Iole
Robert W. Chambers
Paperback
(CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, April 2, 2014)
I ainât never knowed no one like him,â continued the station-agent reflectively. âHe made us all look like monkeys, but he was good to us. Ever see a ginuine poet, sir?â âYears ago one was pointed out to me,â replied Briggs. âWas yours smooth shaved, with large, fat, white fingers?â inquired the station-agent. âIf I remember correctly, he was thin,â said Briggs, sitting down on his suit-case and gazing apprehensively around at the landscape. There was nothing to see but low, forbidding mountains, and forests, and a railroad track curving into a tunnel. The station-agent shoved his hairy hands into the pockets of his overalls, jingled an unseen bunch of keys, and chewed a dry grass stem, ruminating the while in an undertone: âThis poet come here five years ago with all them kids, anâ the fust thing he done was to dress up his girls in boysâ pants. Then he went anâ built a humpy sort oâ house out of stones and boulders. Then he went to work anâ wrote pieces for the papers about jay-birds anâ woodchucks anâ goddesses. He claimed the woods was full of goddesses. That was his way, sir.â The agent contemplated the railroad track, running his eye along the perspective of polished rails: âYes, sir; his name wasâand isâClarence Guilford, anâ I fust seen it signed to a piece in the Uticy Star. Anâ next I knowed, folks began to stop off here inquirinâ for Mr. Guilford. âIs this here where Guilford, the poet, lives?â sez they; anâ they come thicker anâ thicker in warm weather. There wasnât no wagon to take âem up to Guilfordâs, but they didnât care, anâ they called it a litârây shrine, anâ they hit the pike, women, children, menââspeshil the women, anâ I heard âem tellinâ how Guilford dressed his kids in pants anâ how Guilford was a famous new litârây poet, anâ they said he was fixinâ to lecture in Uticy.â The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the grass stem, readjusted it, and fixed his eyes on vacancy.