A Long-distance
Eclogue
1902
Morrison. Hello! Hello!
Is that you, Wetherbee?
Wetherbee. Yes. Who are
you? What do you want with me?
Morrison. Oh, nothing much.
It’s Morrison, you know;
Morrison down at Clamhurst Shortsands.
Wetherbee.
Oh! Why, Morrison, of course!
Of course, I know! How are you, Morrison?
And, by the way, Where are you? What!
You never mean to say You are down there yet?
Well, by the Holy Poker! What are you doing
there, you ancient joker?
Morrison. Sticking it out over
Thanksgiving Day. I said I would. I tell
you, it is gay Down here. You ought to see
the Hunter’s Moon, These silver nights, prinking
in our lagoon. You ought to see our sunsets,
glassy red, Shading to pink and violet overhead.
You ought to see our mornings, still and clear,
White silence, far as you can look and hear.
You ought to see the leaves our oaks and
ashes Crimson and yellow, with those gorgeous splashes,
Purple and orange, against the bluish green Of
the pine woods; and scattered in between The scarlet
of the maples; and the blaze Of blackberry-vines,
along the dusty ways And on the old stone walls;
the air just balm, And the crows cawing through
the perfect calm Of afternoons all gold and turquoise.
Say, You ought to have been with wife and me to-day,
A drive we took it would have made you
sick: The pigeons and the partridges so thick;
And on the hill just beyond Barkin’s lane,
Before you reach the barn of Widow Payne, Showing
right up against the sky, as clear And motionless
as sculpture, stood a deer! Say, does that
jar you just a little? Say, How have you found
things up there, anyway, Since you got back?
Air like a cotton string To breathe? The same
old dust on everything, And in your teeth, and in
your eyes? The smoke From the soft coal, got
long beyond a joke? The trolleys rather more
upon your curves, And all the roar and clatter in
your nerves? Don’t you wish you had stayed
here, too?
Wetherbee.
Well, yes, I do at certain times, I must confess.
I swear it is enough at times to make you swear
You would almost rather be anywhere Than here.
The building up and pulling down, The getting to
and fro about the town, The turmoil underfoot and
overhead, Certainly make you wish that you were
dead, At first; and all the mean vulgarity Of
city life, the filth and misery You see around you,
make you want to put Back to the country anywhere,
hot-foot. Yet there are compensations.
Morrison. Such
as?
Wetherbee.
Why,
There is the club.
Morrison. The club I can’t
deny.
Many o’ the fellows back there?
Wetherbee.
Nearly all. Over the twilight cocktails there
are tall Stories and talk. But you would hardly
care; You have the natives to talk with down there,
And always find them meaty.
Morrison. Well,
so-so. Their words outlast their ideas at times,
you know, And they have staying powers.
The theaters All open now?
Wetherbee. Yes, all. And
it occurs To me: there’s one among the
things that you Would have enjoyed; an opera with
the new Or at least the last music
by Sullivan, And words, though not Gilbertian, that
ran Trippingly with it. Oh, I tell you what,
I’d rather that you had been there than not.
Morrison. Thanks ever so!
Wetherbee. Oh, there
is nothing mean About your early friend. That
deer and autumn scene Were kind of you! And,
say, I think you like Afternoon teas when good.
I have chanced to strike Some of the best of late,
where people said They had sent you cards, but thought
you must be dead. I told them I left you down
there by the sea, And then they sort of looked askance
at me, As if it were a joke, and bade me get Myself
some bouillon or some chocolate, And turned the
subject did not even give Me time to
prove it is not life to live In town as long as
you can keep from freezing Beside the autumn sea.
A little sneezing, At Clamhurst Shortsands, since
the frosts set in?
Morrison. Well, not enough to make
a true friend grin. Slight colds, mere nothings.
With our open fires We’ve all the warmth and
cheer that heart desires. Next year we’ll
have a furnace in, and stay Not till Thanksgiving,
but till Christmas Day. It’s glorious
in these roomy autumn nights To sit between the
firelight and the lights Of our big lamps, and read
aloud by turns As long as kerosene or hickory burns.
We hate to go to bed.
Wetherbee. Of course
you do! And hate to get up in the morning,
too To pull the coverlet from your frost-bit
nose, And touch the glary matting with your toes!
Are you beginning yet to break the ice In your
wash-pitchers? No? Well, that is nice.
I always hate to do it seems as if Summer
was going; but when your hand is stiff With cold,
it can be done. Still, I prefer To wash and
dress beside my register, When summer gets a little
on, like this. But some folks find the other
thing pure bliss Lusty young chaps,
like you.
Morrison. And
some folks find A sizzling radiator to their mind.
What else have you, there, you could recommend To
the attention of a country friend?
Wetherbee. Well, you know how it
is in Madison Square, Late afternoons, now, if the
day’s been fair How all the western
sidewalk ebbs and flows With pretty women in their
pretty clo’es: I’ve never seen
them prettier than this year. Of course, I
know a dear is not a deer, But still, I think that
if I had to meet One or the other in the road, or
street, All by myself, I am not sure but that I’d
choose the dear that wears the fetching hat.
Morrison. Get out! What else?
Wetherbee. Well, it is not so bad, If you are
feeling a little down, or sad, To walk along Fifth Avenue to the Park, When
the day thinks perhaps of getting dark, And meet that mighty flood of
vehicles Laden with all the different kinds of swells, Homing to dinner, in
their carriages Victorias, landaus,
chariots, coupes There’s
nothing like it to lift up the heart And make you
realize yourself a part, Sure, of the greatest show
on earth.
Morrison.
Oh, yes, I know. Ive felt that rapture more or less. But I would rather
put it off as long As possible. I suppose you like the song Of the sweet
car-gongs better than the cry Of jays and yellowhammers when the sky Begins
to redden these October mornings, And the loons sound their melancholy
warnings; Or honk of the wild-geese that write their A Along the horizon in
the evenings gray. Or when the squirrels look down on you and bark From
the nut trees
Wetherbee. We have them
in the Park
Plenty enough. But, say, you aged
sinner,
Have you been out much recently at dinner?
Morrison. What do you mean?
You know there’s no one here
That dines except ourselves now.
Wetherbee. Well,
that’s queer!
I thought the natives But
I recollect!
It was not reasonable to expect
Morrison. What are you driving
at?
Wetherbee. Oh, nothing
much. But I was thinking how you come in touch
With life at the first dinner in the fall, When
you get back, first, as you can’t at all Later
along. But you, of course, won’t care With
your idyllic pleasures.
Morrison. Who
was there?
Wetherbee. Oh ha, ha!
What d’you mean by there?
Morrison.
Come off!
Wetherbee. What! you remain to
pray that came to scoff!
Morrison. You know what I am after.
Wetherbee.
Yes, that dinner. Just a round dozen:
Ferguson and Binner For the fine arts; Bowyer the
novelist; Dr. Le Martin; the psychologist Fletcher;
the English actor Philipson; The two newspaper Witkins,
Bob and John; A nice Bostonian, Bane the archaeologer,
And a queer Russian amateur astrologer; And Father
Gray, the jolly ritualist priest, And last your
humble servant, but not least. The food was
not so filthy, and the wine Was not so poison.
We made out to dine From eight till one A.M.
One could endure The dinner. But, oh say! The
talk was poor! Your natives down at Clamhurst
Morrison.
Look ye here!
What date does Thanksgiving come on this
year?
Wetherbee. Why, I suppose although
I don’t remember
Certainly the usual 28th November.
Morrison. Novem
You should have waited to get sober! It comes
on the 11th of October! And that’s to-morrow;
and if you happen down Later, you’d better
look for us in town.