blaylock declaims about a harp and crown 
 And raiment whitened in a bloody pool, 
 It must make him ashamed and want to hide 
 His head behind a planet and forget 
 That he was sold for cash and crucified ! . . . 
 Come, Tob. . . . Night, BiU! . . . Wind's east. . . 
 Guess 't'U be wet." 
 
 Of course, as I have said. The Cov'ers thought 
 Bob Fox worse than a fool. At sermon time. 
 They nodded heads when Parson Blaylock brought 
 His admonition hard against the crime 
 Of creedless living. He would say, "Who knows 
 What God's thoughts are? Beloved, we are worms, 
 
 39 
 
Vile earth and sinners. God himself bestows 
 Grace and redemption; we must take his terms 
 Or go to hell ; he who denies the cross, 
 Denies that unforgiving wrath of God 
 Which Christ assuaged for man. Eternal loss 
 Be his who leans not on the staff and rod 
 Of our religion. . . . Let us, brethren, sing — 
 Hymn 9 : 'There is a fountain filled with blood.' " 
 And as they sang, my thoughts went wandering 
 With Bobby Fox and Bill through Wylie's Wood. 
 
 I know that I have been a worthless son — 
 
 Unworthy of the man whose name I bear — 
 
 And I deplore the deeds that I have done 
 
 In quest of idle pleasure — ^black despair 
 
 Is on me as I write — yet this I know : 
 
 That father would have been a greater man, 
 
 And I a better son, if, long ago. 
 
 He had renounced the God of Caliban 
 
 Which he mistook for Jesu's God of Love. 
 
 Had he preached Him Whom Jesus used to preach. 
 
 What wonders would have happened at The Cove; 
 
 What miracles and marvels on the beach ! 
 
 The Parson was a man of gloom. His eyes 
 Held ice within their blend of gray and green. 
 Small and close-set. Like Byron's Bridge of Sighs, 
 His dominating nose was doom. Between 
 The thin-pressed lips no laugh could ever live — 
 It died ere it was bom. Those lips were like 
 
 40 
 
The lips of Borgia who could not forgive 
 
 A rival's word. His tongue, a sting to strike 
 
 And poison as it struck, made me afraid — 
 
 Who would have loved him. He was straight and true, 
 
 Lived close to his convictions. A keen blade 
 
 Within a scabbard, his soul liked to hew 
 
 The heads of the ungodly from their shoulders. 
 
 Had he known God of Whom he talked so much, 
 
 Our hearts had not been hard as granite boulders ; 
 
 We might have felt instead the tender touch 
 
 Of Him Who loved the lilies of the field 
 
 And played with wrens and sparrows, as He played 
 
 With children in the market, and appealed 
 
 To sinners, saying, "Do not be afraid !" 
 
 This cold-eyed son of thunder and of gloom, 
 
 Drove Bobby, Bill, myself and many others 
 
 To outer darkness and eternal doom ; 
 
 Called us the sons of Beelial. Like brothers, 
 
 We gaily moved against the gate of hell. 
 
 Storming its locks with laughter. "Rum" our word, 
 
 We passed it on to Satan and who dwell 
 
 Forever w^ith him. Bill was never heard 
 
 With God's name on his tongue save when he swore — 
 
 And Robert Fox on sunny summer mornings, 
 
 Walked past the church and its wide open door. 
 
 What time the pulpit creaked with parson's warnings ! 
 
 The gossip of the gossips of The Cove 
 Was named "She Weasel" by her bitten sisters. 
 
 41 
 
Her topboots and her bonnet seemed to rove 
 
 From dawn to dark. No lips of love had kissed hers, 
 
 But surely hate and malice had. She washed 
 
 Clothes for a living, when she did not hoe 
 
 In gardens. By her conscience unabashed, 
 
 She thrived on scandal, seeming glad to know 
 
 Evil of any one. She was the head 
 
 Of our auxiliary. She had saved money, 
 
 So loaned it out at ten per cent. She said, 
 
 "De Bible puts it dat way. . . . Ain't it funny 
 
 How God wo'ks wit' de godly! I gets rich 
 
 By 'beyin' Numbers 18:21. 
 
 Bill was her bugbear, called her "That old witch !" ; 
 Teased her at times and, talking to her, spun 
 Yarns by the fathom of the fisher folk. 
 And sent her flying through The Cove to tell — 
 What never happened! This we thought a joke 
 And laughed together, drinking at The Belle. 
 
 The Weasel's brother had the writer's itch 
 And filled the county paper full of rhyme. 
 He used to say, "Bill Shakespeare hadn't sich 
 A knack o' werse — c'n beat him any time ; 
 He mostly wrote a werse dat dey calls 'blank,' 
 Vich means he couldn't alvays keep de jig, 
 Like Johnny c'n. . . . Say, b'ys, to hear John spank 
 De fiddle is a sight — squeals like a pig. 
 An' bellers like a cow, dat fiddle does. . . . 
 You has to keep de jig, or else you ain't 
 
 42 
 
A poet as I is. Vunce ven I vuz 
 
 Out valking on de beach, I felt all faint 
 
 Vit' music that come soundin' on de sea, 
 
 An' den, I svears vit' all my heart, I jest 
 
 Could hear de angels laughin' plain's could be, 
 
 As if dey vere a ridin' on de crest 
 
 O' vaves that slithered sodden on de sand! . • . 
 
 That's vy I is a poet, 'cause I knows 
 
 Vat most o' fellers cannot onderstand: 
 
 De reason vy de red is on de rose ; 
 
 Vy birdsongs in de bushes makes you mad 
 
 Vit' longin' for to leap onto de air — 
 
 Does any of you fellers feel dat glad 
 
 For beauty dat you vants to pull your hair?'* 
 
 We laughed at him, as we made fun of George, 
 And idled while he worked and talked along — 
 All smudge and sweat within his roadside forge; 
 His beaten anvil clinking into song. 
 No beauty that I know of touched his face — 
 His eyes were crossed, his chin a crooked pear — • 
 But something in his words, distilled by grace 
 From deep-throat music, made us all aware 
 Of one who wore the colored coat of dreams. 
 His friend was little blind old Johnny Deal 
 WTio played the fiddle. Quaint familiar themes 
 Of music were his choice — ^Virginia Reel ; 
 St. Patrick's Day; the Brides of Enderby. . . • 
 How he could play them! Sitting on a keg 
 Of horseshoe nails, he made such melody 
 
 43 
 
Tliat we were bound to shake a joyous leg, 
 Dancing about the forge, while, with his hammer, 
 The poet-blacksmith kept a clinking time; 
 Until we filled the cob-webbed roof with clamor 
 Of thudding footfalls through the lusty rhyme: 
 "The leg of a duck, 
 The wing of a goose — 
 Ta-ra — ta-ra — too-looral-riday." 
 
 Sam Publicover was our poet^s name, 
 And he lived with his sister on the hill, 
 Not far from Foxey Doolin. When a game 
 Of forty-fives was on, and Skipper Bill, 
 Mellowed by liquor and his luck at cards, 
 Said, "Send for Sam an' Johnny," George the cook 
 Would answer, "Fill me a glass an' brace me ^^ards. 
 An' I will go an' git 'em, hook er crook!" 
 And when Sam came with John and Johnny's fiddle, 
 Things happened in the great loft of The Belle. 
 Kate Coolin and her reckless kind — the riddle 
 Of all the ages how they slip to hell — 
 Were always there and ready for that fun 
 Which drink and elemental sex produce; 
 Ready as any man with fist or gun — 
 To kiss or fight was all the same, for use 
 Had hardened them. Sam called the dances off, 
 While Johnny played, seated upon a table 
 And thumping with his feet. No pig-sty trough 
 Was filthier than the floor. The low wide gable 
 Held all the smoke ; but we had lungs like leather. 
 
 44 
 
Chairs, tables, back against the sloping wall. 
 
 We chose our partners, kissed them and together 
 
 Danced till the webs of dawn began to fall. 
 
 Blind Johnny played his tunes in two-stringed chord, 
 
 Holding his fiddle well down on his breast. 
 
 His head thrown back, and chugging, like a Ford, 
 
 With both feet, keeping noisy time as best 
 
 He could above the racket that we made; 
 
 While Sam, beside him on the floor, declaimed : 
 
 "Come vit' yer richetty table . , . promenade. . . . 
 Saloot yer pardeners. . . . Kiss de gal yer tamed. . , , 
 Sashay . . . keep step dere, G'arge an' Mary Ann. . . , 
 De figger eight. . . . Now do de Sugar Bowl. . ,: , 
 A leedle faster, Johnny, if yer can. . . . 
 Now all toget'er on de Dutchman's Roll, 
 Den kiss an' lead yer lady down de line." 
 As Sammy called and Johnny scraped away, 
 The fish-loft, reeking smoke and smell of brine, 
 Rocked to the rafters till the break of day. 
 
 45 
 
PART TWO 
 
 "And with the mom those angel faces smile, 
 Which I have loved long since and lost awhile." 
 
 — JoTin Henry Newman, 
 
PART TWO 
 
 This is the picture, blent of light and shade, 
 Of bad Bill Boram. Have I dwelt too long. 
 And with too much detail on things that made 
 Him memorable to us? Forgive the wrong, 
 And in your kindness think a while on me. 
 Writing 'twixt watch and watch beneath the star 
 That bums above this frozen polar sea. 
 My table built about the old Scud's spar. 
 A man's soul is a bit of cosmic vapor. 
 It may become a planet or a sun, 
 Or it may be a twinkle on a taper 
 Set in a window for some absent one 
 Who tarries overlong within the night; 
 But I affirm to all of you who read 
 Tliis story, if it ever come to light. 
 That man is God's Son, that his final need 
 Is always God. I hold that we are here 
 On secret service, and in flesh disguised 
 That each may do his work and interfere 
 With no one. I maintain that God devised 
 All sorts and kinds of methods when he said, 
 "Let us make man," because God's mighty mind 
 
 49 
 
Is full of dreams, as this sky overhead 
 Is full of stars. If any man can find 
 The number of those stars, then let him tell 
 What are the plans and purposes of God. 
 
 Give me a chart of all the seas that swell 
 
 From shore to shore, and I will sight Cape Cod 
 
 Or round The Horn, with sextant, compass, log 
 
 To make my reckonings. Here is a chart — 
 
 This story that I write — a glass o' grog 
 
 Beside me on the table. Do I part 
 
 With reason who affirm enough is here 
 
 To pick my way and find what God is after? 
 
 If so, then close this page upon your sneer 
 
 And go your way, my friend, you and your laughter- 
 
 The world has lots of blind men — you are blind ! 
 
 Thank God, I think your blindness a disguise. 
 
 Or I might want to weep for all your kind 
 
 Wlio only have the outward form of eyes. 
 
 A little space of coastline is enough 
 For any sailor, if he have the art 
 Of making havens on the high seas — rough 
 Or smooth the weather — working by the chart 
 Through drowsy distances of wakeful nights; 
 And that is all I ask of you to own, 
 Who follow me. Behold, the harbor lights 
 Are winking down the windswept horizon! 
 
 A vulgar, dirty, drunken beast was BiU; 
 George Conrad just a dreary hopeless fool; 
 
 50 
 
Kate Coolin was indeed a jaded Jill; 
 
 The rest of us, mere tadpoles in a pool 
 
 Of green-webbed water, all save Bobby Fox 
 
 And Parson Blaylock my dogmatic father; 
 
 But, by the charted course that skirts the rocks 
 
 Of Scander Shoals and its wind-drifted lather, 
 
 I bid you ponder as I pick a path 
 
 Through what is written of my bad Bill Boram, 
 
 That we may find Christ in this man of wrath. 
 
 And finding, sing, "O come, let us adore himl" 
 
 The thing that I first started out to tell. 
 Began to happen in the Lottie S. 
 When Bill was well upon the road to hell, 
 And we were prone to curse but not to bless. 
 AU season luck had gone against the crew. 
 Our dories rode the sliding hills of sea. 
 And lurked within their hollows where the blue 
 Sky seemed to roof us over. Bitingly 
 Bill cursed us, as we cursed in turn at him. 
 Because the cod were scarce; and day by day. 
 We came back almost empty, save a skim 
 Of haddock and the like. We worked away 
 From cold, wet, dismal dawns to gusty dark 
 And made the Lottie by her dipping light, 
 Cursing in chorus, like a wolf-pack bark 
 Within the silence of a Northern night. 
 We picked out Bill upon the quarter-deck 
 Merely by all the waiting mass of him — 
 Fixed like a spar and reeling in a wreck 
 
 51 
 
Of rigging — save an intermittent, dim 
 
 Glow of his pipe. Bill's silence was far worse 
 
 Than blasphemy. Knowing the man, we felt 
 
 His soul was one red scorifying curse 
 
 Like a lake of lava. He stood hands in belt, 
 
 Marking our empty dories as we hauled 
 
 Them in and made them fast — ^hoat piled on boat, 
 
 As George the cook piled plates. If some one bawled 
 
 An extra curse, Bill did not seem to note 
 
 His noise. If one spoke to him, Bill's reply 
 
 Was just a jet of smoke above his beard, 
 
 And then a deeper fury in his eye. 
 
 Glowing like polished bronze. Somehow we feared 
 
 Bill's quiet more than his blaspheming lips ; 
 
 Turned hea^aly to eat whatever grub 
 
 George serv^ed, then smoked and talked of sea and ships 
 
 And wondered who had deviled our old tub — 
 
 The cranky green-hulled schooner Lottie S. 
 
 *'I does not like the look in th' oP man's eyes,*' 
 One of our dory-men would say. "I guess 
 He blames it on us fellers. Won't surprise 
 Me any if they's hell to pay 'fore long. 
 Unless we strikes some cod." 
 
 ''Ya damn well right,'* 
 His mate would answer, pulling deep and strong 
 At his clay pipe. "Bill's spilin' for a fight. 
 An' one o' these black God-forgotten days 
 He'll let tha devil tap 'im on tha shoulder, 
 An' then ya'll see what happens." 
 
 52 
 
"Sure, he'll raise 
 Hell a'right, afore us fellas is much older." 
 
 So none of us was taken much aback 
 
 When finally the devil entered Bill, 
 
 And he came down the fo'c'sle like a wrack 
 
 Of North-east squalls. Conrad had stopped to fill 
 
 The kettle on the stove which stood port side 
 
 The fo'c'sle steps. I saw Bill Boram kick 
 
 Conrad and crack a rib. 
 
 "God danm jour hide," 
 Yelled Bill, "get out o' this !" 
 
 I tried to pick 
 George from the floor, for he fell with a groan, 
 And met Bill's fist on my protesting lips 
 That said, "Bill Boram, you've a heart o' stone!" 
 
 "I has a heart o' hell for them as ships 
 
 For seamen an' is lubbers," Bill returned. 
 
 While I ran from his reach. The rest stood still. 
 
 George groaned again. The fo'c'sle lanterns burned 
 
 Yellow above his face so weak of will. 
 
 And void of purpose. 
 
 "HehaskiUedthecook!" 
 One muttered, adding, "They must swing who kill." 
 
 Then Bill stepped over George, closed fist, and shook 
 Defiance in our faces. "You damned scum 
 O' rottin' mud-pools, does you think I care 
 
 53 
 
You've stalled my rum 
 An' eat my vittles, but you does not dare 
 To stand against Bill Boram in his hour. 
 The wrath o' hell is on me, for you've shirked 
 All season. None o' you is fit to scour 
 Pans wit' the cook — a damn fool, but he's worked 
 His fingers to the bone for me!" 
 
 "And you,'' 
 I yelled with crimson froth through broken teeth, 
 "Kick him to death." 
 
 Bill glared at me. I drew 
 Back — eyes on Bill — then stood, touched my knife 
 
 sheath. 
 And waited. One by one the others crept 
 Past me for safety in the shadows where 
 The fo'c'sle ends, and where George Conrad slept. 
 I faced Bill. Underneath the yellow flare 
 And smoke of swaying lanterns. Bill went back, 
 I with him, swiftly on the clustered years 
 Of 3'^esterdays, as wild things take the track 
 Lost in the leaves of autumn. Ancient fears. 
 Old hates, stirred in us. From our glaring eyes 
 Ghosts of dead quarrels looked, as through the panes 
 Of haunted houses (are those tales all lies.'^) 
 Pale memories appear in autumn rains 
 Like tears of grief; they looked from me to Bill, 
 Met in the valley of the scattered bones. 
 
 54i 
 
And then I knew that we were Gods to kill 
 
 Or make alive. I heard vast undertones 
 
 Of choral words caught from the morning stars, 
 
 When all the sons of God shouted for joy. 
 
 Eternity was on us and the bars 
 
 Of space were lifted. Hate sought to destroy 
 
 That moment, but the morning song of Love, 
 
 As earth's foundations rose, did conquer Hate 
 
 And made him friend ; so they no longer strove 
 
 Together. I knew God was there, elate 
 
 With courage that is born of faith in things. 
 
 I said, deep in my soul where God is guest : 
 
 "It is no marvel that all beauty springs 
 
 From earth triumphant, that the leaves attest 
 
 With trees and grass, forever faith in Him — 
 
 O God, thy faith in us in turn demands 
 
 Our faith in thee!" At this, I saw a dim 
 
 White face of pain and movement of hurt hands I 
 
 As I stood waiting there for Bill to leap, 
 George stirred and groaned again. He tried to rise, 
 But fell back on the floor. He tried to creep 
 Closer to Bill, with hurt love in his eyes — 
 Eyes that were wet blue harebells when the mist 
 Rolls back from summer gardens — and to me, 
 They were as the rebuking gaze of Christ 
 Turned on the swearing Simon. Mystery 
 Of some pursuing and unbaffled love 
 Looked out from Conrad's eyes. I thought of all 
 That Robert Fox — ^the wise man of The Cove — 
 
 55 
 
Had taught me, and I heard once more the call 
 
 Of morning muezzins out of the East, 
 
 Through noises of old cities. Like strung beads 
 
 Fumbled by fingers of a praying priest, 
 
 I touched linked memories of olden deeds 
 
 By which man rose bleeding from the abyss 
 
 Whence all the worlds rise. Like a written page, 
 
 The past was. I knew I had lived for this 
 
 One moment of clear vision, and my rage 
 
 Against Bill Boram died down in the tears 
 
 Of Peter when he wept within the night. 
 
 Did that in me which went back through the years 
 
 Touch bad Bill Boram in the cruel might 
 
 Of his red wrath .^ He turned from me and saw 
 
 ^Vhat he had done, and then the red hot glare 
 
 Died in his gaze, as he, with waking awe, 
 
 Descended, as a man descends a stair, 
 
 The blue depths of George Conrad's misted eyes. 
 
 Did Bill find what I found? I only know 
 
 That on his angry face began to rise. 
 
 Like moon-rays on the sullen fall and flow 
 
 Of black sea waters, such a radiance 
 
 That I saw him transfigured. All the man 
 
 Was white and glistening. Was it just chance 
 
 The foVsle shadows lengthened to a span 
 
 Of terraced avenues of olive trees? 
 
 Strange that I heard a far-away sad crying, 
 
 As of a soul deep in the mysteries 
 
 Of grief — a soul within the shadow lying ! 
 
 56 
 
I saw so much that moment in a mist 
 As one sees ere one sleeps. Bill's face went white. 
 He stood above George Conrad, each great fist 
 Pale on the knuckles. In the yellow light 
 Of swaying lanterns, sometliing seemed to stand 
 Beside him; sometliing that had haunting eyes 
 Like Conrad's ; something with a wounded hand, 
 A smitten mouth ; something that pain made wise* 
 Bill could not see, but well I know he felt 
 That bleeding passion. . . . Suddenly he bowed 
 His body, then in presence of us all he knelt 
 At Conrad's side. He shuddered, as a shroud 
 Plucked by the wind shudders ; and then he spoke : 
 
 "God damn the feet that steps upon a flower, 
 The fingers that has ever blossoms broke ! 
 God damn to torment o' hell's hottest hour, 
 Me for a traitor! . . . Men, I has betrayed 
 Beauty ! . . . Look at his eyes !" 
 
 And one by one. 
 Bill's crew came down the fo'c'sle. Each man made 
 An act of reverence — the orison 
 Of souls that see God's beauty in a blade, 
 A bud, a leaf ; and seeing, are aware 
 Of His pervading Presence in all things 
 That grow above the soil or tread the stair 
 Of morning in a majesty of wings. 
 No word was spoken, as the men passed by; 
 For Bill's repentance poured upon their souls, 
 
 57 
 
As one may see, at dark, white water fly 
 Over the saw-toothed reefs of Scander Shoals. 
 Foul with the smoke of lanterns and the smell 
 Of bilge and pickle brine, the fo'c'sle seemed 
 A hollow on a hill. I could not tell 
 Why all the birds sang. Like a story dreamed 
 Within a moment, when deceiving time 
 Plays tricks with fancy, all I ever saw 
 Of beauty lived again, as in a rhyme 
 Love can create its past. A cleansing awe 
 Was on us, as we watched Bill weeping there 
 Before George Conrad who looked up and smiled. 
 The Lottie's fo'c'sle was a place of prayer. 
 Each of her crew had gone back to the child 
 That found Christ's Kingdom. Sorrow baptized 
 
 them — 
 Sorrow that is the prophet of the ford 
 Bethabara, to whom Jerusalem 
 And all Judea come to find their Lord, 
 Revealed by Sorrow standing in the river 
 And wet with water as of falling tears — 
 Sorrow on whom the Holy Ghost and Giver 
 Of life waits for His moment, when He hears 
 That prophet cry, "Behold the Lamb of God !'* 
 
 Out of the brute there broke the sudden flame, 
 As red wheat-poppies burst between the clod, 
 Transfiguring the Lottie's crew with shame 
 For all that they had done to George. They stood 
 Silent before the blue appeal of eyes 
 
 58 
 
That judged them, as of old Love on a rood 
 Judged men ; for every word that crucifies. 
 And every thought that weaves a crown of thorn 
 Must come to judgment — else the soul in vain 
 Strives upward out of night to meet the mom 
 Upon the path of knowledge that is pain. 
 I saw the faces of the Lottie's crew 
 Change to those faces forming through the mist 
 Of Angelo's great picture on the blue 
 Above Rome's ever-offered Eucharist. 
 
 "G'arge, has I hurt you to your death?" Bill said. 
 "G'arge, mate o' mine, I did not know that you 
 Had v'yaged wit' me from the Port o' Dead 
 To Port o' Livin'. Matey, is it true, 
 Or is I crazed wi' grievin' o' the catch 
 We has not made? It wuz so long ago 
 That we went sailin' past a garden patch 
 High on a hill — the place I does not know — 
 But, G'arge, I sees it, plainer than I see 
 Them dirty lanterns swingin' overhead. 
 Where did we live, my mate, and what wuz we 
 Afore we v'yaged from the Port o' Dead?" 
 And for his answer Conrad only smiled; 
 But in that smile I swear I heard a sound 
 Far overhead, a faint far sound and wild, 
 Like summer voices calling from the ground, 
 When one rests under trees and listens well. 
 It came upon me in a gust of words. 
 Like broken echoes of a distant bell. 
 And not unlike the twittering of birds : 
 
 59 
 
When it is morning, on the sky 
 The stars like dewdrops scattered lie; 
 And then, the sun, a golden rose. 
 Within God's garden open blows. 
 
 God's grafting knife, the quarter-moon. 
 Falls from His hand, when it is noon; 
 At noon he lets the tendril twine 
 About the stake above the vine. 
 
 God's cattle crop the tender grass. 
 They are the clouds that slowly pass — 
 They slowly pass along the way 
 Between to-day and yesterday. 
 
 God has no helpers but His sons 
 Who are His loved and trusted ones; 
 Together they go down the row 
 Where root and branch and blossom 
 grow. 
 
 As they go down, God laughs and talks. 
 He loves those early morning walks, 
 He loves the handles of a plough. 
 He loves the bending of a bough ; 
 
 But more than all He loves each son. 
 Wants him to do what He has done — 
 Wants all His sons to do and dare, 
 That He with them may all things share. 
 
 60 
 
God tells His sons, "I have a plan. 
 That we together may make man, 
 And on his forehead and his face 
 Impress our likeness and our grace. 
 
 "Out of the furrow in the clod, 
 
 Let us make man, my sons," saith God: 
 
 And all the sons together cry, 
 
 "We will!" across the morning sky. 
 
 "We will make man out of the clod, 
 We*ll make him great and good, like God; 
 And that he may not fail God's plan. 
 We will descend and be made man — 
 
 "We will descend and count no loss. 
 No pain, no sorrow, scourge nor cross; 
 We'll dare the depth of death and hell 
 That man may be God's miracle — 
 
 "God's miracle of love and laughter. 
 With all that is Christ coming after — r 
 God's miracle of lifted wings 
 Above a sea of sorrowings. 
 
 "We'll bend the sunbeams like a bow, 
 And bind them on his brow of snow; 
 And on his soul of sundered flame. 
 We'll write the new unwritten name. 
 
 "This will we do imtil the stars 
 Have flickered out, and all the bars 
 
 61 
 
That shut man from eternal day 
 Are lifted up and thrown away.'* 
 
 BiU said, "Tom Blaylock, you has dared the devil, 
 
 Dared liim an' beat him wit' a fist o' flame. 
 
 You does not know what you has done. The level 
 
 Path's mine now an' forever. By the name 
 
 Of Him as made the sea, and by the blue 
 
 Eyes o' my mate an' all the hurt I done 
 
 To him an' others ; by the wrong done you ; 
 
 By all the dirty hellery an' fun 
 
 O' summer nights wi' women, cards, an' rum; 
 
 By Jesus Christ an' his apostles, I 
 
 Will set my course for coast o' Kingdom Come. . . , 
 
 God send me to the devil if I lie !" 
 
 Then Bill went up the fo'c'sle stair and took 
 George Conrad with him. No man spoke a word. 
 We looked at one another, as men look 
 On sudden death. And then I thought I heard 
 A sound of song. It may have been the light 
 Wind through the Lottie's rigging and her spars, 
 But I was sure it was the harps of night 
 Heard by the shepherds on a hill of stars I 
 
 For days George Conrad lay at point of dying, 
 Down in Bill's cabin. We went at our work, 
 Spite of past failure, with the Lottie lying 
 Nose to the wind and nodding in the murk 
 Of foggy weather. Somehow we had heart 
 
 62 
 
For fishing as we never fished before. 
 Along the black-sea hollows, far apart, 
 Our empty dories swung with dripping oar 
 And creaking gunwales, till their fishers found 
 Cod for the cargo of the Lottie S. 
 Whether our luck changed or the cod their ground, 
 I do not know, but certainly success — 
 So tardy — came to us at last. We felt 
 That Bill had brought back fortune by his oath 
 And change of heart, that moment when he knelt 
 Beside George Conrad; so we blessed them both, 
 Nor thought, in all our badness, it was strange 
 How fast the cod came. We were well content, 
 Though missing George at grub-time, with our change 
 Of fortune, speculated much and spent 
 Time talking over Bill's behavior: "He'll 
 Get over it, a'right, b'ys," one would say 
 Above the gutting table, "an' will feel 
 Fer hell ag'in afore we sights ther Bay." 
 And then we'd laugh in answer and forget, 
 As men forget those moments of a dream 
 In which the soul sees all things clearly. Yet 
 I could not through the laughter lose the gleam 
 Transfiguring Bill Boram's stricken face. 
 And bled within, knowing that I betrayed 
 By laughter, God's infinitude of grace; 
 So turned aside in shame of self and prayed. 
 I turned aside and prayed between the spars, 
 And then my thoughts were multitudinous things 
 That flickered through the rigging to the stars ; 
 
 63 
 
As from a meadow, phosphorescent wings 
 
 Flicker and fade upon the clustered heights 
 
 So far above the tangle of wet reeds, 
 
 Grass and the creepers. Yes, my thoughts were flights 
 
 Of June fireflies that swarmed above my deeds, 
 
 Gave them a moment of their glory, then 
 
 Passed upward on their high mysterious path 
 
 That ends in knowledge. I could hear the men 
 
 Talking and swearing at the tables. Wrath 
 
 Was not in their rude manner, and each oath 
 
 Sounded a psalm of gradual degrees. 
 
 As when the Levites sang on Neginoth, 
 
 Going to Zion; their rough blasphemies 
 
 Were mediated through God's heart of joy, 
 
 And coming that way to me were made clean, 
 
 As all things are made clean. God is the Boy 
 
 Of love and laughter. God is never seen 
 
 By those who hate or snarl or sneer or frown ; 
 
 God is not heard by those who have grown old; 
 
 God has no sceptre, throne nor jeweled crown; 
 
 He is not found on Fields of Cloth of Gold 
 
 Where kings may caper and their lords may lie: 
 
 God is the gladness of a little child, 
 
 Tlie sudden interest of a baby's eye, 
 
 God is of life most joyously beguiled. 
 
 Forgive this trick of my too much delaying. 
 Critics have talk, I know, about their art. 
 And storm against the preaching and the praying 
 
 64 
 
Of Browning and of Blake. They cry, "No part 
 
 Have we with dialectics — ^be objective!" 
 
 I have my thoughts about all Pharisees, 
 
 Who limit soul to form. Can God's perspective 
 
 Grow in your canvas? Paint your clump of trees 
 
 And let them be but branches, leaves and bark; 
 
 Leave out the soul, you matter-minded fellows. 
 
 Make trees trees, be objective, cold and stark — 
 
 Squirt on your mess of blues and reds and yellows ; 
 
 But let me paint September goldenrod. 
 
 And trees, and birds, and men and everything 
 
 As I behold them in the ecstasy of God, 
 
 Above your chatter and your bickering. 
 
 I would not want to write about Bill Boram, 
 
 Were I not held by that which I have seen 
 
 In him and others. How could I ignore him, 
 
 By only telling? So much lies between 
 
 Events. Was it not once said long ago. 
 
 By one whose words are life-fermenting leaven, 
 
 "To you within the gate I give to know 
 
 The secret of the happiness of heaven?'* 
 
 Come back to Bill. What went on in the cabin 
 Those days and nights of nursing? It was said 
 By Oram Hiltz, the mate, "Begod ! Bill's grabbin' 
 A holt on heaven. Sure's hell he's off his head ! 
 Nary a cuss word, b'ys, but like a woman 
 He is with G'arge. . . . G'arge lies thar in Bill's bunk 
 An' gettin' fat, begod ! . , . Don't know what's comin* 
 
 65 
 
Over our Bill. Somehow he's lost his spunk, 
 Likewise his knack o' swearin' . . , Don't seem right 
 Fer Bill ter be like that, now does it, fellers? 
 Yer knows that book o' Bill's, ther one wi' bright 
 Brass corners, print in greens an' reds an' yellers? 
 Well he sits thar be G'arge and holds ther book 
 As it wuz holy, readin' erbout gardens 
 An' sich stuff. Every now an' then he'll look 
 Quite queer an' mutter, 'Master !' . . . When hell 
 
 hardens 
 Over wi' five foot o' ice an' thar is skatin' 
 Ercross the bottomless pit, I'll think it not 
 So funny as our Bill, the son o' Satan, 
 Turned angel. . . . B'ys, I tells yer this thing's got 
 Me on the beam erwash from stam to scupper! 
 An' that's not all, fer G'arge is not ther same. 
 Thar's times he looks like Jesus at ther Supper. . . , 
 Yer knows it, I fergets the painter's name. . . . 
 Some Dago done it . . . but begod, it's great! 
 Well, that's what I've seen G'arge look like. His eyes 
 On Bill has onderstandin'. ... As I'm mate 
 0' this green tub, G'arge sometimes looks so wise, 
 I'd swear Lord Christ hisself was thar instead 
 O' Coonrad! . . . Funny, too, this al'uz happens 
 When Bill sits readin' o' his book wi' red. 
 Green, yeller prints o' flowers an' garden mappin's!" 
 
 At first Bill came on deck avoiding us. 
 His word was spoken in an even tone. 
 He did not any longer foam and fuss 
 
 66 
 
And rage and swear. His face was like a stone 
 
 For lack of feeling, and his gaze went past 
 
 Our curious eyes, as he walked down and up 
 
 His quarter-deck, or leaned against the mast, 
 
 Sucking a pipe with bowl big as a cup 
 
 And filled with cut Macdonald's. Though we muttered 
 
 Between ourselves and watched him standing there, 
 
 We dared not speak to Bill, so left unuttered 
 
 Our idle words. We felt the power of prayer 
 
 Upon Bill Boram had set his soul afire 
 
 With terrible torment that would last until 
 
 God had destroyed the devil of desire 
 
 To ghostly ashes in the heart of Bill. 
 
 The man's pride made him lonely, made him mute. 
 
 He knew that there was laughter, there was scorn, 
 
 At him among the men. He knew the brute 
 
 He gave them waited now with lowered horn 
 
 Or dripping tusk. He knew that he must meet 
 
 The bull and lion with the bleeding lamb. 
 
 He knew salvation would not be complete 
 
 Till Was and Will-Be had become I Am ! 
 
 George Conrad came back painfully to health, 
 For Bill had almost killed him with the kick 
 He gave him underneath his heart. With wealth 
 Of tenderness, amazing us, the thick 
 Hard hands of Boram paid in full the score 
 Writ down against him by the pen of God. 
 Bill's drug-kit slowly emptied of its store 
 Of arnica and bandages and odd 
 
 67 
 
Assortments of quinine and rhubarb root; 
 For George had fever and he raved of things 
 That live on horror — ^bat-like things that loot 
 Their prey in darkness — forms of fangs and stings. 
 
 All this the mate told us from time to time, 
 And well we listened 'neath the fo'c'sle lamps. 
 He told how George saw scaly monsters climb 
 Out of the clock and cried, "Them beasties champs 
 Ther bloody jaws at me!" Once in the bevel 
 Of Bill's round mirror, in a deep red glow, 
 George said he saw a short-homed bull-faced devil 
 With harpoon tail and hoof-like cloven toe. 
 "An' strangest part o' all this rage an' ravin', 
 Is Bill's — our Bill's — peculiar way wi' him. 
 It makes no difference how G'arge is behavin'. 
 Bill's like a woman wit' a baby's whim !" 
 
 The weeks went by, and then we had our wish — 
 Full cargo ; for the Lottie's water line 
 Was now well down ; she floundered, like a fish 
 Caught in the shallows where the kelp-stalks shine, 
 And blown about the belly. Half a gale 
 Had hit the Banks and blackened all the sea 
 That broke in wisps of white, when we set sail 
 For harbor and for home. How merrily. 
 The capstan squealed and cluttered with the chains 
 Coiling below the hatch, as we went round 
 Singing against the anchor! Chantey-strains 
 Were lifted from our throats: "The Ship's Home- 
 bound" ; 
 
 68 
 
"'Tis when you're out to sea, my boys" . . . "Boston" . . , 
 "The Crew of the Sary Ann" . . . "Here's hell-fer- 
 
 blazes" . . . 
 "The Lowlands Low" . . . "The Captain's Gall" 
 
 . . . "Lost on 
 The Lady Elgin" . . . "Sink the Cook that Lazes"— 
 This last I wrote and taught the men to sing 
 At George's cost, when, drinking at The Belle, 
 We taunted him with our bull-bellowing 
 Of fog-horn voices from the throats of hell. 
 
 Bill stood abaft the wheel and urged us on 
 In his old-time deep thunder, but his words 
 Commanded — there were now no oaths. The dawn 
 Rose with the Lottie's sails that flashed like birds 
 In flight down green-comb hollows off^ the shore. 
 Close on the wind, the Lottie met the blast 
 Cold from the North, wallowed, then filled and bore 
 Away on her long tack. The men made fast 
 Her hatches, cleared the decks and roped their dories 
 In tiers of three along her bulwarks, then 
 Began their lilting chanties — old song-stories 
 Of black-eyed Susans and their sailor men. 
 The sun was like a scimiter within 
 Its sultan's pearl-gray sash; changed and became 
 A monstrance lifted by a priest for sin. 
 High over heads bowed at the Holy Name. 
 Down her far path of silver sunrise-glow, 
 The Lottie poured, her snapping topsails set 
 Above a bellying of drifted snow — 
 
 69 
 
Main, foresail, jib — ^her sheeted canvas wet 
 
 With white spume from her yellow bowsprit flying. 
 
 She seemed homesick for havens far away — 
 
 The curving Cove beneath the red roofs lying 
 
 Within the Ledge that barriers the Bay. 
 
 She seemed to dance and sing upon the sea. 
 
 Like some brown wind-blown breathless fisher lass 
 
 Who runs to meet her man, expectantly 
 
 And mad for kisses, when the white sails pass 
 
 Down avenues of wharves until they home 
 
 At anchor. Hers was such a haste of love 
 
 That one could feel her tremble through the foam, 
 
 Her wild soul singing as she swayed above 
 
 Green hills and hollows of gray horizons 
 
 Of water ridged with sudden crests of snow. 
 
 She seemed a queen, and we her myrmidons, 
 
 Of some lost empire in the long ago. 
 
 I think the Lottie's spirit spoke to Bill 
 And gave him comfort : wild met with the wild. 
 Strong with the strong, laughter with laughter, till 
 Joy like the gladness of a little child 
 Shone in his eyes and took the downward curve 
 Out of his mouth. This much we saw. 
 Yet dared not speak to him. We sought to serve 
 Our captain in a thousand things, but awe 
 Of what had happened held us by an arm 
 More terrible than steel. We still had hope 
 That when we made port, Bill would find the charm 
 Of Kate and cards, and all the dirty dope 
 
 70 
 
With which we soiled ourselves, potent as ever ; 
 So waited with a growing grin and nod, 
 And pledged ourselves to uttermost endeavor 
 Of getting Bill out of the hands of God — 
 God? He stood in the way of our intent, 
 And so we hated Him. God wanted Bill — 
 Well then, let God see to it, circumvent 
 Us if He could ; since God gave man a will, 
 Man must forever be in full rebellion. 
 Against God, though he pay eternal pain, 
 And offer up himself to every hellion 
 Lest he adore The Lamb for sinners slain ! 
 
 And what of me — the man who writes this story? 
 Strange that I saw so much and failed the vision. 
 Strange that my moment of the mystic glory 
 Faded above the Valley of Decision! 
 Yet it is told how Christ came down the hill 
 With beauty on his white transfigured face, 
 And John and James and Peter could not still 
 The raving of a child, though Jesu's grace 
 Had shone forth through his garments on their sight; 
 So hard it was for them to use that power 
 Which comes in morning moments on the height. 
 It is not easy to retain the hour 
 Of God in gardens or the mountain peak ; 
 The soul that trembles to a perfect tone, 
 Aches ever after and is doomed to seek 
 Until that moment has been made its own. 
 So I was struggling in that binding mesh — 
 
 71 
 
Desire — which custom throws to catch the spirit, 
 Then chokes it with the fingers of the flesh; 
 I wanted heaven, yet dreaded to draw near it. 
 
 The days went by, of many kinds of weather : 
 Days that were dull with smothering of fog 
 Through which the Lottie, driving hell-for-leather, 
 Howled with her horn like any lonely dog ; 
 Days that were sunshine on a sea of beryl; 
 Days that were dirty with wet gusty squalls 
 Heaving the schooner over; days of peril, 
 When Bill stood at the wheel in overalls 
 And slicker, holding the Lottie to the wind, 
 Close reefed, and taking in the sea so fast 
 We had to work the pumps until we skinned 
 Our fingers to the bone ; the danger past. 
 We tumbled down the fo'c'sle, yelled for George, 
 Who, being healed, returned that he might serve 
 Old savory dishes that we loved to gorge — 
 Fish chowder, plum duff, dumplings — ^his chef- 
 d'oeuvre — 
 Washed down with coffee. No one thought to tease 
 George. Bill had spoken once for him to us. 
 He spoke in such a manner as to freeze 
 Blood in your heart to hear twice, made no fuss. 
 Said merely, "Men, who mocks this man mocks me!" 
 And turned his back without another word. 
 
 George came back to the fo'c'sle suddenly. 
 The night the laboring Lottie nearly foundered ; 
 
 72 
 
Her topmast went and then her foresail split 
 
 And left her helpless — ^how she threshed and floundered, 
 
 While we worked in the dark deep as the pit 
 
 Of Tophet ! With the break of day was change 
 
 Of wind, and we, all wan and hungry, went 
 
 Down fo'c'sle; there was George before his range, 
 
 And with hot chowder, ready for the spent 
 
 Poor fellows who could only look their thought 
 
 And their amazement. After that came Bill — 
 
 Haggard, remote but stem, and said, "I've brought 
 
 You back my mate ; let no man do him ill," 
 
 And added, "Men, who mocks this man, mocks me !" 
 
 So George came back to serve us as of old; 
 
 And in his eyes a most sweet mystery 
 
 Of love grew, like a shepherd's for the fold. 
 
 Bill's word was like a sword of fire that moved 
 Forever up and down between the cook 
 And his old-time tormentors, and it proved 
 Sufficient safeguard for his friend ; the look 
 In Bill's eyes when he spoke and turned away 
 Was hand upon the hilt of that same sword. 
 Besides the grub was good. No one could say 
 Aught against George's cooking. When he poured 
 Coffee for us it was like paschal wine, 
 And when hot biscuits were upon the plate. 
 New brotherhood began, and me and mine 
 Were lost in you and yours. Love did create 
 God in the sacrament of drink and bread; 
 And through the Lottie's creaking deck there came 
 
 73 
 
Once more, anointing every humble head, 
 The heart-red tongues of Pentecostal flame! 
 
 These things we knew not then, but after time 
 Led us to understanding. Some few felt 
 Power in George. A light that was sublime 
 Shone from his eyes. We knew him when he knelt 
 To feed his fire, for he was like a saint 
 Whom glory haloes. Something in his face 
 Belonged to fire that purifies the taint 
 Of Adam's sin and leaves instead Christ's grace. 
 Strangest of all, his reedy gander voice 
 Changed to a lovely sound. The foolish chin 
 Was now no longer vapid — purpose, choice, 
 Decision made it royal. From within 
 Something mysterious and beautiful 
 Looked forth, molded the man and made of him 
 One who was lordly and most masterful — 
 As one who walks at ease with seraphim. 
 
 "His Arctic loneliness has turned his head !" 
 Will one say.'' Then I answer back, "My friend. 
 Have you not met the resurrected dead.'' 
 They walk now in your streets, and they ascend 
 From Olivets that rise beyond your wall. 
 The Resurrection and the Life may turn 
 You any moment from the burial 
 Of old dead selves in some ancestral urn. 
 To meet His gladness grouped about by lilies 
 In long lost gardens found by you again, 
 
 74 
 
That He may tell you what God's holy will is, 
 And send you forth for singing songs to men — 
 Songs of the soul that lives and never dies ; 
 Songs of the stars, the moon, and royal sun; 
 Songs of the angels shouting in the skies 
 For all that God, the Lord of life, has done. 
 Why will you scrabble on the earth for straws, 
 And ache for beauty in a mirrored face? 
 Your soul is worth more tlian the hips and haws 
 For which you sell it in the market place. 
 I say your soul's the only worthy thing, 
 That you are here to demonstrate its worth; 
 And every beggar is an uncrowned king 
 More royal than the emperors of earth. 
 I say that there is nothing in Lord God 
 That is not beating bravely in your heart ; 
 He made you in His likeness from the clod, 
 And you are Christ's eternal counterpart. 
 
 The sun was standing over Scander Shoals 
 When we drove past the roaring ledge that bars 
 Bay Scander from The Cove. Under bare poles, 
 Bill sent the Lottie to The Belle with jars 
 That shook her to the kelson as she struck 
 The splintered spruce piles, while her hawsers flew 
 Like loons above lake water. Johnny Tuck 
 Stood ready on the wharf to catch and clew 
 The hawsers as they came, helped b}^ Jim Snair 
 Who always hobbled down in time to fill 
 
 75 
 
A pipe from my tobacco. "Make fast, there," 
 Came up so quietly to them from Bill 
 That Johnny gaped and said, "Well, I'll be damned !" 
 And Jim looked at him from the derrick beam 
 Stared, coughed and spit and said, "Well, I'll be 
 
 damned !" 
 They were as men who babble in a dream. 
 For they were wont to hear Bill laying out 
 In thundered blasphemies at God and men, 
 As he brought up the Lottie to the stout 
 Piles of the Belle Mahone, so wondered, when 
 Bill spoke them calmly. They were first to know 
 Of Bill's conversion, and the first to tell 
 Kate Coolin and the girls dolled up to show 
 The Lottie's crew the broad highroad to hell. 
 
 "Bill's split his tops'ls, b'ys," Kate Coolin giggled, 
 "I'll mend them fo' him, jest you neva' fear. 
 He'll be a'right to-night when he has wriggled 
 A hoochie koochie, afta rum an' beer!" 
 And so they cackled like a lot of hens 
 Back in the barnyard, while Bill and the cook 
 Stood on the hill and listened to the wrens 
 And robins in the trees that overlook 
 Bill's garden and his house. Twilight was down, 
 In filmy lilac laces, on The Cove, 
 And dancing over fish-wharves gray and brown. 
 The steeple in the distance, held above 
 The house reek and the roofs the brave appeal 
 Of Christ our Saviour, glorious with gold. 
 
 76 
 
The cross against the sky was like a seal 
 
 Upon a purple page for them unrolled, 
 
 And written with the promise of new life 
 
 That they must live forever who had found, 
 
 Out of old sorrow, bitterness and strife, 
 
 Christ in their love of beauty from the ground. 
 
 So had Christ come to them in love of flowers, 
 
 For Christ lies hidden in the things we find. 
 
 He comes down shouting with the April showers ; 
 
 He leaps up with the lilies and their kind — 
 
 Those spears of flame that bum up through the sod, 
 
 Like little tongues of many colored fire, 
 
 And is at one with what goes up to God 
 
 In hearts that beat with mystical desire. 
 
 Christ is God's ecstasy of pure creation, 
 
 He is the artist in the soul of things, 
 
 The miracle of magical elation 
 
 That from creative impulse ever springs. 
 
 He who would know Christ must have done with pray- 
 ing. 
 
 Go forth and find him where the tangled vines are, 
 
 Meet him on hilltops where the winds are playing, 
 
 Or in the woods where hemlock, spruce and pines are. 
 
 He haunts all rivers and the back still waters. 
 
 Inlets of lakes and their tree-sheltered islands. 
 
 Christ runs with logs that roar down dark mill waters, 
 
 Until the great boom their last wet mad mile ends. 
 
 Christ comes through fog that weaves above The 
 Scander, 
 
 His wings spread straightly up and down the sky 
 
 77 
 
Made blue for him; for Christ is the Commander 
 
 Of wind and sea and land, of things that fly 
 
 Or creep or grow. Christ is creative art, 
 
 The touch of God that gives existence soul, 
 
 Who is identified with every part 
 
 Of Nature, and yet crowns, completes the whole. 
 
 78 
 
PART THREE 
 
 L4 brute I might have been but would not sink 
 i' the scale." 
 
 — Robert Browning, 
 
PART THREE 
 
 Vainly did Kate dance down beside the Lottie 
 The night that Bill and George went hillward home; 
 Vainly she raved, "B'ys, th' ol' man has gone dottie ! 
 Come on, let's go ta him an' let us show 'm 
 We does not give a damn." Each shook his head, 
 Looked longingly at Bill's close shuttered loft, 
 And thought of nights that were forever dead. 
 Kate sneered, "The hull bunch o' you fella's soft — 
 Let's leave 'em, girls, they has become old women!" 
 She tossed her wild flamboyant hair and curved 
 Her red mouth at us. "Yes, they is old women 
 Fit fo' tha company o' cats. Bill's served 
 'Em dirty an' they has not got tha grit 
 To stand ag'in him." Then she turned aside 
 And left us wondering. No man saw fit 
 To follow Kate in her hot angry pride. 
 We stood beside the Lottie, at The Belle, 
 And counselled what we thought we'd better do. 
 Some were for going back to Bill's and tell 
 What Kate had said, urging, "O, he'll come through 
 Wi' rum an' cards, now that he's home again." 
 But most of us were hopeless, said, "No use — 
 
 81 
 
Bill's changed — We'll have to hang together, men — > 
 Let's go to Foxey Doolin's an' cut loose." 
 
 In days that followed, working, at the flakes, 
 
 Bill kept us busy till the cod were dried; 
 
 He spoke us kindly, said, "B'ys, for your sakes, 
 
 I wants to keep the Lottie an' divide 
 
 Her cargoes wit' you ; but I goes no more 
 
 A sailin' — I is done wi' that. The patch, 
 
 An' what I has already saved in store 
 
 For rainy weather, my share o' the catch. 
 
 Will keep me from the poorhouse. Make the mate 
 
 Your captain, let Tom Blaylock have his place; 
 
 I'll work at home, my men, for you an' wait 
 
 Your comin' back again through Scander Race." 
 
 So while we sailed away Bill made The Belle 
 A house of happiness. He cleaned the floor 
 And washed the walls until the evil smell 
 That lingered there was now at last no more. 
 He opened up the loft and let the rafters 
 Arch over wide and window-lighted space 
 That gave the room a feeling of sweet laughters 
 Called thither by compulsion of its grace. 
 "For every dirty deed done here by me," 
 Bill said to George, "I'll give back beauty, till 
 This house o' lies an' lust has come to be 
 Called 'House o' Joy.' " George answered, "Yer right, 
 BiU." 
 
 82 
 
These things took place when we were on The Banks, 
 And later heard from Bill and George and Bob. 
 Meanwhile She Weasle's rubber-booted shanks 
 Failed not their mistress ; busy on the job 
 Of taking her from door to door, they spread 
 News of the doings down below the hill. 
 "Bill Boram's jist gone crazy in his head, 
 De vay he's doin' tings. Say vat ya vill, 
 De Old Nick has him an' dat feller G'arge. 
 Dey's taken all de barrels an' de barrers 
 Out uv De Belle. I hears dey has a large 
 Polpit fer preachin' — 'tink o' dat ! Hell harrers 
 De ground an' Bill an' G'arge comes a'ter sowin'! 
 Does pa'son know dese doin's? I'll tell him den. . . 
 Sorry, me child, can't stay — I must be goin'. . . , 
 Pete Snyder's drunk an' beat his wife ergen." 
 
 Across Tlie Cove Kate hid her pride and jeered. 
 She said to Babbie Daniels, her best cronie, 
 "I knowed 'at it w'u'd come ta Bill — he's queered 
 Our fun wi' all his foolin' . . . Bab, if on'y 
 We'd git Bill drunk !" 
 
 At first, old Bobby Fox 
 Was puzzled, then he came to understand 
 What happened unto Bill and George — their talks 
 With him soon made things clear. He gave his hand 
 To each and said, "Boys, this is nothing new — 
 God rises up in us like sap in trees — 
 But how you must have paralyzed the crew! 
 
 83 
 
You got the Holy Ghost upon the seas ; 
 
 Though I'm agnostic, that I must confess. 
 
 You're changed all right and have been cured o' fault 
 
 By something more than human, Bill, I guess — 
 
 You sound as if you had been reading Walt." 
 
 And Bill replied, "I never read a book 
 
 'Cept mine o' Botany. I does not care 
 
 For all that po'try stuff. Give me one look 
 
 On things like marigold an' maidenhair, 
 
 An' I'll get more o' beauty than the whole 
 
 Lot o' them rhj^min' fellers ever saw. 
 
 Bob, I found this at last : Things has their soul 
 
 Which hides from us, accordin' to the law 
 
 O' beauty, as a woman hides each breast, 
 
 But gives 'em freely to the lips she loves. 
 
 Bad as I wuz, one thing in me wuz best — 
 
 The thoughts that come aflutter like the doves, 
 
 When I bent over flowers, touched the grass 
 
 Or lay at night a-listenin' to trees. 
 
 Things know'd I loved 'em, so it come to pass 
 
 That beauty beat me bloody on the seas." 
 
 Bob answered, "Certain as the sea is salt. 
 You've had your vision ; but you do not know 
 That all you feel was felt and writ b}^ Walt. 
 He footed down the highroad heel and toe, 
 Dancing his joy of beauty into words 
 Of tumult loud as old Niagara Falls, 
 Or softer than the little flights of birds 
 
 84 
 
At feeding time. The whole creation calls 
 Through Walt. The stars are tangled in his beard. 
 He makes the moon his flappy wide-brimmed hat. 
 He wears the blue sky for a cloak. Men sneered 
 At Walt. Some argued this and others that. 
 But all the while they snorted, squealed and chattered, 
 Walt went his way. He had no time to tarry, 
 The seed of God was in his hand; he scattered 
 Widely and well until the world was starry." 
 
 Bill stared before he answered, stroked his chin, 
 And pondered: "Must 'a been a man like me, 
 Saved from a load o' lust an' dirty sin 
 By gettin' through the door; for, Bob, you see, 
 That's what's the matter wi' the world — the door 
 Shets on it. They's a door a'right — ^I knows 
 That much — ^it shets men out from seein' more 
 Than they is able. No one ever goes 
 Beyont this door until the time is come. 
 This door can't be kicked open. You must stand 
 An' wait your turn. No use to knock. They's some 
 Who taps an' taps an' taps wi' gentle hand; 
 They's some who knocks in quite a Jinowin' way ; 
 They's some who kicks an' bangs ; it ain't no use. 
 The door stays shet. You can't get through for pay. 
 You can't pass wit' a ticket. They's no loose 
 J'int in the panels for the peakin' eye. 
 The door stays shet to preachin' an' to prayin'. 
 I hears folks singin' 'In the Sweet Bye-an'-Bye,' 
 But they'll get left like stubble after hayin' ; 
 
 85 
 
They ain't no Bye-an'-Bye upon a shore 
 
 All silver as wi' sand; they's Here-an'-Here, 
 
 Waitin' for 'em as passes through the door, 
 
 An' only then they'll read their title clear. 
 
 The door was shet on me an' I wuz bad 
 
 Bill Boram. Times an' times I heard an' seen 
 
 Sounds an' fair sights as through a fog. I had 
 
 A compass — love o' flowers an' the green 
 
 O' grass an' leaves — it kept me on the course; 
 
 But al'uz it wuz fog. I knowed somewhere 
 
 The land lay, but it wuz no use to force 
 
 A passage through the rocks. I did not dare 
 
 To make the harbor till the fog wuz lifted. 
 
 But oh them sights an' sounds ! They tempted me. 
 
 They wuz like yaller dust o' gold that's sifted 
 
 From tons o' dirt. Strange how it comes to be 
 
 True of all precious things, that man must earn 
 
 Afore he spends ! So I went on an' raised 
 
 Hell till my moment come. I used to turn 
 
 My back on beauty. Sometimes I wuz dazed, 
 
 An' run amuck o' life, did what I could 
 
 To damn my soul an' bod}^; but the sight 
 
 An' sound o' beauty looped me like a good 
 
 Hemp hawser loops a pile. Momin' an' night, 
 
 Somethin' held on hard a'ter me, until 
 
 I, who wuz counted worst o' men, an' swore. 
 
 Drank, gambled, lusted, sudden heard a still 
 
 Voice say, *Bill Boram, go an' sin no more !' " 
 
 86 
 
That autumn, we came back and found The Belle 
 
 All beautiful with paint and window flowers. 
 
 The roof was red, the walls were white, and — well, 
 
 We did not know the place of evil hours 
 
 That we once knew. A narrow gangway ran 
 
 Left of the Lottie's mooring post and met 
 
 Bill's new road round the shore. It was his plan 
 
 To make the lower log house that was set 
 
 Above the rocks a storeroom for the fish. 
 
 "Can't have no more o' them smells here," he said. 
 
 "More work for all you fellers, but my wish 
 
 Must be obeyed." We grumbled, nodded head, 
 
 Winked eye, thumbed over shoulder, bit a chew 
 
 Of blackjack, stared at Bill and thought him crazy. 
 
 It seemed a foolish thing for us to do 
 
 As Bill commanded ; and, then, we were lazy. 
 
 "What ! cart ther cargo o' the Lottie S. 
 
 In barrers all that distance.? I'll be damned!" 
 
 "What's come ter Bill.?" 
 
 "Dunno." 
 
 "Sunstroke, I guess." 
 
 "Th' oP shack's too small, o' course, an' will be 
 
 crammed 
 Ter bustin' . . . ain't no room below fer flakes. . . v 
 A hell o' time we'll have a drjun' cod!" 
 
 Kate rowed past, laughing, "Well, fo' tha land sakes, 
 Look at them fellas f etchin' fish, begod !" 
 
 87 
 
With all our grumbling and our oaths at Bill, 
 
 We did as we were told. We worked that day 
 
 Unloading cargo, hardly stopped to fill 
 
 A pipe or bite a chew. The long gangway 
 
 Was slippery beneath our oily feet 
 
 That tramped between the Lottie and the shack. 
 
 With barely room for carriers to meet. 
 
 We strained, slipped, swore, unloaded, then came back. 
 
 At last when day was ending, and The Cove 
 
 Gleamed like an opal on a woman's throat, 
 
 Bill gathered us together; stood above 
 
 Our heads upon the bottom of a boat 
 
 Turned gunwale down for painting at The Belle, 
 
 And said, "Men, I has words to say to you. 
 
 You thinks I'm crazy. Some o' you can't tell 
 
 Jist what you thinks. Old things has changed to new, 
 
 An' you all hates the change. They ain't no more 
 
 Rum in the loft wi' playin' cards an' tables ; 
 
 They ain't no dancin' on a dirty floor. 
 
 An' fightin' for a woman's mouth; the cable's 
 
 Cut an' no man c'n splice it, that is sartin ; 
 
 But I has somethin' better'n what is gone — 
 
 Come round to-night, men — now is time for partin'— 
 
 Come round to-night, an' see what's goin' on." 
 
 So when the stars from their high heavenly places 
 Leaned over the blue edge of that deep abyss 
 We call the sky, to contemxplate their faces 
 Mirrored within The Cove whose waters kiss 
 The saw-toothed rocks of roaring Scander Ledge, 
 
 88 
 
Bill's company came. We came with oaths and 
 
 laughter 
 That signified mm — brown as frost-bit sedge 
 That grows above The Belle; we came on after 
 The drinks were done, with felt hats tilted back, 
 Hands in pants-pockets, swaggering to show 
 Our ease of manners, though the sudden crack 
 O' doom should sound for us to go below. 
 
 The Belle was lit with lanterns — Chinese kind 
 That swayed in splendor high among the rafters 
 From ropes through pulleys. It was hard to find 
 Two lanterns like ; they shone with loves and laughters. 
 Long rows of ordered benches stood in aisles — 
 Benches with sloping backs, made from spruce deal — 
 Before a platform that was sweet with piles 
 Of potted ferns and flowers; one could feel 
 The spirit of those flowers in the air, 
 A pure invisible and welcome comer 
 Whose beauty haunted us like Helen's hair 
 That haunts the far-away dim hills of summer. 
 
 Bill stood within the door and gave a hand 
 To each of us, saying, "B'ys, come take a seat. 
 That you, Tom? . . . Here's Jake! . . . Jimmy! * . . 
 
 Ain't it grand 
 To have the b'ilin' o' you ! . . . Hullo, Pete, 
 You ol' tarpaulin ! . . . G'arge, look who's here — Jack 
 Barkhouse from No'th East ! . . . Johnny wit' his 
 
 fiddle! 
 
 89 
 
Come right in, Johnny — glad to see you back 
 From Coffin Island. . . . Gettin' fat o' middle, 
 Sam Publicover, pump the bellows more, 
 An' start redoocin' — quit the po'try stuff! . . . 
 Here's sight for sore eyes — gran'ther Jellenore! , 
 Say, guess this room's not nearly big enough.'* 
 
 So Bill met us, and George was standing by 
 All joy, and shaking hands and saying, "Now 
 Ain't I reel glad ter see yerl . . . seems as I 
 Can't get ernufF o' gladness, anyhow." 
 Just words — poor words — ^but on his happy face 
 There shone such dignity of man divine, 
 We felt a stranger-presence in that place. 
 Like Him Who turned the water into wine. 
 We felt and wondered and were overwhelmed 
 By beauty and by love and laughter, too. 
 As, when Sir Lohengrin, whom Arthur helmed. 
 Came to Brabant, the happy people knew 
 An overwhelming wonder. All our brag 
 And bluster blended into fine dismay 
 Of what we saw and heard. A great white flag 
 Festooned the platform table. To this day. 
 The picture has not dimmed, of Bobby Fox 
 At ease behind the table in the chair 
 He occupied at Bill's. His tangled locks 
 Were combed. His beard — a silver foam of hair — 
 Fell halfway down his breast and almost hid 
 The silver buttons on his frilled white front. 
 Gaping, we sat — not knowing what we did — 
 
 90 
 
Forgetful of the oaths that were our wont. 
 
 Then Bobby rose, pulled at liis beard, and spoke. 
 
 I have no memory of what he said. 
 
 I know that never sound that silence broke, 
 
 Zoned by his words, silence, the coveted 
 
 Possession of pure thought. He led us on 
 
 From plain to peak of that adventure shared 
 
 By God and man ; told of the distant dawn— 
 
 Blood-red above the frozen fire — that flared 
 
 Along horizons of massed ice and snow ; 
 
 Told us of man's emergence from the beast, 
 
 Of those first moments when his spirit's flow. 
 
 Poured forth in words of prophet and of priest,: 
 
 He made us see the working of the law, 
 
 Until he had us cheering, "Go it, Bob !" . . . 
 
 "We likes this stuff." . . . "You're Johnny on the 
 
 jaw!" . . . 
 "Damned, but 'e talks as if 'e knowed 'is job!" . . . 
 
 When Bob was done. Bill stood and spoke to us : 
 "B'ys, I knowed you'd like Fox's booky stuff, 
 An' I perposes that we at once discuss 
 Plans for our nights when winds is rough, 
 An' we has made it cozy in The Belle 
 Wi' lots o' lamps an' books an' magerzines 
 An' papers. . . . Come, cut loose an' break the spell 
 O' silence. Fox has knocked to smithereens 
 Them fables that made Bible a poor book, 
 An' opened wide the pages o' the sky 
 
 91 
 
For all to read. There's lots to talk. Here's cook — 
 He'll tell you things you never knowed nor I." 
 
 Then George came on the platform as we cheered. 
 
 He looked at us. He held us with his eyes. 
 
 He spoke: "I never knowed how much I feared 
 
 Love, fellers, till ternight. How much truth lies 
 
 In lovin' ! all ther wisdom o' ther world 
 
 Bides in man's friendship. Nothin' counts so much 
 
 As fellership. The biggest sea as hurled 
 
 Itself ag'in ther Scander Shoals can't touch 
 
 Th' immartal might o' lovin'. . . . Come on now, b'ys, 
 
 Let's cap this everlutin' light o' love. 
 
 An' git ourselves erquainted wit' ther skies, 
 
 Until ther Lard's erlivin' in Ther Cove.'* 
 
 "Damned if I don't believe them fellers mean 
 
 What they has said," cried raptured Johnny Deal, 
 
 As he felt for his fiddle in the green 
 
 Wool bag that held it. "Say, yer makes me feel 
 
 Fine!" 
 
 "Me, too, as my name's Sam Pubhcover !" 
 The poet yelled, as he clasped hands with Johnny. 
 "Come, start yer tune, b'y ; gif us 'Jolly Rover,' 
 Er let us haf 'Maxvelton's Braes is Bonny.' " 
 
 "Come, Johnny !" Bill called, "Let's us have the fiddle, 
 We means to make o' music one more beauty 
 
 92 
 
Sent to the world. Most everythin' 'sa riddle, 
 
 An' it ain't easy for to do your duty, 
 
 Till you has learned the law o' God from flowers. 
 
 An' sounds o' wind on waves or treetops singin' ; 
 
 Life is most always hell, until the hours 
 
 Smells like the grass or sounds like joy-bells ringin'. 
 
 So Johnny Deal stood forth alone and played. 
 He played as he had never plaj^ed before. 
 He seemed to be in robes of sound arrayed. 
 Like intermittent falls of rain that roar 
 On house-roofs with the wind or lull to weep 
 Like women for remembered woes, he swept 
 The gamut of sensation ; till the deep 
 Answered to deep. His tapping right foot kept 
 Time to the living bow and vibrant strings. 
 The Belle was full of faces that were framed 
 In arches of tip-touching colored wings 
 Above a swirl of folding clouds that flamed. 
 
 All this seems now so very far away. 
 And few will feel what I feel as I write. 
 I only know that soon another day 
 Broke on The Cove. That winter every night 
 Found all the Lottie's crew met at The Belle 
 To hear Bob talk of Nature and of man ; 
 To listen while Bill Boram stood to tell 
 His story of the flowers. The rumor ran 
 That Parson Blaylock turned aside to see 
 
 93 
 
What went on in his house of Beelial; 
 But I had quarreled with him, and to me, 
 Home was not home ; and so I heard the call 
 Of voices in my veins and shipped to go 
 North on a cruise — mate of The Flying Scud. 
 The rumor ran that he was vexed to know 
 How heresy held sway: "Man made from mud J 
 Who then is Christ? I tell you, Robert Fox, 
 Salvation hangs on" Christ's redeeming cross. 
 Man fell from grace, and Adam's error blocks 
 The road to heaven. There is eternal loss 
 For souls unless they have been justified 
 By Faith. God looks on mortal man in wrath, 
 When man pleads hot the Victim Crucified 
 And owns that nothing in his hands he hath." 
 
 Last time I heard from home they said that Bill 
 Holds nearly all The Cov'ers in his hand; 
 That drink and revelry no longer fill 
 The Lottie's crew with lust. I understand 
 That Bill and George and Bob have organized 
 A reading room within The Belle Mahone, 
 Where there are always talks and improvised 
 Music from Johnny's fiddle. All alone, 
 Poor Kate sits at her window, rails and sneers 
 At Bill to passers-by. She will not yield ; 
 Her wilful soul is adamant, appears 
 Seldom upon the road beyond her field 
 That foams in June with white and wind-blown daisies. 
 She Weasel still goes in her rubber boots, 
 
 94 
 
Clacking from door to door; but no one raises 
 A welcome eyebrow at her word. Dried roots 
 Are now all that surv^ive her thorns of scandal; 
 For Con^'ad's eyes and laughter have prevailed 
 On hatred and suspicion. She is a vandal- 
 Lost and discounted by those whom she flailed 
 Hard with her tongue. Yet I suspect that she, 
 Kate and the Parson and the few who hold 
 Bill crazy, George a fool, will come to see 
 What I have found through thinking: Smelted gold 
 Out of the quartz of Nature in the Christ 
 Who stands at red door of the heart and knocks 
 What time the lilacs in their purple mist 
 Mark April from the month of hollyhocks. 
 
 beauty of the autumn days that die, 
 O magic of the wind and shout of seas, 
 lifting of the little wings that fly, 
 O marvel of gay blossoms and the trees ! 
 Join with the miracle of human hearts. 
 The tender touching of all friendly hands, 
 Until the figured veil of Nature parts 
 To show how near to flesh the spirit stands. 
 Come, love of life, and lift the gate that bars 
 Man from his lost dominion of all things; 
 And let there be a going up to stars 
 With tumult of his long unfolded wings. 
 
 95 
 
My story ends. The polar night is breaking. 
 What do you think, my friend, of bad Bill Boram? 
 To me this Northern sky with song is shaking— 
 The song of Christ: "0 come, let us adore him I'* 
 
 3?HE End 
 
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