CHAPTER XIII
FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN
And persistently, systematically Susan did, indeed, keep "peggin'away." No sooner had she roused Keith to the point of accomplishingone task than she set for him another. No sooner could he pilothimself about one room than she inveigled him into another. And whenhe could go everywhere about the house she coaxed him out into theyard. It was harder here, for Keith had a morbid fear of being staredat. And only semi-occasionally would he consent at all to going out.
It was then that with stern determination Susan sought Daniel Burton.
"Look a-here, Daniel Burton," she accosted him abruptly, "I've doneall I can now, an' it's up to you."
The man looked up, plainly startled.
"Why, Susan, you don't mean--you aren't--GOING, are you?"
"Goin' nothin'--shucks!" tossed Susan to one side disdainfully. "Imean that Keith ain't goin' to get that good red blood he's needin'sittin' 'round the house here. He's got to go off in the woods an'walk an' tramp an' run an' scuff leaves. An' you've got to go withhim. I can't, can I?"
The man shifted his position irritably.
"Do you think that boy will let me lead him through the streets,Susan? Well, I know he won't."
"I didn't say 'lead him.' I said go WITH him. There's an awful lot ofdifference between leadin' an' accommodatin'. We don't none of us liketo be led, but we don't mind goin' WITH folks 'most anywheres. Putyour arm into his an' walk together. He'll walk that way. I've triedit. An' to see him you wouldn't know he was blind at all. Oh, yes, Iknow you're hangin' back an' don't want to. I know you hate to see himor be with him, 'cause it makes you KNOW what a terrible thing it isthat's come to you an' him. But you've got to, Daniel Burton. You an'me is all he's got to stand between him an' utter misery. I can feedhis stomach an' make him do the metaphysical things, but it's youthat's got to feed his soul an' make him do the menial things."
"Oh, Susan, Susan!" half groaned the man. There was a smile on hislips, but there were tears in his eyes.
"Well, it's so," argued Susan earnestly. "Oh, I read to him, ofcourse. I read him everything I can get hold of, especially about menan' women that have become great an' famous an' extinguished, even ifthey was blind or deaf an' dumb, or lame--especially blind. But Ican't learn him books, Mr. Burton. You've got to do that. You've gotto be eyes for him, an' he's got to go to school to you. Mr.Burton,"--Susan's voice grew husky and unsteady,--"you've got a chancenow to paint bigger an' grander pictures than you ever did before, onlyyou won't be paintin' 'em on canvas backs. You'll be paintin' 'em onthat boy's soul, an' you'll be usin' words instead of them littlebrushes."
"You've put that--very well, Susan." It was the man who spokeunsteadily, huskily, now.
"I don't know about that, but I do know that them pictures you'regoin' to paint for him is goin' to be the makin' of him. Why, Mr.Burton, we can't have him lazin' behind, 'cause when he does get backhis eyes we don't want him to be too far behind his class."
"But what--if he doesn't ever get his eyes, Susan?"
"Then he'll need it all the more. But he's goin' to get 'em, Mr.Burton. Don't you remember? The nurse said if he got well an' stronghe could have somethin' done. I've got the doctor, an' all I need nowis the money. An'--an' that makes me think." She hesitated, growingsuddenly pink and embarrassed. Then resolutely she put her hand intothe pocket of her apron and pulled out two folded papers.
"I was goin' to tell you about these, anyhow, so I might as well do itnow," she explained. "You know, them--them other poems didn't sellmuch--there was only one went, an' the man wouldn't take that tillhe'd made me promise he could print my letter, too, that I'd wrotewith it--jest as if that was worth anything!--but he only paid ameasly dollar anyhow." Susan's voice faltered a little, though herchin was at a brave tilt. "An' I guess now I know the reason. Themkind of poems ain't stylish no longer. Rhymes has gone out.Everything's 'free verse' now. I've been readin' up about it. So I'vewrote some of 'em. They're real easy to do--jest lines chopped offfree an' easy, anywheres that it happens, only have some long, an'some short, for notoriety, you know, like this." And she read:
"A great big cloud That was black Came up Out of the West. An' I knew Then For sure That a storm was brewin'. An' it brewed."
"Now that was dead easy--anybody could see that. But it's kind ofpretty, I think, too, jest the same. Them denatured poems are alwayspretty, I think--about trees an' grass an' flowers an' the sky, youknow. Don't you?"
"Why, er--y-yes, of course," murmured the man faintly.
"I tried a love poem next. I don't write them very often. They're socommon. You see 'em everywhere, you know. But I thought I would tryit--'twould be different, anyhow, in this new kind of verses. So Iwrote this:
Oh, love of mine, I love Thee. Thy hair is yellow like the Golden squash. Thy neck so soft An' slender like a goose, Is encompassed in filtered lace So rich an' Rare. Thy eyes in thy pallid face like Blueberries in a Saucer of milk. Oh, love of mine, I love Thee."
"Have you sent--any of these away yet, Susan?" Daniel Burton was onhis feet now, his back carefully turned.
"No, not yet; but I'm goin' to pretty quick, an' I guess them willsell." Susan nodded happily, and smiled. But almost instantly her facegrew gravely earnest again. "But all the money in the world ain'tgoin' to do no good Mr. Burton, unless we do our part, an' our part isto get him well an' strong for that operator. Now I'm goin' to sendKeith in to you. I ain't goin' to TELL him he's goin' to walk withyou, 'cause if I did he wouldn't come. But I'm expectin' you to takehim, jest the same," she finished severely, as she left the room.
Keith and his father went to walk. It was the first of many suchwalks. Almost every one of these crisp November days found the two offon a tramp somewhere. And because Daniel Burton was careful always toaccompany, never to lead, the boy's step gained day by day inconfidence and his face in something very like interest. And always,for cold and stormy days, there were the books at home.
Daniel Burton was not painting pictures--pigment pictures--these days.His easel was empty. "The Woodland Path," long since finished, hadbeen sent away "to be sold." Most of Daniel Burton's paintings were"sent away to be sold," so that was nothing new. What was new,however, was the fact that no fresh canvas was placed on the easel totake the place of the picture sent away. Daniel Burton had begun nonew picture. The easel, indeed, was turned face to the wall. And yetDaniel Burton was painting pictures, wonderful pictures. His brusheswere words, his colors were the blue and gold and brown and crimson ofthe wide autumn landscape, his inspiration was the hungry light on aboy's face, and his canvas was the soul of the boy behind it. Mostassuredly Daniel Burton was giving himself now, heart and mind andbody, to his son. Even the lynx-eyed, alert Susan had no fault tofind. Daniel Burton, most emphatically, was "doing his part."
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