Part 3

Her name is Sheila Shanahan, she reigns in Soap Suds Row, The lane that won to luster in the army long ago.

She bendeth o’er a wash tub while the sentries walk the walls, And pyramids are builded from the brooding cannon balls.

She elevates an army post without the least design, The belle of all the barracks hanging clothes upon a line.

Fate ransacked ancient reveries to dower youth’s desire, Unrolled the scrolls of Sidon and the tapestries of Tyre;

She pilfered from Parnassus till the gods ran to and fro, Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row.

Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan, The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican;

The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns, The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons,

And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits, The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates;

They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan.

REGINA MENDOSENA

I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town; Just behold me in me sport dress with me stockings hanging down;

Just behold me with me sceptre, Mither Grady’s washing stick, A sunflower for a coronet--me foot upon a brick.

I’m Regina Mendosena, and I’m Irish if you please, Me mither was an actress and me faither sailed the seas;

And for culture and for travel, it was hard to beat the pair-- I’m Regina Mendosena and ’tis me that is their heir.

They made me Queen of Ireland when mither flew the town; They gave me Madden’s old shebang when faither’s ship went down;

They gave me Crazy Mary’s goats when Crazy Mary died, And they’re going to kape me going till I gits to be a bride.

I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town, Me pus’nal friends admiring all the contour of me gown;

Me pus’nal friends remarking on the browness of me eyes, I’m Regina Mendosena--but I wonder if they lies?

I’m Regina Mendosena, and ’tis when to Mass I go, I gown meself discreetly with me braidings in a bow;

I’m Regina Mendosena, I’m the same and not the same, For I lay aside me titles and me very ancient name.

THE GIRL FROM SOAP SUDS ROW

Oh! Mistress Margaret Esther Snow, She lived way down in Soap Suds Row; She came to school in a gingham frock, With breakfast stains upon her smock.

Oh! Mistress Margaret Esther Snow Is rather poor as we all know; Her socks are a most unusual sight, And her shoes are never quite watertight.

She missed her lessons most every day; She seemed too sad to want to play; So Miss McHugh, our teacher grave, Said she was meeker than any slave.

She so admonished poor Mistress Snow, That the little girl longed for Soap Suds Row; And lastly, the teacher, to make her bright, Gave her a piece to learn to recite.

For three whole days we didn’t know The piece she had given to Mistress Snow; But on Monday morning Miss McHugh Said: “Margaret will speak for the 2-A-2.”

Then Mistress Margaret Esther wailed, And all of us girls in sympathy paled; But all of a sudden she walked right out, She tossed her head as she turned about.

She made a most wonderful Grecian bow That someone had taught her in Soap Suds Row; Her eyes were shining--she wasn’t afraid, And she spoke “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Did she speak that piece? Well, I guess she did. ’Twas a fight to a finish--she took off the lid; The up-stairs classes--they heard her shout, And the principal came to see what ’twas about.

But Mistress Margaret--she never stayed-- She gave us the whole of “The Light Brigade.” You could smell the smoke, you could see each gun; You could hear the galloping horses run.

And we sat stunned in the 2-A-2. When we saw what Soap Suds Row could do; For she told of the battle and everything done, With everyone dead and the glory won.

Sometimes her voice was like sugar plums, And then it shook with the noise of drums; And the girls upstairs, they thought ’twas true That there was a fight in the 2-A-2.

Well, when it was over, so sweet was her face That she seemed as if dressed in velvet and lace; And she made that wonderful bow once more, Till her rather scant petticoat touched the floor.

We clapped our hands, and we made them smart, And we were happy around the heart, For the way that the teachers crowded in Added a lot to the lovely din.

Poor Miss McHugh was pleased till she cried, While the 2-A-2 just swelled with pride; And so excited was Miss McHugh That she didn’t know just the thing to do.

But she kissed our beauty of Soap Suds Row, Till Margaret’s face was all aglow; She mentioned that Marge was a human lute-- She was glad that her bread was bearing fruit.

Then the principal said in his stately way That for 1-3-9 ’twas a very proud day, And that close alignment to classroom rules Made genius flourish in public schools.

But somehow the girls in the 2-A-2, They get things just a bit askew; And they surmise that Mistress Snow Found most of her genius in Soap Suds Row.

EVA

Eva, the first of the fair ones, Taught all her daughters to paint; Using indelible colors, Seeress and siren and saint.

Banished them all to the brook brims, There in benign ambuscade, Taught them the art of portraying Beauty that never may fade.

Voiced she the values of the shadows Moored to the moss-mantled crags; Primed them to pose by the dwarf palms And mid the cat-tails and flags.

Thus by each crevice and cavern, Thus in the lunettes and glades, There are depicted all damsels, Eva’s most wonderful maids.

Traceries tender and dimpled, Intricate art of design; Shadowy ideals of Eden, Even of Eva, divine.

Breathe but a name in the bowers, Pour out her praise as a prayer; Forth from the fronds floats a presence, Vestured in loveliness rare.

Thus, since the first of the fair ones, All of the daughters of Eve, Portray in permanent colors, Making men see and believe.

OLD MAID’S REVERIE

I’m tired of mirthless mirrors and their hostile heresies, Of musing in a mansion hung with mildewed memories;

Of the silence of the stairways, of the statuary wan, Of the alabaster angel riding on the fountain swan;

I’m irked by isolation and the lawns kept so and so-- I’d trade an old maid’s theories for a rood of Soap Suds Row;

For the sunflowers and the shanties where the shadows sit at ease, For the horde of baby banshees and the swing-scarred apple-trees;

Therefore methinks I’ll venture to a disarrayed domain, And shoonless dance the saraband in some assuaging lane.

No sandals wrought in Sybaris, or girdle bossed with gold, But beauty in a barefoot mood, revising edicts old.

There cupids turn the calendars to Michael Angelo, The goya needs no gabardine, the rose no kimono;

And me, a maiden mendicant may ask an alms, forsooth, As one who missed the rubrics in the litanies of youth.

THE COMMONPLACE

By the steps of the paper-box factory, Or the gates where the Seraphim nod, In the time and the place that’s appointed, You will meet with your commonplace god.

And then you’ll be glad and forever, For the queens of the East and the West, With the sets of the Garden of Eden Have failed in a commonplace quest.

So to you who have dreamed in the starlight, And to you who have drudged in the town, And to you of the commonplace vision, With the beauty the Greeks handed down,

Doubt not that the time is appointed, That the chart with a quester is girt, But remember that star-dust is star-dust And ranks not the commonest dirt;

That the gods of Olympus were beggars Or ever they burned to create, And that rags ripple down into samite For a Venus who swings on a gate;

That the steps of the paper-box factory, As well as the gardens of kings, Are only the blue-print devices Of love, and the commonplace things.

BERKLEY COMMON

Summer broods o’er Berkley Common, o’er the fields of everlasting, And around the common cluster homes no one would ever rent; The people that once lived there, long have gone to other places, Dusty heirlooms in the garrets give a clue to where they went.

Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted, Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare, Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting, And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there.

It is off the line of travel; to the present unrelated; Only peddlers down from Dighton go that way to Taunton Weir; They haste by Berkley Common, by the fields of everlasting, For the empty houses fill them with a feeling like to fear.

CHOICE

Cloud-made mountains towered, Beckoning to me; Visionary triremes Talked about the sea....

There were strings of camels On the Tunis sands.... There were certain cities Holding out their hands....

Mine the choice that fettered Lips to fountain brim; Timed the droning transits-- Bees in gardens dim.

Thus I pay no tribute, Heed no tallier’s call; Only sound of kisses From a waterfall.

Only honey dripping In a hollow tree; First of hour glasses Keeping time for me.

Only broken whispers, Tracing themes unsaid; Soft as tread of visions O’er a poppy bed....

THE FIRE VASE

Said the potter to the flower pots: “It’s a question of design-- Must I hold my hands forever from the images divine?”

He ran a royal pattern and he shaped a wondrous vase, From the peach-bloom drew his color, from the rose-blend drew his glaze.

Came collectors of ceramics, connoisseurs who stayed to yearn; Something wonderful was hidden ’neath the cover of that urn.

Some said ’twas filled with roses, others wagered it was wine, One said it might be empty as a part of the design.

Nearly all of the appraisers for the outside made their bid, But the one who bought the beauty dreamed of what was ’neath the lid.

He set it on his cottage hearth, the vase beside the fire, And the cover rose in answer to a very old desire,

And through the peach-bloom color and the rose-blend of the glaze, He saw love’s lost illusions safe within the potter’s vase.

MY HUSBANDS

I hear my husbands marching The æons all adown: The shepherd boys and princes-- From cavern unto crown.

I hear in soft recession The praise they give to me; I hear them chant my titles From all antiquity.

But never do I answer, I might be overheard; Lose Love’s revised illusions By one unhappy word.

I sit, a silent siren, And count my cavaliers; The men I wed in wisdom, The boys who taught me tears.

To some I gave devotion, To some I kinked the knee; But there was one old wizard Who laid his spells on me.

He showed me like a master That one rose makes a gown; That looking up to Heaven Is merely looking down.

He marked me for the circle, Made magic in my eyes; He won me by revealing The truth in all his lies.

So, when I see that wizard Among the marchers dim, I make the full court curtsy In fealty to him.

AFTERWORD

In a maze of contributions such as the poetry editor of a large metropolitan newspaper printing daily two or three poems receives there came to me unheralded one morning in the mail a little poem which bore the name of an author of whom I had never heard--Nathalia Crane. It was a whimsical piece of verse such as an editor rarely receives, a rhythmical, lilting production that would gladden the heart of any one. It was called _The History of Honey_. Needless to say it was accepted for publication. Subsequently others submitted by Nathalia Crane also found a place in _The Sun_.

Then followed some correspondence in regard to various other poems but a call at the office made by the author in answer to a letter about the poem _The Army Laundress_ disclosed to my amazement that the writer was none other than a little girl--a shy, unassuming youngster who was as embarrassed during the interview as I was myself. For I must admit I was embarrassed--or rather taken aback.

My surprise is excusable. So many times I had received “poems” from youngsters who were careful to give their ages in addition to their names; so often I had received visits from doting parents or relatives requesting publication of verses by their children or sisters or cousins that I had never dreamed any child would ever submit any work from his or her pen without adding the words “Aged -- years.” But little Nathalia was the exception--and there was nothing in her poems that I received to indicate her age.

The poems bought were accepted on their merits and on their merits alone, and many a poet of greater years and of recognized standing would not despise being known as the author of _The Reading Boy_, _The Three Cornered Lot_ and _The Commonplace_.

Nathalia Crane is a little girl who plays with dolls and toys and Roger Jones, whom she has glorified in some of her poems, when she is not busy at a typewriter giving expression to dreams and visions. She is also an author of delightful verse who obtained wide recognition of her work not because it was written by a child but because it was in itself worth while reading. For this alone, if for nothing else, she deserves all the success that is hers, all the laurels with which her friends and readers are glad to crown her and none more than the writer of this “Afterword” who came to know Nathalia Crane through her poetry which did not disclose her years.

EDMUND LEAMY.

_New York, May, 1924._

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.