<h2><SPAN name="chap36"></SPAN>REUBEN ROY</h2>
<p class="poem">
Little fellow, brown with wind—<br/>
I saw him in the street<br/>
Peering at numbers on the posts,<br/>
But most discreet:<br/>
<br/>
For when a woman came outdoors,<br/>
Or slyly peeped instead,<br/>
He turned away, took off his hat,<br/>
And scratched his head.<br/>
<br/>
I watched him from my garden-wall<br/>
Perhaps an hour or more,<br/>
For something in his attitude,<br/>
The clothes he wore,<br/>
<br/>
Awoke the dimmest memories<br/>
Of when I was a boy<br/>
And knew the story of a man<br/>
Named Reuben Roy.<br/>
<br/>
It seems that Reuben went to sea<br/>
The night his wife decried<br/>
The fence he built before their house<br/>
And up the side.<br/>
<br/>
He wanted it but she did not,<br/>
Because it hid from view<br/>
The spot in which her mignonette<br/>
And tulips grew.<br/>
<br/>
Nobody saw his face again,<br/>
But each year, unawares,<br/>
He sent a sum for taxes due—<br/>
And fence repairs.<br/>
<br/>
My curiosity aroused,<br/>
I sauntered forth to see<br/>
Whether this individual<br/>
Were really he.<br/>
<br/>
“Who are you looking for?” I asked<br/>
His eyes, like two bright pence,<br/>
Sparkled at mine; and then he said:<br/>
“A fence.”<br/>
<br/>
“Somebody burned it Hallowe’en,<br/>
When people were in bed;<br/>
Before the judge could prosecute,<br/>
The culprit fled.”<br/>
<br/>
Well, Reuben only touched his hat<br/>
And mumbled, “Thank you, Sir,”<br/>
And asked me whereabouts to find<br/>
A carpenter.<br/></p>
<p class="left">
HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS</p>
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