Part 6

I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, “What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store—” But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.

Cried he, “My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view— Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!”

At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, “You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!”

“I do not want to fly,” said he, “I only want to squirm!” And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm; “I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!”

O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,— The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.

AN OBSTACLE.

I was climbing up a mountain-path With many things to do, Important business of my own, And other people’s too, When I ran against a Prejudice That quite cut off the view.

My work was such as could not wait, My path quite clearly showed, My strength and time were limited, I carried quite a load; And there that hulking Prejudice Sat all across the road.

So I spoke to him politely, For he was huge and high, And begged that he would move a bit And let me travel by. He smiled, but as for moving!— He didn’t even try.

And then I reasoned quietly With that colossal mule: My time was short—no other path— The mountain winds were cool. I argued like a Solomon; He sat there like a fool.

Then I flew into a passion, I danced and howled and swore. I pelted and belabored him Till I was stiff and sore; He got as mad as I did— But he sat there as before.

And then I begged him on my knees; I might be kneeling still If so I hoped to move that mass Of obdurate ill-will— As well invite the monument To vacate Bunker Hill!

So I sat before him helpless, In an ecstasy of woe— The mountain mists were rising fast, The sun was sinking slow— When a sudden inspiration came, As sudden winds do blow.

I took my hat, I took my stick, My load I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus With an absent-minded air— And I walked directly through him, As if he wasn’t there!

THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL.

The fox who had lost his tail found out That now he could faster go; He had less to cover when hid for prey, He had less to carry on hunting day, He had less to guard when he stood at bay; He was really better so!

Now he was a fine altruistical fox With the good of his race at heart, So he ran to his people with tailless speed, To tell of the change they all must need, And recommend as a righteous deed That they and their tails should part!

Plain was the gain as plain could be, But his words did not avail; For they all replied, “We perceive your case; You do not speak for the good of the race, But only to cover your own disgrace, Because you have lost your tail!”

Then another fox, of a liberal mind, With a tail of splendid size, Became convinced that the tailless state Was better for all of them, soon or late. Said he, “I will let my own tail wait, And so I can open their eyes.”

Plain was the gain as plain could be, But his words did not avail, For they all made answer, “My plausible friend, You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end. We know you’re dishonest and only pretend, For you have not lost your tail!”

THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.

In Norway fiords, in summer-time, The Norway birch is fair: The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine, The whole tree groweth tall and fine; For all it wants is there,— Water and warmth and air,— Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing That nature in perfection by its growing.

But follow the persistent tree To the limit of endless snow There you may see what a birch can be! The product showeth plain and free How nobly plants can grow With nine months’ winter slow. ’Tis fitted to survive in that position, Developed by the force of bad condition.

See now what life the tree doth keep,— Branchless, three-leaved, and tough; In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep. Strong is the tree and rough, It lives, and that’s enough. “Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by— A Norway birch—and less than one inch high!

· · · · ·

That silver monarch of the summer wood, Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good, Knew not in his perversity The sweeter uses of adversity!

CONNOISSEURS.

“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily, From canons free; “Work such as this lacks value and perspective, Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,— Does not appeal to me.”

Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely, Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly, “Why, ain’t that flat?” Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly, Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly, “I don’t like that!”

The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly Of what some genius had attempted daringly, “This fellow tries; He handles his conception frankly, feelingly. Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly, I recognize.”

The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly, Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly, “Oh, come and see!” But all that they could say of art’s reality Was this poor voice of poorer personality, “Now, that suits me!”

TECHNIQUE.

Cometh to-day the very skilful man; Profoundly skilful in his chosen art; All things that other men can do he can, And do them better. He is very smart.

Sayeth, “My work is here before you all; Come now with duly cultured mind to view it. Here is great work, no part of it is small; Perceive how well I do it!

“I do it to perfection. Studious years Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won; Labor and thought are in my work, and tears. Behold how well ’tis done!

“See with what power this great effect is shown; See with what ease you get the main idea; A master in my art, I stand alone; Now you may praise,—I hear.”

And I, “O master, I perceive your sway, I note the years of study, toil, and strain That brought the easy power you wield to-day, The height you now attain.

“Freely your well-trained power I see you spend, Such skill in all my life I never saw; You have done nobly; but, my able friend, What have you done it for?

“You have no doubt achieved your dearest end: Your work is faultless to the cultured view. You do it well, but, O my able friend, What is it that you do?”

THE PASTELLETTE.

“The pastelle is too strong,” said he. “Lo! I will make it fainter yet!” And he wrought with tepid ecstasy A pastellette.

A touch—a word—a tone half caught— He softly felt and handled them; Flavor of feeling—scent of thought— Shimmer of gem— That we may read, and feel as he What vague, pale pleasure we can get From this mild, witless mystery,— The pastellette.

THE PIG AND THE PEARL.

Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie! Tasteless, and hard, and dry— Get out of my sty! Glittering, smooth, and clean, You only seek to be seen! I am dirty and big! A virtuous, valuable pig. For me all things are sweet That I can possibly eat; But you—how can you be good Without being fit for food? Not even food for me, Who can eat all this you see, No matter how foul and sour; I revel from hour to hour In refuse of great and small; But you are no good at all, And if I should gulp you, quick, It would probably make me sick!” Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!” And she rooted her out of the sty. A Philosopher chancing to pass Saw the Pearl in the grass, And laid hands on the same in a trice, For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price. Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew What a fool thing you do, It would grieve even you! Grant that pearls are not just to your taste, Must you let them run waste? You care only for hogwash, I know, For your litter and you. Even so, This tasteless hard thing which you scorn Would buy acres of corn; And apples, and pumpkins, and pease, By the ton, if you please! By the wealth which this pearl represents, You could grow so immense— You, and every last one of your young— That your fame would be sung As the takers of every first prize, For your flavor and size! From even a Pig’s point of view The Pearl was worth millions to you. Be a Pig—and a fool—(you must be them) But try to know Pearls when you see them!”

POOR HUMAN NATURE.

I saw a meagre, melancholy cow, Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain; Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how—? Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!” Poor bovine nature!

I saw a sickly horse of shambling gait, Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back, Useless in all ways, in a wretched state. “We’re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack. Poor equine nature!

I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground, Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears, The mice escaping from her aimless bound. Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!” Poor feline nature!

Then did I glory in my noble race, Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong, Rejoicing that we held a higher place And need not add to theirs our mournful song,— Poor human nature!

OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE.

Said I to my friend from the East,— A tenderfoot he,— As I showed him the greatest and least Of our hills by the sea, “How do you like our climate?” And I smiled in my glee.

I showed him the blue of the hills, And the blue of the sky, And the blue of the beautiful bay Where the ferry-boats ply; And “How do you like our climate?” Securely asked I.

Then the wind blew over the sand, And the fog came down, And the papers and dust were on hand All over the town. “How do you like our climate?” I cried with a frown.

On the corner we stood as we met Awaiting a car; Beneath us a vent-hole was set, As our street corners are— And street corners in our San Francisco Are perceptible far.

He meant to have answered, of course, I could see that he tried; But he had not the strength of a horse, And before he replied The climate rose up from that corner in force, And he died!

SAN FRANCISCO, 1895.

CRITICISM.

The Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray, Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west; To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display, “’Tis n’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday! I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away, “The sunsets can’t be always at their best!”

ANOTHER CREED.

Another creed! We’re all so pleased! A gentle, tentative new creed. We’re eased Of all those things we could not quite believe, But would not give the lie to. Now perceive How charmingly this suits us! Science even Has naught against our modern views of Heaven; And yet the most emotional of women May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in.

Here’s something now so loose and large of fit That all the churches may come under it, And we may see upon the earth once more A church united,—as we had before! Before so much of precious blood was poured That each in his own way might serve the Lord! All wide divergence in sweet union sunk, Like branches growing up into a trunk!

And in our intellectual delight In this sweet formula that sets us right; And controversial exercises gay With those who still prefer a differing way; And our glad effort to make known this wonder And get all others to unite thereunder,— We, joying in this newest, best of creeds, Continue still to do our usual deeds!

THE LITTLE LION.

It was a little lion lay— In wait he lay—he lay in wait. Came those who said, “Pray come my way; We joy to see a lion play, And laud his, gait!”

The little lion mildly came— In wait for prey—for prey in wait. The people all adored his name, And those who led him saw the same With hearts elate.

The little lion grew that day,— In glee he went—he went in glee. Said he, “I love to seek my prey, But also love to see the way My prey seek me!”

A MISFIT.

O Lord, take me out of this! I do not fit! My body does not suit my mind, My brain is weak in the knees and blind, My clothes are not what I want to find— Not one bit!

My house is not the house I like— Not one bit! My church is built so loose and thin That ten fall out where one falls in; My creed is buttoned with a pin— It does not fit!

The school I went to wasn’t right— Not one bit! The education given me Was meant for the community, And my poor head works differently— It does not fit!

I try to move and find I can’t— Not one bit! Things that were given me to stay Are mostly lost and blown away, And what I have to use to-day— It does not fit!

What I was taught I cannot do— Not one bit! And what I do I was not taught And what I find I have not sought; I never say the thing I ought— It does not fit!

I have not meant to be like this— Not one bit! But in the puzzle and the strife I fail my friend and pain my wife; Oh, how it hurts to have a life That does not fit!

ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.

On New Year’s Day he plans a cruise To Heaven straight—no time to lose! Vowing to live so virtuously That each besetting sin shall flee— Good resolutions wide he strews On New Year’s Day.

A while he minds his p’s and q’s, And all temptations doth refuse, Recalling his resolves so free On New Year’s Day.

But in the long year that ensues, They fade away by threes and twos— The place we do not wish to see Is paved with all he meant to be, When he next year his life reviews— On New Year’s Day.

OUR EAST.

Our East, long looking backward over sea, In loving study of what used to be, Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn England has had for us since we were born.

You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment hard The West was just New England’s back yard! That all the West was made for, last and least, Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East!

A place to travel in, for rest and health, A place to struggle in and get the wealth, The only normal end of which, of course, Is to return to its historic source!

Our Western acres, curving to the sun, The Western strength whereby our work is done, All Western progress, they attribute fair To Eastern Capital invested there!

New England never liked old England’s scorn. Do they think theirs more easy to be borne? Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child, Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild?

In union still our sovereignty has stood, A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood. We stand together. Patience, mighty West! Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest!

UNMENTIONABLE.

There is a thing of which I fain would speak, Yet shun the deed; Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek Of those who read.

And yet it is as common in our sight As dust or grass; Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light, Of those who pass.

We say no word, but the big placard rests Frequent in view, To sicken those who do not with requests Of those who do.

“Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say. They read with scorn. “Gentlemen must not”—they defile the way Of those who warn.

On boat and car the careful lady lifts Her dress aside; If careless—think, fair traveller, of the gifts Of those who ride!

On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair, Where man’s at home, This loathsomeness is added to the care Of those who come.

As some foul slug his trail of slime displays On leaf and stalk, These street-beasts make a horror in the ways Of those who walk.

We cannot ask reform of those who do— They can’t or won’t. We can express the scorn, intense and true, Of those who don’t.

AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA.

Aren’t you tired of protection from the weather? Of defences, guards, and shields? Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether This year the farm land yields?

Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness, The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold? Of waiting on the weather man with shyness To see if the last plans hold?

Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing, Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,— Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing At Providence and undertakers’ bills?

Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting, The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie; The dubiety of any sort of outing; The chip upon the shoulder of the sky?

Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses, Like a child abused who ducks before your frown, Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses— O come and live and take your elbow down!

Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences; This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end; Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses! This weather is your friend!

A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven, A peace that wins your frightened soul at length; A place where rest as well as work is given,— Rest is the food of strength.

RESOLVE.

To keep my health! To do my work! To live! To see to it I grow and gain and give! Never to look behind me for an hour! To wait in weakness, and to walk in power; But always fronting onward to the light, Always and always facing toward the right. Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray— On, with what strength I have! Back to the way!

WOMAN.

SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING.

She walketh veiled and sleeping, For she knoweth not her power; She obeyeth but the pleading Of her heart, and the high leading Of her soul, unto this hour. Slow advancing, halting, creeping, Comes the Woman to the hour!— She walketh veiled and sleeping, For she knoweth not her power.

TO MAN.