...
By walking carefully on the side of the road, I made progress less
muddy. I was used to the squashing of the water in my shoes. The weather
turned warmer.
* * * * *
I found myself on the usual long one-street called Main Street, in the
prosperous little city of Osageville. It was Sunday. A corner loiterer
directed me to Jarvis Alexander Mackworth's house.
A habitation of sequestered quiet ... as I stood before the door I heard
the sunrise song of Rossini's _Wilhelm Tell_ ... a Red Seal record ...
accompanied by the slow, dreamy following of a piano's tinkle ... like
harp sounds or remote, flowing water.
I halted, under a charm. I waited till the melody was at an end before I
knocked. A small, pale-faced, pretty little woman answered.
"Does Mr. Jarvis Mackworth live here?"
"Yes. Come in. We have been expecting you. You are the poet, aren't
you?"
"Yes, I am the poet."
"You're a good walker ... we didn't expect you before Monday or
Tuesday.... Jarvis, here's the poet-boy from the university."
My host, unseen within, turned off another Red Seal record he had just
started, again to the accompaniment of the piano.... Kreisler's _Caprice
Viennoise_....
Jarvis Alexander Mackworth came forth like a leisurely duck, waddling.
He was very, very fat. He extended me a plump, white hand ... a slack
hand-shake .
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370