Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/192

 Replied that if he chose to go down cellar, There he would find eight barrels one of which Was newly tapped, he said, and to his taste An honor to the fruit. Isaac approved Most heartily of that, and guided us Forthwith, as if his venerable feet Were measuring the turf in his own door-yard, Straight to the open rollway. Down we went, Out if the fiery sunshine to the gloom, Grateful and half sepulchral, where we found The barrels, like eight potent sentinels, Close ranged along the wall. From one of them A bright pine spile stuck out alluringly, And on the black flat stone, just under it, Glimmered a late-spilled proof that Archibald Had spoken from unfeigned experience. There was a fluted antique water-glass Close by, and in it, prisoned, or at rest, There was a cricket, of the brown soft sort That feeds on darkness. Isaac turned him out, And touched him with his thumb to make him jump, And then composedly pulled out the plug With such a practised hand that scarce a drop Did even touch his fingers. Then he drank And smacked his lips with a slow patronage And looked along the line of barrels there With a pride that may have been forgetfulness That they were Archibald's and not his own. "I never twist a spigot nowadays," He said, and raised the glass up to the light, "But I thank God for orchards." And that glass Was filled repeatedly for the same hand Before I thought it worth while to discern Again that I was young, and that old age, With all his woes, had some advantages.