Poised like skaters on the highway’s shoulder,
two boys in blue-jeans shivered in the chill wind
of Autumn afternoon, which sent soft shadow
rippling all across the yellow fields. “Hey,
come on,” they cried, “only half a dollar!
Come on and see the fossil Indian!”
Behind them stood a tent of muslin, creaking
in the wind; some small crowd was there already
to see the Indian with his stolen features
and touch his various parts, from head to feet
of stone.
Thus, in the most proper season,
we came to New England. Only students,
we came by our thumbs over fast highways,
not in the defense of Majestic pride,
as others had come, once, upon a war;
only for the place itself, and the season,
which seems even now adequate reason.
And in this same season, a time long gone,
the Indian first New England found,
admired its stone for the arrows it yielded,
admired the axes he wrought from its hills,
admired these hills for their view of valleys,
teeming with game which grazed slowly westward.
What animals the Indian saw, he knew
would never feed on mineral matter,
as he could, in his deepest chambers;
their whole concern lay at their cloven feet:
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