108 fountains
09-06-2014, 11:27 PM
I'm not completely satisfied with this yet. Still, I would be happy for any comments. I'm particularly interested if readers think the mixture of prose and iambic pentameter works or doesn't work.
The Mule, the Cow, and the Owl
Violet, golden and maroon wildflowers swayed in the late afternoon breeze. The shadowy green copse wood stood sentinel on the far side of the meadow. A solitary linden tree, with a straight, sturdy, corrugated trunk and smiling heart-shaped leaves graced the grassy green knoll. Underneath, lethargic, submissive and motionless, except for the twitch in his shoulder and the occasional swish of his tail to ward off the blue-bottle flies, and with head bent low to the ground in a natural, perpetual expression of humility, stood Yeoman the mule, grazing lazily after his hard day’s labor on the Zuckerman farm. *
Yeoman was not a pretty mule; in fact, he was quite an ugly mule. His ears were long and stuck out from his head horizontally. His eyes tended to bulge out in an expression of everlasting surprise. His mouth was pie-shaped, and gray whiskers hung like so many wires from his nether lip. His nose displayed a much too wide expanse of leather between the nostrils that bespoke a kind of desolation. Yeoman generally eschewed company. When his day’s work was done, he was content to stand still, tranquil and placid, under the linden tree and remain in a dreamy, meditative state until the rumble in his stomach told him it was time for his afternoon meal. Following dinner, usually a meal of timothy hay, but occasionally a treat of alfalfa and beet pulp, he generally spent the last waning hour of sunlight walking along the wooden rail fence in the company of his friend, Mirabelle the cow. As twilight deepened into darkness, he was content to stand in his solitary stall and let his musings wander where they might until he was reminded by the winking of the stars that it was time to retire for the night.
Yeoman knew nothing but work. Even now that spring planting was over and he no longer had to pull the plow, Farmer Zuckerman hitched him up to the buckboard wagon every day to pull loads of various types of cargo. Farmer Zuckerman used an oaken yoke with ropes rather than a leather harness to join his mule to the shaft – he was old-fashioned that way. All day long, Yeoman pulled the wagon from place to place – from the sorghum shed to the fields, from the vegetable garden to the back porch, from the corncrib to the machine shed, and from the cattle barn to the compost heap. Sometimes the wagon was loaded with bales of straw, sometimes with bushel baskets full of vegetables, sometimes with tools and spare parts, and sometimes with manure. Whatever the location, whatever the load, whatever the job called for – Yeoman performed the task doggedly, methodically and without complaint. But by the end of the workday, every day, Yeoman was exhausted. By mid-afternoon even an empty wagon weighed him down. Yeoman was never so thankful as when Farmer Zuckerman removed the wooden yoke and patted him affectionately on his neck. Then he slowly wandered off toward the linden wood tree, complacent in the thought that rest – and the pleasant interval of Mirabelle’s company – was the only reward he sought.
On this particularly sunny afternoon, as the shadows of the linden wood tree stretched longer and longer towards the ethereal east, Yeoman’s attention was drawn to the nearby wooden rail fence that demarcated the pastureland where farmer Zuckerman’s cattle grazed.
“Yeoman! Yeoman! Tarry hither, if you please!”
This was spoken by Yeoman’s lone companion, already mentioned, Mirabelle the cow. She was of the traditional Hereford breed. Mirabelle had a rusty brown body, a white stripe from her neck to her withers, patchy white wooly under parts, and a face that was the ideal of bovine beauty – gently curling white hairs on her forehead and cheeks, a supple, pink nose, delicate ears with brown and white variegation, small horns that sloped subtly downward as if too bashful to call attention to themselves, a mouth fashioned in the shape of a coquettish smile, and big, dark brown eyes that beamed contentment and joy on all whom she looked upon. Mirabelle fluttered her long, white eyelashes for no reason whatsoever, knowing full well how their movement drew attention to those lovely eyes. Her demeanor was such that it expressed, “Yes, I know am beautiful, but I just cannot help it.”
Yeoman had no particular interest in social intercourse, but he liked Mirabelle. He appreciated her beauty and admired her insouciance, but mostly he liked her simply because she took notice of him, unlike the other animals on the farm, and because she was pleasant. Without Mirabelle’s company, Yeoman would have little left to make his days bearable.
Mirabelle liked Yeoman because he was so little affected by her beauty, neither infatuated with it nor intimidated by it. Mirabelle was never at a loss for companionship on the farm – the bulls, of course, vied for her attentions, and the other cows felt radiant in her company. Even the rabbits poked their heads out of their burrows, and the chipmunks peeked out from behind fallen logs to get a glimpse of her and to wish her “Good morrow!” when she passed. Yet although her days were saturated with friends, conversation and good-natured gossip, she always reserved time in the late afternoons for Yeoman. While the other animals wanted her company, Mirabelle felt that Yeoman needed it. So, over the spring and all through the summer, through the lukewarm days of autumn and the frosty winter, she strode alongside him on the other side of the wooden rail fence in the late afternoon, conversing while the golden hue of the waning sky turned to amber and then to umber.
“Faith, sirrah, come hither!” she repeated.
Yeoman meandered over to the wooden rail fence. Mirabelle waited, her dark brown eyes beaming more brightly than usual.
“Good morrow, Mirabelle,” said Yeoman.
“Good morrow, Yeoman,” Mirabelle replied.
“Marry, how fares my noble lady?”
MIRABELLE
Oh, well in sooth, for here is cheer enough.
The sky today is clear and cobalt blue
And prospects for the happy morrow tell
Of fortune flushed with expectations new.
YEOMAN
I too would voice such sentiments indeed
If the merry world shed cheer on chary steeds,
But sooth it is my fate, my lady fair,
To bear the yoke of toil and ne’er look up
At sunny skies nor sup on oats or rye –
Alas, to view creation’s tender bliss
Through eyes with want of ecstasy and lips with want of kiss.
MIRABELLE
Pained am I to hear such heartfelt sorrow,
Yet methinks the cloud of listlessness
That shades thy heart is but a wisp of gloom
Dispersed with ease to naught by breath of air
So long as air is fresh and breathed with breath.
YEOMEN
I pray, speak not to me of expiration
Nor fantasize on brilliant expectations,
In troth, such thoughts as these needs must expire
‘Ere Yeoman lays aside his heavy yoke,
Procure a rest, or raise his spirits higher.
MIRABELLE
Dear Yeoman, speak no more of luckless fate.
Stay anon and speak to me of joy –
Of times gone by when you and I like king
And queen of meadow green walked idly as we
Do today, companions to the end.
For ‘ere the morrow lies in restful sleep,
I bid adieu to thee my gracious friend
And to this merry world of ours anon
To meet new friends and hear new compliments,
Tread paths green and full of light and song,
And wander climes unknown. In sooth, my friend,
I seek my fortune in yon distant town
Where pleasure calls and smiling faces beckon.
I pray thee set thy doleful thoughts aside
And smile on me your faithful confidante
For ‘ere the sun sets twice on yonder wood,
Thy Mirabelle departs no more to gaze
Upon thy steadfast, honest, rugged face
Or hear your simple words of gentle grace.
YEOMEN
How now, my noble lady?
Art thou bound from me, this place, this life
To lands so far away and undiscovered?
Upon my life, I never thought to see
A day when you would not be near to me.
Most perfect dame, for whom the clouds doth part
And pause their rain for sun to shine anon,
Woe am I to hear these tidings thine.
Though glad for thee thy fortune come to hold,
They leave poor Yeoman downcast, spent, and old.
MIRABELLE
Fie, goodly steed! By your leave and by mine honor,
Away with tired and woeful declarations!
Whither so downcast? Be not greedy
In thy loss, but rather share my joy.
YEOMAN
Madam, pray forgive my doleful plaint.
No more. What worth when once the die is cast?
I yield, in troth, bright hope in all you do.
But a word, I pray, how came about this chance?
MIRABELLE
In faith, sirrah, ‘tis all the talk about
That Farmer Zuckerman hath spake anon
With Seth the hand to rig the wagon-crate
For Mirabelle to bear at morn to town.
See you him now! He makes a bed of straw
For morrow journey’s comfort and repose.
YEOMAN
Alas! In sooth, your grace has graced this farm
Since time when you were calf and I a colt.
Although this turn I doubt is naught for best,
I canst not help but feel a pang of pain
At thy departure, nor extreme regret.
MIRABELLE
I truly understand and share thy thoughts.
In troth, good Yeoman, am I bound to thee
For the kind tranquility thy company hath wrought.
YEOMAN
Upon my life, I thank thee, good, fair lady.
The words you spake with kindness on this day
Shall be a comfort great when you’re away.
And now, as shadows shroud the way ahead
And naught remains between us left unsaid,
I take my leave with full and goodly heart
‘Til morrow tears the two of us apart.
MIRABELLE
Adieu, dear friend. Remembrance be assured.
While fortune bright my arrow doth pursue,
In troth, your face and form will fill my dreams.
YEOMAN
“My dreams,” sayeth she. What dreams are these
Where past and future twine reality
‘Twixt thoughts of things that never were and things that cannot be?
At this, Mirabelle and Yeoman parted ways. Mirabelle trotted up the gentle hill to join her bovine fellows in unrestrained anticipation of her impending emigration. Yeoman followed his lonely path to the linden tree where he contemplated the coming great change in his life. He consoled himself with imagining the wonderful new adventures in store for his dear friend Mirabelle.
Later, alone in his stall as the frogs croaked and the crickets creaked, Yeoman spent a dreamless, sleepless, restless night while dim stars shed cold light upon empty fields. Long before daybreak, while the new-mown hay still sent serpents of steam wriggling into the chilled nighttime air, Yeoman crept forth. Impatient for the dawn, he trod the path down to the linden wood tree and strayed beyond, all the way down to the shadowy green copse wood at the bottom of the hill on the far side of the meadow.
“Who, who? Who is there?” called a voice from within the darkness.
“Only me. ‘Tis only me,” answered the mule.
A fluttering of wings disturbed the stillness of the copse wood, and a great apparition alighted on the lower branch of a white pine at the edge of the meadow.
“Yeoman!” cried the owl – for the phantom that appeared overhead was a great gray owl, with rounded, yellow eyes set in rippling circles on its mottled face. “What spirit moves thee to tarry hither so early on this gentle morn?”
“I cannot sleep for want of rest and cannot rest for want of sleep,” answered Yeoman shaking his head.
“By your leave, methinks I detect a note of melancholy in thy voice and a sweep of gloom across thy face, aye, more than the gloomy air which is your wont to breathe.”
“Thou mayst say so, goodly gentleman, for by my troth, I am uneasy of mind and broken of spirit.”
OWL
Save thee, worthy steed. Discharge your burden. Though you canst not see my ears, they hear thee all the same.”
YEOMAN
Bound am I to thee, my gracious friend.
My thoughts fly fast towards Mirabelle the cow.
She shall depart from here, this farm, from me,
Alas, before the morning shadows shrink
To murky nothingness beneath our feet.
OWL
Speak thee not in riddles, mule. Speak plainly. I wish to understand.
YEOMAN
Mirabelle, the beauty thou hast seen
Trod these fields by day and walk with me
In afternoons. She leaves the farm today
Drawn by farmer’s truck in wagon-crate
To gladly graze the turf of yonder town.
In noble grace and splendor will she ride
To greet the lords and ladies of that realm,
E’en perhaps to meet the royal clan.
OWL
Who, who spake such tidings as these?
YEOMAN
The voice that spake this news to me her own.
OWL
What? She spake thee this herself?
YEOMAN
In troth, she is excitement all ablaze
Regaling forth with fortune’s fair approach.
And thus she hath become the happy mark
Of wondrous admiration on the farm.
OWL
Zounds! Upon my life, ye children of the farm – thou art so childlike, sweet, so innocent, so unknowing of the world. I wouldst not undeceive you of your puerile notions, but hold. Troth, by mine honor, sir, must needs disclosure, nor this nor that be of proper worth.
YEOMAN
What meanest thou?
Wil’t please your grace return plainspeak to me?
If deception snares my addled pate,
I doth beseech thee, undeceive me now.
OWL
I must needs entreat thee then, frame thy mind and gird thy loins. Yonder town hath not wonders nor hath it charms; it hath neither fortune nor treasure.
YEOMAN
How now, good gentleman? Explain thyself more fully.
OWL
Mirabelle’s visions are fiction, fables dressed in fantasy to hide distasteful troth.
YEOMAN
Sayest thou she dissembles?
OWL
Nay, she knows naught but sweet, enchanting tales invented for her submissiveness. But know ye this – the town shall devour her. She shall be led to slaughter. She shall be quartered, disemboweled, and dismembered. Her meat shall be ground as fodder for the voracious horde, and her bones shall be picked clean by vultures. Alas, ‘tis the fate of all the innocent, the inevitable destiny of beings of beauty.
YEOMAN
Hee-yaw! Oh, woeful star that speed the morn!
Wouldst that I could take her place anon
To save her from this evil and disgrace!
OWL
Trouble thyself not on her behalf. She and thee are creatures apart. Her fate is fixed. She shall be swiftly slain. Thy destiny, good sir, is suffering of another sphere, and I might add, more insidious and severe.
YEOMAN
My destiny is of no consequence
When misadventure to a friend portends.
And yet… and yet afraid am I to ask,
Good sir, in troth, afraid am I to hear –
But soft, your tone, your mien compels me ask
What destiny of mine entails to fear?
OWL
Thy destiny? Sirrah, thy purpose doth dictate thy fate. ‘Tis that of the yoke, the plow, the heat, and the sweat of the brow. Thou, and those such as thou, must needs labor long and scratch along to earn a livelihood. ‘Tis in the nature of things. Thou wert born for it. The farm is ought for thee, and thou art ought for the farm.
YEOMAN
Doomed am I then to lead a dismal life?
OWL
Thou art intended for work, sirrah, for toil and naught else. I prithee, as thou art a steed of good will, knowest thou that on the farm, what needs must be will must needs be fulfilled.
YEOMAN
Wouldst that I could flee this world and live
As free as thee from drudgery, from care,
From toil, and from dependence on the farm.
OWL
Hold, good sir! Fie! For shame! Thou knowest not of what thou speak. Freedom from the farm is procured at cost extreme. Trow thee to what cruelty I must resort for repast? Rodents and smaller, weaker creatures flee and fear me with good reason. Trow thee the sufferings of my mate and hatchlings in winter? A nest of sticks in yon barren tree provides scant warmth in frost and ice. In troth, sirrah, the likes of thee outside the farm would not survive, or if survive thou must, survival piteous and bleak.
YEOMAN
I am resigned, good sir, I am resigned.
In troth, confess I must such contemplations
‘Fore now have dimly stirred within my pate,
Disturbing, though with incomplete embrace.
And yet, in sooth, when Mirabelle is near
My heart doth not despond nor yield to fear.
Contrarily, she keeps me in good cheer.
Some need in me she doth somehow fulfill
And yet, alas, her fate as told by thee
Is worse than mine. Her freedom paid too dear.
Oh, wouldst I could protect her now! Oh, wouldst to keep her here!
OWL
Tempt not fate, nor hers nor thine. Keep thee she as thee wouldst have her – angelic and divine. Such beauty as hers is not for such as thee, save for fleeting moments in vast eternity. Be thankful for those moments. They shall ease thy times of trial. But wish not for the impossible. Accept thy calling. There is no escape.
Yeoman thanked the great gray owl for his wisdom and for his frankness. The sun had dawned long ago, and the chanticleers had long been calling. As he trudged up the hill, Yeoman heard behind him a great flurry of wings, and the great specter vanished into the shadows of the copse wood.
Farmer Zuckerman was waiting, clad in his blue jeans and sipping a steaming cup of coffee, sitting atop the wagon at the top of the hill. At Yeoman’s approach, he sprang down from the wagon, slapped the mule’s rump with a grin, and slid his hand affectionately across his neck. Yeoman submitted to the yoke and pulled on the wagon, laden heavily with a diesel generator and other electrical gear.
Throughout the morning, Yeoman hauled heavy equipment back and forth between the new aluminum machine shed and the old, wooden barn. Throughout the morning, he cast a wary eye in the direction of the pasture beyond the wooden rail fence for a glimpse of Mirabelle, but each glance was met with disappointment. Then, towards noon, he heard the roar of the red truck. The vehicle slowly emerged from the cowshed some distance away, driven by the hired hand Seth. Behind the red truck was the four-wheeled wagon crate bearing the object of Yeoman’s longing. She was half-hidden by vertical iron bars, but he could plainly see those smiling, big, brown eyes and the beaming, happy expression on her face. A herd of cows, a gaggle of geese, and a half-dozen piglets followed the wagon-crate out of the shed cheering and calling out.
Yeoman watched as Mirabelle, fluttered her eyelashes through the iron bars of the wagon-crate behind Farmer Zuckerman’s truck in farewell to her barnyard companions. She rode the gentle, sloping drive that led past the grassy green knoll to the road that would take her into town. She called out:
“Adieu! Adieu! Adieu, my friends, adieu!
I go forth happy, hearty, hale and new
With cares and trepidation cast away
And expectations joyful on display.
Adieu, I yield ye merry friends, adieu!”
The other animals – the cattle, the geese, the drakes, the hens, the pigs, the old gray tomcat, and even the wild rabbits – waved and shouted, quacked, clucked and lowed with pride and admiration that one of their own, their very own Mirabelle, was going to town to win fame and fortune. Only Yeoman turned away and shook his head in resignation. He beheld the cruel fate in store for Mirabelle, the cheerless days before him, and the certain fate of all his toil and stead.
He meekly took a step and felt the yoke
Pull hard upon his back. His spirit broken,
Listless heart, his body tired and sore,
From woe and hence he would forevermore
Aspire to naught but live days one by one,
Anticipate the hour his work be done,
Content at last with meager meal be fed,
And rest his own, his weary bones alone upon his bed.
* The Zuckerman farm is also the setting in E. B. White’s Charlotte’s Web.
The Mule, the Cow, and the Owl
Violet, golden and maroon wildflowers swayed in the late afternoon breeze. The shadowy green copse wood stood sentinel on the far side of the meadow. A solitary linden tree, with a straight, sturdy, corrugated trunk and smiling heart-shaped leaves graced the grassy green knoll. Underneath, lethargic, submissive and motionless, except for the twitch in his shoulder and the occasional swish of his tail to ward off the blue-bottle flies, and with head bent low to the ground in a natural, perpetual expression of humility, stood Yeoman the mule, grazing lazily after his hard day’s labor on the Zuckerman farm. *
Yeoman was not a pretty mule; in fact, he was quite an ugly mule. His ears were long and stuck out from his head horizontally. His eyes tended to bulge out in an expression of everlasting surprise. His mouth was pie-shaped, and gray whiskers hung like so many wires from his nether lip. His nose displayed a much too wide expanse of leather between the nostrils that bespoke a kind of desolation. Yeoman generally eschewed company. When his day’s work was done, he was content to stand still, tranquil and placid, under the linden tree and remain in a dreamy, meditative state until the rumble in his stomach told him it was time for his afternoon meal. Following dinner, usually a meal of timothy hay, but occasionally a treat of alfalfa and beet pulp, he generally spent the last waning hour of sunlight walking along the wooden rail fence in the company of his friend, Mirabelle the cow. As twilight deepened into darkness, he was content to stand in his solitary stall and let his musings wander where they might until he was reminded by the winking of the stars that it was time to retire for the night.
Yeoman knew nothing but work. Even now that spring planting was over and he no longer had to pull the plow, Farmer Zuckerman hitched him up to the buckboard wagon every day to pull loads of various types of cargo. Farmer Zuckerman used an oaken yoke with ropes rather than a leather harness to join his mule to the shaft – he was old-fashioned that way. All day long, Yeoman pulled the wagon from place to place – from the sorghum shed to the fields, from the vegetable garden to the back porch, from the corncrib to the machine shed, and from the cattle barn to the compost heap. Sometimes the wagon was loaded with bales of straw, sometimes with bushel baskets full of vegetables, sometimes with tools and spare parts, and sometimes with manure. Whatever the location, whatever the load, whatever the job called for – Yeoman performed the task doggedly, methodically and without complaint. But by the end of the workday, every day, Yeoman was exhausted. By mid-afternoon even an empty wagon weighed him down. Yeoman was never so thankful as when Farmer Zuckerman removed the wooden yoke and patted him affectionately on his neck. Then he slowly wandered off toward the linden wood tree, complacent in the thought that rest – and the pleasant interval of Mirabelle’s company – was the only reward he sought.
On this particularly sunny afternoon, as the shadows of the linden wood tree stretched longer and longer towards the ethereal east, Yeoman’s attention was drawn to the nearby wooden rail fence that demarcated the pastureland where farmer Zuckerman’s cattle grazed.
“Yeoman! Yeoman! Tarry hither, if you please!”
This was spoken by Yeoman’s lone companion, already mentioned, Mirabelle the cow. She was of the traditional Hereford breed. Mirabelle had a rusty brown body, a white stripe from her neck to her withers, patchy white wooly under parts, and a face that was the ideal of bovine beauty – gently curling white hairs on her forehead and cheeks, a supple, pink nose, delicate ears with brown and white variegation, small horns that sloped subtly downward as if too bashful to call attention to themselves, a mouth fashioned in the shape of a coquettish smile, and big, dark brown eyes that beamed contentment and joy on all whom she looked upon. Mirabelle fluttered her long, white eyelashes for no reason whatsoever, knowing full well how their movement drew attention to those lovely eyes. Her demeanor was such that it expressed, “Yes, I know am beautiful, but I just cannot help it.”
Yeoman had no particular interest in social intercourse, but he liked Mirabelle. He appreciated her beauty and admired her insouciance, but mostly he liked her simply because she took notice of him, unlike the other animals on the farm, and because she was pleasant. Without Mirabelle’s company, Yeoman would have little left to make his days bearable.
Mirabelle liked Yeoman because he was so little affected by her beauty, neither infatuated with it nor intimidated by it. Mirabelle was never at a loss for companionship on the farm – the bulls, of course, vied for her attentions, and the other cows felt radiant in her company. Even the rabbits poked their heads out of their burrows, and the chipmunks peeked out from behind fallen logs to get a glimpse of her and to wish her “Good morrow!” when she passed. Yet although her days were saturated with friends, conversation and good-natured gossip, she always reserved time in the late afternoons for Yeoman. While the other animals wanted her company, Mirabelle felt that Yeoman needed it. So, over the spring and all through the summer, through the lukewarm days of autumn and the frosty winter, she strode alongside him on the other side of the wooden rail fence in the late afternoon, conversing while the golden hue of the waning sky turned to amber and then to umber.
“Faith, sirrah, come hither!” she repeated.
Yeoman meandered over to the wooden rail fence. Mirabelle waited, her dark brown eyes beaming more brightly than usual.
“Good morrow, Mirabelle,” said Yeoman.
“Good morrow, Yeoman,” Mirabelle replied.
“Marry, how fares my noble lady?”
MIRABELLE
Oh, well in sooth, for here is cheer enough.
The sky today is clear and cobalt blue
And prospects for the happy morrow tell
Of fortune flushed with expectations new.
YEOMAN
I too would voice such sentiments indeed
If the merry world shed cheer on chary steeds,
But sooth it is my fate, my lady fair,
To bear the yoke of toil and ne’er look up
At sunny skies nor sup on oats or rye –
Alas, to view creation’s tender bliss
Through eyes with want of ecstasy and lips with want of kiss.
MIRABELLE
Pained am I to hear such heartfelt sorrow,
Yet methinks the cloud of listlessness
That shades thy heart is but a wisp of gloom
Dispersed with ease to naught by breath of air
So long as air is fresh and breathed with breath.
YEOMEN
I pray, speak not to me of expiration
Nor fantasize on brilliant expectations,
In troth, such thoughts as these needs must expire
‘Ere Yeoman lays aside his heavy yoke,
Procure a rest, or raise his spirits higher.
MIRABELLE
Dear Yeoman, speak no more of luckless fate.
Stay anon and speak to me of joy –
Of times gone by when you and I like king
And queen of meadow green walked idly as we
Do today, companions to the end.
For ‘ere the morrow lies in restful sleep,
I bid adieu to thee my gracious friend
And to this merry world of ours anon
To meet new friends and hear new compliments,
Tread paths green and full of light and song,
And wander climes unknown. In sooth, my friend,
I seek my fortune in yon distant town
Where pleasure calls and smiling faces beckon.
I pray thee set thy doleful thoughts aside
And smile on me your faithful confidante
For ‘ere the sun sets twice on yonder wood,
Thy Mirabelle departs no more to gaze
Upon thy steadfast, honest, rugged face
Or hear your simple words of gentle grace.
YEOMEN
How now, my noble lady?
Art thou bound from me, this place, this life
To lands so far away and undiscovered?
Upon my life, I never thought to see
A day when you would not be near to me.
Most perfect dame, for whom the clouds doth part
And pause their rain for sun to shine anon,
Woe am I to hear these tidings thine.
Though glad for thee thy fortune come to hold,
They leave poor Yeoman downcast, spent, and old.
MIRABELLE
Fie, goodly steed! By your leave and by mine honor,
Away with tired and woeful declarations!
Whither so downcast? Be not greedy
In thy loss, but rather share my joy.
YEOMAN
Madam, pray forgive my doleful plaint.
No more. What worth when once the die is cast?
I yield, in troth, bright hope in all you do.
But a word, I pray, how came about this chance?
MIRABELLE
In faith, sirrah, ‘tis all the talk about
That Farmer Zuckerman hath spake anon
With Seth the hand to rig the wagon-crate
For Mirabelle to bear at morn to town.
See you him now! He makes a bed of straw
For morrow journey’s comfort and repose.
YEOMAN
Alas! In sooth, your grace has graced this farm
Since time when you were calf and I a colt.
Although this turn I doubt is naught for best,
I canst not help but feel a pang of pain
At thy departure, nor extreme regret.
MIRABELLE
I truly understand and share thy thoughts.
In troth, good Yeoman, am I bound to thee
For the kind tranquility thy company hath wrought.
YEOMAN
Upon my life, I thank thee, good, fair lady.
The words you spake with kindness on this day
Shall be a comfort great when you’re away.
And now, as shadows shroud the way ahead
And naught remains between us left unsaid,
I take my leave with full and goodly heart
‘Til morrow tears the two of us apart.
MIRABELLE
Adieu, dear friend. Remembrance be assured.
While fortune bright my arrow doth pursue,
In troth, your face and form will fill my dreams.
YEOMAN
“My dreams,” sayeth she. What dreams are these
Where past and future twine reality
‘Twixt thoughts of things that never were and things that cannot be?
At this, Mirabelle and Yeoman parted ways. Mirabelle trotted up the gentle hill to join her bovine fellows in unrestrained anticipation of her impending emigration. Yeoman followed his lonely path to the linden tree where he contemplated the coming great change in his life. He consoled himself with imagining the wonderful new adventures in store for his dear friend Mirabelle.
Later, alone in his stall as the frogs croaked and the crickets creaked, Yeoman spent a dreamless, sleepless, restless night while dim stars shed cold light upon empty fields. Long before daybreak, while the new-mown hay still sent serpents of steam wriggling into the chilled nighttime air, Yeoman crept forth. Impatient for the dawn, he trod the path down to the linden wood tree and strayed beyond, all the way down to the shadowy green copse wood at the bottom of the hill on the far side of the meadow.
“Who, who? Who is there?” called a voice from within the darkness.
“Only me. ‘Tis only me,” answered the mule.
A fluttering of wings disturbed the stillness of the copse wood, and a great apparition alighted on the lower branch of a white pine at the edge of the meadow.
“Yeoman!” cried the owl – for the phantom that appeared overhead was a great gray owl, with rounded, yellow eyes set in rippling circles on its mottled face. “What spirit moves thee to tarry hither so early on this gentle morn?”
“I cannot sleep for want of rest and cannot rest for want of sleep,” answered Yeoman shaking his head.
“By your leave, methinks I detect a note of melancholy in thy voice and a sweep of gloom across thy face, aye, more than the gloomy air which is your wont to breathe.”
“Thou mayst say so, goodly gentleman, for by my troth, I am uneasy of mind and broken of spirit.”
OWL
Save thee, worthy steed. Discharge your burden. Though you canst not see my ears, they hear thee all the same.”
YEOMAN
Bound am I to thee, my gracious friend.
My thoughts fly fast towards Mirabelle the cow.
She shall depart from here, this farm, from me,
Alas, before the morning shadows shrink
To murky nothingness beneath our feet.
OWL
Speak thee not in riddles, mule. Speak plainly. I wish to understand.
YEOMAN
Mirabelle, the beauty thou hast seen
Trod these fields by day and walk with me
In afternoons. She leaves the farm today
Drawn by farmer’s truck in wagon-crate
To gladly graze the turf of yonder town.
In noble grace and splendor will she ride
To greet the lords and ladies of that realm,
E’en perhaps to meet the royal clan.
OWL
Who, who spake such tidings as these?
YEOMAN
The voice that spake this news to me her own.
OWL
What? She spake thee this herself?
YEOMAN
In troth, she is excitement all ablaze
Regaling forth with fortune’s fair approach.
And thus she hath become the happy mark
Of wondrous admiration on the farm.
OWL
Zounds! Upon my life, ye children of the farm – thou art so childlike, sweet, so innocent, so unknowing of the world. I wouldst not undeceive you of your puerile notions, but hold. Troth, by mine honor, sir, must needs disclosure, nor this nor that be of proper worth.
YEOMAN
What meanest thou?
Wil’t please your grace return plainspeak to me?
If deception snares my addled pate,
I doth beseech thee, undeceive me now.
OWL
I must needs entreat thee then, frame thy mind and gird thy loins. Yonder town hath not wonders nor hath it charms; it hath neither fortune nor treasure.
YEOMAN
How now, good gentleman? Explain thyself more fully.
OWL
Mirabelle’s visions are fiction, fables dressed in fantasy to hide distasteful troth.
YEOMAN
Sayest thou she dissembles?
OWL
Nay, she knows naught but sweet, enchanting tales invented for her submissiveness. But know ye this – the town shall devour her. She shall be led to slaughter. She shall be quartered, disemboweled, and dismembered. Her meat shall be ground as fodder for the voracious horde, and her bones shall be picked clean by vultures. Alas, ‘tis the fate of all the innocent, the inevitable destiny of beings of beauty.
YEOMAN
Hee-yaw! Oh, woeful star that speed the morn!
Wouldst that I could take her place anon
To save her from this evil and disgrace!
OWL
Trouble thyself not on her behalf. She and thee are creatures apart. Her fate is fixed. She shall be swiftly slain. Thy destiny, good sir, is suffering of another sphere, and I might add, more insidious and severe.
YEOMAN
My destiny is of no consequence
When misadventure to a friend portends.
And yet… and yet afraid am I to ask,
Good sir, in troth, afraid am I to hear –
But soft, your tone, your mien compels me ask
What destiny of mine entails to fear?
OWL
Thy destiny? Sirrah, thy purpose doth dictate thy fate. ‘Tis that of the yoke, the plow, the heat, and the sweat of the brow. Thou, and those such as thou, must needs labor long and scratch along to earn a livelihood. ‘Tis in the nature of things. Thou wert born for it. The farm is ought for thee, and thou art ought for the farm.
YEOMAN
Doomed am I then to lead a dismal life?
OWL
Thou art intended for work, sirrah, for toil and naught else. I prithee, as thou art a steed of good will, knowest thou that on the farm, what needs must be will must needs be fulfilled.
YEOMAN
Wouldst that I could flee this world and live
As free as thee from drudgery, from care,
From toil, and from dependence on the farm.
OWL
Hold, good sir! Fie! For shame! Thou knowest not of what thou speak. Freedom from the farm is procured at cost extreme. Trow thee to what cruelty I must resort for repast? Rodents and smaller, weaker creatures flee and fear me with good reason. Trow thee the sufferings of my mate and hatchlings in winter? A nest of sticks in yon barren tree provides scant warmth in frost and ice. In troth, sirrah, the likes of thee outside the farm would not survive, or if survive thou must, survival piteous and bleak.
YEOMAN
I am resigned, good sir, I am resigned.
In troth, confess I must such contemplations
‘Fore now have dimly stirred within my pate,
Disturbing, though with incomplete embrace.
And yet, in sooth, when Mirabelle is near
My heart doth not despond nor yield to fear.
Contrarily, she keeps me in good cheer.
Some need in me she doth somehow fulfill
And yet, alas, her fate as told by thee
Is worse than mine. Her freedom paid too dear.
Oh, wouldst I could protect her now! Oh, wouldst to keep her here!
OWL
Tempt not fate, nor hers nor thine. Keep thee she as thee wouldst have her – angelic and divine. Such beauty as hers is not for such as thee, save for fleeting moments in vast eternity. Be thankful for those moments. They shall ease thy times of trial. But wish not for the impossible. Accept thy calling. There is no escape.
Yeoman thanked the great gray owl for his wisdom and for his frankness. The sun had dawned long ago, and the chanticleers had long been calling. As he trudged up the hill, Yeoman heard behind him a great flurry of wings, and the great specter vanished into the shadows of the copse wood.
Farmer Zuckerman was waiting, clad in his blue jeans and sipping a steaming cup of coffee, sitting atop the wagon at the top of the hill. At Yeoman’s approach, he sprang down from the wagon, slapped the mule’s rump with a grin, and slid his hand affectionately across his neck. Yeoman submitted to the yoke and pulled on the wagon, laden heavily with a diesel generator and other electrical gear.
Throughout the morning, Yeoman hauled heavy equipment back and forth between the new aluminum machine shed and the old, wooden barn. Throughout the morning, he cast a wary eye in the direction of the pasture beyond the wooden rail fence for a glimpse of Mirabelle, but each glance was met with disappointment. Then, towards noon, he heard the roar of the red truck. The vehicle slowly emerged from the cowshed some distance away, driven by the hired hand Seth. Behind the red truck was the four-wheeled wagon crate bearing the object of Yeoman’s longing. She was half-hidden by vertical iron bars, but he could plainly see those smiling, big, brown eyes and the beaming, happy expression on her face. A herd of cows, a gaggle of geese, and a half-dozen piglets followed the wagon-crate out of the shed cheering and calling out.
Yeoman watched as Mirabelle, fluttered her eyelashes through the iron bars of the wagon-crate behind Farmer Zuckerman’s truck in farewell to her barnyard companions. She rode the gentle, sloping drive that led past the grassy green knoll to the road that would take her into town. She called out:
“Adieu! Adieu! Adieu, my friends, adieu!
I go forth happy, hearty, hale and new
With cares and trepidation cast away
And expectations joyful on display.
Adieu, I yield ye merry friends, adieu!”
The other animals – the cattle, the geese, the drakes, the hens, the pigs, the old gray tomcat, and even the wild rabbits – waved and shouted, quacked, clucked and lowed with pride and admiration that one of their own, their very own Mirabelle, was going to town to win fame and fortune. Only Yeoman turned away and shook his head in resignation. He beheld the cruel fate in store for Mirabelle, the cheerless days before him, and the certain fate of all his toil and stead.
He meekly took a step and felt the yoke
Pull hard upon his back. His spirit broken,
Listless heart, his body tired and sore,
From woe and hence he would forevermore
Aspire to naught but live days one by one,
Anticipate the hour his work be done,
Content at last with meager meal be fed,
And rest his own, his weary bones alone upon his bed.
* The Zuckerman farm is also the setting in E. B. White’s Charlotte’s Web.