Part 5

She sat at a bay-window where she saw First open carriages and buggies pass! And then Victorias with horses docked And bits and buckles, chains of shining brass. And then the horseless carriage, till at last The swallow-gleam of varnished limousines Silent as shadows took her lifted eye, Uplifted from a book. She always sat In her bay-window with a book, And with a tinted fan in summer-time.

But first she was a bride Before the war. Springing from honest blood, her place Passed over lightly as her grandeur grew: She was of seed too vital to decay Wholly in any soil, the sort that grows and blooms Where never gardener comes. And this bay-window! An aging man of gold Had plucked her up, and here she rests and breathes The free air of Chicago’s reclamation. And then she is A wonder-bride for her brown hair, And gray-blue eyes, and laughter, sunny wit, And naturally patrician ways and speech, (Acquiring French now that the chance has come), And she is eighteen and is born to rule.

And her great merchant husband with blue eyes, And strong beaked English nose, Walks straighter for a pride that she is his. Gives her a country place spaced out in walks, And flower beds, where now such flimsy flats Confront Grand Boulevard! And for a city house he builds a house Three stories high at Twentieth street, Where then the manifest was sand and oaks, And what is now the Loop, was just as far As Hyde Park from the Loop is now.

In this bay-window then she sits a bride, And sees the scrub oak cut and mansions fill Gradually year by year the waste of sand. For fashion follows her and builds beside her, Till Prairie Avenue becomes the street Of millionaires, who hear from traveled wives What London is, what Paris is, And open purses to unfolding tastes For canvases and sculpture. For every one grows rich now in Chicago. And in the seventies women go to Paris, Herself among the first, at least the chief, See Egypt and see Rome. And when returned drive down where wondering eyes Along the marble terrace promenading, Where Michigan Avenue was bounded by The Lake across the street, Behold the striped silk of their parasols Fluttering over plumes and dancing eyes, And purple velvet of Victorias.

For now it is the classic age! There is the driving park, There is the Palmer House, There are cathedrals too. There are the lofty ceilings walnut trimmed, And foliate chandeliers of polished brass, And marble-slabbed buffets with heavy cupids, And clustered fruits carved in their sombre wood, And square pianos with their rosewood legs Swelled out with oval figures like great plums. And paintings deeply daubed in brown asphaltum Where chiaroscuro ends were lost in shadows, Not lost in light, depressionistic things, From which her lambent intuition led her. She was among the first to catch the psychic Waves that sweep around this little world And change all things. She traveled much and lived in Europe much, Returning to her window where she watched The city pass and bow its admiration, The half of whom she knew as time went on, Though all knew her and said “there is the queen,” Or “there she is who thinks she is the queen.”

And when the opera came she was the queen, At least a queen whose sovereignty withstood Encroaching claims to ripen into rights. But then if all were lost where not a million People lived as yet, and where, oh well Packers and others threw their heavier gold In what was once a scale of primogeniture, Rome stood and London stood and Paris. Have your own way at home, the mood began, I am off here where you can scarcely come. The next place is the best, a far off place Has teasing witcheries to those at home. Her husband now was dead some years, the children Grown up, or off to school, a daughter married To an Italian count kept state in Florence Where Browning came, with whom our queen would fence In spiritual dialectics. In her travels She had known Ibsen, Patti and George Eliot, Sat as a dinner guest by Beaconsfield, And taken tea upon Hawarden’s lawn. And so in escritoires and cabinets She kept mementoes of her days abroad: Like letters from George Eliot, “Ferishtah’s Fancies” inscribed by Robert. And in the course of time this three-floored house Was filled with treasures, tapestries, Etruscan things, and faience peacock blue; And oriental jade with letters of gold. And there she reigned, but lived alone The house kept by French maids And impeccable butlers. And so the years went, and she saw at last The city start to slip away from her And make her royal isolation An ignorant solitude!

Yet she was beautiful at forty years, Some years a widow then and very rich. She was most fresh and matronly at fifty. At fifty-five and sixty she could charm A man of any age. And master-men Paid suit to her and gained The stimulating richness of her mind. Some said they did not want her, others said Her wisdom and self-mastery froze their hearts. But when she spoke she said she could not change The name she loved, or change her place in life To forced forgetfulness of that English face, Who lifted up her life from some obscurity And made it flower. At any rate she lived for forty years With only maids and butlers in a house Round which the warring city crept, Until at last the street with lowered pulse Saw vacant mansions, as the mob psychology, Which sways in fashion, brought an exodus. But she knew no temptation to depart. This was her house, her center of the world. And when the Countess left the Count she came To ease her mother’s loneliness--oh yes! Six months of loneliness was quite enough. And then in spite of everything she left, Returned to Florence and her rascal count, Because she could not stand the loneliness, And saw ahead long years of loneliness In some bay window--no, it could not be! And so she left her mother sitting there Now sixty-eight or so, Who watched the city pass, All now the swallow-gleam of limousines, And all around her now the boarding house, Or institutes for drunkards, hideous blocks Of offices and warehouses.

And all her neighbors lying up in Rose Hill. Perhaps a few remaining who remembered All that she was, could only say to those Who had heard of her as she was in the eighties, And in the nineties: “She was a great woman, I can scarce explain. It was this way: Chicago then was young. Chicago in ten years is changed all through. You see it was this way: But then you see This great two million thing has slipped away From all our hands.”

And then perhaps A limousine would pass with reckless pridelings Coming from tea or dancing at the Blackstone, And find their laughter shortened by her face At this bay-window Would say: “Who’s that old woman at the window? She always has a book, or has a fan.”

MAN OF OUR STREET

This Man’s life had four stages as I hear. The first stage took him through the days of school And fastened on his name a prophecy That he would win success. The second stage Took him to thirty years while he was fumbling The strings to find the key and play in key. The third stage marked discouragement, departure To speculations and to reconcilement That he was born no lawyer. And the fourth Was one of quietude and trivial days. I knew him in this fourth stage as a man Emerging from a house across the street On Sunday mornings in silk hat, long coat And bamboo cane. When summer came he donned A flannel suit of gray, a panama And gloves of tan. When winter came he wore A double-breasted coat with lamb’s fur collar. He had no friends, so far as one could see, No membership in clubs, was never seen Where men meet, or society is gathered. Sometimes he stopped to tell a passer-by The day is fine, it’s very fine, you’re right, In voice complaisant. The neighbors knew He lived upon a little purse he made In compromise of some preposterous wrong. And people wondered how the purse was lasting, And wondered how much longer he could loaf, How many seasons more he could appear So seasonably attired and walk the streets In such velleity, with such vacuous light Grown steady in his eyes.

I love to watch The chickens in a barn-yard. Nothing else Is quite so near the human brood. You’ll see Invariably a rooster stalk about In aimless fashion, moving here and there, Picking at times with dull inappetence At grains or grit, or standing for a time In listless revery. I never saw A man with such resemblance to this rooster As this man was.

At last we had not seen Our man upon the street for several days. And some one said he had been very ill. His wife had fears and wept and said ’twas hard Just on the eve of great success to die. He had thought out a plan, she said, to win Great trade in South America for us. Our State Department thought it excellent. And then one day four doctors passed his door For consultation, and the word went round Our man rebelled most piteously and said He could not die until he had worked out His dream of South America. He knew His danger, had the doctors called to check The inroads of the peril, though the purse Was growing slim, as we discovered later.

One noon-time as I came along the street Where twenty children laughed and followed me, Half playing at their game, half following My banterings and idle talk, and asking About the bundle underneath my arm. “It’s nothing but a chicken, go away,” I said to them.

And there across the street Was crape upon the door--our man was dead, And I was carrying chicken home to boil

ACHILLES DEATHERIDGE

“Your name is Achilles Deatheridge? How old are you, my boy?” “I’m sixteen past and I went to the war From Athens, Illinois.”

“Achilles Deatheridge, you have done A deed of dreadful note.” “It comes of his wearing a battered hat, And a rusty, wrinkled coat.”

“Why didn’t you know how plain he is? And didn’t you ever hear, He goes through the lines by day or night Like a sooty cannoneer?”

“You must have been half dead for sleep, For the dawn was growing bright.” “Well, Captain, I had stood right there Since six o’clock last night.”

“I cocked my gun at the swish of the grass And how am I at fault When a dangerous looking man won’t stop When a sentry hollers halt?”

“I cried out halt and he only smiled And waved his hand like that. Why, any Johnnie could wear the coat And any fellow the hat.”

“I hollered halt again and he stopped And lighted a fresh cigar. I never noticed his shoulder badge, And I never noticed a star.”

“So you arrested him? Well, Achilles, When you hear the swish of the grass If it’s General Grant inspecting the lines Hereafter let him pass.”

SLIP SHOE LOVEY

You’re the cook’s understudy A gentle idiot body. You are slender like a broom Weaving up and down the room, With your dirt hair in a twist And your left eye in a mist. Never thinkin’, never hopin’ With your wet mouth open. So bewildered and so busy As you scrape the dirty kettles, O Slip Shoe Lizzie As you rattle with the pans. There’s a clatter of old metals, O Slip Shoe Lovey, As you clean the milk cans. You’re a greasy little dovey, A laughing scullery daughter, As you slop the dish water, So abstracted and so dizzy, O Slip Shoe Lizzie!

So mussy, little hussie, With the china that you break, And the kitchen in a smear When the bread is yet to bake, And the market things are here-- O Slip Shoe Lovey!

You are hurrying and scurrying From the sink to the oven, So forgetful and so sloven. You are bustling and hustling From the pantry to the door, With your shoe strings on the floor, And your apron strings a-draggin’, And your spattered skirt a-saggin’.

You’re an angel idiot lovey, One forgives you all this clatter Washing dishes, beating batter. But there is another matter As you dream above the sink: You’re in love pitter-patter, With the butcher-boy I think. And he’ll get you, he has got you If he hasn’t got you yet.

For he means to make you his, O Slip Shoe Liz. And your open mouth is wet To a little boyish chatter. You’re an easy thing to flatter With your hank of hair a-twist, And your left eye in a mist-- O Slip Shoe Lovey!

So hurried and so flurried And just a little worried You lean about the room, Like a mop, like a broom. O Slip Shoe Lovey! O Slip Shoe Lovey!

THE ARCHANGELS

Flopped on the floor With such a silken richness of dark hair, Descending breezily like blown water from her brow, And from the arched crown of her Raphael head, Between the years of twenty-five and thirty, Her face glows and is white, Like the thin spirit of a candle light. And over her forehead passes Swift waves of splendor, which must be her thought, Looking, it seems, as if a snowy curtain Were rhythmically blown at dawn in a white room!

In each of her eyes there is a blue-bright spark! One time I saw two stars Held in an inch of water when the evening Was pale from dying day. And under this thin water lay dead leaves The drift of late October-- Gray leaves beneath clear water by an edge Where spring’s first flower, the azure pickerel weed, Bent over contemplated those two stars: These were the sparks in her unruffled eyes. Flopped on the floor With little hands clasped round her girlish knees Such musical thought sings through her cherub lips-- Raptures for Beauty, Raptures for Truth, Raptures for Freedom and a world that is free. While around her flames the fire of a durable hope. Till at last I sit in wonder At the miracle of such spirit, And the miracle of the youths about her, Listening with bright eyes, in the fellowship of delight, Who prompt, suggest, applaud, are passionate For the right word, the soaring thought to beat At heaven’s gate in a last burst of song. And here am I a part of this psychic circle, Bound with soft loops of gold in a charméd band Of a brood of youthful archangels fiery and strong....

Then thrilled with love of a land that can grow such souls I turn and ask them questions: How old are you, who were your father and mother? What chance have you had in life? What books have you read? And where have you bred these dreams? But why do you laugh? for there must be soil or blood Or both, for there must be the souls of free men And the loins of free men, To make archangels you know, And pour them into the city to think and plan For a greater Republic to come. And though it matters nothing that villages In Iowa, Indiana, Illinois In the great far west, in New England, gave us you, Or you, or you, or you-- I somehow thrill at the contrast, or thrill with the thought Of such great richness and vastness in the land, Flowering such souls all fresh and keen, And eager to make the Republic wholly free-- May she deserve your love!

SONG OF CHANGE

Deep thought that comes through stainless skies; Pure moods that arch the fancy’s birth; Sweet sorrow, clear in youthful eyes; Soft laughter, speaking maiden mirth;-- Such gifts were thine, ere time o’ercast The sunshine of thy tender heart; And now that joy itself is past Yet patience still will do its part.

Sad stars from which the sun has drawn The light of life, no longer bright; Life of our lives, that with the dawn Passed, though remembered, from our sight! From noonday stept the chilling shade That struck the quivering aspens still; Thou hopeful one, thou unafraid, Smiled--but the Shadow had his will.

Souls of our youth which tire and sleep And wake to find the hour is sped! Thou scorn which mocks us if we weep! Thou hope which says “Be comforted!” Thou vision dulled, whose tutored eye Sees but in vain the poplar tree As once upblown against the sky, When we were fain, when we were free.

MEMORABILIA

Old pioneers, how fare your souls to-day? They seem to be Imminent about this pastoral way, This sunny lea. The elms and oaks you knew, greenly renew Their leaves each spring, But never comes the hour again which drew Your world from view.

Here in a mood I lay, deep in the grass, Between the graves; And saw ye rise, ye shadowy forms, and pass O’er the wind’s waves; Sunk eyes and bended head, wherefrom is fled The light of life; Even as the land, whose early youth is dead, Whose glory fled.

With eighty years gone over what remains For tongue to tell? Hence was it that in silence, with no pains At last ’twas well, Under these trees to creep, for ultimate sleep To soothe regret, For the world’s ways, for war, let mankind reap, You said, and weep.

Abram Rutledge died, ere the great war Ruined the land. His well-loved son was struck on fields afar By a brother’s hand. Then brought they him, O pioneer, on his bier To the hill and the tree, Back home and laid him, son of Trenton, here Your own grave near.

Of all unuttered griefs, of vaguest woes, None equals this: Forgotten hands, and work that no one knows Whose work it is; Good gifts bequeathed, but never earned, or spurned In hate or pride; And the boon of an age destroyed, ere a cycle turned O’er you inurned.

Abram Rutledge lies in a sunken grave, Dust and no more, Let Freedom fail, it is naught to him, who was brave, Who stood to the fore. The oaks and elms he knew, greenly renew Their leaves each spring, But gone his dream with that last hour which drew His world from view.

TO A SPIROCHAETA

If through the microscope We peer and stare You look like marceled shreds of rope, Or maiden hair, With eyeless hunger swift to grope Out of your lair.

To feed and to fulfill your fate You dive and swim Forward and backward flagellate Amid the dim Ichor of women where you mate, Delicate, slim.

Why are you screw-shaped, in a spiral? And why your form Like a crooked hand upon a dial? You are the norm For all hell sealed up in a vial To break in storm.

Your whips are sharper far than sickles, Or cricket bristle; With finer points than rose-leaf prickles, Or drifting thistle; You feed yourself till the blood trickles Through flesh and gristle.

When a man knows he is your diet A solemn thrill Shows in great eyes and spirit quiet For fears that kill; He is a maelstrom running riot, At the center still.

Well, Robert Burns: You saw a louse On a lady crawling. But one can keep to his own house Without forestalling This demon on his death carouse Breeding and sprawling.

But, Robert Burns, this does not tent Our pride or tease us; It is not heaven’s message sent That virtue frees us. It shows us hard or penitent As Nature sees us!

CATO BRADEN

I went to Winston Prairie to attend The funeral of Cato Braden. He Had died at fifty-one and I had known him Since he was twenty-four, but for fifteen Years or more I had not seen him, nor Exchanged with him more than a telegraphic Note about some trivial thing. Indeed I had not been in Winston Prairie during These fifteen years.

But on the train I thought Of Cato Braden, brought back all the days Through which I knew him, from the very first When he returned to Winston Prairie from De Pauw, or was it Valparaiso? Yet ’Twas called a university I remember. And when I knew him first he kept at hand De Senectute, also Anthon’s Homer, And lexicons in Latin and in Greek, Both unabridged. Sometimes he let me read The orations he had won the prizes with. And sometimes he would tell me what it meant To study at a university. And what they did and what the boys were like. This Cato Braden was a happy soul At twenty-four, of a full noble brow, A gentle smiling mouth, an honest eye, A tall and handsome figure, altogether A man conspicuous for form, a bearing Of grace and courtliness, engaging ways; He might be called most lovable, he had The gift of friendship, was not envious, Could scarcely be enraged, was not offended By little things and often not by great. He had in short a nature fit to work With great capacity; had he combined An intellect but half his nature’s worth He might have won the race. But many thought He promised much, his father most of all Because he had these virtues, and in truth Before his leaves unfolded with the spring His mind seemed apt, perhaps seemed measured full Of quality, the prizes he had won At Valparaiso pointed to the fruit He would produce at last.

So on the train I thought of Cato Braden. Then I thought Of when he came from school with his degree, And for that summer when he walked the square, Was whispered of as “Cato Braden, look.” The first thing Winston Prairie knew it saw His name conjoined with that of Jerry Ott’s-- It was Ott and Braden, editors and owners, The Winston Prairie Eagle. Jerry Ott Was sixty-nine and wheezy from the fight For Jefferson Democracy, free trade. Besides the capital that Cato Braden Brought through his father to the enterprise Meant bitter war on enemies of truth. And Cato Braden’s father had some wealth Made from the making of a vermifuge And a preposterous compound which he called Pesodorne; and I have always thought That Cato Braden’s father garrisoned His factory for making patent nostrums By buying for his son this interest, And place of power in journalism; for The father’s strong devotion to the church Did not protect him ’gainst the casual sneers Of Winston Prairie’s paper called the Lance, Which used to print such things as this, to instance: “There’s Braden’s Vermifuge, well, Doctor Braden, Try your own vermifuge, let’s see it work.”