Mrs. Motherwell
remembered now that she had seen that look once before.
She had helped Sam to kill a lamb once, and it came back
to her now, how through it all, until the blow fell, the
lamb had stood wondering, pleading, yet unflinching, and
she had run sobbing away--and now Polly was dead--and
those big eyes she had so often seen tearful, yet smiling,
were closed and their tears forever wiped away.
That night she dreamed of Polly, confused, troubled
dreams; now it was Polly's mother who was dead, then it
was her own mother, dead thirty years ago. Once she
started violently and sat up. Someone had been singing--
the echo of it was still in the room:
Over my grave keep the green willers growing.
The yellow harvest moon flooded the room with its soft
light. She could see through the window how it lay like
a mantle on the silent fields. It was one of those
glorious, cloudless nights, with a hint of frost in the
air that come just as the grain is ripening. From some
place down the creek a dog barked; once in a while a
cow-bell tinkled: a horse stamped in the stable and then
all was still. Numberless stars shone through the window.
The mystery of life and death and growing things was
around her. As for man his days are as grass; as a flower
of the field so he flourisheth--for it is soon cut off
and we fly away--fly away where?--where?--her head throbbed
with the question.
The eastern sky flushed red with morning; a little ripple
came over the grain.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174