They were sitting on the low stone doorstep
In the cool of evening after milking.
They were peaceful—all the chores were done;
But ambition's flame had caught in their minds
And they did not sense the breath of summer
Exhaled upwards from a great June rose-bush
That cupped the dew in a hundred blossoms,
And the fireflies darting through the twilight
Seemed to them only the sparks of desire
That leaped from their hearts over the meadows.

A beetle crawled from the grass and lifted
His wet wings for a scurrying love-flight,
But the man caught him and pressed his life out
In the earth that bore him, absent-mindedly,
For he was thinking of the crops on the hillsides
And the price of wool, of calves and yearlings,
And whether he could sell the sheep pasture
To a neighbor.

His wife spoke, continuing
The thought in his mind, back of the others:
“We're doing it all for the children.
What can they ever amount to back here
In this valley full of Canucks and Cath'lics,
We must move next Spring down to the village
And build a fine frame house with good windows

And never say we lived in a log one
'Way up here at the far end of no-where.
For I know that folks do think of these things.
Now last Sunday, when we drove out to church,
I saw the Wilson girls tripping along
In their French cashmeres and soft kid slippers,
And in the Sunday School they would not speak
To our Grace in her plain light calico;
And when the teachers gave out the pieces
For the speaking at the Sunday School picnic
She gave them to those girls: they were dressed
Better than ours. Now you know that our Grace
Can speak ten psalms, and knows more pieces
In a minute than those children could learn.
What do you think of it?”

“Ed Wilson owes me
For a load of hay he bought last winter.
He's no better than we are—not so good;
There's no man in town who will trust him
For a barrel of flour. He went down below
Years ago and got dirty work to do.
He's what men in politics down there call
A lobbyist—you don't know what that means.
He does dishonest things that men can't do
Because they are in power, for they would lose
Their places if men find they pull the strings
To pass a law that they want made themselves.”
The wife's mind lagged. “Yes, yes, I know;
What has that got to do with all I said?”

“Not much; I was just thinking on out loud.
I feel the same as you do—this old farm
Ain't good enough for Grace and Marcia.
I've been a planning, though I've not told you
There was a fellow up here last week
A-picking over on the mountain there
Among the rocks. He says there's lead up there,
And rich iron ore. Now, if that comes out true,
Ed Wilson needn't lord it over me.
We'll move to town and build a big frame house.”

She placed her hand on his—it seemed a dream.
“Yes, and I'll buy a red plush parlor set
And you will let me keep a hired girl,
And Grace and Marcia shall have cashmeres
And parasols and soft kid, button shoes,
And by-and-by they shall go off to school
Down in the city somewhere. They will turn
Into such ladies that you'd never think
They ever saw a log house or a farm.”

The dew was falling; all the flowers were wet;
Dampness lay on their hair. “We must go in,”
She said. “I'll light a lamp. Come now and look
To see if they are surely fast asleep.”

She led the way, holding the lighted lamp,
Into the bedroom where in trundle beds
The children slept—wee Grace and Marcia;
Dreaming of play, they smiled within their sleep,
And like fringed petals of Elysian flowers
Upon their cheeks their long, dark lashes lay,
While their sweet breathing stirred the fragrant air.
The parents stood there hushed to sudden awe
At the great miracle that love had wrought,
And hushed by some enkindled reverence
They went out softly, creeping to their beds.