But Boston--or even Butte in Montana--is not to be compared to a
lodging-place far down in the country: a tiny house by the side
of a fishy, mossy pond, in summer-time, with the hot sun shining
on the door-step, and a clump of willows and an oak-tree growing
near; on the side of the house where the sun is bright in the
morning, some small square beds of radishes, and pale-green heads
of lettuce, and straight, neat rows of young onions, with the moist
earth showing black between the rows; and a few green peas growing
by a small fence; and on the other side of the little house grass
will grow--tall rank grass and some hardy weeds, and perhaps a
tiger-lily or two will come up unawares. The fishy pond will not
be too near the house, nor too far away--but near enough so that
the singing of the frogs in the night will sound clear and loud.
Rolling hills will be lying fair and green at a distance, and
cattle will wander and graze upon them in the shade of low-hanging
branches. On still afternoons a quail or a pheasant will be heard
calling in the woods.
The air that will blow down the long gentle uplands will be very
sweet. The message that it brings, as it touches my cheeks and my
lips and my forehead, will be one of exceeding deep peace.
I would live in the little house with a friend of my heart--a friend
in the shadows and half-lights and brilliances. For if the hearts
of two are tuned in accord the harmony may be of exquisite tenor.
In the very early morning I would sit on the doorstep where the
sun shines, and my eyes would look off at the prospect. Life would
throb in my veins.
In the middle of the forenoon I would be kneeling in the beds of
radishes and slim young onions and lettuce, pulling the weeds from
among them and staining my two hands with black roots.
In the middle of the day I would sit in the shade, but where I could
see the sunshine touching the brilliant greenness, near the house
and afar. And I could see the pond glaring with beams and motes.
In the late afternoon I, with the friend of my heart, would walk down
among the green valleys and wooded hills, by fences and crumbling
stone walls, until we reached a point of vantage where we could
see the sea.
In the night, when the sun had gone and the earth had cooled and
the dark, dark gray had fallen over all, we would sit again on the
doorstep. It would be lonesome there, with the sound of the frogs
and of night-birds--and there would be a cricket chirping. We would
speak to each other with one or two words through long stillnesses.
Presently would come the dead midnight, and we would be in heavy
sleep beneath the low, hot roof of the little house.
Mingled with the dead midnight would be memories of the day that
had just gone. In my sleep I would seem to walk again in the
meadows, and the green of the countless grass-blades would affect
me with a strange delirium--as if now for the first time I saw
them. Each little grass-blade would have a voice and would shout:
_Mary MacLane, oh, we are the grass-blades and we are here! We are
the grass-blades, we are the grass-blades, and we are here!_
And yes. That would be the marvelous thing--that they were _here_.
And would not the leaves be upon the trees?--and would not tiny
pale flowers be growing in the ground?--and would not the sky be
over all? Oh, the unspeakable sky!
In the dead midnight sleep would leave me and I would wake in a
vision of beauty and of horror, with fear at my heart, with horrible
fear at my heart.
Then frantically I would think of the little radish-beds outside
the window--how common and how satisfying they were. Thus thinking,
I would sleep again and wake to the sun’s shining.
“You would not,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “stay long in such a
place.”