Colman L. Peter Dr.

Then, from the back shelf of my mind, I remembered my college American Literature class, and one of the few New England poems that had gotten my attention:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake…

I couldn’t seem to recall the rest of the stanza. But a few scattered phrases returned:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep…

“Excuse me. Mr. Bachelor?” I was wrenched from my semi-conscious, nostalgic slumber. I almost stood up in the aisle to get my coat. Was it snowing? Did the horse know that we need to stop? Is there a light in the farmhouse window? I sat straight up, pretending to hear.

“Excuse me,” he repeated, like the annoying jingle of a horse’s bells. “Mr. Bachelor, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re about to land, and I’ve been meaning to ask…well, you seem to be the kind of person who has an interest in literature. You were mumbling something from Frost…If I were to send you a preliminary draft of a few of the unfinished chapters of my novel, would you be interested in proofreading them and sending me your honest comments and criticism?”




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