Sleepless, straight, alert, the counterpane moulded over his gaunt legs, he listened to the protesting invitations of the hens.
From the warm dust, shaking their fat feathered bodies, protesting but satisfied they staggered up.
For me.
The earth too and the vine.
The moist new earth cleaving like cut pork from the plough.
Or like water from a ship.
The spongy sod spaded cleanly and rolled back like flesh.
Or the earth loosened and hoed gently around the roots of the cherry trees.
The earth receives my seed.
For me the great lettuces.
Spongy and full of sap now like a woman.
The thick grapevine — in August the heavy clustered grapes — How there?
Like milk from a breast.
Or blood through a vein.
Fattens and plumps them.
All through the night the blossoms dropping.
Soon now the White Wax.
Green apples end of May.
Isaacs’ June Apple hangs half on my side.
Bacon and fried green apples.
With sharp whetted hunger he thought of breakfast.
He threw the sheet back cleanly, swung in an orbit to a sitting position and put his white somewhat phthisic feet on the floor.
Standing up tenderly, he walked over to his leather rocker and put on a pair of clean white-footed socks.
Then he pulled his nightgown over his head, looking for a moment in the dresser mirror at his great boned structure, the long stringy muscles of his arms, and his flat-meated hairy chest.
His stomach sagged paunchily.
He thrust his white flaccid calves quickly through the shrunken legs of a union suit, stretched it out elasticly with a comfortable widening of his shoulders and buttoned it.
Then he stepped into his roomy sculpturally heavy trousers and drew on his soft-leathered laceless shoes.
Crossing his suspender braces over his shoulders, he strode into the kitchen and had a brisk fire of oil and pine snapping in the range within three minutes.
He was stimulated and alive in all the fresh wakefulness of the Spring morning.
Through Birdseye Gap, in the dewy richness of Lunn’s Cove, Judge Webster Tayloe, the eminent, prosperous, and aristocratic corporation counsel (retired, but occasional consultations), rose in the rich walnut twilight of his bedchamber, noted approvingly, through the black lenses of the glasses that gave his long, subtle, and contemptuous face its final advantage over the rabble, that one of his country bumpkins was coming from the third pasture with a slopping pail of new milk, another was sharpening a scythe in the young glint of the sun, and another, emulating his more intelligent fellow, the horse, was backing a buggy slowly under the carriage shed.
Approvingly he watched his young mulatto son come over the lawn with lazy cat-speed, noting with satisfaction the grace and quickness of his movements, the slender barrel strength of his torso, his smallboned resiliency.
Also the well-shaped intelligent head, the eager black eyes, the sensitive oval face, and the beautiful coprous olive of the skin.
He was very like a better-class Spaniard.
Quod potui perfeci.
By this fusion, perhaps, men like men.
By the river the reed-pipes, the muse’s temple, the sacred wood again.
Why not?
As in this cove.
I, too, have lived in Arcady.
He took off his glasses for a moment and looked at the ptotic malevolence of his left eye, and the large harlequinesque wart in the cheek below it.
The black glasses gave the suggestion that he was half-masked; they added a touch of unsearchable mystery to the subtle, sensual and disquieting intelligence of his face.
His negro man appeared at this moment and told him his bath was ready.
He drew the long thin nightgown over his freckled Fitzsimmons body and stepped vigorously into tepid water.
Then for ten minutes he was sponged, scraped, and kneaded, upon a long table by the powerful plastic hands of the negro.
He dressed in fresh laundered underwear and newly pressed clothes of black.
He tied a black string carelessly below the wide belt of starched collar and buttoned across his straight long figure a frock coat that reached his knees.
He took a cigarette from a box on his table and lighted it.
Bouncing tinnily down the coiling road that came through the Gap from the town, a flivver glinted momently through the trees.
Two men were in it.
His face hardened against it, he watched it go by his gates on the road with a scuffle of dust.