THE ANTIQUE
Oh, yes, it took all her time;
She was going tomorrow to look at a cedar chest
In a farmhouse miles away . . .
She was going tomorrow to look at a cedar chest
In a farmhouse miles away . . .
I could have turned to her
And shown her an antique she overlooked,
With bloodless, gnarled old legs,
With a flattened O-Gee swell toward the head,
And a soul twisted with lust for acquiring;
Reverencing as priceless relics
The discarded shells of man's habitations,
Like a fussy and energetic tumble-bug
Gathering the leavings of the past;
Happily nesting herself in musty fragments
Of a life that was young and lusty and forward-marching.
What a queer, stagnant back-water
Of the stream of life!
And shown her an antique she overlooked,
With bloodless, gnarled old legs,
With a flattened O-Gee swell toward the head,
And a soul twisted with lust for acquiring;
Reverencing as priceless relics
The discarded shells of man's habitations,
Like a fussy and energetic tumble-bug
Gathering the leavings of the past;
Happily nesting herself in musty fragments
Of a life that was young and lusty and forward-marching.
What a queer, stagnant back-water
Of the stream of life!
Her flowing chatter aroused me.
"I saw such a queer sign in that shop," she said;
"'The Trash of the Past is the Treasure of the Future.'
Such a queer sign."
"I saw such a queer sign in that shop," she said;
"'The Trash of the Past is the Treasure of the Future.'
Such a queer sign."
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