Cousin Rufus' Story

My little story, Cousin Rufus said,     Is not so much a story as a fact.     It is about a certain willful boy -     An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,     Grown to dislike his own home very much,     By reason of his parents being not     At all up to his rigid standard and     Requirements and exactions as a son     And disciplinarian.         So, sullenly     He brooded over his disheartening     Environments and limitations, till,     At last, well knowing that the outside world     Would yield him favors never found at home,     He rose determinedly one July dawn -     Even before the call for breakfast - and,     Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly     Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he     Evanished down the turnpike. - Yes: he had,     Once and for all, put into execution     His long low-muttered threatenings - He had     Run off! - He had - had run away from home!     His parents, at discovery of his flight,     Bore up first-rate - especially his Pa, -     Quite possibly recalling his own youth,     And therefrom predicating, by high noon,     The absent one was very probably     Disporting his nude self in the delights     Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards     Below the slaughter-house, just east of town.     The stoic father, too, in his surmise     Was accurate - For, lo! the boy was there!     And there, too, he remained throughout the day -     Save at one starving interval in which     He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough     To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,     And raid a neighboring orchard - bitterly,     And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,     Bethinking him how all the other boys     Had homes to go to at the dinner-hour -     While he - alas! - he had no home! - At least     These very words seemed rising mockingly,     Until his every thought smacked raw and sour     And green and bitter as the apples he     In vain essayed to stay his hunger with.     Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys     Returned rejuvenated for the long     Wet revel of the feverish afternoon. -     Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam     And spluttered, in their weltering merriment,     He tried to laugh, too, - but his voice was hoarse     And sounded to him like some other boy's.     And then he felt a sudden, poking sort     Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold     And scaly pain were blindly nosing it     Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast.     The tensioned pucker of his purple lips     Grew ever chillier and yet more tense -     The central hurt of it slow spreading till     It did possess the little face entire.     And then there grew to be a knuckled knot -     An aching kind of core within his throat -     An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed     To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend     He didn't notice it as when he did.     It was a kind of a conceited pain -     An overbearing, self-assertive and     Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt     A boy's capacity for suffering -     So, many times, the little martyr needs     Must turn himself all suddenly and dive     From sight of his hilarious playmates and     Surreptitiously weep under water.         Thus     He wrestled with his awful agony     Till almost dark; and then, at last - then, with     The very latest lingering group of his     Companions, he moved turgidly toward home -     Nay, rather oozed that way, so slow he went, -     With lothful, hesitating, loitering,     Reluctant, late-election-returns air,     Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve     Of chopping a double-armful of wood     As he went in by rear way of the kitchen.     And this resolve he executed; - yet     The hired girl made no comment whatsoever,     But went on washing up the supper-things,     Crooning the unutterably sad song, "Then think,     Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!"     Still, with affected carelessness, the boy     Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door     Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick     And went out on the porch. - At least the pump,     He prophesied, would meet him kindly and     Shake hands with him and welcome his return!     And long he held the old tin dipper up -     And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!     Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes     He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,     Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:     The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked     A sort of sallow gladness over his     Home-coming, with this softening of the heart.     He did not leave the dipper carelessly     In the milk-trough. - No: he hung it back upon     Its old nail thoughtfully - even tenderly.     All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward     The rain-barrel at the corner of the house,     And, pausing, peered into it at the few     Faint stars reflected there. Then - moved by some     Strange impulse new to him - he washed his feet.     He then went in the house - straight on into     The very room where sat his parents by     The evening lamp. - The father all intent     Reading his paper, and the mother quite     As intent with her sewing. Neither looked     Up at his entrance - even reproachfully, -     And neither spoke.         The wistful runaway     Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down     Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all     Was very still there for a long, long while. -     Yet everything, someway, seemed restful-like     And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind,     And sort of kin to him! - Only too still!     If somebody would say something - just speak -     Or even rise up suddenly and come     And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair -     Or box his jaws - Lord bless 'em! - anything! -     Was he not there to thankfully accept     Any reception from parental source     Save this incomprehensible voicelessness.     O but the silence held its very breath!     If but the ticking clock would only strike     And for an instant drown the whispering,     Lisping, sifting sound the katydids     Made outside in the grassy nowhere.         Far     Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo     Of boys at their night-game of "Town-fox,"     But now with no desire at all to be     Participating in their sport - No; no; -     Never again in this world would he want     To join them there! - he only wanted just     To stay in home of nights - Always - always -     Forever and a day!         He moved; and coughed -     Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet     No vaguest of parental notice or     Solicitude in answer - no response -     No word - no look. O it was deathly still! -     So still it was that really he could not     Remember any prior silence that     At all approached it in profundity     And depth and density of utter hush.     He felt that he himself must break it: So,     Summoning every subtle artifice     Of seeming nonchalance and native ease     And naturalness of utterance to his aid,     And gazing raptly at the house-cat where     She lay curled in her wonted corner of     The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily     And said: "I see you've got the same old cat!"