THE GUM-GATHERER
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here overtook me and drew me inTo his down-hill, early-morning stride,And set me five miles on my roadBetter than if he had had me ride,A man with a swinging bag for loadAnd half the bag wound round his hand.We talked like barking above the dinOf water we walked along beside.And for my telling him where I'd beenAnd where I lived in mountain landTo be coming home the way I was,He told me a little about himself.He came from higher up in the passWhere the grist of the new-beginning brooksIs blocks split off the mountain mass—-And hopeless grist enough it looksEver to grind to soil for grass.(The way it is will do for moss.)There he had built his stolen shack.It had to be a stolen shackBecause of the fears of fire and lossThat trouble the sleep of lumber folk:Visions of half the world burned blackAnd the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.We know who when they come to townBring berries under the wagon seat,Or a basket of eggs between their feet;What this man brought in a cotton sackWas gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.He showed me lumps of the scented stuffLike uncut jewels, dull and rough.It comes to market golden brown;But turns to pink between the teeth. I told him this is a pleasant lifeTo set your breast to the bark of treesThat all your days are dim beneath,And reaching up with a little knife,To loose the resin and take it downAnd bring it to market when you please.
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