Death and the Maiden

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Far out in the country beyond the woods, beyond the world, really, lived Old Mam, and she had lived there for ninety years with the door locked tight, not opening for anyone, be it wind, rain, sparrow tapping or little boy with a pailful of crayfish rapping. If you scratched at her shutters, she called through:

«Go away. Death!»

«I'm not Death!» you might say.

But she'd cry back, «Death, I know you, you come today in the shape of a girl. But I see the bones behind the freckles!»

Or someone else might knock.

«I see you. Death.» would cry Old Mam. «In the shape of a scissors-grinder! But the door is triple-locked and double-barred. I got flypaper on the cracks, tape on the keyholes, dust mops up the chimney, cobwebs in the shutters, and the electricity cut off so you can't slide in with the juice! No telephones so you can call me to my doom at three in the dark morning. And I got my ears stuffed with cotton so I can't hear your reply to what I say now. So, Death, get away!»

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