Some things you cannot forget
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I really can’t remember much about my elementary or secondary education experiences. With the exception of the snowball battle that ended when Ms. Leonard stepped out of the school entrance, and was accidentally hit in the head with an icy-slush ball and every boy on the playground got paddled. Or the first-grade duck-coloring scandal that put every student, except Butch, in the doghouse. By the way, I am “red-green” color blind so I did have an excuse for that one; but the teacher wanted results, not excuses.
High school, on the other hand, is more vivid and those memories include all the embarrassing moments that shaped/distorted the man I am today.
When neighbor Charlie Johnson asked me to video tape him reciting a poem he learned when he was 13-years old, I was willing. It was not for the love of poetry, or friendship, or because I had nothing better to do at the time. That last point may be a valid one. No, I agreed to do it because Charlie memorized the poem 82-years ago, and I wanted to see if he could complete the poem without missing a word.
So here it is, 95-year old Charles Johnson reciting Maud Muller by John Greenleaf Whittier - all 804 words.
MAUD MULLER
MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast--
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!
"Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
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Comments
Greeting from Alaska
Jack
Dave here, writing from Upstate NY, I survived the "year long" road trip with my girlfriend that took us to Texas,California and Alaska. I am fishing my home waters again. Oak Orchard, The Genesee and Pulaski's Salmon River. I met an "old timer" in Alaska that was nice enough to give me some basic fly tying lessons. I am hooked.
I also wanted to share this story with you.
I spent the weekend with my parents. One highlight was breaking my fathers pontoon boat out of the ice of Seneca Lake. He always waits about 2 weeks too long to get it out of the slip. The second big highlight was introducing him to YOUTUBE.com. He has become quite comfortable in navigating the internet. He enjoys gardening, bird watching and cooking so he is always looking up new information on those subjects. He also loves to reads. Well for years he has been trying to find the origin of a specific quote from the book "Of Mice and Men". Well I used your videos to show him how people can post videos of just about anything on youtube. How to tie egg sacks or trout jigs, family gatherings, local fishing reports and stream conditions OR a sharp 80yr old guy reciting poetry. Well he listened to Charlie's poem "Maud Muller" and at the end was the quote.... "of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these...it might have been". I noticed that he backed the video up about five times to hear this line.Well the mystery quote that my father had wondered about all of these years was "of all the word of mice and men the saddest are ..it might have been".We did a quick internet search and sure enough the use of that quote was adapted from the Maud Muller poem. He coud not believe that of all of the videos I could have shown him, that this one had unlocked the mystery. It takes a lot to impress or shock my dad but that did it.
Hope all is well.
Dave
Goodness sake!
Hi Dave:
Stories have a way of gathering momentum and value as they are shared! Charlie will be pleased to hear how he solved that mystery!
Hope all is well with you. I will return to Erie this week to catch some fish and collect some content for - www,fishsteelheadalley.com.
Best regards,
Jack
Memories
I memorized a poem in 5th grade and can still recite it from memory. I guess taking walks or laying awake in bed at night brings back the bits and pieces of learned poetry. I enjoy reading poetry in my spare time and so enjoyed Mr. Johnson's poem and memories. This brings to mind what the Amish community might do in the evenings. Others might flip on the television and loose track of time but the Amish tell stories, read poems, and enjoy "family time" as it should be. I received a newspaper in my mailbox some time ago that was intended for the Amish family up the road from me and I happened to notice page after page of stories with the possible intent to be read during family time.
I am raising a young child and it often comes to mind that I might again pull my beloved poetry books off the shelf, turn off the noise of a commercial filled evening, and retire to the couch with my husband and son to start a tradition. Maybe someday my beloved child will be a Mr. Johnson and recite poetry with such ferver that you would think he again stood at the head of the class, standing tall, and remember being 13 again. Thank you, Mr. Johnson and JYork
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