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.
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.