— page 2

           That's it. The frustrated reader wants to shake him. How did his mother (who doesn't sound martyred by her circumstances) introduce him to Shakespeare? Which play or poem did she read him? Did he have a part in A Midsummer Night's Dream , and if so, did he enjoy acting in it with the rest of "her offspring"—that curiously detached term for his brothers and sisters? If not, why not? Where, in short, is the illuminating detail, the well rendered incident, that show us that Murphy was there? It's an interesting contrast to read what Vincent Murphy, the author's father, says about his mother in the excerpt from his recollections included in the book:

"The poor soul [Vincent's father] died on June 1, 1934, the day I was to graduate from high school. It was hot and still—hadn't rained and it seemed like the end of everything. There was a host of relatives and friends and it was a joyless celebration of death. A neighbor lady loaned her Buick Landau so we could ride from Felton to Ada for the funeral, then to Georgetown for the burial, and finally home. It was a long journey. My mother, who had been such a brick, went to pieces—but not for long.

          The day after the funeral the creditors started coming. I couldn't believe the numbers. They were mostly decent, friendly people who had a high regard for my father. My mother had regained her composure. She greeted everyone in a cool and matter-of-fact way. She said we were going to negotiate a Federal Land Bank loan and to be patient and they would get a settlement."

           This is much better writing. It's vivid and immediate and it has an emotional center. We feel we know more of Vincent's mother from these few words than we ever come to know of Timothy's.

           So who or what does engage Timothy Murphy—where is his heart? Not in farming, which he tells us in no uncertain terms is a business. He went back to North Dakota because his hopes for an academic career in the East were disappointed, and he joined his father's insurance business. For twenty years, he sold insurance, and managed to do well enough at that to borrow a good deal of money and buy land. Times grew hard, and harder, and he lost much of the land when the loan came due. These are the bare bones of the story he tells.

           He finds solace in hunting, and his scenes and poems about hunting come alive. He loves his dogs, he loves the landscape, and he admires the hardy, tough, resilient farmers of his home. His most successful poems sing about these things. "Tessie's Time", about his grandmother, has a nice economy of wisdom:

She said the sundial stood so long
because it only counted hours
     when the sun was shining.

Its daily lesson kept her strong,
showing her how to husband powers
     despite their slow declining.

When the years totaled ninety-one,
     she was thirty-nine by the sun.