Who goes there—the White Month cries—
Like a shadow, all hollow eyes
Among the gravestones on the hill?
Old Bags-o'-Bones like you sure will
Freeze in a minute and catch your death.
Thanks, old January, for the breath
Thou breathest into my ribs. Thou know'st
Who I be as sure's thou blow'st.
Thou should'st know me well, by gorry!
As a stripling I made thee sorry
Thou ever tried'st to cool my bones!
I am Old Timer, and my stone's
Heavy on my mind this day,
I am taking a turn this way
To see if everything 1 planned
For my farmstead be well manned,
See if my son still hath his hair,
How many bushels my corn drills bear,
What stout grandsons I have got me,
How many pounds the King's pines brought me—
See if an Injun ever peeketh
Through my panes, or my chimney leaketh.
Me there witches still abroad?
hat acres have I of English hay?
Doth my son worship the Lord
Two hours on each Sabbath Day?
Is he one of God's elect?
Hath he boils still on his neck?
All is well, Old Timer! Rest
Your face and hands. All's for the best.
You're three centuries off your beat,
But the farmer here still has your feet.
He's like you in the way he toils,
He still has the family boils!
And your cornsilk hair still lights
Your house on heads of children nights.
Your spunk and dander did not die,
Your hearth burns still, the goose hangs high,
The knife is in the loaf, the pot
Still is on and piping hot!
Apples in your cellar bin,
The deer is on the hook, the pin
In your whiffletree still stands wear.
Your farm is in good hands, I swear!
Your grandsons run your ancient grooves,
Though they are grandsons nine removes.
The Indians go upon their rounds
Only as echoes, as sweet sounds
Of rivers and lakes—Winnepesaukee,
Suncook, Saco, Mooselookemelaukee.
Your corn's the tallest still in Goshen,
Your house still looks out on the ocean.
You built well. Your silts are sound.
Acres you cleared are still tilled ground.
The man who wears your hands and hope and nose
Is a good man, like all of the Snows.
He is a very good man although he goes
To church only once a month of Sundays.
You see, he's gone and spread his church to Mondays,
Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and the other days.
He worships God, yon know, in modern ways.
You wouldn't know your God. He's changed, they tell,
He doesn't put babies unbaptized in hell.
Witches are gone except in moving pictures.
Men don't believe their souls arc saved by Scriptures
But by working hard to make both ends
Meet and making all their neighbors friends.
You want to have a look at all that goes
On at your farm this day of sunlit snows?
Come, Old Timer, climb back in your grave.
The wind today is sharp enough to shave
A man who still has skin upon his face.
You climb back. And I will take your place.
I'll stand here, and tell you what I see
Indoors and out. I'll be your eyes. Trust me!
1 can see through walls, and through men, too.
Climb back, Old Timer, and here's telling you:
Under snowdrifts three feet deep
Brown Woodchuck's lying drowned in sleep.
Sleep, Brown Woodchuck, sleep your fill,
Winter is a long time still.
The cows at stanchions bulge at cheeks
With their cuds. The tie-up creaks
Under the north wind sowing dust
Of diamonds on the white world's crust.
How standeth it with my son's clover?
Hath he enough to tide him over?
There will be half of his hay
Left in his barn come Candlemas Day.
Hath my son good store of wood?
Doth he fell red oak as he should?
Father and Big Boy breathe out smoke
Pulling the crosscut through red oak,
Man pulls, Boy pulls, whisper, scream,
Sawdust falling in golden stream,
Teeth like diamonds in the sun
Through eighty circles of oik-years run!
Twenty curds of red oak lie
Under my January sky!
Do the rest keep busy, too?
Tell me what the others do.
Small Boy prints a cupid's bow
With his wool pants on the snow.
Mother Snow is breaking the ice
In the hens' dish. Velvet mice
Can hardly see out of their eyes,
Barn clover has plumped them such a size.
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