I call to mind those banded vales Of shadow and of shining, Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in day's declining.
We held our sideling way above The river's whitening shallows, By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns Swept through and through by swallows;
By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darkly The mountain slopes, and, over all, The great peaks rising starkly.
You should have seen that long hill-range With gaps of brightness riven,-- How through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven,--
On either hand we saw the signs Of fancy and of shrewdness, Where taste had wound its arms of vines Round thrift's uncomely rudeness.
The sun-brown farmer in his frock Shook hands, and called to Mary Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy.
Her air, her smile, her motions, told Of womanly completeness; A music as of household songs Was in her voice of sweetness.
Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better, The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter;--
An inborn grace that nothing lacked Of culture or appliance, The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance.
Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utter The paltry errand of her need To buy her fresh-churned butter?
She led the way with housewife pride, Her goodly store disclosing, Full tenderly the golden balls With practised hands disposing.
Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful glory Of sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story.
The early crickets sang; the stream Plashed through my friend's narration Her rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free-translation.
"More wise," she said, "than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer, She came, when June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer.
"From school and ball and rout she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water.
"Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over; On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover.
"For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing There's iron in our Northern winds; Our pines are trees of healing.
"She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow.
"Beside her, from the summer heat To share her grateful screening, With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning.
"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face Had nothing mean or common,-- Strong, manly, true, the tenderness And pride beloved of woman.
"She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her, And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter.
"'To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready,--
"'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure.'
"He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly.
''T is well,' he said, 'for one like you To choose for me so lightly.
"You think, because my life is rude I take no note of sweetness I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness.
"'Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashion When silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion.
"'You think me deaf and blind: you bring Your winning graces hither As free as if from cradle-time We two had played together.
"'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes.
"'The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me You cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me.
"'You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me; What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me?
"'No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another!
"'I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding; I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading.'
"She looked up in his face of pain So archly, yet so tender 'And if I lend you mine,' she said, 'Will you forgive the lender?
"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waits Behind this silken armor?
"'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming?'
"Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle,-- The giving that is gaining.
"And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter There looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water.
"Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.
"Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming.
"Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching; The still refreshment of the dew Is her unconscious teaching.
"And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing; Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing.
"And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gather, Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather,--
"In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blowing, And sweetly from its thawing veins The maple's blood is flowing,--
"In summer, where some lilied pond Its virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring,--
"The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces.
"Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it.
If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.
"For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is her debtor; Who holds to his another's heart Must needs be worse or better.
"Through her his civic service shows A purer-toned ambition; No double consciousness divides The man and politician.
"In party's doubtful ways he trusts Her instincts to determine; At the loud polls, the thought of her Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon.