Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CHARCOAL PAN, by H. HEAD First Line: Though huts like ours were rather scarce Last Line: Whose names were scarcely known. Subject(s): Death; Family Life; Fire; Tents; Dead, The; Relatives | ||||||||
THOUGH huts like ours were rather scarce, Tents were common enough; A married couple lived in one Not very far from us; 'Twas canvas, and one of the best, For when closed up at night And wet with rain, or even dew, It was almost airtight. Right snug it was, being lined throughout, And twelve by ten feet wide, Quite large enough for four of them, Their kitchen being outside A rude bark shed, with hole on top, Which let the smoke go through, They would not spoil their good new tent By building chimney too. In winter-time, when nights were cold, Not dreading any harm, They often used a charcoal-pan, To keep the children warm; But one wet night, being all closed up (For charcoal makes no smoke, Though far worse are its deadly fumes) The man by chance awoke. He could not rise, yet knew not why, Though soon he guessed the cause, And terror-stricken tumbled out Regardless quite of clothes; Then crawling on his hands and knees Until he reached the door He thrust it wide, then senseless lay, Full length upon the floor. He never knew what time elapsed Ere consciousness returned, But when it did he staggering rose, Whilst still the charcoal burned; His first care was to save his wife, Quite unconscious lying, With one child by her side quite dead, And the other dying. No time to lose, she being far gone, Indeed he thought her dead, But thinking there might still be life, He dragged her to the shed; Returning for the living child, And now his only one, He saved its life, his wife's as well, But nearly lost his own. They seldom put the fire out When they retired to bed By heaping ashes over it Just left it as it laid; He with the living child in arms The second time returned And fell exhausted on the fire And was severely burned. The child escaped uninjured quite, And may be living still; The other one, a girl I think, Was buried on the hill; No cemetery in those rude times, Each gully had its own, And doubtless some lie buried there Whose names were scarcely known. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY AUNT ELLA MAE by MICHAEL S. HARPER THE GOLDEN SHOVEL by TERRANCE HAYES LIZARDS AND SNAKES by ANTHONY HECHT THE BOOK OF A THOUSAND EYES: I LOVE by LYN HEJINIAN CHILD ON THE MARSH by ANDREW HUDGINS MY MOTHER'S HANDS by ANDREW HUDGINS PLAYING DEAD by ANDREW HUDGINS THE GLASS HAMMER by ANDREW HUDGINS INSECT LIFE OF FLORIDA by LYNDA HULL |
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