Xv

At the gate. She speaks:

Sunday shall we ride together? Not the root-rough, rambling way Through the wood we went that day, In last summer’s sultry weather.

Past the Methodist camp-meeting, Where religion helped the hymn Gather volume; and a slim Minister, with textful greeting,

Welcomed us and still expounded.-- From the service on the hill We had passed three hills and still Loud, though far, the singing sounded.

Nor that road through weed and berry Drowsy days led me and you To the old-time barbecue, Where the country-side made merry.

Dusty vehicles together; Darkies with the horses near Tied to trees; the atmosphere Redolent of bark and leather,

And of burgoo and of beef; there Roasting whole within the trench; Near which spread the long pine bench Under shading limb and leaf there.

As we went the homeward journey You exclaimed, “They intermix Pleasure there and politics, Love and war: our modern tourney.”

And the fiddles!--through the thickets, How they thumped the old quadrille! Scraping, droning on the hill, It was like a swarm of crickets....

Neither road! The shady quiet Of that path by beech and birch, Winding to the ruined church Near the stream that sparkles by it.

Where the silent Sundays listen For the preacher--Love--we bring In our hearts to preach and sing Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.