“Mother!” he stuttered. “Baby Jock!” she moaned And looked far in his eyes.--And he was gone. The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn All that she once had owned-- Her heart’s proud empire--passed, her life’s dream sank unthroned. With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan. “Hark, woman!” said the bowed old man. “What’s tolling?” Drums--drums were rolling.
Shy wings flashed in the orchard, _glitter, glitter_; Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves Of spring, save only in an old dame’s heart That grieved apart.
Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep: _Creak_ went the pole; the bucket came up brimming. On the bright water lay a cricket swimming Whose brown legs tried to leap
But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep. The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skimming. “Dear Lord, he’s drowned,” she mumbled with dry lips; “The ships! the ships!”
Gently she laid him in the sun and dried The little dripping body. Suddenly Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree And “Look! a letter!” cried A laughing voice; “and lots of news for us inside!” “How’s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where--where is he?” “Down in Vergennes--the ship-yards.” “Ships! Ah, no! It can’t be so.”
“He’s going to fight with guns and be a tar. See here: he’s wrote himself. The post was late. He couldn’t write before. The ship is great! She’s built, from keel to spar, And called the _Saratoga_; and Jock’s got a scar Already--” “Scar?” the mother quavered. “Wait,” Jean rippled, “let me read.” “Quick, then, my dear, _He’ll_ want to hear--”
“Jock’s pa; I guess we’ll find him in the yard. He ain’t scarce creepin’ round these days, poor Dan!” She gripped Jean’s arm and stumbled as they ran, And stopped once, breathing hard. Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep-cropped sward And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse: “Well, ma; what news?”
“From Jockie--there’s a letter!” In his chair The bowed form sat bolt upright. “What’s he say?” “He’s wrote to Jean. I guess it’s boys their way To think old folks don’t care For letters.” “Girl, read out.” Jean smoothed her wilding hair And sat beside them. Out of the blue day A golden robin called; across the road A heifer lowed;