| Bindlestiff |
| −by Edwin Ford Piper |
Anthology of Magazine Verse
for 1920
|
Editor: William Stanley Braithwaite
|
| Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, |
| In pattern-molds be run; |
| But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff— |
And remember Mary’s Son.
|
| At dawn the hedges and the wheel-ruts ran |
| Into a brightening sky. The grass bent low |
| With shimmering dew, and many a late wild rose |
| Unrolled the petals from its odorous heart |
| While birds held tuneful gossip. Suddenly, |
| Each bubbling trill and whistle hid away |
| As from a hawk; the fragrant silence heard |
| Only the loving stir of little leaves; |
Then a man’s baritone broke roughly in:
|
| I’ve gnawed my crust of mouldy bread, |
| Skimmed my mulligan stew; |
| Laid beneath the barren hedge— |
Sleety night-winds blew.
|
| Slanting rain chills my bones, |
| Sun bakes my skin; |
| Rocky road for my limping feet, |
Door where I can’t go in.
|
| Above the hedgerow floated filmy smoke |
From the hidden singer’s fire. Once more the voice:
|
| I used to burn the mules with the whip |
| When I worked on the grading gang; |
| But the boss was a crook, and he docked my pay— |
Some day that boss will hang.
|
| I used to live in a six by nine, |
| Try to save my dough— |
| It’s a bellful of the chaff of life, |
Feet that up and go.
|
|
| The mesh of leafy branches rustled loud, |
| Into the road slid Bindlestiff. You’ve seen |
| The like of the traveller: gaunt humanity |
| In stained and broken coat, with untrimmed hedge |
| Of rusty beard and curling sunburnt hair; |
| His hat, once white, a dull uncertain cone; |
| His leathery hands and cheeks, his bright blue eyes |
| That always see new faces and strange dogs; |
His mouth that laughs at life and at himself.
|
| Sometimes they shut you up in jail— |
| Dark, and a filthy cell; |
| I hope the fellows built them jails |
Find ’em down in hell.
|
| But up above, you can sleep outdoors— |
| Feed you like a king; |
| You never have to saw no wood, |
Only job is sing.
|
| The tones came mellower, as unevenly |
The tramp limped off trailing the hobo song:
|
| Good-bye, farewell to Omaha, |
| K. C., and Denver, too; |
| Put my foot on the flying freight, |
Going to ride her through.
|
| Bindlestiff topped a hillock, against the sky |
| Showed stick and bundle with his extra shoes |
| Jauntily dangling. Bird to bird once more |
| Made low sweet answer; in the wild rose cups |
| The bee found yellow meal; all softly moved |
| The white and purple morning-glory bells |
| As on the gently rustling hedgetop leaves |
The sun’s face rested. Bindlestiff was gone.
|
| Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, |
| In pattern-molds be run; |
| But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff— |
| And remember Mary’s Son. |
|
