" I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
American Poetry - 1922
It's the bones.
"
"What bones? " "The cellar bones--out of the grave. "
* * * * *
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what--
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, _The Wild Colonial Boy_,
He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an open door to get out-doors.
Let's trap him with an open door up attic. "
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick! " I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile, get nails.
" I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them like it,
Let them _stay_ in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say--
To no one any more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.
_The Son_
We think they had a grave down in the cellar.
_The Mother_
We know they had a grave down in the cellar.
_The Son_
We never could find out whose bones they were.
_The Mother_
Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.
We were about it one night in the cellar.
"What bones? " "The cellar bones--out of the grave. "
* * * * *
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what--
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, _The Wild Colonial Boy_,
He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an open door to get out-doors.
Let's trap him with an open door up attic. "
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick! " I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile, get nails.
" I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them like it,
Let them _stay_ in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say--
To no one any more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.
_The Son_
We think they had a grave down in the cellar.
_The Mother_
We know they had a grave down in the cellar.
_The Son_
We never could find out whose bones they were.
_The Mother_
Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.
We were about it one night in the cellar.
