| |
| BROWN lived at such a lofty farm | |
| That everyone for miles could see | |
| His lantern when he did his chores | |
| In winter after half-past three. | |
| |
| And many must have seen him make | 5 |
| His wild descent from there one night, | |
| ’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything, | |
| Describing rings of lantern light. | |
| |
| Between the house and barn the gale | |
| Got him by something he had on | 10 |
| And blew him out on the icy crust | |
| That cased the world, and he was gone! | |
| |
| Walls were all buried, trees were few: | |
| He saw no stay unless he stove | |
| A hole in somewhere with his heel. | 15 |
| But though repeatedly he strove | |
| |
| And stamped and said things to himself, | |
| And sometimes something seemed to yield, | |
| He gained no foothold, but pursued | |
| His journey down from field to field. | 20 |
| |
| Sometimes he came with arms outspread | |
| Like wings, revolving in the scene | |
| Upon his longer axis, and | |
| With no small dignity of mien. | |
| |
| Faster or slower as he chanced, | 25 |
| Sitting or standing as he chose, | |
| According as he feared to risk | |
| His neck, or thought to spare his clothes, | |
| |
| He never let the lantern drop. | |
| And some exclaimed who saw afar | 30 |
| The figures he described with it, | |
| ”I wonder what those signals are | |
| |
| Brown makes at such an hour of night! | |
| He’s celebrating something strange. | |
| I wonder if he’s sold his farm, | 35 |
| Or been made Master of the Grange.” | |
| |
| He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked; | |
| He fell and made the lantern rattle | |
| (But saved the light from going out.) | |
| So half-way down he fought the battle | 40 |
| |
| Incredulous of his own bad luck. | |
| And then becoming reconciled | |
| To everything, he gave it up | |
| And came down like a coasting child. | |
| |
| “Well—I—be—” that was all he said, | 45 |
| As standing in the river road, | |
| He looked back up the slippery slope | |
| (Two miles it was) to his abode. | |
| |
| Sometimes as an authority | |
| On motor-cars, I’m asked if I | 50 |
| Should say our stock was petered out, | |
| And this is my sincere reply: | |
| |
| Yankees are what they always were. | |
| Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope | |
| Of getting home again because | 55 |
| He couldn’t climb that slippery slope; | |
| |
| Or even thought of standing there | |
| Until the January thaw | |
| Should take the polish off the crust. | |
| He bowed with grace to natural law, | 60 |
| |
| And then went round it on his feet, | |
| After the manner of our stock; | |
| Not much concerned for those to whom, | |
| At that particular time o’clock, | |
| |
| It must have looked as if the course | 65 |
| He steered was really straight away | |
| From that which he was headed for— | |
| Not much concerned for them, I say: | |
| |
| No more so than became a man— | |
| And politician at odd seasons. | 70 |
| I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold | |
| While I invested him with reasons; | |
| |
| But now he snapped his eyes three times; | |
| Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s | |
| ’Bout out!” and took the long way home | 75 |
| By road, a matter of several miles. | |
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