Magic

We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.

Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled

With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes

That never flinched or turned to compromise,

And “Luck,” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm,

Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm

In all of Maine could boast of; and away

He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay...

We walked on leisurely until a bend

Showed him once more, now working toward the end

Of one great path; wearing his eighty years

Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers.

Then we turned off abruptly—took the road

Cutting the village, the one with the commanding

View of the river. And we strode

More briskly now to the long pier that showed

Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.

In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dipped

Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped

More on than in the water. Smoothly then

We shot its nose against the rippling current,

Feeling the rising river’s half-deterrent

Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade

To keep from swerving round; while we delayed

To watch the curious wave-eaten locks;

Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks....

Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted

A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.

And over us the wise and noble-hearted

Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted,—

And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk

Down the green, twisting alleys of the Kennebunk,

Motionless in the meadows

It must have been an hour more, or later,

When, tramping homeward through the piney wood,

We felt the years fly back; the brotherhood

Of forests took us—and we saw the satyr!

There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood

And grinned to see us stare, incredulous—

Too startled to remember fear or flight.

Feeling the menace in the crafty night,

We turned to run—when lo, he called to us!

Using our very names he called. We drew

With creaking courage down the avenue

Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight,

(No longer through a tricky, pale-green light)

Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path,—

And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath!

The woods became his background; every tree

Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared

The beauty of that gnarled serenity;

The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared

Its shoulders against Time ... And even night

Flowed in and out of him, as though content

With such a native element;

Happy to move about a spirit quite

As old, as placid and as confident...

Sideways we turned. Still glistening and unclad

He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad,

His body in the moonlight dripping stars...

We went on homeward, through the pasture-bars.