Читать книгу Mortal Summer онлайн

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Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.

Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?

He had been born for Dora, she for him;

And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang

So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!

Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back

At the wild barb that bit him.

Who was that?

For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,

Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy

And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand

A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own!

“Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way

Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.

It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved—

For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish—

From the far border of the field. The small

Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held

Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,

If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.

He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,

How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.