Ruins
A BOUT the time the Shakespeare Club fell through
For lack of members — then the movies came
And woke the town up. Look at Judson's Hall
That never had a crowd before (except
The time the Elks here gave their minstrel show)
And now it's packed from eight till half-past ten.
The people drive in from the outside farms,
Mill-hands and servant girls and half-grown boys
With giggling girls, — the usual movie crowd
You'll find in any town, with kids as thick
As flies about the windows and the doors.
I take them in sometimes — to please myself.
Last night, between a comic and a play
They slipped a reel in, " Ruins of Old Rome. "
Not much to look at, — broken pillars, big
Ungainly piles, stone buildings looking like
A court-house in the earthquake zone, and some
Statues in bad condition.
Well, I yawned
Until I saw a man in front of me —
A big, stoop-shouldered fellow, none too young,
Soft collar and soft hat — you know the kind.
Dopey , I called him, for he never laughed
At any of the comics.
But when these
Pictures of broken things came on, he sat
A little forward in his chair, and stared;
And once I heard him groan — so — through his teeth —
Just once, and on the hand that gripped his knee
I knew his knuckles whitened.
He got up
And shambled out before the show was through.
I asked Ed Stevens who he was. He said,
" Oh, that's Jim Andrews on the Eagle here.
He draws cartoons, writes jingles now and then,
Fills in the humour column when they're short, —
That sort of thing.
They say that once he tried
To be an artist, the real thing, you know, —
Studied in Europe and all that, and failed,
And came back broke. Lives with his old maid aunt
Who keeps the boarding-house on Market Street.
The boys say he's an artist, though, all right
At one thing " — and Ed winked. " Step in the bar, "
He said. " He'll be there till Joe closes up. "
We went and had our beer. The place was full
Of smoke and oaths and smells and talk and noise,
And men that roared out jokes and stamped and laughed.
Jim Andrews had a table to himself,
Back in the shadow, close beside the wall.
Nobody seemed to look or speak to him.
Once in a while Joe went and filled his glass,
And Andrews nodded, — that was all. He sat,
His hat pushed down until it hid his eyes,
His elbows on the table and his chin
In his cupped hands.
He sat there in the smoke,
A gilt girl advertising someone's beer
Over his head.
" He's got a grouch for fair
Tonight, " Ed said. " We'd better let him be. "
We went out in the night and left him there.
For lack of members — then the movies came
And woke the town up. Look at Judson's Hall
That never had a crowd before (except
The time the Elks here gave their minstrel show)
And now it's packed from eight till half-past ten.
The people drive in from the outside farms,
Mill-hands and servant girls and half-grown boys
With giggling girls, — the usual movie crowd
You'll find in any town, with kids as thick
As flies about the windows and the doors.
I take them in sometimes — to please myself.
Last night, between a comic and a play
They slipped a reel in, " Ruins of Old Rome. "
Not much to look at, — broken pillars, big
Ungainly piles, stone buildings looking like
A court-house in the earthquake zone, and some
Statues in bad condition.
Well, I yawned
Until I saw a man in front of me —
A big, stoop-shouldered fellow, none too young,
Soft collar and soft hat — you know the kind.
Dopey , I called him, for he never laughed
At any of the comics.
But when these
Pictures of broken things came on, he sat
A little forward in his chair, and stared;
And once I heard him groan — so — through his teeth —
Just once, and on the hand that gripped his knee
I knew his knuckles whitened.
He got up
And shambled out before the show was through.
I asked Ed Stevens who he was. He said,
" Oh, that's Jim Andrews on the Eagle here.
He draws cartoons, writes jingles now and then,
Fills in the humour column when they're short, —
That sort of thing.
They say that once he tried
To be an artist, the real thing, you know, —
Studied in Europe and all that, and failed,
And came back broke. Lives with his old maid aunt
Who keeps the boarding-house on Market Street.
The boys say he's an artist, though, all right
At one thing " — and Ed winked. " Step in the bar, "
He said. " He'll be there till Joe closes up. "
We went and had our beer. The place was full
Of smoke and oaths and smells and talk and noise,
And men that roared out jokes and stamped and laughed.
Jim Andrews had a table to himself,
Back in the shadow, close beside the wall.
Nobody seemed to look or speak to him.
Once in a while Joe went and filled his glass,
And Andrews nodded, — that was all. He sat,
His hat pushed down until it hid his eyes,
His elbows on the table and his chin
In his cupped hands.
He sat there in the smoke,
A gilt girl advertising someone's beer
Over his head.
" He's got a grouch for fair
Tonight, " Ed said. " We'd better let him be. "
We went out in the night and left him there.
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