_The Mother_ We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never!

_The Son_ It left the cellar forty years ago And carried itself like a pile of dishes Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, Another from the bedroom to the attic, Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.

Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.

I was a baby: I don't know where I was.

_The Mother_ The only fault my husband found with me-- I went to sleep before I went to bed, Especially in winter when the bed Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.

The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, But left an open door to cool the room off So as to sort of turn me out of it.

I was just coming to myself enough To wonder where the cold was coming from, When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.

The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on When there was water in the cellar in spring Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then some one Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, The way a man with one leg and a crutch, Or little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile: It wasn't any one who could be there.

The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked And swollen tight and buried under snow.

The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust And swollen tight and buried under snow.

It was the bones. I knew them--and good reason.

My first impulse was to get to the k.n.o.b And hold the door. But the bones didn't try The door; they halted helpless on the landing, Waiting for things to happen in their favor.

The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.

I never could have done the thing I did If the wish hadn't been too strong in me To see how they were mounted for this walk.

I had a vision of them put together Not like a man, but like a chandelier.

So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.

A moment he stood balancing with emotion, And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.

Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, The way he did in life once; but this time I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, And fell back from him on the floor myself.

The finger-pieces slid in all directions.

(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?

Hand me my b.u.t.ton-box--it must be there.) I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile, It's coming up to you." It had its choice Of the door to the cellar or the hall.

It took the hall door for the novelty, And set off briskly for so slow a thing, Still going every which way in the joints, though, So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, From the slap I had just now given its hand.

I listened till it almost climbed the stairs From the hall to the only finished bedroom, Before I got up to do anything; Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door, Toffile, for my sake!" "Company," he said, "Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed."

So lying forward weakly on the handrail I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.

It's with us in the room, though. It's the bones."

"What bones?" "The cellar bones--out of the grave."

That made him throw his bare legs out of bed And sit up by me and take hold of me.

I wanted to put out the light and see If I could see it, or else mow the room, With our arms at the level of our knees, And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what-- It's looking for another door to try.

The uncommonly deep snow has made him think Of his old song, _The Wild Colonial Boy_, He always used to sing along the tote-road.

He's after an open door to get out-doors.

Let's trap him with an open door up attic."

Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, Almost the moment he was given an opening, The steps began to climb the attic stairs.

I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.

"Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the k.n.o.b.

"Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut, And push the headboard of the bed against it.

Then we asked was there anything Up attic that we'd ever want again.

The attic was less to us than the cellar.

If the bones liked the attic, let them like it, Let them _stay_ in the attic. When they sometimes Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed Behind the door and headboard of the bed, Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, That's what I sit up in the dark to say-- To no one any more since Toffile died.

Let them stay in the attic since they went there.

I promised Toffile to be cruel to them For helping them be cruel once to him.

_The Son_ We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

_The Mother_ We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

_The Son_ We never could find out whose bones they were.

_The Mother_ Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.

They were a man's his father killed for me.

I mean a man he killed instead of me.

The least I could do was to help dig their grave.

We were about it one night in the cellar.

Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.

Son looks surprised to see me end a lie We'd kept up all these years between ourselves So as to have it ready for outsiders.

But to-night I don't care enough to lie-- I don't remember why I ever cared.

Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe Could tell you why he ever cared himself....

She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted Among the b.u.t.tons poured out in her lap.

I verified the name next morning: Toffile; The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.

A BROOK IN THE CITY

The farm house lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook?

I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger-length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed.

The meadow gra.s.s could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.

Is water wood to serve a brook the same?

How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run-- And all for nothing it had ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps.

No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If, from its being kept forever under, These thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep.

DESIGN

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-- a.s.sorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches' broth-- A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?

What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night?

What but design of darkness to appal?-- If design govern in a thing so small.

CARL SANDBURG