I laugh when town-folk call the color " red "
We painted barns and schoolhouses years back;
It isn't red at all, but old " York Brown. "
You'll find it cropping out here in the hills.
Some ore is pure; a man can take good oil
And grind the rotted stone up fine and have
A better paint than he can buy " below. "
I always thought the Lord made that brown paint
To match the rusty Sumach bobs that grew
Around all the schoolhouses in those days,
Shading the woodsheds, reaching, peering in
The windows, listening to the " A — B — Abs. "

Our schoolhouse stood close to the old Plank Road,
And just beyond, where the bridge crossed the creek,
A shanty road turned off into the woods.
The wheel tracks were grown up with flowers and weeds,
The ruts worn smooth, and where the horses' hoofs
Once struck out sparks against the flinty rocks
The jewel weed hung her spotted orange bells
And saucy Black-Eyed Susans waved their heads.

My mother told me I must never go
Up on that road — a " bad woman lived there. "
" Mother, what is a bad woman? " I asked.
She answered: " She's a woman who forgets
To go to church and mind the ways of God,
And strange things happen — you are old enough
To know this woman has a little girl
And never had a husband: women who do that
Are very wicked. You must not go there. "

I knew her name was Annie. No one said
If she were old or young; I pictured her
Some shriveled hag struck with a witch's blight,
And yet she drew me, till I turned my feet
And followed trembling up the weedy road.
Three turns, and then a sunny clearing spread
To hold a cottage and a Sugar Bush.
I stopped dead still; then all fear slipped from me.
This was a house; like other houses, too,
There were glass windows and stout timbered doors;
There was a roof, a chimney just like ours,
And from the banking Morning Glories climbed
Over the clapboards, purple, blue and pink;
And tall Sweet William, such as mother had,
Bordered the dirt path to the picket gate.
I looked, and disappointment gnawed my heart:
I knew no wickedness lived in that house.

Down the dirt path there flashed a gleam of blue.
A little girl ran out and caught my hand,
And pulled me in the yard; she was so glad.
Framed in the doorway sills her mother stood;
She had June roses twisted in her hair,
And she was young, — younger than anything
I've ever seen. " Hullo, " she said;
" Perhaps you're hungry, " and she brought a jar
Of raisin cookies, took some out for me,
Asked me my name, and if my mother sent
Me there to ask if she were sick or well.
I looked at her; some tender, early bloom
Of manhood touched me, and I lied to her
To see her smile, and asked her to come down
And see my new white calf; it seemed just fair
That I should make up to her for the rest.