“Through two small windows sunshine slanted in
To die upon the splintery schoolroom floor,
While the October gusts whipped dirt and weeds
Against the rough-hewn logs, or through loose chinks
Sang, keying children’s nerves to concert pitch.
At eleven fell a loud vehement fit
Of knocking at the door. Little Ernest plumped
Out of his seat, fell flat, and the children stared
While the teacher turned the knob. There stood
Nate Briggs
With face well smeared with dust, a bloody nose,
Torn overalls, a cudgel in his hand,
And eyes on fire with fury, and to her
“”Good morning, Mr. Briggs,”” showed teeth and barked,
“”You whipped my little Willie yesterday,
Because that cussed Jones girl pulled his hair.
God damn the Joneses! By the holy golden””-swift,
The door went shut in his face and the key was turned.
At noon the teacher wrote, and Arthur Flynn
Galloped to the road and waited for the stage.
In three days came the upshot. Nathan Briggs
Sailed gloriously past the country store,-
Top buggy, driver with a spanking team,-
To trudge back, two days later, coat on arm,
Afoot, the thirty dusty miles from town.
A thresher’s outfit close beside the road
Had halted work to mend the driving belt.
Began the grinning:
“”H ‘lo Nate, where you been?”
”Sold your horse and buggy? Didn ‘t like to ride?”
“”You ought to have made the sheriff fetch you back.””
”What’s the fine for cussin’ schoolma ‘ams?”” “”Old man Jones
Says he wants to lick you agin; says he’d be glad
To pay once more for his cattle in your corn
For the pleasure of fightin’.”” “”Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!
We ain’t no schoolma-ams. You can’t frighten us
By shakin’ your fist and cursin’.””
Nathan Briggs
Like a footsore dog toiled home. And glance, and gibe,
And grins like lashes fell where the bruisings ached.
How to set right his world out-puzzled him.
Apologize, atone? Such acts require
Romantic fineness, power to undertake,
And will that stoops with a shoulder-load of blame
Along the public road on a holiday.
It was his wish that people should forget.
In spite of curse and clod, humiliations
Dogged every step to make him hide his head.
If his slow thoughts fermenting bitterly
Did not burst out, some fostering spirit saved him.
He set no foot off his farm for the next six months;
Indeed, he thought of moving farther west.
But folk need neighbors, time cures every woe,
So this fault found oblivion. Once a year,
Perhaps, some store-box winker may refer
To the stylish buggy-ride of Nathan Briggs.
His young son had to bear the father’s crimes
At school, poor tearful champion of a love
Already gibbeted. The teacher’s care
Guarded him when it might. And Mrs. Briggs
Who had a reputation for currant jell
Sent her a dozen glasses of the best.
(Edwin Ford Piper)”
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, God Poems, Time Poems, Fire Poems, Home Poems, Morning Poems, Power Poems, Education Poems, Fathers Poems, Hair Poems, People PoemsBased on Keywords: nathan, overalls, shakin, vehement, footsore, apologize, buggy, knob, thresher, cussed, cudgel