He did not seem so tall nor quite so strange Though he was strange enough. His new broadcloth suit Felt tight and formal across his big shoulders still And his new shiny top-hat was not yet battered To the bulging shape of the old familiar hat He’d worn at Springfield, stuffed with its hoard of papers. He was pretty tired. All week the office-seekers Had plagued him as the flies in fly-time plague A gaunt-headed, patient horse. The children weren’t well And Mollie was worried about them so sharp with her tongue. But he knew Mollie and tried to let it go by. Men tracked dirt in the house and women liked carpets. Each had a piece of the right, that was all most people could stand.