Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
B
<div class="poem">
<p>" He just kept nodding his head up and down.<br />
You know how politely he always goes by.<br />
But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye—<br />
Which being expressed, might be this in effect :<br />
' I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,<br />
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.' "<br />
" He's a thriftier person than some I could name."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>“ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know<br />
Of where all the berries and other things grow,<br />
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top<br />
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.<br />
I met them one day and each had a flower<br />
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ;<br />
Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. "
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live,<br />
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,<br />
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “<br />
“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow—<br />
And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned,<br />
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”
</p>
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<div class="poem">
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<div class="poem">
<p>“ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know<br />
Of where all the berries and other things grow,<br />
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top<br />
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.<br />
I met them one day and each had a flower<br />
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ;<br />
Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. "
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>How we used to pick berries : we took one look round,<br />
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,<br />
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,<br />
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird<br />
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.<br />
' Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew<br />
Around and around us. And then for a while<br />
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,<br />
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout<br />
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,<br />
For when you made answer, your voice was as low<br />
As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>" Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live,<br />
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,<br />
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “<br />
“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow—<br />
And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned,<br />
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" He saw you, then ? What did he do ? Did he frown ? "
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" You ought to have seen what I saw on my way<br />
To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day :<br />
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,<br />
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum<br />
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come !<br />
And all ripe together, not some of them green<br />
And some of them ripe ! You ought to have seen ! "
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" You know where they cut off the woods—let me see—<br />
It was two years ago—or no !—can it be<br />
No longer than that ?—and the following fall<br />
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,<br />
He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,<br />
We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.<br />
We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear,<br />
And the sun shines out warm : the vines must be wet.<br />
It's so long since I picked I almost forget
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>“ It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.<br />
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.<br />
And after all really they're ebony skinned :<br />
The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,<br />
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,<br />
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Brown makes at such an hour of night!<br />
He’s celebrating something strange.<br />
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,<br />
Or been made Master of the Grange.”
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>And then went round it on his feet,<br />
After the manner of our stock;<br />
Not much concerned for those to whom,<br />
At that particular time o’clock,
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Brown lived at such a lofty farm<br />
That everyone for miles could see<br />
His lantern when he did his chores<br />
In winter after half-past three.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>He never let the lantern drop.<br />
And some exclaimed who saw afar<br />
The figures he described with it,<br />
“I wonder what those signals are
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Faster or slower as he chanced,<br />
Sitting or standing as he chose,<br />
According as he feared to risk<br />
His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Sometimes he came with arms outspread<br />
Like wings, revolving in the scene<br />
Upon his longer axis, and<br />
With no small dignity of mien.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Or even thought of standing there<br />
Until the January thaw<br />
Should take the polish off the crust.<br />
He bowed with grace to natural law,
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>And stamped and said things to himself,<br />
And sometimes something seemed to yield,<br />
He gained no foothold, but pursued<br />
His journey down from field to field.
</p>
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