The Fate of a Genius
Where the folks plow down to hard-pan to sow their rye and
Where the children climb the steeps as they trudge away to
There dwelt a toiling genius, whom his neighbors called a
The puzzle and the wonder of all the country town,
His name was-well, no matter-suppose we call him Brown.
His form was bowed and shaky, he talked with hollow
And when he walked he always kept his eyes upon the
He had daughters, he had sons, and to them did this befall:
From the good folks in the Bible he named them, one and all.
They were Abraham and Jacob, Mattbew, Mark and Jere-
There were Rachel and Rebecca, Peter, Job and Hezekiah.
They lived and grew in spite of the ancient names they
They ate-when they could get it-and swarmed about the
Like other people's children; yet shadows o'er them hung,
And oft were they assailed by the scorn of taunting toiigue.
I have told you how the neighbors said their father was a fool,
And thus on their young heads fell the shafts of ridicule.
They were ragged and neglected, their days were glum and
With their mother always sad, and their father was always
And this was what did ail him: he had a settled notion
That he was called and sent to invent perpetual motion.
This was his one idea; and so it came to pass,
That his children oft went hungry and his farming went--
He shut himself apart, with bolts and bars and screens,
In a dingy little den, where lie built his droll machines.
Unearthly combinations beneath his hands did grow;
But one thing always ailed them--'twas this, they wouldn't
The wife (poor woman!) died. She had borne the load of
But her weary work was over, her cheerless journey through.
The children, one by one, left the ancestral door,
With their old and ancient names for their only stock and
Still the old man toiled and pondered. His hair grew thin
Lower he stooped and lower, as the years they slipped away;
He poorer grew and poorer, till not a cent lie had;
And his eye grew mild and milder;--At last old Brown went
But his madness had it's method. And his darkened brain
Still groped the one idea that had been his curse and bane.
In a dazed and absent fashion lie talked of wheels and
And whittled wooden pulleys with his long and bony hands.
The poor old man lay dying;-'twas a stormy winter night;
0'er his forhead, cold and damp, strayed his locks so thin
As his feet slipped down the bank where the silent river flows,
He smiled and faintly whispered,--"I've got it--now it
Walls of Corn and Other Poems
Ellen P. Allerton
(Hiawatha, KS: Harrington Printing Company. 1894)