A Bad Penny

we VOL, XXVII

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LR. 0 etry No. VI

A Magazine of Verse

MARCH 1926

STORY NUMBER

A BAD PENNY

I STOPPED a night in Granby at a farm,

And after supper we sat on the porch-

The gray-haired lady of the house and I-

And talked and lalked. She told about her brother-

I guess it eased her a little. This was the story:

Born and brought up here, I suppose 'twas natural

That we should be content to settle here

™ Granby, and live quiet humdrum lives

* as our folks had lived, and theirs before them

All but Dave. Dave was the odd one of the family;

Youngest by several years, and of us all

The only boy. It's likely he was spoiled-

There was that in him. . . . He'd a sickness too,

When a year old, which put a curse on him

Of bodily weakness never quite outgrown.

He was forever to be gone somewhere-

That was his passion. Even as a child

It was so with him. Usually, as soon

As he had eaten his breakfast, he'd be off-

Gone for the day.- We'd see no more of him

Till supper-time. At first, mother was vexed

At having him so long out of her sight,

And where he went always a mystery.

But she gave in-he had to have his way.

Woodsmen would tell often of glimpsing him

Plodding along alone amid the trees,

Or sometimes seated on a fallen log

Or a low stump, a-mooning at the sky.

Always, though, he was back with us in time

For supper, never offering to say

Where it was he had passed so long a time;

And we, because he didn't, never asking.

Dave was like that. When he was twenty-one

He had a notion he'd like to visit Boston,

And pestered us until we let him go.

He went; and wrote us that he had a job-

Though just what kind of job he didn't say-

And rather liked the city. But the next

Letter we had told he was tired of it,

And coming home soon as they paid him off.

And home he came-and glad enough to be here.

" Boston's too big a town-too many people-

Too much noise. I want quiet. . . . " But before

A month had passed he had to go again.

Burlington it was this time. There he stopped

Several weeks-got restive, took a boat,

Crossed Lake Champlain to Plattsburg in New York,

And drifted south to Troy and Albany,

And west as far as Syracuse-then wrote

That he was homesick. So we sent him money,

And he came home. "I was dead broke," he said;

"I would have starved to death. I've learned my lesson-

Home is a pretty good place, after all.

I'm back to stay." But Dave was Dave, the same

He had been from the first and always would be.

Autumn came. "I can't bear to see the birds

Gone from the orchard. I must have the birds. . . .

What is there here now? There is nothing here-

Nothing but bare fields and a sullen sky. . . .

I'm going where the birds are."

"Gone again?"

"But I'll be back . . . you know I always come

Back to you. When the birds come back, I'll come."

We heard from him in Jacksonville. " The South!

Here it's all summer, and the birds are here-

Everything's here! I'm happy-this suits me.

Here is my home from now on!"

"We shall see . . .

He will be back," we said. And sure enough,

Early in spring we had a letter saying

He had some symptoms of some sort of fever,

And shouldn't wonder if he'd best come home.

Father got angry then-" T'1l let him know,

If he comes back this time, he'll have to work."

"He's not unwilling to work-he never was

What you would call a shirker," mother defended.

Almost his first words were, " Well, here I am,

Like a bad penny. I've come back to you-

Bad pennies will persist in coming back."

He laughed at the conceit, and we laughed with him.

"We're glad to have you back, bad penny or no.

Stay awhile, won't you?"

"Stay? Of course I'll stay!

After what I've been through. . . . I've had a plenty!

It's not so much fun as you might suppose-

Knocking about. It's anything but fun.

Home is the-only place for anybody!"

"You wrote something

About a fever... . "

"I'd have died of it."

"What sort of fever was it?"

"'Homesickness."

I do believe the boy did all he could

To help that summer. It was a hard time-

Father wasn't well, and could do very little,

Which made it necessary for us girls

To go into the fields. There was a drought

Which lasted two long months, and we despaired

Of crops for winter, and feared forest fires.

Part of our land had been burned over once.

Dave-it was almost pitiful to watch!

He had no right to get behind a plow-

I could have done a better job myself!

Swinging a scythe he was a sight to smile at.

He bungled everything. "I just can't seem

To get the hang of it," he'd say. He just

Hadn't the farmer in him, that was all.

He liked it better to take a book and cross

The lower meadow to where the river ran,

And where there was a grove of sycamores

Under which he would sprawl the whole day long,

Half the time reading, half the time asleep.

Summer passed . . . and he saw the trees all bare,

The fields all fallow; and he said, " Well, folks,

I've an idea I've got to go again. . . .

A Vermont winter-the mere thought of it

Gives me the shivers! I've no business here

After the birds are gone."

"But-you'll be back?"

It was some time before we heard from him;

And then a letter came from-was it Tampa?-

Some such a name-saying he had a chance

To cross to Cuba, and he guessed he'd go.

We had no further news for many weeks.

Then a brief message from a queer-named place,

Saying at last he had found his heart's desire,

- And didn't think of coming north again,

Ever.

That winter father passed away-

We buried him. And then Jane left us-married

A neighbor-farmer. Beatrice took up

With a man lately come from down Stowe way,

And betwixt them they bought a little farm

On Pike's Hill, and went there to live. That left

Dorothy and myself at home-us two

With mother; and we hired a man to take

Charge of the place, and things went well enough.

So the months passed.

One day, early in April,

Who should drop in on us but-Dave! Grown thinner,

Grown gaunt almost, and almost aged-looking-

Not the old Dave. And still he'd scarcely changed-

Only his look had changed. "Well, here I am;

Here's the bad penny! That was a bright thought

I had, to call myself that, wasn't it?

You can't get rid of me; there's no use trying."

And then he laughed, as always when he said it.

This time, however, we refrained from joining.

Something about him . . . he was twenty-six,

And the hair above his ears was iron-grey.

He brought-of all things, what would you say he'd

brought?

He brought a wife-a tiny slip of a girl;

Some one he'd met, he told us, in Havana,

And gone with for a time, and finally married.

He called her Bertha, and she worshiped him.

We tried to make him talk-'twas natural

We'd be some curious about the girl,

She being his and he ours, so to speak;-

But he'd say nothing-only that he loved her,

'Which he might just as well have left unsaid.

He wouldn't even tell us what her age was . .

"What does it matter?" he'd come back at us;

"You know her name, and know that she's my wife.

That's enough, isn't it?"

The girl was shy

Somehow she seemed always to be afraid-

Suspicious of us. We did what we could,

But Dave was sufficient for her.

"It's as well,"

We said, "that he is married. He'll have that

To hold him. He won't feel so free to stray,

He can't be gallivanting-up and off

Whenever the notion strikes him-with a family."

It was quite pitiful-the way the child

Tried to conceal her state. And of us all,

Not one had courage to broach the subject to her,

Not even mother. "When she looks at me-

So like a frightened deer-I have a feeling

That all the time she is in mortal dread

Of being asked about it. . . . With her eyes

She begs us not to speak of it to her."

We had grave fears: "She is so young, so small-

It will go hard with her." Poor little girl !-

She was a thing to pity those last months. . . .

Dave would not let her out of his sight a minute.

He took her driving; and more times than one

Carried her in his arms across the meadow

To where he used to pass so many hours.

And he would sit propped up against a tree,

And she lie with her dark head in his lap.

It made me want to cry to see them so.

I think he knew he wouldn't have her long-

I caught him looking at her once or twice.

But I shall cry now if I think of it-

I've tried so hard to forget that look in his eyes.

"She'll not go through with it," we told each other;

And when the time came I just couldn't stand it,

But rushed out of the house, and shut myself

Into the lower barn, and shivered there

Until I saw the doctor drive away.

Dave bore it calmly; or at least he kept

His feelings to himself. It wasn't his way

To take on over things. He shed no tears,

But there were times-hours we knew nothing of.

He took to staying up till after midnight,

Begging us to sit with him and keep talking;

We all got haggard-faced from lack of sleep.

Things went on much as ever. Dave took hold

Better than I had thought he ever could.

He did the haying almost by himself,

Cut all the corn and saw it to the silo,

And dug potatoes till it seemed his back

Would forget how to straighten up again;

Then took an axe, and put in two whole weeks

In the wood-lot; put in two more hauling down

What he had split and sawed, and still another

Stacking it in the shed, which it filled full.

We were amazed. It seemed he couldn't find

Enough to do. In the first gray of dawn

He was up and at it-something. And as long

As it was light enough to see his hand

Before his face, he held himself to toil.

Perhaps he would have gone mad if he hadn't.

Summer gave place to autumn. And one night

Something-some impulse-got me out of bed

To go to the window. There was a full moon,

And by its light, looking across the lawn

And toward the orchard, I made out a form

Bending above the white stone there. I sat

And watched; and presently the form unbent,

And what I would have called an old, old man

Came plodding toward the house. . .. And in the morning

Dave said at breakfast, " Well, I think I've done

All I can do now . . . everything is set

For the long winter-and I've got to go.

The birds are going-yesterday I saw

A great flock of them sailing away aloft... .

But this, I promise you, is my last fling-

When I come back I shall come back to stay."

"When will you come back?"

"In the spring," he said;

"T shall be here before the robins are."

He made the rounds with his familiar "So long!"

And I recall Jane's saying to me, the time

She stopped by on her way home from the village,

"It seemed so natural to be seeing him go,

I scarce could bring myself to say good-bye,

Knowing that he'll be back again so soon."

Which seemed to end the story. But I guessed

There was more left to tell, so prompted gently,

"He came back, I suppose, and settled down?"

"He came back-yes," she answered; "came to stay.

In the spring too, just as he said he would.

We didn't see him, but we know he came.

We know he never went away again... .

That's all there is to tell."

I wondered why

Her voice should tremble so at such an ending!