I met a Californian who would Talk California—a state so blessed, He said, in climate none had ever died there A natural death, and Vigilance Committees Had had to organize to stock the graveyards And vindicate the state’s humanity. “Just the way Steffanson runs on,” I murmured, “About the British Arctic. That’s what comes Of being in the market with a climate.” I met a poet from another state, A zealot full of fluid inspiration, Who in the name of fluid inspiration, But in the best style of bad salesmanship, Angrily tried to make me write a protest (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act. He didn’t even offer me a drink Until I asked for one to steady _him_. This is called having an idea to sell. It never could have happened in New Hampshire. The only person really soiled with trade I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire Was someone who had just come back ashamed From selling things in California. He’d built a noble mansard roof with balls On turrets like Constantinople, deep In woods some ten miles from a railroad station, As if to put forever out of mind The hope of being, as we say, received. I found him standing at the close of day Inside the threshold of his open barn, Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage— And recognized him through the iron grey In which his face was muffled to the eyes As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed A drover with me on the road to Brighton. His farm was “grounds,” and not a farm at all; His house among the local sheds and shanties Rose like a factor’s at a trading station. And he was rich, and I was still a rascal. I couldn’t keep from asking impolitely, Where had he been and what had he been doing? How did he get so? (Rich was understood.) In dealing in “old rags” in San Francisco. Oh it was terrible as well could be. We both of us turned over in our graves. Just specimens is all New Hampshire has, One each of everything as in a show-case Which naturally she doesn’t care to sell. She had one President (pronounce him Purse, And make the most of it for better or worse. He’s your one chance to score against the state). She had one Daniel Webster. He was all The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be. She had the Dartmouth needed to produce him.