Mr. What's-His-Name.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name:     From where he was, or why he came,     Or when, or what he found to do,     Nobody in the city knew.     He lived, it seemed, shut up alone     In a low hovel of his own;     There cooked his meals and made his bed,     Careless of all his neighbors said.     His neighbors, too, said many things     Expressive of grave wonderings,     Since none of them had ever been     Within his doors, or peered therein.     In fact, grown watchful, they became     Assured that Mr. What's-his-name     Was up to something wrong - indeed,     Small doubt of it, we all agreed.     At night were heard strange noises there,     When honest people everywhere     Had long retired; and his light     Was often seen to burn all night.     He left his house but seldom - then     Would always hurry back again,     As though he feared some stranger's knock,     Finding him gone, might burst the lock.     Beside, he carried, every day,     At the one hour he went away,     A basket, with the contents hid     Beneath its woven willow lid.     And so we grew to greatly blame     This wary Mr. What's-his-name,     And look on him with such distrust     His actions seemed to sanction just.     But when he died - he died one day -     Dropped in the street while on his way     To that old wretched hut of his -     You'll think it strange - perhaps it is -     But when we lifted him, and past     The threshold of his home at last,     No man of all the crowd but stepped     With reverence, - Aye, quailed and wept!     What was it?    Just a shriek of pain     I pray to never hear again -     A withered woman, old and bowed,     That fell and crawled and cried aloud -     And kissed the dead man's matted hair -     Lifted his face and kissed him there -     Called to him, as she clutched his hand,     In words no one could understand.     Insane?    Yes. - Well, we, searching, found     An unsigned letter, in a round     Free hand, within the dead man's breast:     "Look to my mother - I'm at rest.     You'll find my money safely hid     Under the lining of the lid     Of my work-basket.    It is hers,     And God will bless her ministers!"     And some day - though he died unknown -     If through the City by the Throne     I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame,     I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.