Part 2

God, take me away-- There is no Sex here And no Smell!

_Edna St. Vincent Millay_

(Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.)

TEA O' HERBS

O I have brought in now Bergamot, A packet o' brown senna And an iron pot; In my scarlet gown I make all hot.

And other men and girls Write like me Setting herbs a-plenty In their poetry (_Bergamot for hair-oil,_ _Bergamot for tea!_)

And they may do ill now Or they may do well, (Little should I care now What they have to sell--) But what bergamot and rue are None of them can tell.

All above my bitter tea I have set a lid (As my bitter heart By its red gown hid) They write of bergamot Because I did....

(From its padded hangers They've snatched my red gown, Men as well as girls And gone down town, Flaunting my vocabulary, Every verb and noun!)

And the grackle moans High above the pot, He is sick with herbs ... _And am I not,_ _Who have brought in_ _Bergamot?_

_John V. A. Weaver_

(With a strong note of infant brutality.)

THE WEAVER BIRD

Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree All green an' cocky--why, it might be me Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird Bringin' you worms--aw, you know, things I've heard 'Bout me--an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up! Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet, Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid, It makes me weep, same as it always did, To think how bad you'd feel....

I got a thought, An awful funny one I sorta caught-- Nobody never thought that way, I guess-- When I get blue, an' things is in a mess I map out all my funeral, the hearses An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that, An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak....

I can't stand that bird, somehow--makes me cry.... _The world'll be darn sorry when I die!_

_David Morton_

(Who, being very polite, only thought it.)

SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS

There is no magic in a living tree, And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: My soul is seasick, and its only words Murmur desire for things more like a sea. In this dry landscape here there seems to be No water, merely persons in large herds, Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, Come from the Poetry Society.

What could be drier, where all things are dry? What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, That I may have great sonnets on my lips!

_Elinor Wylie_

(With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.)

THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON

Never believe this bird connotes Jade whorls of carven commonness: Nor as from ordinary throats Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress.

He is the cold and scornful Loon, Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, Steeps in the silver of the moon His burnished claws, his chiseled tail.

_Leonora Speyer_

(Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.)

A LANDSCAPE GETS PERSONAL

Beloved.... I cannot bear that Bird

He is green With envy of My Songs: "_Cheep! Cheep!_"

This Tree Has a furtive look And the Brook Says, "Oh ... Splash...."

And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ... It waves at me.... It is too flirtatious!

Beloved, Let us leave swiftly ...

_I fear this Landscape!_ _It would vamp me!_

_Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_

(Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this handsome tribute by wire.)

THE SYMPOSIUM LEADING NOWHERE

I sing of the joy of the Small Paths The paths that lead nowhere at all, (Though I never have gone on them nevertheless They are admirable, and so small!) I go out at midnight in motors But, being a Roosevelt, I drive Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, For I wish with much speed to arrive.

Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths Surrounded with Birds and with Trees I would love to go down on a Small Path And sit in communion with these! Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you, For poetic communion I yearn But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs And alas, I've no time to return.

_Oh alas, the undone moments,_ _Oh, the myriad hours bereft_ _Trying to be twenty people_ _And to do things right and left._ _I would sit down by a Small Path_ _And would make me a Large Rhyme_ _I should love to find my soul there_ _But I haven't got the time!_

_Ridgely Torrence_

(Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.)

THE FOWL OF A THOUSAND FLIGHTS

Grackle, Grackle on your tree, There's something wrong to-day, In the moonlight, in the quiet evening, You will rise and croak and fly away; Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight (And that's all right) But you have never criticised a single song (And that's all wrong) Lo, would you add despair unto despair? Do you not care That all these lesser children of the Muse Shall sing to you exactly as they choose?

You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem, Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em That you should not Be shot: What saw I then, what heard? Multitudes--multitudes, under the tree they stirred, And with too many a broken note and wheeze They sang what each did please....

And Thou, O bird of emeraldine beak and brow, Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, Grackle!

_Henry van Dyke_

(Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle either.)

THE ROILING OF HENRY

(A Song of the Grating Outdoors)

Bird, thou art not a Veery, Nor yet a Yellowthroat, Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song, Long, long e'er I could vote; Thou art not a Blue Flower, Nor e'en a real Blue Bird; Yet there's a moral high and pure In all thy likings heard: "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_"

The noble tow'rs of Princeton Hear high thy pensive trill, And eke my ear has heard thee The while I fished the rill; Thy note rings out at daybreak Before I rise to toil; Thou counselest Persistence; Thy song no stone can spoil; "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_"

Yet, Bird, there is a limit To all I've undergone; From five o'clock till five o'clock Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; I cannot get my work done ... I give thee, Bird, advice; If thou wouldst save thy skin alive, Let me not warn thee twice, "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_"

_Cale Young Rice_

(Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and could not get it off his mind.)

PANTINGS

Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! Gents' immanent furnishings! On a mystic tide I ride, I ride, Of the clothes of a million springs! I take the train for the suburbs Or I sweep from Pole to Pole, But where is the window that holds them not, Gents' furnishings of my soul!

Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! Shirtings and coatings too! How can I think of mere birds, nor blink In the Cosmic Hullaballoo? The hot world throbs with Immenseness, The Voidness plunks in the Void, And all of it doubtless has something to do With Employer and Unemployed!

Pantings! Pantings! Pantings! Trousers through all the town! And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies Smirk in their blue and brown; I float in a slithering simoon Of fevered and surging tints, And my ears are dulled with the mighty throb Of the Male Best Dressers' Hints:

_Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!_ _My wardrobe, they send it fleet...._ _Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does...._ _And the Cosmos at last complete!_

_Bliss Carman_

(Who, incidentally, happened to be correct.)

THE WILD

Ho, Spring calls clear a message.... The Grackle is not green.... The Mighty Mother Nature She knows just what I mean.

The lilac and the willow The grass and violet They are my wild companions Where I was raised a pet.

The secrets of great nature From childhood I have heard; Oh, I can tell a wild flower Swiftly from a wild bird;

And Gwendolen and Marna And Myrtle (dead all three ... Among my wildwood sweethearts Was much mortality).

If they my loves returning Might gather 'neath these boughs (Oh, they would sniff at pear-trees Who loved the Northern Sloughs).

Their wild eternal whisper Would back me up, I ween: "This bird is not a Grackle: A Grackle is not green."

_Grace Hazard and Hilda Conkling_

THEY SEE THE BIRDIE

(Mrs. Conkling points maternally.)

Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird! If you will watch, upon my word He will come out; a Veery[1] he As like an Oboe as can be: He shall be winged, with a tail, Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail! And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh, This is my Hilda, you must know-- And oh, what joy, if you but knew-- She shall make poetry on you!"

(The Birdie obliges, whereupon Hilda recites obediently, while her mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes dictation.)

Oh, my lovely Mother, That is a Bird: Sitting on a Tree. I am a Little Girl Standing on the Ground. I see the Bird, The Bird sees me.

_Bird!_ _Color of Grass!_

_I love my Mother_ _More than I do You!_

[Footnote 1: Note by the Collator: I do not pretend to explain the veery-complex of American poets. They all seemed possessed to rub it into the poor bird that he wasn't one.]

_Theodosia Garrison_

(Who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she surveyed with complacence, by the third line.)

A BALLAD OF THE BIRD DANCE OF PIERRETTE

_Pierrette's mother speaks:_

"Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other? (Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same--) Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name! Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars, With yer hair that docked an' frizzed--if Father Pat shud see! Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers, Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"

_But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ _Her locks flour-sprent,_ _That danced beneath the flowering tree_ _Leaping as she went._

"If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation (Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard), Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,' Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd! Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin' (Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,) Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin', Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!"

_But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ _Her head down-bent,_ _Went back on the three-thirteen,_ _Coughing as she went._

_William Griffith_

(Who felt for her.)

PIERRETTE REMEMBERS AN ENGAGEMENT

Pierrette has gone--but it was not Exactly that she lied; She said she had to catch a train; "I have a date," she cried.

To keep a sudden rendezvous It came into her mind As quite the quickest way to flee From parties of this kind;

She went most softly and most soon, But still she made a stir, For, going, she took all the men To town along with her.

_Edgar Guest_

(Who has an air of absolute belief in the True, the Optimistic, and the Checkbook. He seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, and to be looking about restlessly for Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)

AIN'T NATURE WONDERFUL!

How dear to me are home and wife, The dear old Tree I used to Love, The Pear it shed on starting life And God's Outdoors so bright above!

For Virtue gets a high reward, Noble is all good Scenery, So I will root for Virtue hard, For God, for Nature, and for Me!

_Don Marquis_

(Who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his friends run in New York papers. He swings a theoretical barrel of hootch above his head, and chants:)

THE MEETING OF THE COLUMNS

Chris and Frank and I Each had a column; Chris and I were plump and gay, But not so F.P.A.: F.P.A. was solemn-- Not so his Column; That was full of wit, As good as My Column Nearly every bit! We sat on each an office chair And all snapped our scissors; Their things were pretty fair But all of mine were Whizzers!

Frank wrote of Cyril, An ungrammatic sinner, But I wrote of Drink And Chris wrote of Dinner; And Frank kept getting thinner And we kept getting plump-- Frank sat like a Bump Translating from the Latin, Chris wrote of Happy Homes I wrote of Alcoholic Foams, And we still seemed to fatten; Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been, I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin! But we both got fatter, So the parties didn't matter, Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her....

F.P.A. went calling And sang about it sorely ... "_Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!_ F.P.A. played tennis And told the World he did.... _I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!_ Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry, _But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!_

And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me, To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree:

But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle-- "Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle! A Grackle with a Hackle, A ticklish one to tackle A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...." And we both began to giggle And woggle, and wiggle, And we giggled and we gurgled And we gargled and were gay ... _For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!_

_Christopher Morley_

(Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own home.)

THE MOCKING-HOARSE BIRD

Good fowl, though I would speak to thee With wonted geniality, And Oxford charm in my address, It's not quite easy, I confess: _Suaviter in modo's_ hard When poets trample one's front yard, And this is such an enormous crew That you've got trailing after you! I'd washed my youngest child but four, Put the milk-bottles out the door, Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh (Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!) Tossed down (see essays) then my pen To be a private citizen, Written about that in the Post, When lo, upon the lawn a host Of Poets, sprung upon my sight Each eager for a Poem to write!

To a less placid bard you'd be A flat domestic tragedy,-- Bird--grackle--nay, I'd scarcely call You bird--a mere egg you, that's all-- Only a bad egg has the nerve To poach (a pun!) on my preserve! To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D. (Both columnists whom you should see) And L.M.N (a man who never Columns a word that isn't clever,) And B.C.D. (who scintillates Much more than most who get his rates) A thing like this would be a trial.... It is to me, there's no denial.

Why, Bird, if they would sing of you, Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue, Or what Young Devils they all are, Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star, Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing, It would be quite another thing: But, Bird, here they come mousing round On my suburban, sacred ground, And see my happiness--it's flat, You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that! They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later The joys of my Refrigerator, Burst into song about the points Of Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints, The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol, My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel, And each Uncontroverted Fact With which my poetry is packed ... In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me, _And then, where will my living be?_

_Franklin P. Adams_

(Coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the Grackle with bitterness:)

TO A GRACKLE

(Horace, Ode XVIXXV, p. 23)

Bird, if you think I do not care To gaze upon your feathered form Rather than converse with some fair Or make my brow with tennis warm;

If you should think I'd liefer far Hear your sweet song than fast be driving Within my costly motor car And in my handsome home arriving,

If you should think I would be gone Far sooner than you might expect From off this uncolumnar lawn; Bird, you'd be utterly correct!

_Tom Daly_

(Showing the Italian's love of the Beautiful, which he makes his own more than the Anglo-Saxon dreams of doing.)

CARLO THE GARDENER

De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree, Dey gotta da arta, da birda--but me, I lova da arta, I lova da flower, (Ah, _bella fioretta_!) I waita da hour: I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf-- I brava young Carlo--Maria! fine t'ief! I waita Till later.

Da poets go homa, go finda da sup', I creep by dis tree and I digga her up, (Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love, _Per Dio!_ and da art!) So I giva da shove, I catcha da birda, I getta da tree, I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she-- She gotta In potta!

_Vachel Lindsay_

(Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.)

THE HOBOKEN GRACKLE AND THE HOBO

(An Explanation)

As I went marching, torn-socked, free, [_Steadily_] With my red heart marching all agog in front of me And my throbbing heels And my throbbing feet Making an impression on the Hoboken street [_With energy_] Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird, And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard! [_With surprise_] Banks--of--poets--round--that--tree-- _All_ of the Poetry Society but _me_! All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle [_Chatteringly Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly) like parrots_] Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, [_Cooingly, yet Gosh, what a packed street! with impatience_] The Secretary, _President_ and TREASURER went by! "That's not a grackle," said I to all of him, Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim, "_That's an English sparrow on that limb!_" And they all went home No more to roam. And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam [_Intemperately_] And I took my bandanna again on my stick [_With calm majesty_] And I walked to the grocery and took my pick And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn, [_With domesticity Codfish like flakes of snow at morn, for the moment_] Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen Laid down change and marched out again And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free, _With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!_

DIES ILLA: A BIRD OF A MASQUE

Being a Collaboration by Percy Mackaye, Isabel Fiske Conant and Josephine Preston Peabody.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE GRACKLE (who does not appear at all)

THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP

THE SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY

CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY

CHORUS OF CORRESPONDENCE, KINDERGARTEN, GRAMMAR, HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE CLASSES IN VERSE-WRITING

CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN RUNNING POETRY MAGAZINES

CHORUS OF POETRY CRITICS

CHORUS OF ASSORTED CULTURE-HOUNDS

THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR THE POETIC RENAISSANCE IN AMERICA

THE NON-POETRY WRITING PUBLIC (COMPOSED OF TWO CITIZENS WHO HAVE NEVER LEARNED TO READ OR WRITE)

SEMI-CHORUSES OF MAGAZINE EDITORS AND BOOK-PUBLISHERS

ATE, GODDESS OF DISCORD

THE MUSE

TIME: _Next year._ PLACE: _Everywhere._ SCENE: _A level stretch of monotony._

THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_Entering despairingly_)

Alas--in vain! Yet I have barred the way As best I might, that this great horror fall Not on the world. _Returned with many thanks_ _And not because of lack of merit,_ I Have said to twenty million poets ... nay ... Profane it not, that word ... to twenty million Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting And midnight oil, to add unto the world More Bunk.... In vain--in vain! (_She sinks down sobbing._)

(_From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically._)

SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS

We have mailed their poems back To every man and woman-jack Who weigh the postman down From country and from town; But all in vain, in vain, They mail them in again!

SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS

Though we've sent them flying, We are nearly dying, From the books of poetry Sent by people unto we; In vain we keep them off our shelves, They go and publish them themselves!

SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS

All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain--

(_Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes for Writing Verse. They sing Joyously_)

The Day has come that we adore, The Day we've all been working for, Now babies in their bassinets And military school cadets, And chambermaids in each hotel And folks in slums who cannot spell, Professors, butchers, clergymen, And every one, have grabbed a pen: The Day has come--tra la, tra lee-- _Everybody_ writes poetry!

(_They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines. These put on horn-rimmed spectacles and chant earnestly as follows_)

CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES

We're very careful what we put in; This magazine is of highest grade; If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste There's no use sending it, we're afraid; We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats, We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead; If you write like us there will be no fuss-- That's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... (_Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground_)

Yale! Yale! Yale! Our Poetry! Fine Poetry! Nobody Else's Poetry! Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw!

(_Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America. There are four of him--or her, as the case may be--Miss Monroe, Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a row and recites in unison:_)

I've made Poetry What it is today; Or ... at least ... That's what people say: Earnest-minded effort Never can be hid; The Others think They did it-- But--I--Did!

SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS, (_faintly:_)

You _did_? (_They rush out._)

PERSON RESPONSIBLE (_still modestly_)

Well, so they say-- But I have to go away. I'm due at a lecture I give at three today.

(_The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. As it does so, there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes. It is the Muse._)

MUSE