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The wistful runaway
Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down
Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all
Was very still there for a long, long while.–
Yet everything, someway, seemed restful-like
And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind,
And sort of kin to him!–Only too still!
If somebody would say something–just speak—
Or even rise up suddenly and come
And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair–
Or box his jaws–Lord bless ’em!–anything!–
Was he not there to thankfully accept
Any reception from parental source
Save this incomprehensible voicelessness.
O but the silence held its very breath!
If but the ticking clock would only strike
And for an instant drown the whispering,
Lisping, sifting sound the katydids
Made outside in the grassy nowhere.

Far
Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo
Of boys at their night-game of “Town-fox,”
But now with no desire at all to be
Participating in their sport–No; no;–
Never again in this world would he want
To join them there!–he only wanted just
To stay in home of nights–Always–always–
Forever and a day!

He moved; and coughed–
Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet
No vaguest of parental notice or
Solicitude in answer–no response–
No word–no look. O it was deathly still!–
So still it was that really he could not
Remember any prior silence that
At all approached it in profundity
And depth and density of utter hush.
He felt that he himself must break it: So,
Summoning every subtle artifice
Of seeming nonchalance and native ease
And naturalness of utterance to his aid,
And gazing raptly at the house-cat where
She lay curled in her wonted corner of
The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily
And said: “I see you’ve got the same old cat!”