Page:Poems Hoffman.djvu/194

Who used to come begging so often here,
Hiding his coat in some wayside nook
He sought our warm kitchen on wintry days
Shivering, coughing, trying to look
The picture of virtuous suffering and want,
Stretching his wrinkled old hands o'er the blaze
Acting the story he wanted to tell
Of hardship, exposure and starvation gaunt,
Old Modoc? yes, I remember him well.

Sometimes the quaint drama would take a new form,—
Old Modoc would enter unnoticed, unheard,
With benevolent smile and a great load of wood,
He would labor unhired till weary and tired
Then sit down and eat without speaking a word;
But this quaint, wordless drama was varied at times
By strange, wild accountings of fire and of flood,
With gesticulations and vehement tones
He would picture the throes of disaster and crimes,
Old Modoc, a wonderful orator stood,
Stretched to his full height or bent low with the groans
Of brothers who perished in flood or in flame,
Or pointing away to the Heaven of the good
Where their spirits still roamed
While the earth held their bones,
And the mixed, faulty dialect little expressed
But the powerful emotion which shook that old frame
And no one among us could ever have guessed
If the tragical tale was of flood or of flame.

I remember him once when pretending to weep
He sat himself down in despair on the floor,
Some request was refused him, his sorrow was deep
As he wiped his wet eyes on the mat at the door,

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