The Major looked at him blankly. How could he, Major Hammerslea, know what those inexplicable dark eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage--the brown, bare, illimitable range under the noonday sun, the evening light on far, silent mountains, the starlit desert! FOOTNOTES: [6] Copyright, 1905, by the Metropolitan Magazine Company. A BOSTON BALLAD BY WALT WHITMAN To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here's a good place at the corner--I must stand and see the show. Clear the way there, Jonathan! Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously tumbling. I love to look on the stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. A fog follows--antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoulders! What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level them? If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's marshal; If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white hair be; Here gape your great grand-sons--their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dressed--see how orderly they conduct themselves. Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Retreat then! Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow. But there is one thing that belongs here--shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston? I will whisper it to the Mayor--he shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault--haste! Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper--here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. Now call for the President's marshal again, bring put the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. This centre-piece for them: Look! all orderly citizens--look from the windows, women!