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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Code—Heroics</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There were three in the meadow by the brook, <br>Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up, <br>With an eye always lifted toward the west, <br>Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud <br>Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger <br>Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly <br>One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground, <br>Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed. <br>The town-bred farmer failed to understand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What was there wrong? <br>Something you said just now. <br>What did I say? <br>About our taking pains. <br>To cock the hay?—because it's going to shower? <br>I said that nearly half an hour ago. <br>I said it to myself as much as you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You didn't know. But James is one big fool. <br>He thought you meant to find fault with his work. <br>That's what the average farmer would have meant. <br>James had to take his time to chew it over <br>Before he acted; he's just got round to act.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is a fool if that's the way he takes me.<br>Don't let it bother you. You've found out something. <br>The hand that knows his business won't be told <br>To do work faster or better—those two things. <br>I'm as particular as anyone: <br>Most likely I'd have served you just the same: <br>But I know you don't understand our ways. <br>You were just talking what was in your mind, <br>What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting. <br>Tell you a story of what happened once. <br>I was up here in Salem, at a man's <br>Named Sanders, with a gang of four or five, <br>Doing the haying. No one liked the boss. <br>He was one of the kind sports call a spider, <br>All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy <br>From a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit. <br>But work!—that man could work, especially <br>If by so doing he could get more work <br>Out of his hired help. I'm not denying <br>He was hard on himself: I couldn't find <br>That he kept any hours—not for himself. <br>Day-light and lantern-light were one to him: <br>I've heard him pounding in the barn all night. <br>But what he liked was someone to encourage. <br>Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind <br>And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing <br>Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off. <br>I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks— <br>We call that bulling. I'd been watching him. <br>So when he paired off with me in the hayfield <br>To load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble! <br>I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders <br>Combed it down with the rake and said, 'O. K.' <br>Everything went right till we reached the barn <br>With a big take to empty in a bay. <br>You understand that meant the easy job <br>For the man up on top of throwing down <br>The hay and rolling it off wholesale, <br>Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting. <br>You wouldn't think a fellow 'd need much urging <br>Under those circumstances, would you now? <br>But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands, <br>And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit, <br>Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!' <br>Thinks I, d'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?' <br>I asked out loud so's there'd be no mistake. <br>'Did you say, let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.' <br>He said it over, but he said it softer. <br>Never you say a thing like that to a man, <br>Not if he values what he is. God, I'd as soon <br>Murdered him as left out his middle name. <br>I'd built the load and knew just where to find it. <br>Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for <br>Like meditating, and then I just dug in <br>And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots. <br>I looked over the side once in the dust <br>And caught sight of him treading-water-like, <br>Keeping his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says, <br>'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That was the last I saw or heard of him. <br>I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off. <br>As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck, <br>And sort of waiting to be asked about it, <br>One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?' <br>'I left him in the barn,—under the hay. <br>If you want him you can go and dig him out.' <br>They realized from the way I swobbed my neck <br>More than was needed, something must be up. <br>They headed for the barn I stayed where I was. <br>They told me afterward: First they forked hay, <br>A lot of it, out into the barn floor. <br>Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple <br>Before I buried him, else I couldn't have managed. <br>They excavated more. 'Go keep his wife <br>Out of the barn.'<br>Some one looked in a window; <br>And curse me, if he wasn't in the kitchen, <br>Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet <br>Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer. <br>He looked so mad in back, and so disgusted <br>There was no one that dared to stir him up <br>Or let him know that he was being looked at. <br>Apparently I hadn't buried him <br>(I may have knocked him down), but just my trying <br>To bury him had hurt his dignity. <br>He had gone to the house so's not to face me. <br>He kept away from us all afternoon. <br>We tended to his hay. We saw him out <br>After a while picking peas in the garden: <br>He couldn't keep away from doing something.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No!—and yet I can't say: it's hard to tell. <br>I went about to kill him fair enough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Frost">Robert Frost</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506888" data-title="The Code—Heroics de Robert Frost" data-description="There were three in the meadow by the brook, 
Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up, 
With an eye always lifted toward the west, 
Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud 
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger 
Flickering across its bosom. Sud..."></div>
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