Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.

Bindlestiff

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.

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse