Susan Frances Harrison Poems

THIS grey-haired spinster, Catharine Plouffe–
Observe her, a contrast to convent chits,
At her spinning wheel, in the room in the roof.
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HALE, and though sixty, without a stoop,
What does old Benedict want with a wife?
Can he not make his own pea soup?
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HERE on the wide waste lands,
Take– child–these trembling hands,
Though my life be as blank and waste,
My days as surely ungraced
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A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.
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LIKE the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps, with his olive bosom bared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
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WELL! Let him sleep! Time enough to awake
When sunset ushers a kind release,
When cooling shadows the raft overtake.
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FOR know, my girl, there is always the axe
Ready at hand in this latitude,
And how it stings and bites and hacks
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FATHER Couture loves a fricassee,
Served with a sip of home-made wine,
He is the Curé, so jolly and free,
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'TIS the day of the blessed St. Jean B'ptiste,
And the streets are full of the folk awaiting
The favourite French-Canadian feast.
...