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There
overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill,
early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my
road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with
a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round
his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of
water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him
where I'd been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little
about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks
split off the mountain mass-
And hopeless grist
enough it looks
Ever to grind to soil for grass.
(The way it is will do for moss.)
There he had built
his stolen shack.
It had to be a stolen shack
Because of the fears of fire and loss
That trouble
the sleep of lumber folk:
Visions of half the world
burned black
And the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.
We know who when they come to town
Bring berries
under the wagon seat,
Or a basket of eggs between
their feet;
What this man brought in a cotton sack
Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.
He showed me
lumps of the scented stuff
Like uncut jewels, dull
and rough.
It comes to market golden brown;
But
turns to pink between the teeth.
I told him this
is a pleasant life
To set your breast to the bark of
trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And
reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin
and take it down
And bring it to market when you
please.
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