THE PADDOCK
Woftly, in bed, the nights when Andrew’d been,
And ridden out again; and now it looks
As though I grudged to work for her. I don’t!
It isn’t that:—she knows it isn’t that,
Whatever Andrew thinks. But—Oh dear me,
She doesn’t understand! “Just wait awhile,
Janet, my dear,” she’ll say, ever so kindly,
“Bide here a bit, and help me with my home,
Until” (here wakes the dimple in her cheek)
“Your own comes calling; then you’ll understand.
Just wait!” (I like that “just,” Liz! Just as if
Waiting were not the hardest work in the world!)—
Oh, well—she means, of course, till I get married.
Which I don’t want....that is, I mean, not yet,
Not till I’ve seen things....Not Jim Carson, ever!
Paddock for life, seen through a different grating?
No, thanks!....She’s happy this way, so she thinks
This is the one way to be happy.—’Tisn’t!
Then Andrew—
We’d been mustering, last week;
’Twas nearly dark, and we were all but in,
Skirting the orchard-fence, when out he jumps
With, “Janet! life’s no joke. Take it from me
It’s hard” (poor An.!), “there’s dangers, whips of ’em,
More than you know, and never a glut of kindness.
Best take it easy while you can, my girl;
You earn your home here, no mistake about it”
(He held the gate; we’d got to it, at last!)
“But, work’s work, anywhere; while nowhere else
Is home. It’s restful, snug,” (we pass’d the hives)
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