The Gum-Gatherer

by Robert Frost

　　

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There overtook me and drew me inTo his down-hill, early-morning stride,And set me five miles on my roadBetter than if he had had me ride,A man with a swinging bag for loadAnd half the bag wound round his hand.We talked like barking above the dinOf water we walked along beside.And for my telling him where I’d beenAnd where I lived in mountain landTo be coming home the way I was,He told me a little about himself.He came from higher up in the passWhere the grist of the new-beginning brooksIs blocks split off the mountain mass––And hopeless grist enough it looksEver to grind to soil for grass.(The way it is will do for moss.)There he had built his stolen shack.It had to be a stolen shackBecause of the fears of fire and lossThat trouble the sleep of lumber folk:Visions of half the world burned blackAnd the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.We know who when they come to townBring berries under the wagon seat,Or a basket of eggs between their feet;What this man brought in a cotton sackWas gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.He showed me lumps of the scented stuffLike uncut jewels, dull and rough.It comes to market golden brown;But turns to pink between the teeth. I told him this is a pleasant lifeTo set your breast to the bark of treesThat all your days are dim beneath,And reaching up with a little knife,To loose the resin and take it downAnd bring it to market when you please.

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