g running rumble
Dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded,
And a few lucky knaves that fled wildly backward;
And Henry and I, when it passed, were left standing
By the body of him whose name was Jack Whitcomb,
Who lay as he fell, when headlong he tumbled,
His rifle still clinched and both barrels smoking.
I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets,
And a good many gashes by spear-points and arrows.
I have learned in my trailing a good many simples
Which have power to keep men from crossing the river
Before the Lord calls with voice that is certain.
And the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body,
Though ugly and deep, was not beyond curing.

We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle
With death, for his life, and we won. For Jack mended.
We made a canoe and we bore him far southward.
A hundred good miles down the river we boated,
Till we came to his house of huge logs, strongly builded,
Beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid,
Which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water.
'Twas a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled,
If peace might be found this side of the silence
Which brings peace to all that know sorrow in living.

Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids.
His home? No, rather his house let us call it.
For how can a house be a home with naught in it?
In house that is home must be love, warm and human,
A voice that is sweet, a heart that is gentle,
A soul that is true, and beside these a cradle
That prattles and coos; and the quick-falling patter
Of little white feet that run hither and thither.
To his house, and not to his home, then, we brought him,
For certainly nothing and no one was in it,
Save himself and a dog, a bed and a table,
Some chairs, a few books, and a--Picture.
And this was the story that he told us in dying.
The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to.
But he didn't. No motive, he said. And he had none,
As we felt later on, when he told us his story.
So he died without word or sign. And in silence
We stood and saw him go forth on his journey
Without speaking a word, without a hand lifted
To hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain
What was wisdom for one who went forth in such fashion.
Perhaps it was best he should go