Page:New Hampshire (Frost, 1923).djvu/18

4 I met a poet from another state, A zealot full of fluid inspiration, Who in the name of fluid inspiration, But in the best style of bad salesmanship, Angrily tried to make me write a protest (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act. He didn't even offer me a drink Until I asked for one to steady him. This is called having an idea to sell.

It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

The only person really soiled with trade I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire Was someone who had just come back ashamed From selling things in California. He'd built a noble mansard roof with balls On turrets like Constantinople, deep In woods some ten miles from a railroad station, As if to put forever out of mind The hope of being, as we say, received. I found him standing at the close of day Inside the threshold of his open barn, Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage— And recognized him through the iron grey In which his face was muffled to the eyes As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed A drover with me on the road to Brighton. His farm was "grounds," and not a farm at all; His house among the local sheds and shanties Rose like a factor's at a trading station. And he was rich, and I was still a rascal. I couldn't keep from asking impolitely, Where had he been and what had he been doing?