Chapter 2
He said--"The season is almost run; How glad we are, when the whirl is over! For the toil of pleasure is more than its fun, And what is it all, when all is done, But the stick of a rocket that has descended?"
He thought--"_Oh God_! _to be off somewhere_ _Afar with you_, _from this scene of fashion_; _To know you were mine_, _and to have you care_, _And to lose myself in the crimson snare_ _Of your lips_, _in a kiss of passion_."
He said--"You are going abroad, no doubt, This land of Liberty coldly scorning. I too shall journey a bit about, From Wall Street up by the L. Road out To Harlem, and down each morning."
He thought--"_It must follow on land or sea_, _This pent-up_, _passionate_, _dumb devotion_, _Till the cry of a rapture that may not be_ _Shall reach your heart from the heart of me_ _And stir you with strange emotion_."
WANTED--A LITTLE GIRL
Where have they gone to--the little girls With natural manners and natural curls; Who love their dollies and like their toys, And talk of something besides the boys?
Little old women in plenty I find, Mature in manners and old of mind; Little old flirts who talk of their "beaux," And vie with each other in stylish clothes.
Little old belles who, at nine and ten, Are sick of pleasure and tired of men; Weary of travel, of balls, of fun, And find no new thing under the sun.
Once, in the beautiful long ago, Some dear little children I used to know; Girls who were merry as lambs at play, And laughed and rollicked the livelong day.
They thought not at all of the "style" of their clothes, They never imagined that boys were "beaux"-- "Other girls' brothers" and "mates" were they, Splendid fellows to help them play.
Where have they gone to? If you see One of them anywhere send her to me. I would give a medal of purest gold To one of those dear little girls of old, With an innocent heart and an open smile, Who knows not the meaning of "flirt" or "style."
THE SUICIDE
Vast was the wealth I carried in life's pack-- Youth, health, ambition, hope and trust; but Time And Fate, those robbers fit for any crime, Stole all, and left me but the empty sack. Before me lay a long and lonely track Of darkling hills and barren steeps to climb; Behind me lay in shadows the sublime Lost lands of Love's delight. Alack! Alack!
Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load: I was borne down beneath its worthless weight. I stumbled on, and knocked at Death's dark gate. There was no answer. Stung by sorrow's goad I _forced_ my way into that grim abode, And laughed, and flung Life's empty sack to Fate.
Unknown and uninvited I passed in To that strange land that hangs between two goals, Round which a dark and solemn river rolls-- More dread its silence than the loud earth's din. And now, where was the peace I hoped to win? Black-masted ships slid past me in great shoals, Their bloody decks thronged with mistaken souls. (God punishes mistakes sometimes like sin.)
Not rest and not oblivion I found. My suffering self dwelt with me just the same; But here no sleep was, and no sweet dreams came To give me respite. Tyrant Death, uncrowned By my own hand, still King of Terrors, frowned Upon my shuddering soul, that shrank in shame Before those eyes where sorrow blent with blame, And those accusing lips that made no sound.
What gruesome shapes dawned on my startled sight What awful sighs broke on my listening ear! The anguish of the earth, augmented here A thousand-fold, made one continuous night. The sack I flung away in impious spite Hung yet upon me, filled, I saw in fear. With tears that rained from earth's adjacent sphere, And turned to stones in falling from that height.
And close about me pressed a grieving throng, Each with his heavy sack, which bowed him so His face was hidden. One of these mourned: "Know Who enters here but finds the way more long To those fair realms where sounds the angels' song. There is no man-made exit out of woe; Ye cannot dash the locked door down and go To claim thy rightful joy through paths of wrong."
He passed into the shadows dim and grey, And left me to pursue my path alone. With terror greater than I yet had known. Hard on my soul the awful knowledge lay, Death had not ended life nor found God's way; But, with my same sad sorrows still my own, Where by-roads led to by-roads, thistle-sown, I had but wandered off and gone astray.
With earth still near enough to hear its sighs, With heaven afar and hell but just below, Still on and on my lonely soul must go Until I earn the right to Paradise. We cannot force our way into God's skies, Nor rush into the rest we long to know; But patiently, with bleeding steps and slow Toil on to where selfhood in Godhood dies.
"NOW I LAY ME"
When I pass from earth away, Palsied though I be and grey, May my spirit keep so young That my failing, faltering tongue Frames that prayer so dear to me, Taught me at my mother's knee: "_Now I lay me down to sleep_," (Passing to Eternal rest On the loving parent breast) "_I pray the Lord my soul to keep_;" (From all danger safe and calm In the hollow of His palm;) "_If I should die before I wake_," (Drifting with a bated breath Out of slumber into death,) "_I pray the Lord my soul to take_." (From the body's claim set free Sheltered in the Great to be.) Simple prayer of trust and truth. Taught me in my early youth-- Let my soul its beauty keep When I lay me down to sleep.
THE MESSENGER
She rose up in the early dawn, And white and silently she moved About the house. Four men had gone To battle for the land they loved, And she, the mother and the wife, Waited for tidings from the strife. How still the house seemed! and her tread Was like the footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed, the dark night came; She had not seen a human face. Some voice spoke suddenly her name. How loud it echoed in that place Where, day by day, no sound was heard But her own footsteps! "Bring you word," She cried to whom she could not see, "Word from the battle-plain to me?"
A soldier entered at the door, And stood within the dim firelight: "I bring you tidings of the four," He said, "who left you for the fight." "God bless you, friend," she cried; "speak on! For I can bear it. One is gone?" "Ay, one is gone!" he said. "Which one?" "Dear lady, he, your eldest son."
A deathly pallor shot across Her withered face; she did not weep. She said: "It is a grievous loss, But God gives His beloved sleep. What of the living--of the three? And when can they come back to me?" The soldier turned away his head: "Lady, your husband, too, is dead."
She put her hand upon her brow; A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes. "My husband! Oh, God, help me now!" The soldier heard her shuddering sighs. The task was harder than he thought. "Your youngest son, dear madam, fought Close at his father's side; both fell Dead, by the bursting of a shell."
She moved her lips and seemed to moan. Her face had paled to ashen grey: "Then one is left me--one alone," She said, "of four who marched away. Oh, overruling, All-wise God, How can I pass beneath Thy rod!" The soldier walked across the floor, Paused at the window, at the door,
Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. "Once more, dear lady, I must speak: Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight; Twas he who sent me here to-night." "God knows," the man said afterward, "The fight itself was not so hard."
A SERVIAN LEGEND
Long, long ago, ere yet our race began, When earth was empty, waiting still for man, Before the breath of life to him was given The angels fell into a strife in heaven.
At length one furious demon grasped the sun And sped away as fast as he could run, And with a ringing laugh of fiendish mirth, He leaped the battlements and fell to earth.
Dark was it then in heaven, but light below; For there the demon wandered to and fro, Tilting aloft upon a slender pole The orb of day--the pilfering old soul.
The angels wept and wailed; but through the dark The Great Creator's voice cried sternly: "Hark! Who will restore to me the orb of Light, Him will I honour in all heaven's sight."
Then over the battlements there dropped another. (A shrewder angel well there could not be.) Quoth he: "Behold my love for thee, my brother, For I have left all heaven to stay with thee.
"Thy loneliness and wanderings I will share, Thy heavy burden I will help thee bear." "Well said," the demon answered, "and well done, But I'll not tax you with this heavy sun.
"Your company will cheer me, it is true, And I could never think of burdening you." Idly they wandered onward, side by side, Till, by and by, they neared a silvery tide.
"Let's bathe," the angel suddenly suggested. "Agreed," the demon answered. "I'll go last, Because I needs must leave quite unmolested This tiresome sun, which I will now make fast.
He set the pole well in the sandy turf, And called a jackdaw near to watch the place. Meanwhile the angel paddled in the surf, And playfully dared his brother to a race.
They swam around together for a while, The demon always keeping near his prize, Till presently the angel, with a smile, Proposed a healthful diving exercise.
The demon hesitated. "But," thought he, "The jackdaw will inform me with a cry If this good brother tries deceiving me; I will not be outdone by him--not I!"
Down, down they went. The angel in a trice Rose up again, and swift to shore he sped. The jackdaw shrieked, but lo! a mile of ice The demon found had frozen o'er his head.
He swore an oath, and gathered all his force, And broke the ice, to see the sun, of course, Held firmly in the radiant angel's hand, Who sailed away toward the heavenly land.
He gave pursuit. Wrath lent speed to his chase; All heaven leaned down to watch the exciting race. On, on they came, and still the Evil One Gained on the angel burdened with the sun.
With bated breath and faces white as ghosts, Over the walls leaned heaven's affrighted hosts. Up, up, still up, the angel almost spent, Threw one foot forward o'er the battlement.
The demon seized the other with a shout; So fierce his clutch he pulled the bottom out, As the good angel, fainting, laid the sun Down by the throne of God, who cried: "Well done! Thy great misfortune shall be made divine: _Man_ will I create with a foot like thine!"
PEEK-A-BOO
The cunningest thing that a baby can do Is the very first time it plays peek-a-boo;
When it hides its pink little face in its hands, And crows, and shows that it understands
What nurse, and mamma and papa, too, Mean when they hide and cry, "Peek a-boo, peek-a-boo."
Oh, what a wonderful thing it is, When they find that baby can play like this!
And every one listens, and thinks it true That baby's gurgle means "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo";
And over and over the changes are rung On the marvellous infant who talks so young.
I wonder if any one ever knew A baby that never played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
'Tis old as the hills are. I believe Cain was taught it by Mother Eve;
For Cain was an innocent baby, too, And I am sure he played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
And the whole world full of the children of men, Have all of them played that game since then.
Kings and princes and beggars, too, Every one has played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
Thief and robber and ruffian bold, The crazy tramp and the drunkard old,
All have been babies who laughed and knew How to hide, and play peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
THE FALLING OF THRONES
Above the din of commerce, above the clamour and rattle Of labour disputing with riches, of Anarchists' threats and groans, Above the hurry and hustle and roar of that bloodless battle, Where men are fighting for riches, I hear the falling of thrones.
I see no savage host, I hear no martial drumming, But down in the dust at our feet lie the useless crowns of kings; And the mighty spirit of Progress is steadily coming, coming, And the flag of one republic abroad to the world he flings.
The Universal Republic, where worth, not birth, is royal; Where the lowliest born may climb on a self-made ladder to fame; Where the highest and proudest born, if he be not true and loyal, Shall find no masking title to cover and gild his shame.
Not with the bellow of guns and not with sabres whetting, But with growing minds of men is waged this swordless fray; While over the dim horizon the sun of royalty, setting, Lights, with a dying splendour, the humblest toiler's way.
HER LAST LETTER
Sitting alone by the window, Watching the moonlit street, Bending my head to listen To the well-known sound of your feet, I have been wondering, darling, How I can bear the pain, When I watch, with sighs and tear-wet eyes, And wait for your coming in vain.
For I know that a day approaches When your heart will tire of me; When by door and gate I may watch and wait For a form I shall not see; When the love that is now my heaven, The kisses that make my life, You will bestow on another, And that other will be--your wife.
You will grow weary of sinning (Though you do not call it so), You will long for a love that is purer Than the love that we two know. God knows I have loved you dearly, With a passion strong as true; But you will grow tired and leave me, Though I gave up all for you.
I was as pure as the morning When I first looked on your face; I knew I never could reach you In your high, exalted place. But I looked and loved and worshipped As a flower might worship a star, And your eyes shone down upon me, And you seemed so far--so far.
And then? Well, then, you loved me, Loved me with all your heart; But we could not stand at the altar-- We were so far apart. If a star should wed with a flower The star must drop from the sky, Or the flower in trying to reach it Would droop on its stalk and die.
But you said that you loved me, darling, And swore by the heavens above That the Lord and all of His angels Would sanction and bless our love. And I? I was weak, not wicked. My love was as pure as true, And sin itself seemed a virtue If only shared by you.
We have been happy together, Though under the cloud of sin, But I know that the day approaches When my chastening must begin. You have been faithful and tender, But you will not always be, But I think I had better leave you While your thoughts are kind of me.
I know my beauty is fading-- Sin furrows the fairest brow-- And I know that your heart will weary Of the face you smile on now. You will take a bride to your bosom After you turn from me; You will sit with your wife in the moonlight, And bold her babe on your knee.
O God! I never could bear it; It would madden my brain, I know; And so while you love me dearly I think I had better go. It is sweeter to feel, my darling-- To know as I fall asleep-- That some one will mourn me and miss me, That some one is left to weep,
Than to die as I should in the future, To drop in the street some day, Unknown, unwept, and forgotten After you cast me away. Perhaps the blood of the Saviour Can wash my garments clean; Perchance I may drink of the waters That flow through pastures green.
Perchance we may meet in heaven, And walk in the streets above, With nothing to grieve us or part us Since our sinning was all through love God says, "Love one another," And down to the depths of hell Will He send the soul of a woman Because she loved--and fell?
* * * * *
And so in the moonlight he found her, Or found her beautiful clay, Lifeless and pallid as marble, For the spirit had flown away. The farewell words she had written She held to her cold, white breast, And the buried blade of a dagger Told how she had gone to rest.
THE PRINCESS'S FINGER-NAIL: A TALE OF NONSENSE LAND
All through the Castle of High-bred Ease, Where the chief employment was do-as-you-please, Spread consternation and wild despair. The queen was wringing her hands and hair; The maids of honour were sad and solemn; The pages looked blank as they stood in column; The court-jester blubbered, "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo" The cook in the kitchen dropped tears in the stew And all through the castle went sob and wail, For the princess had broken her finger-nail: The beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose, Bride-elect of the Lord High-Nose, Broken her finger-nail down to the quick-- No wonder the queen and her court were sick. Never sorrow so dread before Had dared to enter that castle door. Oh! what would my Lord His-High-Nose say When she took off her glove on her wedding-day? The fairest princess in Nonsense Land, With a broken finger-nail on her hand! 'Twas a terrible, terrible accident, And they called a meeting of parliament; And never before that royal Court Had come such question of grave import As "How could you hurry a nail to grow?" And the skill of the kingdom was called to show. They sent for Monsieur File-'em-off; He smoothed down the corners so ragged and rough. They sent for Madame la Diamond-Dust, Who lived on the fingers of upper-crust; They sent for Professor de Chamois-Skin, Who took her powder and rubbed it in; They sent for the pudgy nurse Fat-on-the-Bone To bathe her finger in eau-de-Cologne; And they called the court surgeon, Monsieur Red-Tape, To hear what he thought of the new nail's shape, Over the kingdom the telegrams flew Which told how the finger-nail thrived and grew; And all through the realm of Nonsense Land They offered up prayers for the princess's hand. At length the glad tidings were heard with a shout What the princess's finger-nail had grown out: Pointed and polished and pink and clean, Befitting the hand of a some-day queen. Salutes were fired all over the land By the home-guard battery pop-gun band; And great was the joy of my Lord High-Nose, Who straightway ordered his wedding clothes, And paid his tailor, Don Wait-for-aye, Who died of amazement the self-same day. My lord by a jury was judged insane; For they said--and the truth of the saying was plain-- That a lord of such very high pedigree Would never be paying his bills, you see, Unless he was out of his head; and so They locked him up without more ado. And the beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose Pined for her lover, my Lord High-Nose, Till she entered a convent and took the veil-- And this is the end of my nonsense tale.
A BABY IN THE HOUSE
I knew that a baby was hid in the house; Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry, But the husband went tiptoeing round like a mouse, And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby; And there was a look on the face of that mother That I knew could mean only _one_ thing, and no other.
"The _mother_," I said to myself; for I knew That the woman before me was certainly that, For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe, And I saw on the stand such a wee little hat; And the beard of the husband said plain as could be, "Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me."
And he took from his pocket a gay picture-book, And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string; And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look; And I said to myself, "There is no other thing But a babe that could bring about all this, and so That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know."
I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more, And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right; What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor, The book and the toy, and the faces so bright? And what made the husband as still as a mouse? I am sure, _very_ sure, there's a babe in that house.
THE FOOLISH ELM
The bold young Autumn came riding along One day where an elm-tree grew. "You are fair," he said, as she bent down her head, "Too fair for your robe's dull hue. You are far too young for a garb so old; Your beauty needs colour and sheen. Oh, I would clothe you in scarlet and gold Befitting the grace of a queen.
"For one little kiss on your lips, sweet elm, For one little kiss, no more, I would give you, I swear, a robe more fair Than ever a princess wore. One little kiss on those lips, my pet, And lo! you shall stand, I say, Queen of the forest, and, better yet, Queen of my heart alway."
She tossed her head, but he took the kiss-- 'Tis the way of lovers bold-- And a gorgeous dress for that sweet caress He gave ere the morning was old. For a week and a day she ruled a queen In beauty and splendid attire; For a week and a day she was loved, I ween, With the love that is born of desire.
Then bold-eyed Autumn went on his way In search of a tree more fair; And mob-winds tattered her garments and scattered Her finery here and there. Poor and faded and ragged and cold She rocked in her wild distress, And longed for the dull green gown she had sold For her fickle lover's caress.
And the days went by and Winter came, And his tyrannous tempests beat On the shivering tree, whose robes of flame He had trampled under his feet. I saw her reach up to the mocking skies Her poor arms, bare and thin; Ah, well-a-day! it is ever the way With a woman who trades with sin.
ROBIN'S MISTAKE
What do you think Red Robin Found by a mow of hay? Why, a flask brimful of liquor, That the mowers brought that day To slake their thirst in the hayfield. And Robin he shook his head: "Now I wonder what they call it, And how it tastes?" he said.
"I have seen the mowers drink it-- Why isn't it good for me? So I'll just draw out the stopper And get at the stuff, and see!" But alas! for the curious Robin, One draught, and he burned his throat From his bill to his poor crop's lining, And he could not utter a note.
And his head grew light and dizzy, And he staggered left and right, Tipped over the flask of brandy, And spilled it, every mite. But after awhile he sobered, And quietly flew away, And he never has tasted liquor, Or touched it, since that day.
But I heard him say to his kindred, In the course of a friendly chat, "These men think they are above us, Yet they drink such stuff as that! Oh, the poor degraded creatures! I am glad I am only a bird!" Then he flew up over the meadow, And that was all I heard.
NEW YEAR RESOLVE
As the dead year is clasped by a dead December, So let your dead sins with your dead days lie. A new life is yours and a new hope. Remember We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.
Stand out in the sunlight of promise, forgetting Whatever the past held of sorrow and wrong. We waste half our strength in a useless regretting; We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.
Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining. Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next. Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining. Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text.
As each year hurries by, let it join that procession Of skeleton shapes that march down to the past, While you take your place in the line of progression, With your eyes to the heavens, your face to the blast.
I tell you the future can hold no terrors For any sad soul while the stars revolve, If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors, And instead of regretting--resolve, resolve!
It is never too late to begin rebuilding, Though all into ruins your life seems hurled; For see! how the light of the New Year is gilding The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.
WHAT WE WANT