Poor sheepish plaything, organized with prodigal animosity, lived in just a year-- my Father's cottage at Beverly Farms was on the market the month he died. Empty, open, intimate, its town-house furniture had an on tiptoe air of waiting for the mover on the heels of the undertaker. Ready, afraid of living alone till eighty, Mother mooned in a window, as if she had stayed on a train one stop past her destination.