THE CLAM PEDDLER

He comes to the door three times a week,

The clam peddler, clad in overalls,

Jumper and long hip rubber boots,

Which, in fair weather, are rolled at the knee.

His form is bent from stooping in the mud,

His hands and face are weather cracked

From long exposure to wind and sun and rain,

And yet he has a kindly face

Beneath the grayish stubble and the spots

Of clam mud sometimes clinging there.

He cries out “clams! Steamers, opened, long or round!”

At the back door, and his voice is clear

And pleasing, and suggests humor and good cheer,

But that is Yankee bluff – he’s after trade.

His eyes – they tell the story all too well.

He’s hopeless, hard, passé, a work machine,

A fool of fate who goes at every tide

And paws over the reeking mud

For clams. His back aches, he swears,

But whacks and holds on until his basket’s full,

Then pulls his wracked body together and goes

And peddles them from door to door.

He has no vision. The only thing he sees

Are mudflats, clams, nickels and dimes,

And then the village inn and – void.

But what of the clam peddler, after all?

He’s a human being; he works and eats and drinks

Like thousands of men in every walk of life,

And he’s as happy and as successful as they,

And brings as much good to humankind.

So why turn him from the door with a snarl?

If you don’t want to buy “clams! Steamers, opened, long or round,”

The least you can do is wish him well,

And send him, smiling, on his way.

Oct. 31, 1916