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Show No-good Plow So what was wrong with black? It was good enough For all the hundred thousand smiths before, And good enough for all the plows they made, So why not good enough for Prentice Alvin? Who ever heard a bird so full of stuff, So full of songs to make you feel so poor, So full of promises of gold and jade? "Ah, Redbird!" Alvin cried, "my heart is riven! What have you given?" He shouted at the black and silent plow. He beat it, ground it at the wheel, and rubbed it Till the blade was a blackish mirror, till The edge was sharp as a trapper's skinnin knife, And still it was only iron, and silent still. All broke of hope, he cast it in the fire And held it with his naked hands in the flame And wept in agony till it was over. Here was the taste of shining pain: He knew the savor The plow was silver. All silver was the plow, and his hands were whole. He knew what it was the redbird hadn't said. He couldn't put the iron in alone And expect the plow by itself to come to life. He took the plow again, so gleamin bright, And this time when he put it in the fire He clomb right in and sat among the flames And cried in pain until the fire went cold. Here was the age of agony: He knev; how old: The plow was gold. The smith, he came all white-eyed to the forge. "The buffalo are ruttin in the wood, A hundred wolves are singin out a dirge, And a doe, she's lickin while her fawn is fed. What you be doin while I'm in my bed? The trees are wide awake and bendin low, And the stars are all a-cluster overhead. What will a prentice do when his master go? I want to know!" In answer, Alvin only lifts his plow, And in the firelight it shines all yellow. "Lord," the smith declares, and "damn^my eyes, My boy, you got the gift, I didn't reelize." The smith, he reaches out. "Now give it here, That's worth ten thousand sure, I shouldn't wonder, All we got to do is melt her down And we'll be rich afore another sundown, Move to town." |
