Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BALLAD OF MEAN MARKS, by AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BALLAD OF MEAN MARKS, by                    
First Line: Marks was the county's meanest man
Last Line: "my poor, proud man. . ."
Alternate Author Name(s): Brownell, John A., Mrs.
Subject(s): Marriage; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


Marks was the county's meanest man,
Agreed by every other:
His coat was dyed of chestnut bark
And woven by his mother.

And shabbily he went to court
To sue his kith and kin, --
"This map shows where his land should end
And where my fields begin . . ."

"Land crazy!" So they labeled him.
But sound in all his senses,
He kept buck shot for trespassers
And built barbed wire fences.

And children on their way to school
Respected his harsh code
And dared not pick the apple up
That rotted in the road,

But saw the pumpkins in the corn
Like many moons at night,
And water melons of great girth
Striped emerald and white . . .

The very tramps his wife would feed
Furtively by day,
Soon ceased to beg, divining she
Was hungrier than they,

So wasted was her gentle look.
Folk wondered why he'd wed her
And had not saved what it would cost
To keep her and to bed her.

And then there was the hired hand,
Thin in the chest and narrow,
Whose soul was like a tortured field
Marks used his tongue to harrow.

The only thing Lem knew for sure,
Besides his low estate,
Was that he'd cause to hate the man
So many loved to hate.

The rank weed of their enmity
Grew round him, yet his wife,
Knowing as sorrel chokes the grass
So hatred dooms a life,

Forgave him that he used her ill,
And that her very savings
He'd coax away, dismiss her need
To spend as "woman's ravings"!

And when the county fair approached,
The long, hot summer done,
He told her that the fee was twice
As much for two as one,

And she was crushed and stayed at home. . .
But eager as a fox
For grapes, Marks led his cattle in,
Won cash prize for an ox.

Came marching home in triumph with
The slow plod of the cattle
In the stifling dust. Their ribbons showed
Like banners out of battle. . .

Women are strange. She swept her house
Pausing at times to rest
As though a hand had stilled her hand. . .
The broom leaned on her breast. . .

Her spirit was subdued, Marks thought. . .
Then one day she confounded
His smug belief in her defeat
That had been so well grounded!

That day an honest neighbor came
To ask him for the use
Of some long-questioned right o' way:
Marks met him with abuse.

And when the other, sore with wrongs,
Unable to resist,
Cried, "Damn you for the hound you are!"
He felled him with his fist,

Beat him and left him in his tracks
Where black earth spouted muddy.
He strode into the kitchen then,
Victorious and bloody,

And smiling with a bully's pride
Recalled that shower of sparks,
When her voice said beside the stove,
"I'm sorry for you, Marks!"

"Sorry, Sorry for me?" He stared.
Her eyes were blue, of Delf
Seen in old china. He ripped out,
"You'd best explain yourself."

"I'm damned if I know what you mean,
Unless you think you're witty!"
Bravely she spoke: "Living or dead,
You can't escape my pity.

"I pity you for your hard heart
And for your lonely sin,
That you must ever, ever fight
And never fail to win. . ."

Marks shook then like an angry god,
Shook like an aspen tree:
"I'll have none of your pity, mind!"
She answered, "We shall see. . ."

Grim as a giant at his play,
He cleared a field of rocks,
The long scythe glinting in his hand,
Mowed down her hollyhocks.

She smiled at his revenge. She cooked
And made her kitchen tidy:
When Monday came she did the wash,
And baked the bread on Friday.

She spoke no word but darned his clothes
With hand light as a thistle,
Thrust cleanliness upon the man,
All beard and dirt and gristle,

And set the milk pails out to dry
Like silver in the sun,
As women will -- until at last
The endless work is done. . .

She sickened one day at the churn
And had a chill. . . He nursed her
Through days and nights; it might have been
He loved her or he cursed her,

Or counted on the chastening
Effect of pain to cure
That lofty something in her soul
Which he could not endure, --

Transcendent pity for the plight
Of him she looked upon:
"However will it fare with you,"
She sighed, "When I am gone?"

Then Marks, remembering in time
To make his answer gruff,
Out of a husky throat replied,
"I shall do well enough. . ."

And yet more terse was his harsh speech,
All kind assistance scorning,
When, ready to forget the past,
His neighbors came one morning

After the first snow-fall. They'd heard
That she had gone, and how. . .
"I've got along before," he snapped.
"I reckon I can now!"

And shut the door, and buried her
Himself, on his own place,
With Lem, the hired hand, to help.
Lem's poor, white twitching face,

Was blurred by tears. But Marks was strong.
He let no grief unman him.
Lem stayed on, he knew not why;
Marks greatly over-ran him.

Winter was long that year. Marks froze
First one ear, then a foot.
Trouble set in and he was housed
And could not wear a boot.

Though he allowed he'd find a girl
To cook and keep his home
Yet grudge against him ran so strong
No woman-thing would come.

When winter broke and he came out,
Dirty and lean and hairy,
Folk said they were afeared of him
His look had grown so scary. . .

And often Lem, with famished eye,
Turned toward the wood lot where
They'd put her who had been his friend,
Who'd left the cupboard bare. . .

Although Spring brought new hopes to earth
And new green to the tree,
Alone, the bleak house stood forlorn
In its necessity,

Till charity was waked at last. . .
One came in hat and shawl
Through dogwood bloom -- she must have crossed
The old stile at the wall,

And lightly, with familiar step,
Have hurried through the gate. . .
Her hands were, as a lady's, fine,
All too immaculate

To raise against Mark's disarray.
The helplessness of men
Provoked her laughter as she worked,
But she was weeping when

She stole away. That night Lem asked,
"Who's set this kettle shining?"
Marks stared. It looked the self-same house
But with another lining!

Next day he sought and found her grave
Hid in a fragrant mass
Of blue forget-me-nots, the flower
That she could never pass,

And wondered who had planted them.
They seemed a living dress,
So sweetly did the small things lend
Their common willingness. . .

And with his dark look bent above
That radiance Marks drew breath
To mutter to himself and kill
The queer doubt of her death.

Fear gripped him. As the days slipped by
And he could never catch her
Elusive ghost, he swore that he
Would have a game to match her,

And hid him in the pantry nook.
All day he skulked. He trembled,
Pale when the empty house boards creaked
And hungry mice assembled.

At last, it was the afternoon,
The June day fair and bright,
He saw one enter through the door
With sweet, warm rush of light,

With sense of flowers, though no bud
Or blossom did she wear --
There was a neat look to her dress,
A gay look to her hair,

And gaily she hung up her shawl
To face her household task,
As if the blessing of the work
Was all that she would ask. . .

Then something shook the soul of Marks,
Implacable and human,
As forth he stepped. She'd always been
A timid little woman,

Afraid of shadows. Now her hand
Went clutching at her heart;
As in old times he heard her say,
"You gave me such a start!"

"It's what I meant to do," breathed Marks,
"Since pity brings you back
To do for me, and cook and make
The comforts that I lack,

And pity I cannot abide!
I'm well enough alone. . .
Lem's shadow fell across the floor;
He saw Marks, like a stone,

Staring at something faint yet bright. . .
Was it the sun's reflection
Upon the wall? It passed so soon
It beggared recollection.

It seemed to go as day will go
Out of the kitchen door,
And Lem's eye could not follow it,
Though afterward he swore

He'd seen the face of Mary Marks,
Her smile so fleet and wan,
And heard a whisper from her lips,
"My poor, proud man. . .





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