SCENE III

[_Curtain rises on Ahasuerus and his court._]

_Ahasuerus_

Sha-ashgaz, keeper of the concubines, Ahasuerus drinks your health And bids you bring immediately before The court the serpents of the Orient! The king would have a night of revelry.

[_The court fool, Smerdis, dances out before the court._]

_Ahasuerus_ (_Continues_)

What, Smerdis, is the office of a fool?

_Smerdis_

To charm these serpents of the Orient! [_Aside_] But more to furnish brains for idiot kings.

_Ahasuerus_

Now tell the chief musicians every one To string his harp with golden wire and tune His finest Persian reed to touch the heart With joy. To-night the emperor of the East, The monarch of the world from Babylon To India, would show munificence Of entertainment never seen within The palace walls before.

_Smerdis_

You do forget That night six years ago. The palace was A blaze of light. The air was fragrant with The breath of spice from off the Indian seas. Ahasuerus, flushed with flattery And wine, was mad with passion....

_Ahasuerus_

[_Impetuously._]

Smerdis, charm These serpents, if you will, your glittering words Are meaningless to me. Carshena, let The Jewish Esther come in Tyrian robe, In such a gown as never Vashti wore!

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

His orders have not always been obeyed.

_Ahasuerus_

And I would have my queen adorned with gems, That diamond cluster from beyond the Ind, Which, sparkling in her aureole of gold, bedims The constellation of the Southern Cross.

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

And makes the Persian peasants mourn their loss!

_Ahasuerus_

I say, Meheuman, this shall be a night In which Ahasuerus feasts his friends-- A banquet for the soul, as well as flesh.

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

A famished soul such feasting would refresh!

_Ahasuerus_

For who does not delight to look upon The rhythmic beauty of voluptuous form?

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

Cold-blooded heart a writhing snake can warm!

_Ahasuerus_

Whose ear is not enthralled by luscious lute, Whose heart is not inspired by festive song!

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

The one bowed down by tyranny and wrong!

_Ahasuerus_

But why has Mordecai delayed to come? The hated sons of Haman are no more; That reprobate who would have slain the queen Herself to gratify his wounded pride Has long since festered in the rain and sun. No enemy remains alive who dares To touch the people of the Jew that saved The life of Persia's king. He wears my ring; The purple of my empire is a shield Against the world. I do not understand Why Mordecai is late. He should be here; The tabor and tymbrel sound anon.

_Smerdis_

[_Dances and capers before the king, then speaks solemnly._]

O king, I know why Mordecai is late, He sits once more beside the palace gate, In sackcloth and bemoans his fate. He sits and dreams of hills and streams That flow through pasture lands and fields. He sees a child of golden hair, As happy as the vibrant air, And hears the notes and pulse of song Where birds and sheep and shepherds throng. And then he turns to banquet halls And scenes like this in palace walls, Where lords and queens and fools and kings, And concubines and underlings, Made one with wine and passion's thrall, Throw dice with Death, nor heed the call That comes from Persia's bleeding heart, [_Aside_] (A fool that can not play his part). And this explains why he is late, The Jew beside the palace gate.

_Ahasuerus_

You are a jester, not a bard. Your cap And bells, or else Death wins his throw with you. Meheuman, call the poet of the court, The great Ahafid. Let him celebrate This feast in song. This rhyming fool presumes Too much upon the patience of the king.

_Smerdis_

Your majesty, I did but rhyme because Ahafid's dead.

_Ahasuerus_

Ahafid dead? What caused His death?

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

A broken heart. [_Aloud._] He broke his harp And died of grief. [_Aside again._] The good gray poet could Remember real kings.

_Ahasuerus_

Of grief? The fool! Well, let the younger minstrel, Saadi sing.

_Saadi_

[_Sings._]

Lift the voice and let us sing, The monarch's on his throne; Xerxes is the greatest king The world has ever known. Women, wine and happy song, Let the revels ring, Lift your voices loud and long, For Xerxes is our king.

[_Much revel and dancing. The trumpet sounds._]

_Ahasuerus_

Ahafid's death was only Persia's gain.

[_Meditatively._]

Could Vashti look upon this gorgeous scene The bitter tears would scald her faded cheeks At thoughts of her own folly.

[_Confusion and much disturbance. Ahasuerus, surprised, cries in angry passion._]

Ho! What means This rude confusion? Who has dared disturb The king in this unwonted way?

[_Enter messenger._]

_Messenger_

Tidings, O king, of riot and revolt!

_Ahasuerus_

Restore The court to order. I will hear no news! There is no news but this night's joy. What fear Need Persia have? The world is safe; The emperor lives! Go put the messengers to death! This is no time to cloud the royal brow! Bring forth the vintage from the deepest vault. Here are a hundred irised pearls. They cost A million sesterces. Let each man crush A lustrous shell and drink it to the health Of Esther, beauteous queen of all the East. Arise! She comes! A blaze of splendor. Now Let every instrument be sounded. The revels shall continue till the dawn!

_Zeresh_

[_Rushing in with uplifted dagger and thrusting it into the heart of Esther, crying as she flourishes it before the astonished court._]

The dawn, O king, is breaking in the east!

[_Curtain._]

FINIS

POEMS AND SONNETS

To DOCTOR W. W. RAY PHYSICIAN, SCIENTIST, POET, MUSICIAN

To Whom Whether in Art or Nature Truth is Beauty and Beauty Truth, To Whose Appreciation and Enthusiasm I Owed my Intellectual Awakening in Youth, and Whose Friendship and Love have Increased That Obligation Immeasureably as the Years have Passed,

I Dedicate these Poems With the Affection of a Full Heart

COTTON NOE

Poems and Sonnets

THE OLD DOG IRONS

Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul, As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal: When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame, That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame. Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow With its shifting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show? I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite, Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light; I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline, And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene; The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press, And the blessings of the wireless when a ship is in distress. I marvel at invention and its all but magic art, But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart. Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane, The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain? The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days-- The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways; The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun, The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun. We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men, How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen. We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth, And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth; To guard the honor of our name, and shield a virtuous home, To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome. I know our home was humble then--rag carpet on the floor-- But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door. The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed, Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead-- Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich, But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which? Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days, When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze; The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes, When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets; When children did the chores at night, nor ever heard of gym, Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim. We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played, Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made; And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time, We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme: 'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze, And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways.

THE AGE ELECTRIC

The glory of the good old days has passed from earth away, The lumbering loom, the spinning wheel, Maud Muller raking hay; The old rail fence, the moldboard plough, the scythe and reaping hook, Corn shuckings, and Virginia reel, and young folks' bashful look. Now poor old father limps behind his motorcycle son And sees the world go whizzing by and knows his race is run. With rheumatism in his joints and crotchets in his brain, He finds that he can hardly catch th' accommodation train. Two dozen bottles of the oil of Dr. Up-To-Date Would put to flight the rheumatiz and straighten out his pate; But fogy folks don't have the faith, nor interest in the race, They'd rather drive a slow coach horse than go at such a pace. Efficiency! efficiency! In business, church and school, Where Culture in a dunce's cap sits grinning on a stool, And wondering where the thing will end, and what the prize will be, When Intellect, all geared and greased, is mere machinery. Old Homer and the Iliad, the Trojan and the Greek, The Parthenon and Phidias, not ancient, but antique. Great Caesar and the Gallic War and Virgil with his rhyme, And Cicero have all gone down beneath the wheel of time. And Dante now lies buried deep beneath the art debris, Where Michael Angelo once wrought for immortality. The Swan of Avon's not in school, but on the movie screen, The Prince of Denmark can not talk but still he may be seen. All history and literature, philosophy and truth Would take about three evenings off of any modern youth To master through the picture art if he the time could spare, From vaudeville shows and joy rides and tango with the fair. The problem is to find an hour so busy is the age, And so important is the work and tempting is the wage. Then what's the use of poetry or history anyhow? Best turn your back upon the past and face the present _now_! Get busy, and be on the job, the world will pay for skill. It says: "Deliver me the goods, and then present your bill." The family circle and the talk around the old hearth stone, The sage advice, when backlogs glowed and grease lamps dimly shone, Are mouldy pictures of the past, mere myths of long ago, When grandsires had found out some things that children didn't know. How many bushels can you raise upon your plot of ground? How many blades of grass now grow where once just one was found? Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop, San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop. Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead. Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head. Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch, Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch. The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight, Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight. If man could live a century it may be in the strife, He'd learn to make a _living_ if he didn't make a _life_! What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim, A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him, He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme), Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time!

GRANDMOTHER DAYS

Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old When she sat by the mantelpiece; And she wore a cap with many a fold Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold, And worked in many a crease: And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled From her little stone pipe whenever she told Of the quest of the Golden Fleece, Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung Of the gods of ancient Greece.

But all of her marvelous mythical lore Was naught to her magical power-- Transforming a house with a puncheon floor To a palace of wealth with a golden door That lead to a castle tower-- An attic loft with a wonderful store Of things that we feared, but longed to explore-- Our grandmother's ancient dower. Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase, A weed to a royal flower.

Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace And my child-heart worshipped there, When Balm-of-Gilead around the place, Like incense, for a mile of space, Perfumed the glorious air; And the song that came from the feathered race In the boughs of the tangled interlace Of apple and peach and pear, Enthralled me like the magic spell Of siren music when it fell On old Ulysses' ear.

Last summer I passed where the palace once stood Whose beauty my life beguiled; It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood Of walnut and hickory, aisled For gathering nuts and the merry mood That only our childhood understood, By man has been defiled. Oh, how can I ever cease to praise The fairy enchantment of grandmother days When I was a little child!

JUST TO DREAM

Just to dream when sapphire skies Are as blue as maidens' eyes; Just to dream when petals sow All the earth with pink and snow; Just to sit by youth's bright stream, Gazing at its crystal gleam-- Listening to the wren and dove-- Hearing only songs of love-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream of sabre's flash When the lines of battle clash; See the army put to rout-- Hear the world's triumphant shout; Just to dream our name supreme-- Hero of a poet's theme, First among the sons of men, Master of the sword or pen-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream when skies grow gray, Just to dream the days away-- Living over childhood's joys, Sorrow that no longer cloys; Just to muse of days that seem Like the sunlight's golden beam, Summer nights and winter's snow. Just to dream of long ago-- _Just to dream_.

AMNEMON

"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long-- The wine-press I have trodden, Paved with flint and shard; And many times my feet have stained The flagstones of the street with blood. Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love The world was always dull and dark to me. Hours I have stood upon the beach And watched the whitecaps glinting In the sunlight and listened to the breakers Booming on the sinuous shore, While little children clapped their hands And shouted out across the waters, And gray-haired men and women shook their heads In silence and looked toward the sunset. But everything was always meaningless to me. Season after season I have watched the butterflies By millions come and go And katydids each year have sung The song monotonous and passed away. Yesterday the sun arose upon another world. Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue; The droning hum of beetles on the breeze Is like an orchestra of lovely music. The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli. For two bright hours I have strolled Among the flowering shrubbery near the seashore, Listening to a song I had not heard for years. And now once more that I am happy, May I not confess it all? I did you wrong, great wrong. There was no stain upon my life, No taint of blood within my veins. I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong. I did not understand my heart, And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity, I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love, And part for self-protection. I have suffered much, but justly. You said my story broke your heart, And left me where I stood, Pondering on the sin I had committed. I had proved your love, but all too late. Your talent meant a brilliant future, And I knew your great ambition. For years I scanned the periodicals Where names of most renown in literature are found, Expecting always to see my lover's there, But always doomed to disappointment. And yet I now rejoice That you have not achieved great fame, For otherwise I could not write this letter. Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it; If so, it will not find its way to you. It may be that you think me dead, Or worse--I may have been forgotten. This is April twenty-first; The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom. I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third, And be at Hotel Utah. If your heart, through all these years, Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too. Geraldine."

Alfred Milner read this letter While great drops of perspiration Stood upon his brow and trembling hand. For seven winters he had tried To bury in oblivion a face and form That always with the dogwood blossoms Came again, and each time seemed more fair. He had tried for fame and failed. But now his book that bore a pen name only Was selling daily by the thousands And fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints, Were building him a shrine. But did she know of his success, And was her conduct Years before base cowardice? Had she only told the cruel tale Because she knew his theory of insane blood, And hid her lack of faith By taking refuge in his prejudice? Or was her story true? If true or false, why had she kept it back Until she knew red passion Was a-riot in his heart? He tore the letter into strips And blew them fiercely through the air. He had suffered much himself, But she was not concerned. What if this letter had been sent To open healing wounds, To win some wager with another man To whom she boasted of her power? He would not go!

The air was growing foul and stuffy In his suite of rooms, And Alfred threw the window open. The subway in the distance Rumbled like a gathering storm; The palisades across the Hudson Now were darkling in the falling shadows.

April thirtieth at noon. The Rocky Mountains looked like towers On the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away. Would he make connection at Pueblo? The gray monotony of grass and cacti Had begun to wear upon his nerves. He longed to see the Royal Gorge-- The steep and jagged heights of hills. They spoke of giant strength He needed for the coming struggle. It might be that the air From off eternal snows Would cool the fever in his brain.

"May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake, Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."

Alfred put his pen upon the register Of Hotel Utah, And read the list of names above. She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy." Finally he scrawled a signature, But wrote his _nom de plume_. The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed. Two porters swooped upon his grips, And soon the lobby hummed. But Alfred Milner sat alone within his room Battling with emotions he could neither Overcome nor understand. He did not know the stir his name upon the register Had made below, or knew what name he wrote. At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy: This is May the third and I am here." Thoughtfully he creased the sheet And rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."

The smell of brine was heavy on the air That blew across the lake. The mountains to the north were white with snow above And dogwood petals on the southern slopes. But winter was forgotten in the plains, For rivulets imprisoned long in cataracts Were leaping over waterfalls And shouting like a red bird, In an April cedar tree.

Milner drew a long deep breath of spring And walked into the parlor. "Alfred!" "Geraldine!"

"Last night I dreamed of Cornell days, And saw the redbuds blooming in the hills Behind the cliffs of Ithaca!"

"The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone. All night I heard the roaring of the falls!"

"The call of flickers sounded through the canyons Of Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beating Reveilles before the sun was up!"

"Two blue birds built a mansion In a dead oak trunk And called the world to witness!"

"Alfred!" "Geraldine!"

"The train for California leaves at nine!"

Some hours out from Great Salt Lake, The sand dunes stretching southward O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali Were shimmering in the sunshine Like copper kettles on a field of bronze.

"Dear Alfred, can you still recall Those afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake? The little city, Ithaca, Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature. The lake a band of silver, stretching northward. A hundred waterfalls were visible From where we used to sit. We often thought the lime-washed houses Far to west, resembled whited decks Upon a sea of emerald; And wondered if our own good ship Would one day cast its anchor in the harbor. Over to the right the Cornell towers, Like mediaeval castles beetling o'er the precipice, Were keeping silent watch above it all. The memory of those blessed days alone Has kept my heart alive."

"But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden Has at last come in Nor ever will put out to sea again. Happy as those moments were, Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."

The desert now a hundred miles behind Was fading like a crescent sea beach In the setting sun. Slowly like a giant serpent The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras And started down the western slope at dawn. The valley of the Sacramento Never bloomed so beautiful before. The blue Pacific through the haze Was like a canvas sea. Peace permeated all the earth. The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim. The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.

"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas-- Emerald in the morning, changing into opal, Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last. Behold the Golden Gate! The seas beyond are all like that!"

Morning in the Sacramento! Petals, dew and fragrance--indescribable! Plumage, song and sunshine, And over all a California sky!

"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever! Back yonder in New York, The world is built of brick and mortar, And men forget the handiwork of God. How can a poet hope to win a name Where men are mad for gold?"

"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot To tell the story of my fame. The ecstacy of these three days Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory. I am Ralph Nixon, author of the _Topaz Mystery_."

"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?" A heavy tide of blood swept over All the tracery of the bitter past, And in a moment more She lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.

The _City Argentina_ blew a long loud blast And anchored in the bay. The woman opened wondering eyes And looked at Milner. "Why do you call me Geraldine? My Christian name's Amnemon. We never met before. I am Major Erskine's wife. We live in Pasadena. I do not know your name or face, Nor how I came to be with you. I never saw this place before, But those are California hills And yonder is the great Pacific. The mystery of who you are, And where I am, I can not solve. I only know I wish to see my home and child; Little Alfred never has been left alone, And may be calling for his mother now. You seem to be a gentleman. Please show me to the nearest train That goes to Pasadena."

Half in fright and half in rage Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak. The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea. A clevage in the brain! But whose? This was insanity, but whether his Or hers he was unable to decide. The memory of the Cornell days came back-- The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms, The gorges and the waterfalls, And finally the wild, weird light That played in iridescent eyes That last day on the hills-- The story of the tainted blood and what it meant For future generations. Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park And then he heard a scream As though a ball had pierced its heart. The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet, Then spreading broad its wings again, Shot upward to the heights.

The train for Pasadena speeded onward Toward its destination. A poet sat within his room That opened on the Golden Gate And as the sun dropped into the wave, He wrote a Requiem to Hope, That filled the earth with fame.

A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLAND

Early in the day they passed the pinnacle, And now the shadow of each human form Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars Fallen toward the east. For days the fairest maiden of the caravan Had fevered--whether from malaria and fatigue, Or more because of one whom they had left behind, Beyond the wooded mountains, Neither sire nor matron could agree. But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down And prepared the camp for coming night, Declared unless they rested here for days to come, Her bones must bleach beside the trail That led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.

And so they waited for the fever to abate, But when they thought her strong enough, A score of hardy pioneers trudged down The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs And a flatboat in the turgid waters Of the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallen And all the mountain streams were swollen In these early days of June. But the air was sweet with the odor Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy With its starry clusters fringed The milky way of elder bloom That filled each sheltered cove Like constellations on a summer night. But now the rains had ceased, the air Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty. Lying on her pallet on the flatboat, The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere, And drank refreshing whiffs of air That drove the fever from her blood And wakened dreams of conquest In the wilderness toward which Her life was drifting rapidly. But how could she find heart for conquest? Why seek this new land anyway, where only And forever to card the wool and spin the flax Would be the woman's portion? Would ever in the forest or beyond it In the rolling bluegrass, Return the vision that was hers, When only a few brief months ago She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay? Oh, how that day was filled with meaning For her now! For as the birds disported With the whirlpools of the air, A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear, How that storm and stress of life to those that love Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea. But now, if hardship meant so little, Why had he remained behind, when she Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey? Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love? His arm was strong. Then was his heart Not brave enough to conquer this new world, Where savage lurked and wild beast made The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?

For days the fleet had drifted down the river, But now her boat was anchored to a tree That grew upon an island in the Cumberland, And every man and woman but the convalescent Had gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berries That everywhere were found along the river bank. But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered-- Dreaming day dreams, as she watched A golden oriole who fed her young In boughs that overhung the water, And a vague unhappiness arose Within her heart, until she tossed Again in fever on her couch. She could hear the roaring falls A mile below, but she thought the sounding Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again. When she looked to eastward where the mountain Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed. Long she lay and marveled at its beauty, Wondering how many ages would elapse before The god of Mammon would transport its treasures To his marts beside the sea. Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept. And then upon the little island, A city rose as from the ocean wave-- A city of a thousand streets, and every house Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain. Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty, But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize. Strange were their faces and their manners haughty, And while they lived in luxury and ease, Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears. She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury, So loud and terrible was the roaring! But the sky was clear. It is the booming Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings, And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract, But four hundred yards away!

She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help. It was impossible for her to swim ashore, And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength With which to steer the boat. Again she saw the crown of wealth Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands. But the island city now had faded from her vision, The mountain lowered and the world grew dark. Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls. But look! A race is on! A birch canoe, Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit. With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet. Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl? But who is he that rides the fleet canoe? No red man ever had an arm like that, For already he has reached the speeding raft, And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore. But no! The current is too swift! A moment more and all will be engulfed within The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late? But love is swifter than the angry tide, For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave, The valiant hero leaps into the stream, And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm High above the water, reaches shore A hundred feet above the deadly precipice.

The air was growing chilly even on this summer night, And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire, Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love. Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac, Till he found he could no longer brook the passion That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened. At last he started, and following every night The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening, In just three weeks he reached the river Where he found the birch canoe that rode The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean. Then the maiden told her vision of the island city, How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal, Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds, Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry. She had seen them fell the forests, Hew and mill and dress the lumber, Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners. Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them. She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil; Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty; Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness, While the sons of leisure feasted. Thus the maiden told her story, saying: "Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting In the furrows back in Maryland, my people, Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle. Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic. For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader. He shall point the way forever, Though he take the road that's darkest."

Then James Hunt, the hero lover, Who had never quailed at danger, Trembling for his happy passion, Rose and pointed toward the westward, Toward the Pleiades descending, Deep behind the gloomy forest. "Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests, Build its roads and bridge its rivers, Give our children to the nation. What though others reap our harvests, Hoard the wealth we have created? Ours shall be the nobler portion. Blessed is the one that suffers, If he spends himself for others. Should the toiling millions falter, Though they work for others' comfort, Building homes they can not enter? Christ was born within a manger, May we not produce a leader, Who shall save our nation's honor? At to-morrow morning's dawning, Ere the sunrise gild the treetops, Let us take the darkling pathway."

Still the Pleiades are circling, Still the dogstar glows in heaven, But the oak and pine and poplar All have gone from off the mountain-- Passed into the marts of Mammon, By the hands of toil and labor. Silent are the loom and distaff, In the cabin and the cottage, And the songs of scythe and sickle Gathering in the golden harvests. But the pain of drudgery lingers, And the heart still longs and hungers For the fruitage it shall gather, Yet beyond the wooded westward.

MORNING GLORIES.

A roguish laugh, a rustling vine, I turn my eager eye; Big drops of dew in bells of blue And red convolvuli.

But nothing more; I hold my breath And strain my eager eye; A yellow crown, two eyes of brown, And pink convolvuli!

The golden curls, the elfish laugh, Rose cheeks and glittering eye Are glories, too, like bells of blue And red convolvuli.

CHRISTMASTIDE

Evergreen and tinsel'd toys, Drums and dolls, and bursting joys-- Blessed little girls and boys!

Holly, bells, and mistletoe, Tinkling sledges, here we go-- Youth and maiden o'er the snow.

Chilling winds and leaden days, Vesper songs and hymns of praise Silver hair and dying blaze!

Christmas morn and yuletide eve, Dear Lord, help us to believe-- Naught but blessings we receive.

KINSHIP

Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by, With yearning faces pressed against the window panes, You do not know the reason why Your lingering image dims my eye Though I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.

Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by, And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars; And then I saw the cold gray skies, And felt the warm tears in my eyes, When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.

PRECOCITY

"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars? Stones on the hand of God? I heard you call that red one Mars And those three Aaron's rod; And these are great Orion's band!" "My child, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the winds That sough and moan and sigh? Does God grow angry for men's sins He lifts the waves so high? And blows his breath o'er sea and land?" "My boy, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the clouds In yonder sunset sky? They look to me like winding shrouds For men about to die! Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!" "My son, you are too young to understand!"

THE SECRET

Old Santa Claus came with his pack On his back Right down the chimney flue; His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weird But his cheeks had a ruddy hue; And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's head But his breeches, I think, were blue.

I heard a soft step like a hoof On the roof, And I closed my outside eye; Then played-like I slept, but the other eye kept A watch on the jolly old guy; And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked, But I'm not going to tell, not I.

When Santa comes again this year With his deer And a sled full of toys for me, I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleep While he climbs my Christmas tree; For I don't think it's right to the happy old wight To spy on his mystery.

A RHYMELESS SONNET

Sardonic _Death_, clothed in a scarlet shroud, Salutes his minions on the crumbling thrones Of Tyranny, and with malicious leer, He points a fleshless finger toward the fields Of Belgium: "No harvest since the days Of Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filled My flagons with a wine of such a taste; Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"

But _One_ has entered in at lowly doors And sits by every hearthstone where they will: "My _Word_ enthron-ed in Democracy Has twined the holly round Columbia's brow-- A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' I am the _Resurrection_ and the _Life_!"

AMBITION

I covet not the warrior's flashing steel That drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight; I envy not the czar his ruthless might That grinds a state beneath an iron heel; I do not ask that I may ever feel The thrill that follows fame's uncertain light; And in the game of life I do not quite Expect always to hold a winning deal.

Grant me the power to help my fellow man To bear some ill that he may not deserve; Give me the heart that I may never swerve, In scorn of Death, to do what good I can; But most of all let me but light the fires Upon the altar of the _youth's_ desires.

OPPORTUNITY

I often met her in the days of youth Along the highway where the world goes by; And sometimes when I caught her wistful eye I wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth. She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth, And unattractive, and I thought, "Now why Should one seek her companionship; not I-- At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"

And so I passed her by and had my day, And met a thousand whom I thought more fair In tinsel gowns beneath electric glare-- A thousand, but they went their primrose way. Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons-- Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!

HOLIDAY THOUGHTS

The night was like some monster omen ill, Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones; But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones, The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill. The world lay parching in the noonday grill, And blades of corn were twisting into cones; But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones, The fruited shocks deride October's chill.

Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith, However cold and dark the day may seem, And trust that every cloud is just a wraith, And every shadow but a fading dream. Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lights That blaze forever on the peaks and heights!

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW

Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief; I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here, For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer, And never murmured, but assuaged my grief. When buds of promise never came to leaf; When broken resolutions, doubt, and fear Did mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year, Thy reassuring smile restored belief.

Good-bye--farewell! I trust thy dear young child, Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn, Will deal as gently with me and my friends, And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild, O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and on To where the path of chill December ends.

FELLOW TRAVELERS

Old comrade, must we separate to-day? Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired, And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired, But it has always helped to hear you say, "The road is fine a little further on." Your optimism and your hearty cheer Have made the journey pleasant, good Old Year, And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.

Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide, In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of things Before we start, and make some offerings To gods whose love, I fear, will not abide. And yet I like my new companion's face. Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heart A sympathy it hardly knew before-- A yearning kinship and a spirit lore Of humble folk, a love transcending art! The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song. No mystic, blindly groping on the shore Of dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore, Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.

Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess, The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue, The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew; The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless; Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew-- All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!

CALE YOUNG RICE

He loves the boom of breakers on the shore, And winds that lash the billows into foam; He loves the placid seas beneath the dome Of blue infinitudes--not less, but more; He loves to brood upon the mystic lore Of silent stars above the silent seas, And feel the passion of infinities Beyond, where only Faith would dare explore.

Thus groping after God has helped him find Divinity in man (where only sin And brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in), And taught his heart that Fate is never blind. That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken, One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.

PILATE'S MONOLOGUE

[_This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset._]

Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him-- The Man of Galilee? Clearly He Belonged within thy jurisdiction. Didst Thou fear to do thy duty? Still I blame Thee not--the mob was clamorous for blood! I questioned Him, but like a lamb before His shearers He was dumb and answered me No word. Was not His silence proof of guilt? But even then I offered to release Him, till the rabble shouted, "Crucify This Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt, But we demand the life of Jesus whom They call the _Christ_." Oh! dost thou think His blood Can be upon my head? I washed my hands Before the multitude and told them I Was innocent of any crime toward Him. I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all. They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robe Of scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thorns Upon His head, and then they mocked and jeered And spat upon Him, hailing Him as _King_! I can not think that this was right, but still They say He blasphemed and deserved to die. But what Is blasphemy? Oh, Herod, I Can never rid my dreams of Jesus' look. He turned His eyes upon me as I dipped My fingers in the bowl--a glance that seemed More fraught with love and pity than with hate. He blessed the people as He hung upon The cross in agony of pain, and prayed His God to pardon them because they knew Not what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, think This Nazarene was more than man? It can't Be possible that He whom Pilate scourged Was _Christ_ indeed! But could a _man_ forgive His murderers? They say the tomb is burst And that His body is no longer there! I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbed To death a thousand men and never felt Compunction for the deed, because I knew They hated me. But now the voice that haunts My sleep asks only blessings on my head. They say He wept for men because of sin, And yet no guile was found in Him. If I Could close my eyes and see that face no more I might find peace again. Three nights I have Not slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself! And now no guard that watched before The sepulchre can anywhere be found. Had I but set the Galilean free! But did he not insult my majesty? He must have known I ruled in Caesar's stead. What if my wife was troubled in a dream And suffered many things on His account? A Roman governor must be a man! They say the temple's veil was rent in twain-- The sky was darkened and the sun was hid. He said I had no power to crucify Except that it be given from above. He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm! 'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hast Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake, The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets! Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white? Behold the Man--the Man of Galilee! With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet, The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane. I hear Him cry in agony of soul, "How often would I, O Jerusalem, Have gathered unto Me thy children as A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice? It is impossible! It can not be! He must not know that I am Pilate! Still He calls my name! I can not, dare not go! What would the people think? I will Be free. There is no blood upon my hands. See, I wash them clean and am myself Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not The king, I am governor of the Jews!

THE VIRILE SPIRIT

[_Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war--one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."_]

What is courage? To face the bursting shell When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart; When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight, Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road, To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps Sing only martial airs that stir the blood! It is a noble thing to die in war-- To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch Not that one's country may be great or free. Many a generation yet unborn Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold In reverence the field of Gettysburg. But war is not the only thing that tries The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take More courage than to close with death; and oft The coward shrinks from living when the brave Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men Is clear and strong. It is not to repel The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas. We must send forth our men to live, not die-- We need to save, not kill our fellow man, To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop The tribute greater now than all the tolls Of war. The beast in man is ravenous And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits Of toil, and blights the home with poverty; He drags the innocent to dens of shame To satisfy his brute carnality. No fiery dragon in the days of myth Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath More foul or appetite insatiate. This is the enemy that we must fight. No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines, No legions that may ever bivouac on Our shores, no Zeppelins disgorging fire Portend the dire disasters wrought upon Our nation's strength by Avarice and Lust. The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade, The arm of Beowulf not strong enough To battle with Cupidity and Sin. We need the breastplate of a righteous life, Our loins must be girt about with truth, The heart protected by the shield of faith, And in the right hand there must ever be The spirit's sword, which is the Word of God! And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness-- To grapple with this Grendel that invades The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.

BLUEBIRD.

Bluebird in the cedar bush-- Fresh and clean as the evergreen, Through a rift of leaves, Or my eye deceives. But silent! Hush! He calls, he calls! The first spring note From a feathered throat My heart enthralls; And my pulses leap As a child from sleep On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn, To meet, to greet, The choral sweet From bluebird in the cedar bush: _At last, at last The snow and sleet Of winter's blast Have passed, have passed, And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!_ The call comes ringing in to me From Bluebird in the cedar tree.

AN AUTUMN MINOR

Russet and amber and gold, Crimson and yellow and green, And far away the blue and gray, A twinkling silver sheen.

Violet, scarlet and red, Purple and dark maroon, And over it all the music of fall-- A weird prismatic tune.

An opera serious and grand, An orchestra mystic and sad-- A symphony alone of color and tone To drive a mortal mad.

SLABS AND OBELISK

Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn, Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn, Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red-- Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed. Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath-- Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death; Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown, Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.

Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow, Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know; Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore, Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore. Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade, Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade-- Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue, Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.

All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the end In the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend-- Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance, In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance. But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill, Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil. Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky, Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.

ON BROADWAY

Even as to-night on Broadway Long ago I wandered down The Great White Way of childhood, Mystified, enchanted, as I watched The million butterflies That tilted through the air in rhythmic flight, And pulsed above the petaled sweets, And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom, Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.

POSTSCRIPT

Postscript

AN EMBER ETCHING

An old man sat before his great log fire And gazed dreamily into the dying blaze. His eyes were red as though with weeping. The long, thin locks of hair Were spotless as the snow Silently mantling the earth That last sad night of the dying year. Four days and nights He had sat beside the bed Of his life-companion. But now the watchers by the bier In the adjoining room, Were dozing in their chairs. The cold night Had driven the mice from their hiding, And the loud tick of the clock No longer frightened them As they scampered over the hearth.

The man was breathing heavily, Although his eyes were open, And his stare fixed upon the fire: _Down by a gnarled oak near the spring Two children played. Rebecca had dipped a dock leaf In the water, And now whisked it in the sunlight. Against the trunk of the tree There was a playhouse made of broken boughs. The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed, And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground. An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate. Two childish hands had traced their names: "Rupert--Rebecca." And the words were linked together by lines That looked like twisted ropes. The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse, And crossed their hands in imitation Of the lines that bound their names together. And then they smiled And looked upon the dolls Asleep in the fresh June morning._

A chunk broke and fell in the ashes. The blaze died into a glow of coals. In the gray beyond the dog irons The old man saw two figures Sitting before an awning: _Two golden haired children Slept in a little bed. The man and woman who sat beside the shelter Were old and bent, Their faces thin and white. They clasped their hands And looked into each other's face. And then they turned and looked Upon the children. A coal dropped into the picture, And the fitful fire died Into deepening shadows._

Next day the pall-bearers Bore two bodies away And lowered a single coffin Into a grave Beneath the snow-laden cedar.

A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLAND

A little maiden blue-jay, Fresh from her April morning bath, Sat on the limb of a weeping willow, Preening her shining feathers And dreaming of a song To which she had listened On the afternoon of the preceding day. A wild joy was in her heart And yet it took all the sunshine and song From a hundred other throats To withstand the gloom That seemed hovering just above her. She was conscious of the threatening cloud, But her heart beat furiously And hope thrilled her bird-being With an unwonted light. And yet she knew, When she dared to think at all, That it was a hopeless hope That flooded her soul with love-- A hope that must ere long Change to a black despair. She lifted her crested head And looked toward the old beech tree Where her blue-jay lover now sat In melancholy gloom. Why not raise her voice And gladden his heart? He had been true and faithful For many weeks, And his suit would long since Have won another's love. Why had she thrilled At the alien voice of another throat? She had been a foolish maiden To have entertained so wild a thought.

But hark! Again the song! On the topmost spire Of yonder Gothic poplar Sits a cardinal fop, In a coat of matchless red, And a beak of shining ivory. He lifts his sumach plume Into the glinting sunlight And sends a Cupid shaft From his beaded eye Into the trembling breast Of little maiden blue-jay. Poor little mademoiselle! Once more the notes Come whistling and glittering Like a shower of pearls Through the sunshine: "Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay-- Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle, My little gazelle, and I love her well. Fresh and sweet from her morning spray She sits on the willow and her crest is gay-- Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well."

Down from his commanding height Flashed the cardinal flame And perched on another limb Of the weeping willow. And then he strutted and pranced And capered and danced And shot his fiery glances Toward the modest little maiden Whose heart was now fluttering Beyond all control. Master blue-jay Over on the beech bough Saw the terrible tragedy That would follow in the wake of betrayal And was desperate to save this Psyche To whom he had often poured out his soul In amorous vows, Swearing by all the gods in birdland That there was none other beside her. But like many another lover Of larger experience and better advantage, He forgot that the very way To lose his loved one Was to berate his rival, And lifting his reed To the upper register of a clarinet, He almost screamed:

"He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds, A master of villainous art-- A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words, This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer, A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer-- He'll crush thy innocent heart."

Poor little maiden blue-jay Heard his screams of anger and despair But heeded not the warning. She only fluttered over To where the cardinal sat And threw herself under his protecting arm, Declaring her perfect faith In his undying love.

The red prince lifted His burning plume triumphantly Into the sunlight, And shot a contemptuous glance Toward the old beech tree. Master Blue-Jay unable Longer to control himself, Darted like a lance of blue steel At the red coat. But the high churchman was a skilled fencer, And stepped aside just in time To send his antagonist With terrible momentum Into the thorn tree Beyond the willow, Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered, Pinioned through his body By a sword-like thorn That projected from the trunk of the spiny tree. It was a sight to touch the heart Of the most abandoned denizen of birdland. But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay, Who would ordinarily have wept At so sad a fate of one of her kind, Was just now too happy In the love of her wooer To notice another; And unmindful of the ebbing life-blood That was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coat Of bright and shining blue To one of dark and dull maroon, She nestled close To the false-hearted ecclesiastic And sighed the lovelorn sigh That has come from the maiden heart Since the foundation of the world.

The low cedar In which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now sat On such a nest of eggs As no blue-jay had ever brooded over before, Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing-- Was only a rod or so from the spiny thorn Where the dried body of the fated lover Still hung. But where now was the supercilious fop Whose seductive vows of love Had won the little maiden's confidence And robbed her true and faithful lover Of that incense that belonged of right Only to him? For more than a week She had not seen him. Surely he would return on the morrow, For he must remember That soon the little brood Would need his protecting love. Yes, he would return again To praise her slender form and shining crest And call her once more his little gazelle.

But the cardinal came not. The brood had hatched, And the little birds were covered now With tiny feathers. Strange sight! All the blue-jays in the woods around Had gathered to witness What no mortal bird had ever seen before-- Little birdling blue-jays With crimson stains on wings and breasts! And the poor little mother, Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal, No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle, But an outcast and disgraced mother Of a mongrel offspring, Left alone in this hour of shame, Remembered now the words of him Who had warned against this sad hour.

But the memory brought her only bitter grief, And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow, As they looked with wondering eyes At the strange panorama in birdland. And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnation Of the unpardonable sin. There was no mercy To be found in all the land of birds For either the forsaken mother Or her little brood. The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jay Suddenly threw her wings Over the astonished little children, As though to wipe the stain of sin From their innocent lives, And as she did so, The crested cardinal With a fresh crimson bride flashed by, And perched upon the old beech limb. And there he sat In undisturbed and cynical silence, While all the court Of high crimes and misdemeanors Praised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre. The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing, And their scarlet stain suffuse her being. She looked toward the thorn tree But no word was spoken. A wise old owl that moped and moaned On the limb of a sycamore tree That overhung the little stream Suddenly lifted his voice and cried:

"Let him who is without stain of sin, Lift the first note of song Against the little blue-jay."

But all the woods were still. Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze, And then a flute-like note floated out Upon the wondering air: "Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell, I would I could come to thee; I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood, And thy bridegroom I should be. That villainous fop on the old beech limb And the arrogant wife that sits by him Have broken the heart of my little bluebell, The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well, And they laugh in their cynical glee. Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin, Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin, And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride, Forever happy at my side. My hope, my joy, my love, my pride, If I could only come to thee, If I could only come to thee."

Again the air was silent as the tomb. The little mother bird Moved with her frightened children Toward the old thorn tree. And when she at last stood Beneath the sword Upon which her faithful lover was pinioned Behold the miracle that was enacted Before her wondering eyes. The crimson dyes That streaked the birdlings' wings and breasts Turned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon, And not a jay in all birdland But would swear that her little children Now resembled in every line and stain The dead body of her valiant lover Who had shed his blood To save his little bluebell from betrayal.

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

Minor Puncutuation errors have been corrected without comment.

Stage directions have been placed at uniform indentation, regardless of where they appeared in the original text.

Spelling corrections:

p. 60, "syncophantic" to "sycophantic" (A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords;)

p. 96, "shubbery" to "shrubbery" (O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali)

Word Variations:

"Agagite" (1) and "Aggagite" (1) "ghost-like" (1) and "ghostlike" (1)