Grandpa rocks in the Boston chair,
South window's sunlight on his hair.
The Girls turn out the button box
For Presidents' portraits. The broad ox
Blows steam out and starry froth
From nostrils at the watering trough.
The farmhouse kitchen reels of mince,
Dried apples soaking out, and quince.
Bachelor Uncle with cold in his nose
With the flatiron cracks niggertoes,
Hound Dog lies and hakes his brain
Under the stove and runs again
The rabbits that he ran so far
Last evening under the sunset star.
Middle Girl cuts out paper dolls
For Small Girl, and her rapt tongue walls
Her cheek out as it follows the blade
Of the scissors. The tea is made.
The Hired Man is putting in edge
On the axe with a big wedge
Of Old Honesty in his left
Cheek, and Middle Boy leans his heft
On the grindstone's handle turning
Till his seat and soul are burning.
Hired Man lets his axe blade drop,
Middle Boy whirls round like a top
All wrath and arms and cannot stop.
Maiden Aunt's fingers tatt and tatt.
The kettle's boiling—or is it the cat?
Big Girl's learning to featherstitch
Under Grandma's eye.
The pitch
On the spruces burns in the low
Winter sun. The sawyers go
Slower with their saw as light
Blues around them and the white
Arctic owl begins to clear
His throat to ask who's who, and deer
Move CO the spruce swamp thin as dreams
And nuzzle for grass by trickling streams.
Now from the world grown starry wide
Men and boys have gone inside.
Faces ring the venison hash
Below the frosty window sash.
Now men sic up, the kettle sings,
Men feel (heir backs are growing wings,
For as a wrapper to lean deer meat
Mother serves up bright slabs of heat:
She has had the wisdom to make
The old Snow family johnnycake,
The cake Priscilla Alden's white
Slim fingers made for John's delight.
Half cup of cornmeal ground so fine
It has the crumbled diamond's shine,
Mixed with half a cup of milk.
Sour, and scalded smooth as silk,
Teaspoon of salt and a duck egg's yolk,
Cooked in bacon's bluish smoke,
Crisped in a spider wafer thin
And browned at edge. The men hoe in,
And the crackling sound of the crunchy meal
Fills the house with utter weal.
This is your cake that tasted so good,
Old Timer, after you cut your wood.
Maketh my son his evening mirth?
Are there tales still at my hearth?
Yes, Old Timer, men still tell long tales
On your hearth, of tall ships torn with gales.
Little Boy lies full length, his eyes shine bright
With firelight, with terror, and delight.
Are there battles still?
There still are battles
By the fireside. The Rhine bridge rattles
With machine-gun bullets Devil's Den
Fills up with the bodies of Blue men
And Gray. The cannon blast Ticonderoga,
The white men scalp the red at Saratoga.
Boys on steel wings let go with all six guns…
There are wars always. New, like the older ones.
Your son goes to war sure as the rain,
Sometimes he dies, but always comes home again
Because there's always more than one of the Snows
In every war. So the old Story goes.
Little Boy grows heavy at his head,
Father takes him pick-a-back to bed
As he's been taking him three centuries.
Light fades. The room grows all sweet silences.
Your hearth does not change, only your sons
Change there. But they still are the same Snow ones.
Go to sleep. Old Timer, on your hill.
Your sons go on secure, and always will.
Always wars sweep over earth,
But always men return
And turn their wars into old tales
When the hearth logs burn.
Men come home to plow again,
And furrows still go on
Across the ageless little farms
When Babylon is gone.
A family rooted deep in earth
History cannot kill,
There will be pride and bullocks there,
And love under the hill.
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