Part 3

In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying As swine that in deep agony are dying, A voice of tom-cats wailing, A never failing Thud as of rolling logs: A chattering like frogs, And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, Making a horrible fuss, Cries out upon my name. Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, So to be mocked and humbled by this use? I--I, the Muse!

(_Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in horn glasses and a sex-complex._)

SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY

You're behind the times; quite narrow, Don't you want Culture for the masses?

MUSE

No; I am Greek; we never did. Besides, it _isn't_ culture.

CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY, (_trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause._)

Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking! She's no Muse! She must be mocking!

MUSE (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_)

I am a goddess. Trifle not with me.

ELDERLY LADIES (_with resolute tolerance_)

She _looks_ like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture-- My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture!

MUSE (_lifting her arms angrily_)

Ate, my sister!

ATE, (_behind the scenes_) I come!

(_Enter from one side, Band of Poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of Poetry Critics. At their end steals Ate, Goddess of Discord, disguised as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see her--or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously_)

My maiden aunt in Keokuk She writes free verse like anything; My great-grandmother is in luck, She's sold her three-piece work on Spring; My mother does Poetic Plays, My dad does rhymes while signing checks, And my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her-- She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex-- The world's as perfect as it can be, Everybody writes Poetry!

CHORUS OF CRITICS, (_chanting yet more loudly:_)

The world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry!

(_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics._)

SPIRIT OF DISCORD

Rash poets, think what you would do-- There's nobody left you can read it to!

POETS (_aghast_)

We never thought of that! An audience, 'tis flat, Is our most pressing need, To listen to our screed;

(_Each turns to his neighbor_)

Base scribbler, get thee hence Or be my audience!

Semi-chorus:

We want to write ourselves! We'll not!

Semi-chorus:

But what _you_ write is merely rot! Hush up and let _me_ read My great, eternal screed!

ATE (_stealthily_) Ha, ha!

(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:_)

What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _I_ always say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _I_ never wrote no poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business.

CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_)

Ah, a new Gospel! Let us write Reviews About it!

THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her._)

Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. I wing my hallowed way To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.

EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS

Nay, our great helper, nay! Leave us not yet, our only comforter! We'll need thee still; Folks who write poetry There's naught on earth can kill!

(_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc., have clustered round the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_)

B'gosh, I do believe, Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good As any of those there fool dead fellers could!

(_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._)

SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip)

You see? Too late!

SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS

Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?

(_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the Masque, except_ ATE, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every Minute. They sing:_)

The Day has come that we adore, The Day we've all been working for; The Day has come, tra la, tra lee! _Everybody_ writes Poetry!

THE MUSE (_unnoticed in the background_)

Farewell.

_Arthur Guiterman_

(He recites with appropriate gestures.)

A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: A RHYMED REVIEW

It seems that Margaret Widdemer Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it, And being human, prone to err, Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it,

Or christen it, as one might say, By asking poets closely herded To come around and spend the day And sing of what the Tree and Bird did.

(Poor girl! When next she takes her pen Some bromide critic's sure to say, "Don't dare do serious work again-- This stuff is your true metier!")

No sooner said than done; the bards Rush out in quantities surprising, And, overflowing four front yards They carol till the moon is rising;

With ardor, or, as some say, "pash," In song kind or satirical, Asking, apparently, no cash, They make their offerings lyrical.

I'd be the first a spear to break For Poesy; but this to tackle ... It seems a lot of fuss to make About one Tree and one small Grackle.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Tree with a Bird in it:, by Margaret Widdemer