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diff --git a/old/60481-0.txt b/old/60481-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 73b3e6a..0000000 --- a/old/60481-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7366 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of In this our world, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: In this our world - -Author: Charlotte Perkins Gilman - -Release Date: October 12, 2019 [EBook #60481] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THIS OUR WORLD *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was -produced from images made available by the HathiTrust -Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - IN THIS OUR WORLD - - -[Illustration] - - - - - IN THIS OUR WORLD - - - CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN - -[Illustration] - - BOSTON - SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY - PUBLISHERS - - - - - _Copyright, 1893, 1895_ - BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON - - _Copyright, 1898_ - BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY - - - _Entered at Stationers’ Hall_ - - - _Fifth edition, 1914_ - - - - - WOULD YE BUT UNDERSTAND! - JOY IS ON EVERY HAND! - YE SHUT YOUR EYES AND CALL IT NIGHT, - YE GROPE AND FALL IN SEAS OF LIGHT— - WOULD YE BUT UNDERSTAND. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - THE WORLD PAGE - - BIRTH 1 - - NATURE’S ANSWER 2 - - THE COMMONPLACE 4 - - HOMES—A SESTINA 7 - - A COMMON INFERENCE 8 - - THE ROCK AND THE SEA 9 - - THE LION PATH 12 - - REINFORCEMENTS 13 - - HEROISM 14 - - FIRE WITH FIRE 16 - - THE SHIELD 18 - - TO THE PREACHER 19 - - A TYPE 20 - - COMPROMISE 21 - - PART OF THE BATTLE 22 - - STEP FASTER, PLEASE 23 - - A NEW YEAR’S REMINDER 23 - - OUT OF PLACE 24 - - LITTLE CELL 25 - - THE CHILD SPEAKS 26 - - TO A GOOD MANY 28 - - HOW WOULD YOU? 29 - - A MAN MUST LIVE 33 - - IN DUTY BOUND 33 - - DESIRE 34 - - WHY NOT? 35 - - OUT OF THE GATE 36 - - THE MODERN SKELETON 39 - - THE LESSON OF DEATH—TO S. T. D. 40 - - FOR US 43 - - THANKSGIVING 44 - - CHRISTMAS HYMN 44 - - CHRISTMAS 46 - - THE LIVING GOD 48 - - A PRAYER 50 - - GIVE WAY! 50 - - THANKSGIVING HYMN—FOR CALIFORNIA 51 - - CHRISTMAS CAROL—FOR LOS ANGELES 52 - - NEW DUTY 54 - - SEEKING 55 - - FINDING 56 - - TOO MUCH 57 - - THE CUP 58 - - WHAT THEN? 59 - - OUR LONELINESS 60 - - THE KEEPER OF THE LIGHT 61 - - IMMORTALITY 62 - - WASTE 63 - - WINGS 64 - - THE HEART OF THE WATER 66 - - THE SHIP 67 - - AMONG THE GODS 67 - - SONGS 69 - - HEAVEN 71 - - BALLAD OF THE SUMMER SUN 71 - - PIONEERS 74 - - EXILES 74 - - A NEVADA DESERT 75 - - TREE FEELINGS 76 - - MONOTONY—FROM CALIFORNIA 77 - - THE BEDS OF FLEUR-DE-LYS 78 - - IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE 79 - - THE CHANGELESS YEAR—SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 80 - - WHERE MEMORY SLEEPS—RONDEAU 81 - - CALIFORNIA CAR WINDOWS 81 - - LIMITS 82 - - POWELL STREET 82 - - From Russian Hill 85 - - “AN UNUSUAL RAIN” 86 - - THE HILLS 88 - - CITY’S BEAUTY 89 - - TWO SKIES—FROM ENGLAND 90 - - WINDS AND LEAVES—FROM ENGLAND 91 - - ON THE PAWTUXET 92 - - A MOONRISE 93 - - THEIR GRASS!—A PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA 93 - - THE PROPHETS 95 - - SIMILAR CASES 95 - - A CONSERVATIVE 100 - - AN OBSTACLE 102 - - THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL 104 - - THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY 105 - - CONNOISSEURS 106 - - TECHNIQUE 107 - - THE PASTELLETTE 108 - - THE PIG AND THE PEARL 109 - - POOR HUMAN NATURE 111 - - OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE 111 - - CRITICISM 113 - - ANOTHER CREED 113 - - THE LITTLE LION 114 - - A MISFIT 115 - - ON NEW YEAR’S DAY 116 - - OUR EAST 117 - - UNMENTIONABLE 118 - - AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA 120 - - RESOLVE 121 - - - WOMAN - - SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING 125 - - TO MAN 125 - - WOMEN OF TO-DAY 128 - - TO THE YOUNG WIFE 129 - - FALSE PLAY 131 - - MOTHERHOOD 132 - - SIX HOURS A DAY 136 - - AN OLD PROVERB 137 - - REASSURANCE 138 - - MOTHER TO CHILD 140 - - SERVICES 142 - - IN MOTHER-TIME 144 - - SHE WHO IS TO COME 146 - - GIRLS OF TO-DAY 147 - - “WE, AS WOMEN” 148 - - IF MOTHER KNEW 150 - - THE ANTI-SUFFRAGISTS 152 - - WOMEN DO NOT WANT IT 154 - - WEDDED BLISS 157 - - THE HOLY STOVE 158 - - THE MOTHER’S CHARGE 160 - - A BROOD MARE 161 - - FEMININE VANITY 164 - - THE MODEST MAID 166 - - UNSEXED 168 - - FEMALES 169 - - A MOTHER’S SOLILOQUY 171 - - THEY WANDERED FORTH 173 - - BABY LOVE 174 - - - THE MARCH - - THE WOLF AT THE DOOR 177 - - THE LOST GAME 179 - - THE LOOKER-ON 181 - - THE OLD-TIME WAIL 184 - - FREE LAND IS NOT ENOUGH 186 - - WHO IS TO BLAME? 187 - - IF A MAN MAY NOT EAT NEITHER CAN HE WORK 189 - - HIS OWN LABOR 190 - - AS FLEW THE CROSS 193 - - TO LABOR 194 - - HARDLY A PLEASURE 195 - - NATIONALISM 197 - - THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING! 199 - - “HOW MANY POOR!” 200 - - THE DEAD LEVEL 203 - - THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE 204 - - THE AMŒBOID CELL 205 - - THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST 208 - - DIVISION OF PROPERTY 209 - - CHRISTIAN VIRTUES 210 - - WHAT’S THAT? 213 - - AN ECONOMIST 215 - - CHARITY 217 - - - - - THE WORLD. - - - - - BIRTH. - - - Lord, I am born! - I have built me a body - Whose ways are all open, - Whose currents run free, - From the life that is thine - Flowing ever within me, - To the life that is mine - Flowing outward through me. - - I am clothed, and my raiment - Fits smooth to the spirit, - The soul moves unhindered, - The body is free; - And the thought that my body - Falls short of expressing, - In texture and color - Unfoldeth on me. - - I am housed, O my Father! - My body is sheltered, - My spirit has room - ’Twixt the whole world and me, - I am guarded with beauty and strength, - And within it - Is room for still union, - And birth floweth free. - - And the union and birth - Of the house, ever growing, - Have built me a city— - Have born me a state— - Where I live manifold, - Many-voiced, many-hearted, - Never dead, never weary, - And oh! never parted! - The life of The Human, - So subtle—so great! - - Lord, I am born! - From inmost to outmost - The ways are all open, - The currents run free, - From thy voice in my soul - To my joy in the people— - I thank thee, O God, - For this body thou gavest, - Which enfoldeth the earth— - Is enfolded by thee! - - - - - NATURE’S ANSWER. - - - I. - - A man would build a house, and found a place - As fair as any on the earth’s fair face: - - Soft hills, dark woods, smooth meadows richly green, - And cool tree-shaded lakes the hills between. - - He built his house within this pleasant land, - A stately white-porched house, long years to stand; - - But, rising from his paradise so fair, - Came fever in the night and killed him there. - - “O lovely land!” he cried, “how could I know - That death was lurking under this fair show?” - - And answered Nature, merciful and stern, - “I teach by killing; let the others learn!” - - - II. - - A man would do great work, good work and true; - He gave all things he had, all things he knew; - - He worked for all the world; his one desire - To make the people happier, better, higher; - - Used his best wisdom, used his utmost strength; - And, dying in the struggle, found at length, - - The giant evils he had fought the same, - And that the world he loved scarce knew his name. - - “Has all my work been wrong? I meant so well! - I loved so much!” he cried. “How could I tell?” - - And answered Nature, merciful and stern, - “I teach by killing; let the others learn.” - - - III. - - A maid was asked in marriage. Wise as fair, - She gave her answer with deep thought and prayer, - - Expecting, in the holy name of wife, - Great work, great pain, and greater joy, in life. - - She found such work as brainless slaves might do, - By day and night, long labor, never through; - - Such pain—no language can her pain reveal; - It had no limit but her power to feel; - - Such joy—life left in her sad soul’s employ - Neither the hope nor memory of joy. - - Helpless, she died, with one despairing cry,— - “I thought it good; how could I tell the lie?” - - And answered Nature, merciful and stern, - “I teach by killing; let the others learn.” - - - - - THE COMMONPLACE. - - - Life is so weary commonplace! Too fair - Were those young visions of the poet and seer. - Nothing exciting ever happens here. - Just eat and drink, and dress and chat; - Life is so tedious, slow, and flat, - And every day alike in everywhere! - - Birth comes. Birth— - The breathing re-creation of the earth! - All earth, all sky, all God, life’s deep sweet whole, - Newborn again to each new soul! - “Oh, are you? What a shame! Too bad, my dear! - How well you stand it, too! It’s very queer - The dreadful trials women have to carry; - But you can’t always help it when you marry. - Oh, what a sweet layette! What lovely socks! - What an exquisite puff and powder box! - Who is your doctor? Yes, his skill’s immense— - But it’s a dreadful danger and expense!” - - Love comes. Love— - And the world widens at the touch thereof; - Deepens and lightens till the answer true - To all life’s questions seems to glimmer through. - “Engaged? I knew it must be! What a ring! - Worth how much? Well, you are a lucky thing! - But how was Jack disposed of?” “Jack? Oh, he - Was just as glad as I was to be free. - You might as well ask after George and Joe - And all the fellows that I used to know! - I don’t inquire for his past Kate and Carry— - Every one’s pleased. It’s time, you know, to marry.” - - Life comes. Life— - Bearing within it wisdom, work, and strife. - To do, to strive, to know, and, with the knowing, - To find life’s widest purpose in our growing. - “How are you, Jim? Pleasant weather to-day! - How’s business?” “Well, it doesn’t come my way.” - “Good-morning, Mrs. Smith! I hope you’re well! - Tell me the news!” “The news? There’s none to tell. - The cook has left; the baby’s got a tooth; - John has gone fishing to renew his youth. - House-cleaning’s due—or else we’ll have to move! - How sweet you are in that! Good-bye, my love!” - - Death comes. Death— - Love cries to love, and no man answereth. - Death the beginning, Death the endless end, - Life’s proof and first condition, Birth’s best friend. - “Yes, it’s a dreadful loss! No coming back! - Never again! How do I look in black? - And then he suffered so! Oh, yes, we all - Are well provided for. You’re kind to call, - And Mrs. Green has lost her baby too! - Dear me! How sad! And yet what could they do? - With such a hard time as they have, you know,— - No doubt ’t was better for the child to go!” - - Life is so dreary commonplace. We bear - One dull yoke, in the country or the town. - We’re born, grow up, marry, and settle down. - I used to think—but then a man must live! - The Fates dole out the weary years they give, - And every day alike in everywhere. - - - - - HOMES. - A SESTINA. - - - We are the smiling comfortable homes - With happy families enthroned therein, - Where baby souls are brought to meet the world, - Where women end their duties and desires, - For which men labor as the goal of life, - That people worship now instead of God. - - Do we not teach the child to worship God?— - Whose soul’s young range is bounded by the homes - Of those he loves, and where he learns that life - Is all constrained to serve the wants therein, - Domestic needs and personal desires,— - These are the early limits of his world. - - And are we not the woman’s perfect world, - Prescribed by nature and ordained of God, - Beyond which she can have no right desires, - No need for service other than in homes? - For doth she not bring up her young therein? - And is not rearing young the end of life? - - And man? What other need hath he in life - Than to go forth and labor in the world, - And struggle sore with other men therein? - Not to serve other men, nor yet his God, - But to maintain these comfortable homes,— - The end of all a normal man’s desires. - - Shall not the soul’s most measureless desires - Learn that the very flower and fruit of life - Lies all attained in comfortable homes, - With which life’s purpose is to dot the world - And consummate the utmost will of God, - By sitting down to eat and drink therein. - - Yea, in the processes that work therein— - Fulfilment of our natural desires— - Surely man finds the proof that mighty God - For to maintain and reproduce his life - Created him and set him in the world; - And this high end is best attained in homes. - - Are we not homes? And is not all therein? - Wring dry the world to meet our wide desires! - We crown all life! We are the aim of God! - - - - - A COMMON INFERENCE. - - - A night: mysterious, tender, quiet, deep; - Heavy with flowers; full of life asleep; - Thrilling with insect voices; thick with stars; - No cloud between the dewdrops and red Mars; - The small earth whirling softly on her way, - The moonbeams and the waterfalls at play; - A million million worlds that move in peace, - A million mighty laws that never cease; - And one small ant-heap, hidden by small weeds, - Rich with eggs, slaves, and store of millet seeds. - They sleep beneath the sod - And trust in God. - - A day: all glorious, royal, blazing bright; - Heavy with flowers; full of life and light; - Great fields of corn and sunshine; courteous trees; - Snow-sainted mountains; earth-embracing seas; - Wide golden deserts; slender silver streams; - Clear rainbows where the tossing fountain gleams; - And everywhere, in happiness and peace, - A million forms of life that never cease; - And one small ant-heap, crushed by passing tread, - Hath scarce enough alive to mourn the dead! - They shriek beneath the sod, - “There is no God!” - - - - - THE ROCK AND THE SEA. - - - THE ROCK. - - I am the Rock, presumptuous Sea! - I am set to encounter thee. - Angry and loud or gentle and still, - I am set here to limit thy power, and I will! - I am the Rock! - - I am the Rock. From age to age - I scorn thy fury and dare thy rage. - Scarred by frost and worn by time, - Brown with weed and green with slime, - Thou may’st drench and defile me and spit in my face, - But while I am here thou keep’st thy place! - I am the Rock! - - I am the Rock, beguiling Sea! - I know thou art fair as fair can be, - With golden glitter and silver sheen, - And bosom of blue and garments of green. - Thou may’st pat my cheek with baby hands, - And lap my feet in diamond sands, - And play before me as children play; - But plead as thou wilt, I bar the way! - I am the Rock! - - I am the Rock. Black midnight falls; - The terrible breakers rise like walls; - With curling lips and gleaming teeth - They plunge and tear at my bones beneath. - Year upon year they grind and beat - In storms of thunder and storms of sleet,— - Grind and beat and wrestle and tear, - But the rock they beat on is always there - I am the Rock! - - - THE SEA. - - I am the Sea. I hold the land - As one holds an apple in his hand, - Hold it fast with sleepless eyes, - Watching the continents sink and rise. - Out of my bosom the mountains grow, - Back to its depths they crumble slow; - The earth is a helpless child to me. - I am the Sea! - - I am the Sea. When I draw back - Blossom and verdure follow my track, - And the land I leave grows proud and fair, - For the wonderful race of man is there; - And the winds of heaven wail and cry - While the nations rise and reign and die, - Living and dying in folly and pain, - While the laws of the universe thunder in vain. - What is the folly of man to me? - I am the Sea. - - I am the Sea. The earth I sway; - Granite to me is potter’s clay; - Under the touch of my careless waves - It rises in turrets and sinks in caves; - The iron cliffs that edge the land - I grind to pebbles and sift to sand, - And beach-grass bloweth and children play - In what were the rocks of yesterday. - It is but a moment of sport to me. - I am the Sea! - - I am the Sea. In my bosom deep - Wealth and Wonder and Beauty sleep; - Wealth and Wonder and Beauty rise - In changing splendor of sunset skies, - And comfort the earth with rains and snows - Till waves the harvest and laughs the rose. - Flower and forest and child of breath - With me have life—without me, death. - What if the ships go down in me? - I am the Sea! - - - - - THE LION PATH. - - - I dare not! - Look! the road is very dark; - The trees stir softly and the bushes shake, - The long grass rustles, and the darkness moves - Here—there—beyond! - There’s something crept across the road just now! - And you would have me go? - Go _there_, through that live darkness, hideous - With stir of crouching forms that wait to kill? - Ah, _look_! See there! and there! and there again! - Great yellow glassy eyes, close to the ground! - Look! Now the clouds are lighter I can see - The long slow lashing of the sinewy tails, - And the set quiver of strong jaws that wait! - Go there? Not I! Who dares to go who sees - So perfectly the lions in the path? - - Comes one who dares. - - Afraid at first, yet bound - On such high errand as no fear could stay. - Forth goes he with the lions in his path. - And then—? - - He dared a death of agony, - Outnumbered battle with the king of beasts, - Long struggle in the horror of the night, - Dared and went forth to meet—O ye who fear! - Finding an empty road, and nothing there,— - A wide, bare, common road, with homely fields, - And fences, and the dusty roadside trees— - Some spitting kittens, maybe, in the grass. - - - - - REINFORCEMENTS. - - - Yea, we despair. Because the night is long, - And all arms weary with the endless fight - With blind, black forces of insulted law - Which we continually disobey, - And know not how to honor if we would. - - How can we fight when every effort fails, - And the vast hydra looms before us still - Headed as thickly as at dawn of day, - Fierce as when evening fell on us at war? - We are aweary, and no help appears; - No light, no knowledge, no sure way to kill - Our ancient enemy. Let us give o’er! - We do but fight with fate! Lay down your arms! - Retreat! Surrender! Better live as slaves - Than fight forever on a losing field! - - Hold, ye faint-hearted! Ye are not alone! - Into your worn-out ranks of weary men - Come mighty reinforcements, even now! - Look where the dawn is kindling in the east, - Brave with the glory of the better day,— - A countless host, an endless host, all fresh, - With unstained banners and unsullied shields, - With shining swords that point to victory, - And great young hearts that know not how to fear,— - The Children come to save the weary world! - - - - - HEROISM. - - - It takes great strength to train - To modern service your ancestral brain; - To lift the weight of the unnumbered years - Of dead men’s habits, methods, and ideas; - To hold that back with one hand, and support - With the other the weak steps of a new thought. - - It takes great strength to bring your life up square - With your accepted thought, and hold it there; - Resisting the inertia that drags back - From new attempts to the old habit’s track. - It is so easy to drift back, to sink; - So hard to live abreast of what you think! - - It takes great strength to live where you belong - When other people think that you are wrong; - People you love, and who love you, and whose - Approval is a pleasure you would choose. - To bear this pressure and succeed at length - In living your belief—well, it takes strength. - - And courage too. But what does courage mean - Save strength to help you face a pain foreseen? - Courage to undertake this lifelong strain - Of setting yours against your grandsire’s brain; - Dangerous risk of walking lone and free - Out of the easy paths that used to be, - And the fierce pain of hurting those we love - When love meets truth, and truth must ride above? - - But the best courage man has ever shown - Is daring to cut loose and think alone. - Dark as the unlit chambers of clear space - Where light shines back from no reflecting face. - Our sun’s wide glare, our heaven’s shining blue, - We owe to fog and dust they fumble through; - And our rich wisdom that we treasure so - Shines from the thousand things that we don’t know. - But to think new—it takes a courage grim - As led Columbus over the world’s rim. - To think it cost some courage. And to go— - Try it. It taxes every power you know. - - It takes great love to stir a human heart - To live beyond the others and apart. - A love that is not shallow, is not small, - Is not for one, or two, but for them all. - Love that can wound love, for its higher need; - Love that can leave love though the heart may bleed; - Love that can lose love; family, and friend; - Yet steadfastly live, loving, to the end. - A love that asks no answer, that can live - Moved by one burning, deathless force,—to give. - Love, strength, and courage. Courage, strength, and love, - The heroes of all time are built thereof. - - - - - FIRE WITH FIRE. - - - There are creeping flames in the near-by grass; - There are leaping flames afar; - And the wind’s black breath - Is hot with death,— - The worst of the deaths that are! - - And north is fire and south is fire, - And east and west the same; - The sunlight chokes, - The whole earth smokes, - The only light is flame! - - But what do I care for the girdle of death - With its wavering wall and spire! - I draw the ring - Where I am king, - And fight the fire with fire! - - My blaze is not as wide as the world, - Nor tall for the world to see; - But the flames I make - For life’s sweet sake, - Are between the fire and me. - - That fire would burn in wantonness - All things that life must use; - Some things I lay - In the dragon’s way - And burn because I choose. - - The sky is black, the air is red, - The earth is a flaming sea; - But I’m shielded well - In the seething hell, - By the fire that comes from me. - - There is nothing on earth a man need fear, - Nothing so dark or dire; - Though the world is wide, - You have more inside, - You can fight the fire with fire! - - - - - THE SHIELD. - - - Fight! said the Leader. Stand and fight! - How dare you yield! - What is the pain of the bitter blows, - The ache and sting and the blood that flows, - To a losing field! - - Yea, said they, you may stand and fight; - We needs must yield! - What is the danger and pain to you, - When every blow falls fair and true - On your magic shield? - - The magical cuirass over your breast, - Leather and steel, - Guarded like that, of course you dare - To meet the storm of battle there— - But we can feel! - - The Leader fell where he fought alone. - See the lifeblood start - Where one more blow has pierced too far, - Through a bosom hardened with scar on scar,— - The only shield, the only bar, - For that great heart! - - - - - TO THE PREACHER. - - - Preach about yesterday, Preacher! - The time so far away: - When the hand of Deity smote and slew, - And the heathen plagued the stiff-necked Jew; - Or when the Man of Sorrows came, - And blessed the people who cursed his name— - Preach about yesterday, Preacher! - Not about to-day! - - Preach about to-morrow, Preacher! - Beyond this world’s decay: - Of the sheepfold Paradise we priced - When we pinned our faith to Jesus Christ; - Of those hot depths that shall receive - The goats who would not so believe— - Preach about to-morrow, Preacher, - Not about to-day! - - Preach about the old sins, Preacher! - And the old virtues, too: - You must not steal nor take man’s life, - You must not covet your neighbor’s wife, - And woman must cling at every cost - To her one virtue, or she is lost— - Preach about the old sins, Preacher! - Not about the new! - - Preach about the other man, Preacher! - The man we all can see! - The man of oaths, the man of strife, - The man who drinks and beats his wife, - Who helps his mates to fret and shirk - When all they need is to keep at work— - Preach about the other man, Preacher! - Not about me! - - - - - A TYPE. - - - I am too little, said the Wretch, - For any one to see. - Among the million men who do - This thing that I am doing too, - Why should they notice me? - - My sin is common as to breathe; - It rests on every back. - And surely I am not to blame - Where everybody does the same,— - Am not a bit more black! - - And so he took his willing share - In a universal crime, - Thinking that no reproach could fall - On one who shared the fault of all, - Who did it all the time. - - Then Genius came, and showed the world - What thing it was they did; - How their offence had reached the poles - With stench of slain unburied souls, - And all men cowered and hid. - - Then Genius took that one poor Wretch - For now the time was ripe; - Stripped him of every shield and blind, - And nailed him up for all mankind - To study—as a type! - - - - - COMPROMISE. - - - It is well to fight and win— - If that may be; - It is well to fight and die therein— - For such go free; - - It is ill to fight and find no grave - But a prison-cell; - To keep alive, yet live a slave— - Praise those who fell! - - But worst of all are those who stand - With arms laid by, - Bannerless, helpless, no command, - No battle-cry. - - They live to save unvalued breath, - With lowered eyes; - In place of victory, or death,— - A compromise! - - - - - PART OF THE BATTLE. - - - There is a moment when with splendid joy, - With flashing blade and roar of thundering guns - And colors waving wide where triumph stands, - The last redoubt is carried; we have won! - This is the battle! We have conquered now! - - But the long hours of marching in the sun, - The longer hours of waiting in the dark, - Deadly dishonored work of hidden spy, - The dull details of commissariat, - Food, clothing, medicine, the hospital, - The way the transportation mules are fed,— - These are the battle too, and victory’s price. - - And we, in days when no attack is feared - And none is hoped,—no sudden courage called,— - Should strengthen our intrenchments quietly, - Review the forces, exercise the troops, - Feeling the while, not “When will battle come?” - But, “This is battle! We are conquering now!” - - - - - STEP FASTER, PLEASE. - - - Of all most aggravating things, - If you are hot in haste, - Is to have a man in front of you - With half a day to waste. - - There is this one thing that justifies - The man in the foremost place: - The fact that he is the man in front, - The leader of the race. - - But, for Heaven’s sake, if you are ahead, - Don’t dawdle at your ease! - You set the pace for the man behind; - Step faster, please! - - - - - A NEW YEAR’S REMINDER. - - - Better have a tender conscience for the record of your house, - And your own share in the work which they have done, - Though your private conscience aches - With your personal mistakes, - And you don’t amount to very much alone, - - Than to be yourself as spotless as a baby one year old, - Your domestic habits wholly free from blame, - While the company you stand with - Is a thing to curse a land with, - And your public life is undiluted shame. - - For the deeds men do together are what saves the world to-day— - By our common public work we stand or fall— - And your fraction of the sin - Of the office you are in - Is the sin that’s going to damn you, after all! - - - - - OUT OF PLACE. - - - Cell, poor little cell, - Distended with pain, - Torn with the pressure - Of currents of effort - Resisted in vain; - Feeling sweep by you - The stream of nutrition, - Unable to take; - Crushed flat and inactive, - While shudder across you - Great forces that wake; - Alone—while far voices - Across all the shouting - Call you to your own; - Held fast, fastened close, - Surrounded, enveloped, - How you starve there alone! - Cell, poor little cell, - Let the pain pass—don’t hold it! - Let the effort pass through you! - Let go! And give way! - You will find your own place; - You will join your own people; - See the light of your day! - - - - - LITTLE CELL. - - - Little Cell! Little Cell! with a heart as big as heaven, - Remember that you are but a part! - This great longing in your soul - Is the longing of the whole, - And your work is not done with your heart! - - Don’t imagine, Little Cell, - That the work you do so well - Is the only work the world needs to do! - You are wanted in your place - For the growing of the race, - But the growing does not all depend on you! - - Little Cell! Little Cell! with a race’s whole ambition, - Remember there are others growing, too! - You’ve been noble, you’ve been strong; - Rest a while and come along; - Let the world take a turn and carry you! - - - - - THE CHILD SPEAKS. - - - Get back! Give me air! Give me freedom and room, - The warm earth and bright water, the crowding sweet bloom - Of the flowers, and the measureless, marvellous sky,— - All of these all the time, and a shelter close by - Where silence and beauty and peace are my own - In a chamber alone. - - Then bring me the others! “A child” is a crime; - It is “children” who grow through the beautiful time - Of their childhood up into the age you are in. - “A child” must needs suffer and sicken and sin; - The life of a child needs the life of its kind, - O ye stupid and blind! - - Then the best of your heart and the best of your brain! - The face of all beauty! The soul without stain! - Your noblest! Your wisest! With us is the place - To consecrate life to the good of the race! - That our childhood may pass with the best you can give, - And our manhood so live! - - The wisdom of years, the experience deep - That shall laugh with our waking and watch with our sleep, - The patience of age, the keen honor of youth, - To guide us in doing and teach us in truth, - With the garnered ripe fruit of the world at our feet, - Both the bitter and sweet! - - What is this that you offer? One man’s narrow purse! - One woman’s strained life, and a heart straining worse! - Confined as in prisons—held down as in caves— - The teaching of tyrants—the service of slaves— - The garments of falsehood and bondage—the weight - Of your own evil state. - - And what is this brought as atonement for these? - For our blind misdirection, our death and disease; - For the grief of our childhood, the loss and the wrong; - For the pain of our childhood, the agony strong; - For the shame and the sin and the sorrow thereof— - Dare you say it is love? - - Love? First give freedom,—the right of the brute! - The air with its sunshine, the earth with its fruit. - Love? First give wisdom,—intelligent care, - That shall help to bring out all the good that is there. - Love? First give justice! There’s nothing above! - And then you may love! - - - - - TO A GOOD MANY. - - - O blind and selfish! Helpless as the beast - Who sees no meaning in a soul released - And given flesh to grow in—to work through! - Think you that God has nothing else to do - Than babble endlessly the same set phrase? - Are life’s great spreading, upward-reaching ways - Laid for the beasts to climb on till the top - Is reached in you, you think, and there you stop! - They were raised up, obedient to force - Which lifted them, unwitting of their course. - You have new power, new consciousness, new sight; - You can help God! You stand in the great light - Of seeing him at work. You can go on - And walk with him, and feel the glory won. - And here you sit, content to toil and strive - To keep your kind of animal alive! - Why, friends! God is not through! - The universe is not complete in you. - You’re just as bound to follow out his plan - And sink yourself in ever-growing Man - As ever were the earliest, crudest eggs - To grow to vertebrates with arms and legs. - Society holds not its present height - Merely that you may bring a child to light; - But you and yours live only in the plan - That’s working out a higher kind of man; - A higher kind of life, that shall let grow - New powers and nobler duties than you know. - Rise to the thought! Live in the widening race! - Help make the State more like God’s dwelling-place! - New paths for life divine, as yet untrod,— - A social body for the soul of God! - - - - - HOW WOULD YOU? - - - Half of our misery, half our pain, - Half the dark background of our self-reproach, - Is thought of how the world has sinned before. - We, being one, one with all life, we feel - The misdemeanors of uncounted time; - We suffer in the foolishness and sins - Of races just behind us,—burn with shame - At their gross ignorance and murderous deeds; - We suffer back of them in the long years - Of squalid struggling savagery of beasts,— - Beasts human and subhuman; back of them - In helpless creatures eaten, hunted, torn; - In submerged forests dying in the slime; - And even back of that in endless years - Of hot convulsions of dismembered lands, - And slow constricting centuries of cold. - So in our own lives, even to this day, - We carry in the chambers of the mind - The tale of errors, failures, and misdeeds - That we call sins, of all our early lives. - And the recurrent consciousness of this - We call remorse. The unrelenting gauge, - Now measuring past error,—this is shame. - And in our feverish overconsciousness, - A retroactive and preactive sense,— - Fired with our self-made theories of sin,— - We suffer, suffer, suffer—half alive, - And half with the dead scars of suffering. - - Friends, how would you, perhaps, have made the world? - Would you have balanced the great forces so - Their interaction would have bred no shock? - No cosmic throes of newborn continents, - No eras of the earth-encircling rain,— - Uncounted scalding tears that fell and fell - On molten worlds that hotly dashed them back - In storms of fierce repudiated steam? - Would you have made earth’s gems without the fire, - Without the water, and without the weight - Of crushing cubic miles of huddled rock? - Would you have made one kind of plant to reign - In all the earth, growing mast high, and then - Keep it undying so, and end of plants? - Would you have made one kind of animal - To live on air and spare the tender grass, - And stop him, somehow, when he grew so thick - That even air fell short. Or would you have - All plants and animals, and make them change - By some metempsychosis not called death? - For, having them, you have to have them change, - For growth is change, and life is growth; and change - Implies—in this world—what we miscall pain. - - You, wiser, would have made mankind, no doubt, - Not slowly, awfully, from dying brutes - Up into living humanness at last, - But fresh as Adam in the Hebrew tale; - Only you would have left the serpent out, - And left him, naked, in the garden still. - Or somehow, dodging this, have still contrived - That he should learn the whole curriculum - And never miss a lesson—never fail— - Be born, like Buddha, all accomplished, wise. - Would you have chosen to begin life old, - Well-balanced, cautious, knowing where to step, - And so untortured by the memory - Of childhood’s foolishness and youth’s mistakes? - Or, born a child, to have experience - Come to you softly without chance of loss, - Recurring years each rolling to your hand - In blissful innocent unconsciousness? - - O dreamers with a Heaven and a Hell - Standing at either end of your wild rush - Away from the large peace of knowing God, - Can you not see that all of it is good? - Good, with the postulate that this is life,— - And that is all we have to argue from. - Childhood means error, the mistakes that teach; - But only rod and threat and nurse’s tale, - Make childhood’s errors bring us shame and sin. - The race’s childhood grows by error too, - And we are not attained to manhood yet. - But grief and shame are only born of lies. - Once see the lovely law that needs mistakes, - And you are young forever. This is Life. - - - - - A MAN MUST LIVE. - - - A man must live. We justify - Low shift and trick to treason high, - A little vote for a little gold - To a whole senate bought and sold, - By that self-evident reply. - - But is it so? Pray tell me why - Life at such cost you have to buy? - In what religion were you told - A man must live? - - There are times when a man must die. - Imagine, for a battle-cry, - From soldiers, with a sword to hold,— - From soldiers, with the flag unrolled,— - This coward’s whine, this liar’s lie,— - A man must live! - - - - - IN DUTY BOUND. - - - In duty bound, a life hemmed in - Whichever way the spirit turns to look; - No chance of breaking out, except by sin; - Not even room to shirk— - Simply to live, and work. - - An obligation pre-imposed, unsought, - Yet binding with the force of natural law; - The pressure of antagonistic thought; - Aching within, each hour, - A sense of wasting power. - - A house with roof so darkly low - The heavy rafters shut the sunlight out; - One cannot stand erect without a blow; - Until the soul inside - Cries for a grave—more wide. - - A consciousness that if this thing endure, - The common joys of life will dull the pain; - The high ideals of the grand and pure - Die, as of course they must, - Of long disuse and rust. - - That is the worst. It takes supernal strength - To hold the attitude that brings the pain; - And they are few indeed but stoop at length - To something less than best, - To find, in stooping, rest. - - - - - DESIRE. - - - Lo, I desire! Sum of the ages’ growth— - Fruit of evolving—king of life— - I, holding in myself the outgrown past - In all its ever-rising forms—desire. - With the first grass-blade, I desire the sun; - With every bird that breathes, I love the air; - With fishes, joy in water; with my horse, - Exult in motion; with all living flesh, - Long for sweet food and warmth and mate and young; - With the whole rising tide of that which is, - Thirst for advancement,—crave and yearn for it! - Yea, I desire! Then the compelling will - Urges to action to attain desire. - What action? Which desire? Am I a plant, - Rooted and helpless, following the light - Without volition? Or am I a beast, - Led by desire into the hunter’s snare? - Am I a savage, swayed by every wish, - Brutal and feeble, a ferocious child? - Stand back, Desire, and put your plea in words. - No wordless wailing for the summer moon, - No Gilpin race on some strong appetite, - Stand here before the King, and make your plea. - If Reason sees it just, you have your wish; - If not, your wish is vain, plead as you will. - The court is open, beggar! I am King! - - - - - WHY NOT? - - - Why not look forward far as Plato looked - And see the beauty of our coming life, - As he saw that which might be ours to-day? - If his soul, then, could rise so far beyond - The brutal average of that old time, - When icy peaks of art stood sheer and high - In fat black valleys where the helot toiled; - If he, from that, could see so far ahead, - Could forecast days when Love and Justice both - Should watch the cradle of a healthy child, - And Wisdom walk with Beauty and pure Joy - In all the common ways of daily life,— - Then may not we, from great heights hardly won, - Bright hills of liberty, broad plains of peace, - And flower-sweet valleys of warm human love, - Still broken by the chasms of despair - Where Poverty and Ignorance and Sin - Pollute the air of all,—why not, from this, - Look on as Plato looked, and see the day - When his Republic and our Heaven, joined, - Shall make life what God meant it? - Ay, we do! - - - - - OUT OF THE GATE. - - - Out of the glorious city gate - A great throng came. - A mighty throng that swelled and grew - Around a face that all men knew— - A man who bore a noted name— - Gathered to listen to his fate. - - The Judge sat high. Unbroken black - Around, above, and at his back. - The people pressed for nearer place, - Longing, yet shamed, to watch that face; - And in a space before the throne - The prisoner stood, unbound, alone. - So thick they rose on every side, - There was no spot his face to hide. - - Then came the Herald, crying clear, - That all the listening crowd should hear; - Crying aloud before the sun - What thing this fallen man had done. - He—who had held a ruler’s place - Among them, by their choice and grace— - He—fallen lower than the dust— - Had sinned against his public trust! - - The Herald ceased. The Poet arose, - The Poet, whose awful art now shows - To this poor heart, and heart of every one, - The horror of the thing that he had done. - - “O Citizen! Dweller in this high place! - Son of the city! Sharer in its pride! - Born in the light of its fair face! - By it fed, sheltered, taught, and glorified! - Raised to pure manhood by thy city’s care; - Made strong and beautiful and happy there; - Loving thy mother and thy father more - For the fair town which made them glad before; - Finding among its maidens thy sweet wife; - Owing to it thy power and place in life; - Raised by its people to the lofty stand - Where thou couldst execute their high command; - Trusted and honored, lifted over all,— - So honored and so trusted, didst thou fall! - Against the people—who gave thee the power— - Thou hast misused it in an evil hour! - Against the city where thou owest all all— - Thy city, man, within whose guarding wall - Lie all our life’s young glories—ay, the whole! - The home and cradle of the human soul! - Against thy city, beautiful and strong, - Thou, with the power it gave, hast done this wrong!” - - Then rose the Judge. “Prisoner, thy case was tried - Fairly and fully in the courts inside. - Thy guilt was proven, and thou hast confessed, - And now the people’s voice must do the rest. - I speak the sentence which the people give: - It is permitted thee to freely live, - Redeem thy sin by service to the state, - But nevermore within this city’s gate!” - - Back rolled the long procession, sad and slow, - Back where the city’s thousand banners blow. - The solemn music rises glad and clear - When the great gates before them open near, - Rises in triumph, sinks to sweet repose, - When the great gates behind them swing and close. - Free stands the prisoner, with a heart of stone. - The city gate is shut. He is alone. - - - - - THE MODERN SKELETON. - - - As kings of old in riotous royal feasts, - Among the piled up roses and the wine, - Wild music and soft-footed dancing girls, - The pearls and gold and barbarous luxury, - Used to show also a white skeleton,— - To make life meeker in the sight of death, - To make joy sweeter by the thought thereof,— - - So our new kings in their high banqueting, - With the electric lustre unforeseen, - And unimagined costliness of flowers; - Rich wines of price and food as rare as gems, - And all the wondrous waste of artifice; - Midst high-bred elegance and jewelled ease - And beauty of rich raiment; they should set, - High before all, a sickly pauper child, - To keep the rich in mind of poverty,— - The sure concomitant of their estate. - - - - - THE LESSON OF DEATH. - TO S. T. D. - - - In memory of one whose breath - Blessed all with words wise, loving, brave; - Whose life was service, and whose death - Unites our hearts around her grave. - - · · · · · - - Another blow has fallen, Lord— - Was it from thee? - Is it indeed thy fiery sword - That cuts our hearts? We know thy word; - We know by heart wherein it saith - “Whom the Lord loves he chasteneth”— - But also, in another breath, - This: “The wages of sin is death.” - - How may we tell what pain is good, - In mercy sent? - And what is evil through and through, - Sure consequence of what we do, - Sure product of thy broken laws, - Certain effect of given cause, - Just punishment? - - Not sin of those who suffer, Lord— - To them no shame. - For father’s sins our children die - With Justice sitting idly by; - The guilty thrive nor yet repent, - While sorrow strikes the innocent— - Whom shall we blame? - - ’Tis not that one alone is dead, - And these bereft. - For her, for them, we grieve indeed; - But there are other hearts that bleed! - All up and down the world so wide - We suffer, Lord, on every side,— - We who are left. - - See now, we bend our stricken hearts, - Patient and still, - Knowing thy laws are wholly just, - Knowing thy love commands our trust, - Knowing that good is God alone, - That pain and sorrow are our own, - And seeking out of all our pain - To struggle up to God again— - Teach us thy will! - - When shall we learn by common joy - Broad as the sun, - By common effort, common fear, - All common life that holds us near, - And this great bitter common pain - Coming again and yet again— - That we are one? - - Yea, one. We cannot sin apart, - Suffer alone; - Nor keep our goodness to ourselves - Like precious things on hidden shelves. - Because we each live not our best, - Some one must suffer for the rest— - For we are one! - - Our pain is but the voice of wrong— - Lord, help us hear! - Teach us to see the truth at last, - To mend our future from our past, - To know thy laws and find them friends, - Leading us safe to lovely ends, - Thine own hand near. - - Not one by doing right alone - Can mend the way; - But we must all do right together,— - Love, help, and serve each other, whether - We joy or suffer. So at last - Shall needless pain and death be past, - And we, thy children living here, - Be worthy of our father dear! - God speed the day! - - · · · · · - - Oh, help us, Father, from this loss - To learn thy will! - So shall our lost one live again; - So shall her life not pass in vain; - So shall we show in better living— - In loving, helping, doing, giving— - That she lives still! - - - - - FOR US. - - - If we have not learned that God’s in man, - And man in God again; - That to love thy God is to love thy brother, - And to serve the Lord is to serve each other,— - Then Christ was born in vain! - - If we have not learned that one man’s life - In all men lives again; - That each man’s battle, fought alone, - Is won or lost for every one,— - Then Christ hath lived in vain! - - If we have not learned that death’s no break - In life’s unceasing chain; - That the work in one life well begun - In others is finished, by others is done,— - Then Christ hath died in vain! - - If we have not learned of immortal life, - And a future free from pain; - The kingdom of God in the heart of man, - And the living world on Heaven’s plan,— - Then Christ arose in vain! - - - - - THANKSGIVING. - - - Well is it for the land whose people, yearly, - Turn to the Giver of all Good with praise, - Chanting glad hymns that thank him, loudly, clearly, - Rejoicing in the beauty of his ways. - - Great name that means all perfectness and power! - We thank thee—not for mercy, nor release, - But for clear joy in sky and sea and flower, - In thy pure justice, and thy blessed peace. - - We live; behind us the dark past; before, - A wide way full of light that thou dost give; - More light, more strength, more joy and ever more— - O God of joy! we thank thee that we live! - - - - - CHRISTMAS HYMN. - - - Listen not to the word that would have you believe - That the voice of the age is a moan; - That the red hand of wrong - Is triumphant and strong, - And that wrong is triumphant alone; - There was never a time on the face of the earth - When love was so near its own. - - Do you think that the love which has died for the world - Has not lived for the world also? - Filling man with the fire - Of a boundless desire - To love all with a love that shall grow? - It was not for nothing the White Christ was born - Two thousand years ago. - - The power that gave birth to the Son of the King - All life doth move and thrill, - Every age as ’tis passed - Coming nearer at last - To the law of that wonderful will,— - As our God so loved the world that day, - Our God so loves it still. - - The love that fed poverty, making it thrive, - Is learning a lovelier way. - We have seen that the poor - Need be with us no more, - And that sin may be driven away; - The love that has carried the martyrs to death - Is entering life to-day. - - The spirit of Christ is awake and alive, - In the work of the world it is shown, - Crying loud, crying clear, - That the Kingdom is here, - And that all men are heirs to the throne! - There was never a time since the making of man - When love was so near its own! - - - - - CHRISTMAS. - - - Slow, slow and weak, - As first the tongue began to speak, - The hand to serve, the heart to feel, - Grew up among our mutual deeds, - Great flower out-topping all the weeds, - Sweet fruit that meets all human needs, - Our love—our common weal. - - It spread so wide, so high, - We saw it broad against the sky, - Down shining where we trod; - It stormed our new-born consciousness, - Omnipotent to heal and bless, - Till we conceived—we could no less, - It was the love of God! - - Came there a man at length - Whose heart so swelled with the great strength - Of love that would have way, - That in his body he fulfilled - The utmost service love had willed; - And the great stream, so held, so spilled, - Pours on until to-day. - - Still we look back to this grand dream, - Still stoop to drink at this wide stream, - Wider each year we live; - And on one yearly blessed day, - Seek not to earn and not to pay, - But to let love have its one way,— - To quench our thirst _to give_! - - Brothers, cease not to bless the name - Of him who loved through death and shame, - We cannot praise amiss; - But not in vain was sown the seed; - Look wide where thousands toil and bleed, - Where men meet death for common need— - Hath no man loved but this? - - Yea, all men love; we love to-day - Wide as the human race has sway, - Ever more deep, more dear; - No stream,—an everlasting sea, - Beating and throbbing to be free, - To give it forth there needs must be - One Christmas all the year! - - - - - THE LIVING GOD. - - - The Living God. The God that made the world - Made it, and stood aside to watch and wait, - Arranging a predestined plan - To save the erring soul of man— - Undying destiny—unswerving fate. - I see his hand in the path of life, - His law to doom and save, - His love divine in the hopes that shine - Beyond the sinner’s grave, - His care that sendeth sun and rain, - His wisdom giving rest, - His price of sin that we may not win - The heaven of the blest. - - Not near enough! Not clear enough! - O God, come nearer still! - I long for thee! Be strong for me! - Teach me to know thy will! - - The Living God. The God that makes the world, - Makes it—is making it in all its worth; - His spirit speaking sure and slow - In the real universe we know,— - God living in the earth. - I feel his breath in the blowing wind, - His pulse in the swinging sea, - And the sunlit sod is the breast of God - Whose strength we feel and see. - His tenderness in the springing grass, - His beauty in the flowers, - His living love in the sun above,— - All here, and near, and ours! - - Not near enough! Not clear enough! - O God, come nearer still! - I long for thee! Be strong for me! - Teach me to know thy will! - - The Living God. The God that is the world. - The world? The world is man,—the work of man. - Then—dare I follow what I see?— - Then—by thy Glory—it must be - That we are in thy plan? - That strength divine in the work we do? - That love in our mothers’ eyes? - That wisdom clear in our thinking here? - That power to help us rise? - God in the daily work we’ve done, - In the daily path we’ve trod? - Stand still, my heart, for I am a part— - I too—of the Living God! - - Ah, clear as light! As near! As bright! - O God! My God! My Own! - Command thou me! I stand for thee! - And I do not stand alone! - - - - - A PRAYER. - - - O God! I cannot ask thee to forgive; - I have done wrong. - Thy law is just; thy law must live,— - Whoso doth wrong must suffer pain. - But help me to do right again,— - Again be strong. - - - - - GIVE WAY! - - - Shall we not open the human heart, - Swing the doors till the hinges start; - Stop our worrying doubt and din, - Hunting heaven and dodging sin? - There is no need to search so wide, - Open the door and stand aside— - Let God in! - - Shall we not open the human heart - To loving labor in field and mart; - Working together for all about, - The glad, large labor that knows not doubt? - Can He be held in our narrow rim? - Do the work that is work for Him— - Let God out! - - Shall we not open the human heart, - Never to close and stand apart? - God is a force to give way to! - God is a thing you have to do! - God can never be caught by prayer, - Hid in your heart and fastened there— - Let God through! - - - - - THANKSGIVING HYMN. - FOR CALIFORNIA. - - - Our forefathers gave thanks to God, - In the land by the stormy sea, - For bread hard wrung from the iron sod - In cold and misery. - Though every day meant toil and strife, - In the land by the stormy sea, - They thanked their God for the gift of life— - How much the more should we! - - Stern frost had they full many a day, - Strong ice on the stormy sea, - Long months of snow, gray clouds hung low, - And a cold wind endlessly; - Winter, and war with an alien race— - But they were alive and free! - And they thanked their God for his good grace— - How much the more should we! - - For we have a land all sunny with gold,— - A land by the summer sea; - Gold in the earth for our hands to hold, - Gold in blossom and tree; - Comfort, and plenty, and beauty, and peace, - From the mountains down to the sea. - They thanked their God for a year’s increase— - How much the more should we! - - - - - CHRISTMAS CAROL. - FOR LOS ANGELES. - - - On the beautiful birthday of Jesus, - While the nations praising stand, - He goeth from city to city, - He walketh from land to land. - - And the snow lies white and heavy, - And the ice lies wide and wan, - But the love of the blessed Christmas - Melts even the heart of man. - - With love from the heart of Heaven, - In the power of his Holy Name, - To the City of the Queen of the Angels - The tender Christ-child came. - - The land blushed red with roses, - The land laughed glad with grain, - And the little hills smiled softly - In the freshness after rain. - - Land of the fig and olive! - Land of the fruitful vine! - His heart grew soft within him, - As he thought of Palestine,— - - Of the brooks with the banks of lilies, - Of the little doves of clay, - And of how he sat with his mother - At the end of a summer’s day, - - His head on his mother’s bosom, - His hand in his mother’s hand, - Watching the golden sun go down - Across the shadowy land,— - - A moment’s life with human kind; - A moment,—nothing more; - Eternity lies broad behind, - Eternity before. - - High on the Hills of Heaven, - Majestic, undefiled, - Forever and ever he lives, a God; - But once he lived, a Child! - - And the child-heart leaps within him, - And the child-eyes softer grow, - When the land lies bright and sunny, - Like the land of long ago; - - And the love of God is mingled - With the love of dear days gone, - When he comes to the city of his mother, - On the day her child was born! - - - - - NEW DUTY. - - - Once to God we owed it all,— - God alone; - Bowing in eternal thrall, - Giving, sacrificing all, - Before the Throne. - - Once we owed it to the King,— - Served the crown; - Life, and love, and everything, - In allegiance to the King, - Laying down. - - Now we owe it to Mankind,— - To our Race; - Fullest fruit of soul and mind, - Heart and hand and all behind, - Now in place. - - Loving-service, wide and free, - From the sod - Up in varying degree, - Through me and you—through you and me— - Up to God! - - - - - SEEKING. - - - I went to look for Love among the roses, the roses, - The pretty wingèd boy with the arrow and the bow; - In the fair and fragrant places, - ’Mid the Muses and the Graces, - At the feet of Aphrodite, with the roses all aglow. - - Then I sought among the shrines where the rosy flames were leaping— - The rose and golden flames, never ceasing, never still— - For the boy so fair and slender, - The imperious, the tender, - With the whole world moving slowly to the music of his will. - - Sought, and found not for my seeking, till the sweet quest led me - further, - And before me rose the temple, marble-based and gold above, - Where the long procession marches - ’Neath the incense-clouded arches - In the world-compelling worship of the mighty God of Love. - - Yea, I passed with bated breath to the holiest of holies, - And I lifted the great curtain from the Inmost,—the Most Fair,— - - Eager for the joy of finding, - For the glory, beating, blinding, - Meeting but an empty darkness; darkness, silence—nothing there. - - Where is Love? I cried in anguish, while the temple reeled and faded; - Where is Love?—for I must find him, I must know and understand! - Died the music and the laughter, - Flames and roses dying after, - And the curtain I was holding fell to ashes in my hand. - - - - - FINDING. - - - Out of great darkness and wide wastes of silence, - Long loneliness, and slow untasted years, - Came a slow filling of the empty places, - A slow, sweet lighting of forgotten faces, - A smiling under tears. - - A light of dawn that filled the brooding heaven, - A warmth that kindled all the earth and air, - A thrilling tender music, floating, stealing, - A fragrance of unnumbered flowers revealing - A sweetness new and fair. - - After the loss of love where I had sought him, - After the anguish of the empty shrine, - Came a warm joy from all the hearts around me, - A feeling that some perfect strength had found me, - Touch of the hand divine. - - I followed Love to his intensest centre, - And lost him utterly when fastened there; - I let him go and ceased my selfish seeking, - Turning my heart to all earth’s voices speaking, - And found him everywhere. - - Love like the rain that falls on just and unjust, - Love like the sunshine, measureless and free, - From each to all, from all to each, to live in; - And, in the world’s glad love so gladly given, - Came heart’s true love to me! - - - - - TOO MUCH. - - - There are who die without love, never seeing - The clear eyes shining, the bright wings fleeing. - Lonely they die, and ahungered, in bitterness knowing - They have not had their share of the good there was going. - - There are who have and lose love, these most blessed, - In joy unstained which they have once possessed, - Lost while still dear, still sweet, still met by glad affection,— - An endless happiness in recollection. - - And some have Love’s full cup as he doth give it— - Have it, and drink of it, and, ah,—outlive it! - Full fed by Love’s delights, o’erwearied, sated, - They die, not hungry—only suffocated. - - - - - THE CUP. - - - And yet, saith he, ye need but sip; - And who would die without a taste? - Just touch the goblet to the lip, - Then let the bright draught run to waste! - - She set her lip to the beaker’s brim— - ’Twas passing sweet! ’Twas passing mild! - She let her large eyes dwell on him, - And sipped again, and smiled. - - So sweet! So mild! She scarce can tell - If she doth really drink or no; - Till the light doth fade and the shadows swell, - And the goblet lieth low. - - O cup of dreams! O cup of doubt! - O cup of blinding joy and pain! - The taste that none would die without! - The draught that all the world must drain! - - - - - WHAT THEN? - - - Suppose you write your heart out till the world - Sobs with one voice—what then? - Small agonies that round your heart-strings curled - Strung out for choice, that men - May pick a phrase, each for his own pet pain, - And thank the voice so come, - They being dumb. What then? - - You have no sympathy? O endless claim! - No one that cares? What then? - Suppose you had—the whole world knew your name - And your affairs, and men - Ached with your headache, dreamed your dreadful dreams, - And, with your heart-break due, - Their hearts broke too. What then? - - You think that people do not understand? - You suffer? Die? What then? - Unhappy child, look here, on either hand, - Look low or high,—all men - Suffer and die, and keep it to themselves! - They die—they suffer sore— - You suffer more? What then? - - - - - OUR LONELINESS. - - - There is no deeper grief than loneliness. - Our sharpest anguish at the death of friends - Is loneliness. Our agony of heart - When love has gone from us is loneliness. - The crying of a little child at night - In the big dark is crowding loneliness. - Slow death of woman on a Kansas farm; - The ache of those who think beyond their time; - Pain unassuaged of isolated lives,— - All this is loneliness. - - Oh, we who are one body of one soul! - Great soul of man born into social form! - Should we not suffer at dismemberment? - A finger torn from brotherhood; an eye - Having no cause to see when set alone. - Our separation is the agony - Of uses unfulfilled—of thwarted law; - The forces of all nature throb and push, - Crying for their accustomed avenues; - And we, alone, have no excuse to be,— - No reason for our being. We are dead - Before we die, and know it in our hearts. - - Even the narrowest union has some joy, - Transient and shallow, limited and weak; - And joy of union strengthens with its strength, - Deepens and widens as the union grows. - Hence the pure light of long-enduring love, - Lives blended slowly, softly, into one. - Hence civic pride, and glory in our states, - And the fierce thrill of patriotic fire - When millions feel as one! - - When we shall learn - To live together fully; when each man - And woman works in conscious interchange - With all the world,—union as wide as man,— - No human soul can ever suffer more - The devastating grief of loneliness. - - - - - THE KEEPER OF THE LIGHT. - - - A lighthouse keeper with a loving heart - Toiled at his service in the lonely tower, - Keeping his giant lenses clear and bright, - And feeding with pure oil the precious light - Whose power to save was as his own heart’s power. - - He loved his kind, and being set alone - To help them by the means of this great light, - He poured his whole heart’s service into it, - And sent his love down the long beams that lit - The waste of broken water in the night. - - He loved his kind, and joyed to see the ships - Come out of nowhere into his bright field, - And glide by safely with their living men, - Past him and out into the dark again, - To other hands their freight of joy to yield. - - His work was noble and his work was done; - He kept the ships in safety and was glad; - And yet, late coming with the light’s supplies, - They found the love no longer in his eyes— - The keeper of the light had fallen mad. - - - - - IMMORTALITY. - - - When I was grass, perhaps I may have wept - As every year the grass-blades paled and slept; - Or shrieked in anguish impotent, beneath - The smooth impartial cropping of great teeth— - I don’t remember much what came to pass - When I was grass. - - When I was monkey, I’m afraid the trees - Weren’t always havens of contented ease; - Things killed us, and we never could tell why; - No doubt we blamed the earth or sea or sky— - I have forgotten my rebellion’s shape - When I was ape. - - Now I have reached the comfortable skin - This stage of living is enveloped in, - And hold the spirit of my mighty race - Self-conscious prisoner under one white face,— - I’m awfully afraid I’m going to die, - Now I am I. - - So I have planned a hypothetic life - To pay me somehow for my toil and strife. - Blessed or damned, I someway must contrive - That I eternally be kept alive! - In this an endless, boundless bliss I see,— - Eternal me! - - · · · · · - - When I was man, no doubt I used to care - About the little things that happened there, - And fret to see the years keep going by, - And nations, families, and persons die. - I didn’t much appreciate life’s plan - When I was man. - - - - - WASTE. - - - Doth any man consider what we waste - Here in God’s garden? While the sea is full, - The sunlight smiles, and all the blessed earth - Offers her wealth to our intelligence. - We waste our food, enough for half the world, - In helpless luxury among the rich, - In helpless ignorance among the poor, - In spilling what we stop to quarrel for. - We waste our wealth in failing to produce, - In robbing of each other every day - In place of making things,—our human crown. - We waste our strength, in endless effort poured - Like water on the sand, still toiling on - To make a million things we do not want. - We waste our lives, those which should still lead on - Each new one gaining on the age behind, - In doing what we all have done before. - We waste our love,—poured up into the sky, - Across the ocean, into desert lands, - Sunk in one narrow circle next ourselves,— - While these, our brothers, suffer—are alone. - Ye may not pass the near to love the far; - Ye may not love the near and stop at that. - Love spreads through man, not over or around! - Yea, grievously we waste; and all the time - Humanity is wanting,—wanting sore. - Waste not, my brothers, and ye shall not want! - - - - - WINGS. - - - A sense of wings— - Soft downy wings and fair— - Great wings that whistle as they sweep - Along the still gulfs—empty, deep— - Of thin blue air. - - Doves’ wings that follow, - Doves’ wings that fold, - Doves’ wings that flutter down - To nestle in your hold. - - Doves’ wings that settle, - Doves’ wings that rest, - Doves’ wings that brood so warm - Above the little nest. - - Larks’ wings that rise and rise, - Climbing the rosy skies— - Fold and drop down - To birdlings brown. - - Light wings of wood-birds, that one scarce believes - Moved in the leaves. - - The quick, shy flight - Of wings that flee in fright— - A start as swift as light— - Only the shaken air - To tell that wings were there. - - Broad wings that beat for many days - Above the land wastes and the water ways; - Beating steadily on and on, - Through dark and cold, - Through storms untold, - Till the far sun and summer land is won. - - And wings— - Wings that unfold - With such wide sweep before your would-be hold— - Such glittering sweep of whiteness—sun on snow— - Such mighty plumes—strong-ribbed, strong-webbed—strong-knit to go - From earth to heaven! - Hear the air flow back - In their wide track! - Feel the sweet wind these wings displace - Beat on your face! - See the great arc of light like rising rockets trail - They leave in leaving— - They avail— - These wings—for flight! - - - - - THE HEART OF THE WATER. - - - O the ache in the heart of the water that lies - Underground in the desert, unopened, unknown, - While the seeds lie unbroken, the blossoms unblown, - And the traveller wanders—the traveller dies! - - O the joy in the heart of the water that flows - From the well in the desert,—a desert no more,— - Bird-music and blossoms and harvest in store, - And the white shrine that showeth the traveller knows! - - - - - THE SHIP. - - - The sunlight is mine! And the sea! - And the four wild winds that blow! - The winds of heaven that whistle free— - They are but slaves to carry me - Wherever I choose to go! - - Fire for a power inside! - Air for a pathway free! - I traverse the earth in conquest wide; - The sea is my servant! The sea is my bride! - And the elements wait on me! - - · · · · · - - In dull green light, down-filtered sick and slow - Through miles of heavy water overhead, - With miles of heavy water yet below, - A ship lies, dead. - Shapeless and broken, swayed from side to side, - The helpless driftwood of an unknown tide. - - - - - AMONG THE GODS. - - - How close the air of valleys, and how close - The teeming little life that harbors there! - For me, I will climb mountains. Up and up, - Higher and higher, till I pant for breath - In that thin clearness. Still? There is no sound - Nor memory of sound upon these heights. - Ah! the great sunlight! The caressing sky, - The beauty, and the stillness, and the peace! - I see my pathway clear for miles below; - See where I fell, and set a friendly sign - To warn some other of the danger there. - The green small world is wide below me spread. - The great small world! Some things look large and fair - Which, in their midst, I could not even see; - And some look small which used to terrify. - Blessed these heights of freedom, wisdom, rest! - I will go higher yet. - - A sea of cloud - Rolls soundless waves between me and the world. - This is the zone of everlasting snows, - And the sweet silence of the hills below - Is song and laughter to the silence here. - Great fields, huge peaks, long awful slopes of snow. - Alone, triumphant, man above the world, - I stand among these white eternities. - - Sheer at my feet - Sink the unsounded, cloud-encumbered gulfs; - And shifting mists now veil and now reveal - The unknown fastnesses above me yet. - I am alone—above all life—sole king - Of these white wastes. How pitiful and small - Becomes the outgrown world! I reign supreme, - And in this utter stillness and wide peace - Look calmly down upon the universe. - - Surely that crest has changed! That pile of cloud - That covers half the sky, waves like a robe! - That large and gentle wind - Is like the passing of a presence here! - See how yon massive mist-enshrouded peak - Is like the shape of an unmeasured foot,— - The figure with the stars! - Ah! what is this? It moves, lifts, bends, is gone! - - With what a shocking sense of littleness— - A reeling universe that changes place, - And falls to new relation over me— - I feel the unseen presence of the gods! - - - - - SONGS. - - - I. - - O world of green, all shining, shifting! - O world of blue, all living, lifting! - O world where glassy waters smoothly roll! - Fair earth, and heaven free, - Ye are but part of me— - Ye are my soul! - - O woman nature, shining, shifting! - O woman creature, living, lifting! - Come soft and still to one who waits thee here! - Fair soul, both mine and free, - Ye who are part of me, - Appear! Appear! - - - II. - - How could I choose but weep? - The poor bird lay asleep; - For lack of food, for lack of breath, - For lack of life he came to death— - How could I choose but weep? - - How could I choose but smile? - There was no lack the while! - In bliss he did undo himself; - Where life was full he slew himself— - How could I choose but smile? - - Would ye but understand! - Joy is on every hand! - Ye shut your eyes and call it night, - Ye grope and fall in seas of light— - Would ye but understand! - - - - - HEAVEN. - - - Thou bright mirage, that o’er man’s arduous way - Hast hung in the hot sky, with fountains streaming, - Cool marble domes, and palm-fronds waving, gleaming,— - Vision of rest and peace to end the day! - Now he is weariest, alone, astray, - Spent with long labor, led by thy sweet seeming, - Faint as the breath of Nature’s lightest dreaming, - Thou waverest and vanishest away! - - Can Nature dream? Is God’s great sky deceiving? - Where joy like that the clouds above us show - Be sure the counterpart must lie below, - Sweeter than hope, more blessed than believing! - We lose the fair reflection of our home - Because so near its gates our feet have come! - - - - - BALLAD OF THE SUMMER SUN. - - - It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong, - That highest growth has come to man in countries white with snow; - And they tell of truth and wisdom that to northern folk belong, - And claim the brain is feeble where the south winds always blow. - They forget to read the story of the ages long ago: - The lore that built the pyramids where still the simoom veers, - The knowledge framing Tyrian ships, the greater skill that steers, - The learning of the Hindu in his volumes never done, - All the wisdom of Egyptians and the old Chaldean seers,— - Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun. - - It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong, - That courage bred of meeting cold makes martial bosoms glow; - And they point to mighty generals the northern folk among, - And call mankind emasculate where southern waters flow. - They forget to look at history and see the nations grow! - The cohorts of Assyrian kings, the Pharaohs’ charioteers, - The march of Alexander, the Persians’ conquering spears, - The legions of the Romans, from Ethiop to Hun, - The power that mastered all the world and held it years on years,— - Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun. - - It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong, - That only pain and suffering the power to feel bestow; - And they show us noble artists made great by loss and wrong, - And say the soul is lowered that hath pleasure without woe. - They forget the perfect monuments that pleasure’s blessings show; - The statue and the temple that no man living nears, - Song and verse and music forever in the ears, - The glory that remaineth while the sands of time shall run, - The beauty of immortal art that never disappears,— - Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun. - - The faith of Thor and Odin, the creed of force and fears, - Cruel gods that deal in death, the icebound soul reveres, - But the Lord of Peace and Blessing was not one! - Truth and Power and Beauty—Love that endeth tears— - Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun. - - - - - PIONEERS. - - - Long have we sung our noble pioneers, - Vanguard of progress, heralds of the time, - Guardians of industry and art sublime, - Leaders of man down all the brightening years! - To them the danger, to their wives the tears, - While we sit safely in the city’s grime, - In old-world trammels of distress and crime, - Playing with words and thoughts, with doubts and fears. - - Children of axe and gun! Ye take to-day - The baby steps of man’s first, feeblest age, - While we, thought-seekers of the printed page, - We lead the world down its untrodden way! - Ours the drear wastes and leagues of empty waves, - The lonely deaths, the undiscovered graves. - - - - - EXILES. - - - Exiled from home. The far sea rolls - Between them and the country of their birth; - The childhood-turning impulse of their souls - Pulls half across the earth. - Exiled from home. No mother to take care - That they work not too hard, grieve not too sore; - No older brother nor small sister fair; - No father any more. - - Exiled from home; from all familiar things; - The low-browed roof, the grass-surrounded door; - Accustomed labors that gave daylight wings; - Loved steps on the worn floor. - - Exiled from home. Young girls sent forth alone - When most their hearts need close companioning; - No love and hardly friendship may they own, - No voice of welcoming. - - Blinded with homesick tears the exile stands; - To toil for alien household gods she comes; - A servant and a stranger in our lands, - Homeless within our homes. - - - - - A NEVADA DESERT. - - - An aching, blinding, barren, endless plain, - Corpse-colored with white mould of alkali, - Hairy with sage-brush, slimy after rain, - Burnt with the sky’s hot scorn, and still again - Sullenly burning back against the sky. - - Dull green, dull brown, dull purple, and dull gray, - The hard earth white with ages of despair, - Slow-crawling, turbid streams where dead reeds sway, - Low wall of sombre mountains far away, - And sickly steam of geysers on the air. - - - - - TREE FEELINGS. - - - I wonder if they like it—being trees? - I suppose they do.... - It must feel good to have the ground so flat, - And feel yourself stand right straight up like that— - So stiff in the middle—and then branch at ease, - Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow, - And all those fringy leaves that flutter so. - You’d think they’d break off at the lower end - When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend. - But then you think of all the roots they drop, - As much at bottom as there is on top,— - A double tree, widespread in earth and air - Like a reflection in the water there. - - I guess they like to stand still in the sun - And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run; - And like to feel the rain run through their hair - And slide down to the roots and settle there. - But I think they like wind best. From the light touch - That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much, - To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide, - And all the time so stiff and strong inside! - And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel - How long their roots are, and the earth how leal! - - And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost! - And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost! - And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem, - But to be apples—and bow down with them! - - - - - MONOTONY. - FROM CALIFORNIA. - - - When ragged lines of passing days go by, - Crowding and hurried, broken-linked and slow, - Some sobbing pitifully as they pass, - Some angry-hot and fierce, some angry cold, - Some raging and some wailing, and again - The fretful days one cannot read aright,— - Then truly, when the fair days smile on us, - We feel that loveliness with sharper touch - And grieve to lose it for the next day’s chance. - And so men question—they who never know - If beauty comes or horror, pain or joy— - If we, whose sky is peace, whose hours are glad, - Find not our happiness monotonous! - But when the long procession of the days - Rolls musically down the waiting year, - Close-ranked, rich-robed, flower-garlanded and fair; - Broad brows of peace, deep eyes of soundless truth, - And lips of love,—warm, steady, changeless love; - Each one more beautiful, till we forget - Our niggard fear of losing half an hour, - And learn to count on more and ever more,— - In the remembered joy of yesterday, - In the full rapture of to-day’s delight, - And knowledge of the happiness to come, - We learn to let life pass without regret, - We learn to hold life softly and in peace, - We learn to meet life gladly, full of faith, - We learn what God is, and to trust in Him! - - - - - THE BEDS OF FLEUR-DE-LYS. - - - High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green turf, - Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea, - Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky, - And, curving over them as long they lie, - Beds of wild fleur-de-lys. - - Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far, - Breaking the green like islands in the sea; - Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend - Dwindling over the horizon’s end,— - Wild beds of fleur-de-lys. - - The light keen wind streams on across the lifts, - Thin wind of western springtime by the sea; - The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her - Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir - In beds of fleur-de-lys. - - And here and there across the smooth, low grass - Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea; - And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside, - For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,— - The beds of fleur-de-lys. - - THE PRESIDIO, SAN FRANCISCO. - - - - - IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE. - - - It is good to be alive when the trees shine green, - And the steep red hills stand up against the sky; - Big sky, blue sky, with flying clouds between— - It is good to be alive and see the clouds drive by! - - It is good to be alive when the strong winds blow, - The strong, sweet winds blowing straightly off the sea; - Great sea, green sea, with swinging ebb and flow— - It is good to be alive and see the waves roll free! - - - - - THE CHANGELESS YEAR. - SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. - - - Doth Autumn remind thee of sadness? - And Winter of wasting and pain? - Midsummer, of joy that was madness? - Spring, of hope that was vain? - - Do the Seasons fly fast at thy laughter? - Do the Seasons lag slow if thou weep, - Till thou long’st for the land lying after - The River of Sleep? - - Come here, where the West lieth golden - In the light of an infinite sun, - Where Summer doth Winter embolden - Till they reign here as one! - - Here the Seasons tread soft and steal slowly; - A moment of question and doubt— - Is it Winter? Come faster!—come wholly!— - And Spring rusheth out! - - We forget there are tempests and changes; - We forget there are days that are drear; - In a dream of delight, the soul ranges - Through the measureless year. - - Still the land is with blossoms enfolden, - Still the sky burneth blue in its deeps; - Time noddeth, ’mid poppies all golden, - And memory sleeps. - - - - - WHERE MEMORY SLEEPS. - RONDEAU. - - - Where memory sleeps the soul doth rise, - Free of that past where sorrow lies, - And storeth against future ills - The courage of the constant hills, - The comfort of the quiet skies. - - Fair is this land to tired eyes, - Where summer sunlight never dies, - And summer’s peace the spirit fills, - Where memory sleeps. - - Safe from the season’s changing cries - And chill of yearly sacrifice, - Great roses crowd the window-sills,— - Calm roses that no winter kills. - The peaceful heart all pain denies, - Where memory sleeps. - - - - - CALIFORNIA CAR WINDOWS. - - - Lark songs ringing to Heaven, - Earth light clear as the sky; - Air like the breath of a greenhouse - With the greenhouse roof on high. - - Flowers to see till you’re weary, - To travel in hours and hours; - Ranches of gold and purple, - Counties covered with flowers! - - A rainbow, a running rainbow, - That flies at our side for hours; - A ribbon, a broidered ribbon, - A rainbow ribbon of flowers. - - - - - LIMITS. - - - On sand—loose sand and shifting— - On sand—dry sand and drifting— - The city grows to the west; - Not till its border reaches - The ocean-beaten beaches - Will it rest. - - On hills—steep hills and lonely, - That stop at cloudland only— - The city climbs to the sky; - Not till the souls who make it - Touch the clear light and take it, - Will it die. - - - - - POWELL STREET. - - - You start - From the town’s hot heart - To ride up Powell Street. - Hotel and theatre and crowding shops, - And Market’s cabled stream that never stops, - And the mixed hurrying beat - Of countless feet— - Take a front seat. - Before you rise - Six terraced hills, up to the low-hung skies; - Low where across the hill they seem to lie, - And then—how high! - Up you go slowly. To the right - A wide square, green and bright. - Above that green a broad façade, - Strongly and beautifully made, - In warm clear color standeth fair and true - Against the blue. - Only, above, two purple domes rise bold, - Twin-budded spires, bright-tipped with balls of gold. - Past that, and up you glide, - Up, up, till, either side, - Wide earth and water stretch around—away— - The straits, the hills, and the low-lying, wide-spread, dusky bay. - Great houses here, - Dull, opulent, severe. - Dives’ gold birds on guarding lamps a-wing— - Dead gold, that may not sing! - Fair on the other side - Smooth, steep-laid sweeps of turf and green boughs waving wide. - This is the hilltop’s crown. - Below you, down - In blurred, dim streets, the market quarter lies, - Foul, narrow, torn with cries - Of tortured things in cages, and the smell - Of daily bloodshed rising; that is hell. - - But up here on the crown of Powell Street - The air is sweet; - And the green swaying mass of eucalyptus bends - Like hands of friends, - To gladden you despite the mansions’ frown. - Then you go down. - - Down, down, and round the turns to lower grades; - Lower in all ways; darkening with the shades - Of poverty, old youth, and unearned age, - And that quick squalor which so blots the page - Of San Francisco’s beauty,—swift decay - Chasing the shallow grandeur of a day. - - Here, like a noble lady of lost state, - Still calmly smiling at encroaching fate, - Amidst the squalor, rises Russian Hill,— - Proud, isolated, lonely, lovely still. - - So on you glide. - Till the blue straits lie wide - Before you; purple mountains loom across, - And islands green as moss; - With soft white fog-wreaths drifting, drifting through - To comfort you; - And light, low-singing waves that tell you reach - The end,—North Beach. - - - - - FROM RUSSIAN HILL. - - - A strange day—bright and still; - Strange for the stillness here, - For the strong trade-winds blow - With such a steady sweep it seems like rest, - Forever steadily across the crest - Of Russian Hill. - - Still now and clear,— - So clear you count the houses spreading wide - In the fair cities on the farther side - Of our broad bay; - And brown Goat Island lieth large between, - Its brownness brightening into sudden green - From rains of yesterday. - - Blue? Blue above of Californian sky, - Which has no peer on earth for its pure flame; - Bright blue of bay and strait spread wide below, - And, past the low, dull hills that hem it so,— - Blue as the sky, blue as the placid bay,— - Blue mountains far away. - - Thanks this year for the early rains that came - To bless us, meaning Summer by and by. - This is our Spring-in-Autumn, making one - The Indian Summer tenderness of sun— - Its hazy stillness, and soft far-heard sound— - And the sweet riot of abundant spring, - The greenness flaming out from everything, - The sense of coming gladness in the ground. - - From this high peace and purity look down; - Between you and the blueness lies the town. - Under those huddled roofs the heart of man - Beats warmer than this brooding day, - Spreads wider than the hill-rimmed bay, - And throbs to tenderer life, were it but seen, - Than all this new-born, all-enfolding green! - - Within that heart lives still - All that one guesses, dreams, and sees— - Sitting in sunlight, warm, at ease— - From this high island,—Russian Hill. - - - - - “AN UNUSUAL RAIN.” - - - Again! - Another day of rain! - It has rained for years. - It never clears. - The clouds come down so low - They drag and drip - Across each hill-top’s tip. - In progress slow - They blow in from the sea - Eternally; - Hang heavily and black, - And then roll back; - And rain and rain and rain, - Both drifting in and drifting out again. - - They come down to the ground, - These clouds, where the ground is high; - And, lest the weather fiend forget - And leave one hidden spot unwet, - The fog comes up to the sky! - And all our pavement of planks and logs - Reeks with the rain and steeps in the fogs - Till the water rises and sinks and presses - Into your bonnets and shoes and dresses; - And every outdoor-going dunce - Is wet in forty ways at once. - - Wet? - It’s wetter than being drowned. - Dark? - Such darkness never was found - Since first the light was made. And cold? - O come to the land of grapes and gold, - Of fruit and flowers and sunshine gay, - When the rainy season’s under way! - - And they tell you calmly, evermore, - They never had such rain before! - - What’s that you say? Come out? - Why, see that sky! - Oh, what a world! so clear! so high! - So clean and lovely all about; - The sunlight burning through and through, - And everything just blazing blue. - And look! the whole world blossoms again - The minute the sunshine follows the rain. - Warm sky—earth basking under— - Did it ever rain, I wonder? - - - - - THE HILLS. - - - The flowing waves of our warm sea - Roll to the beach and die, - But the soul of the waves forever fills - The curving crests of our restless hills - That climb so wantonly. - - Up and up till you look to see - Along the cloud-kissed top - The great hill-breakers curve and comb - In crumbling lines of falling foam - Before they settle and drop. - - Down and down, with the shuddering sweep - Of the sea-wave’s glassy wall, - You sink with a plunge that takes your breath, - A thrill that stirreth and quickeneth, - Like the great line steamer’s fall. - - We have laid our streets by the square and line, - We have built by the line and square; - But the strong hill-rises arch below - And force the houses to curve and flow - In lines of beauty there. - - And off to the north and east and south, - With wildering mists between, - They ring us round with wavering hold, - With fold on fold of rose and gold, - Violet, azure, and green. - - - - - CITY’S BEAUTY. - - - Fair, oh, fair are the hills uncrowned, - Only wreathed and garlanded - With the soft clouds overhead, - With the waving streams of rain; - Fair in golden sunlight drowned, - Bathed and buried in the bright - Warm luxuriance of light,— - Fair the hills without a stain. - - Fairer far the hills should stand - Crownèd with a city’s halls, - With the glimmer of white walls, - With the climbing grace of towers; - Fair with great fronts tall and grand, - Stately streets that meet the sky, - Lovely roof-lines, low and high,— - Fairer for the days and hours. - - Woman’s beauty fades and flies, - In the passing of the years, - With the falling of the tears, - With the lines of toil and stress; - City’s beauty never dies,— - Never while her people know - How to love and honor so - Her immortal loveliness. - - - - - TWO SKIES. - FROM ENGLAND. - - - They have a sky in Albion, - At least they tell me so; - But she will wear a veil so thick, - And she does have the sulks so quick, - And weeps so long and slow, - That one can hardly know. - - Yes, there’s a sky in Albion. - She’s shown herself of late. - And where it was not white or gray, - It was quite bluish—in a way; - But near and full of weight, - Like an overhanging plate! - - Our sky in California! - Such light the angels knew, - When the strong, tender smile of God - Kindled the spaces where they trod, - And made all life come true! - Deep, soundless, burning blue! - - - - - WINDS AND LEAVES. - FROM ENGLAND. - - - Wet winds that flap the sodden leaves! - Wet leaves that drop and fall! - Unhappy, leafless trees the wind bereaves! - Poor trees and small! - - All of a color, solemn in your green; - All of a color, sombre in your brown; - All of a color, dripping gray between - When leaves are down! - - O for the bronze-green eucalyptus spires - Far-flashing up against the endless blue! - Shifting and glancing in the steady fires - Of sun and moonlight too. - - Dark orange groves! Pomegranate hedges bright, - And varnished fringes of the pepper trees! - And O that wind of sunshine! Wind of light! - Wind of Pacific seas! - - - - - ON THE PAWTUXET. - - - Broad and blue is the river, all bright in the sun; - The little waves sparkle, the little waves run; - The birds carol high, and the winds whisper low; - The boats beckon temptingly, row upon row; - Her hand is in mine as I help her step in. - Please Heaven, this day I shall lose or shall win— - Broad and blue is the river. - - Cool and gray is the river, the sun sinks apace, - And the rose-colored twilight glows soft in her face. - In the midst of the rose-color Venus doth shine, - And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine; - Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past, - And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast— - Cool and gray is the river. - - Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float - Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat. - The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too, - And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue. - I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine, - And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine— - Smooth and black is the river. - - - - - A MOONRISE. - - - The heavy mountains, lying huge and dim, - With uncouth outline breaking heaven’s brim; - And while I watched and waited, o’er them soon, - Cloudy, enormous, spectral, rose the moon. - - - - - THEIR GRASS! - A PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA. - - - They say we have no grass! - To hear them talk - You’d think that grass could walk - And was their bosom friend,—no day to pass - Between them and their grass. - - “No grass!” they say who live - Where hot bricks give - The hot stones all their heat and back again,— - A baking hell for men. - - “O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks, - Where fat policemen check the children’s larks; - And sign to sign repeats as in a glass, - ‘Keep off the grass!’ - We have our cities’ parks and grass, you see!” - Well—so have we! - - But ’tis the country that they sing of most. “Alas,” - They sing, “for our wide acres of soft grass!— - To please us living and to hide us dead—” - You’d think Walt Whitman’s first was all they read! - You’d think they all went out upon the quiet - Nebuchadnezzar to outdo in diet! - You’d think they found no other green thing fair, - Even its seed an honor in their hair! - You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,— - Evergreen grass!—and we, ploughed ground! - - But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow - Under your snow? - Is your beloved grass as softly nice - When packed in ice? - For six long months you live beneath a blight,— - No grass in sight. - You bear up bravely. And not only that, - But leave your grass and travel; and thereat - We marvel deeply, with slow western mind, - Wondering within us what these people find - Among our common oranges and palms - To tear them from the well-remembered charms - Of their dear vegetable. But still they come, - Frost-bitten invalids! to our bright home, - And chide our grasslessness! Until we say, - “But if you hate it so, why come? Why stay? - Just go away! - Go to—your grass!” - - - - - THE PROPHETS. - - - Time was we stoned the Prophets. Age on age, - When men were strong to save, the world hath slain them. - People are wiser now; they waste no rage— - The Prophets entertain them! - - - - - SIMILAR CASES. - - - There was once a little animal, - No bigger than a fox, - And on five toes he scampered - Over Tertiary rocks. - They called him Eohippus, - And they called him very small, - And they thought him of no value— - When they thought of him at all; - For the lumpish old Dinoceras - And Coryphodon so slow - Were the heavy aristocracy - In days of long ago. - - Said the little Eohippus, - “I am going to be a horse! - And on my middle finger-nails - To run my earthly course! - I’m going to have a flowing tail! - I’m going to have a mane! - I’m going to stand fourteen hands high - On the psychozoic plain!” - - The Coryphodon was horrified, - The Dinoceras was shocked; - And they chased young Eohippus, - But he skipped away and mocked. - Then they laughed enormous laughter, - And they groaned enormous groans, - And they bade young Eohippus - Go view his father’s bones. - Said they, “You always were as small - And mean as now we see, - And that’s conclusive evidence - That you’re always going to be. - What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast, - With hoofs to gallop on? - _Why! You’d have to change your nature!_” - Said the Loxolophodon. - They considered him disposed of, - And retired with gait serene; - That was the way they argued - In “the early Eocene.” - - There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, - Far smarter than the rest, - And everything that they could do - He always did the best; - So they naturally disliked him, - And they gave him shoulders cool, - And when they had to mention him - They said he was a fool. - - Cried this pretentious Ape one day, - “I’m going to be a Man! - And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, - And conquer all I can! - I’m going to cut down forest trees, - To make my houses higher! - I’m going to kill the Mastodon! - I’m going to make a fire!” - - Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes - With laughter wild and gay; - They tried to catch that boastful one, - But he always got away. - So they yelled at him in chorus, - Which he minded not a whit; - And they pelted him with cocoanuts, - Which didn’t seem to hit. - And then they gave him reasons - Which they thought of much avail, - To prove how his preposterous - Attempt was sure to fail. - Said the sages, “In the first place, - The thing cannot be done! - And, second, if it _could_ be, - It would not be any fun! - And, third, and most conclusive, - And admitting no reply, - _You would have to change your nature_! - We should like to see you try!” - They chuckled then triumphantly, - These lean and hairy shapes, - For these things passed as arguments - With the Anthropoidal Apes. - - There was once a Neolithic Man, - An enterprising wight, - Who made his chopping implements - Unusually bright. - Unusually clever he, - Unusually brave, - And he drew delightful Mammoths - On the borders of his cave. - To his Neolithic neighbors, - Who were startled and surprised, - Said he, “My friends, in course of time, - We shall be civilized! - We are going to live in cities! - We are going to fight in wars! - We are going to eat three times a day - Without the natural cause! - We are going to turn life upside down - About a thing called gold! - We are going to want the earth, and take - As much as we can hold! - We are going to wear great piles of stuff - Outside our proper skins! - We are going to have Diseases! - And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!” - - Then they all rose up in fury - Against their boastful friend, - For prehistoric patience - Cometh quickly to an end. - Said one, “This is chimerical! - Utopian! Absurd!” - Said another, “What a stupid life! - Too dull, upon my word!” - Cried all, “Before such things can come, - You idiotic child, - _You must alter Human Nature_!” - And they all sat back and smiled. - Thought they, “An answer to that last - It will be hard to find!” - It was a clinching argument - To the Neolithic Mind! - - - - - A CONSERVATIVE. - - - The garden beds I wandered by - One bright and cheerful morn, - When I found a new-fledged butterfly - A-sitting on a thorn, - A black and crimson butterfly, - All doleful and forlorn. - - I thought that life could have no sting - To infant butterflies, - So I gazed on this unhappy thing - With wonder and surprise, - While sadly with his waving wing - He wiped his weeping eyes. - - Said I, “What can the matter be? - Why weepest thou so sore? - With garden fair and sunlight free - And flowers in goodly store—” - But he only turned away from me - And burst into a roar. - - Cried he, “My legs are thin and few - Where once I had a swarm! - Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view— - Once kept my body warm, - Before these flapping wing-things grew, - To hamper and deform!” - - At that outrageous bug I shot - The fury of mine eye; - Said I, in scorn all burning hot, - In rage and anger high, - “You ignominious idiot! - Those wings are made to fly!” - - “I do not want to fly,” said he, - “I only want to squirm!” - And he drooped his wings dejectedly, - But still his voice was firm; - “I do not want to be a fly! - I want to be a worm!” - - O yesterday of unknown lack! - To-day of unknown bliss! - I left my fool in red and black, - The last I saw was this,— - The creature madly climbing back - Into his chrysalis. - - - - - AN OBSTACLE. - - - I was climbing up a mountain-path - With many things to do, - Important business of my own, - And other people’s too, - When I ran against a Prejudice - That quite cut off the view. - - My work was such as could not wait, - My path quite clearly showed, - My strength and time were limited, - I carried quite a load; - And there that hulking Prejudice - Sat all across the road. - - So I spoke to him politely, - For he was huge and high, - And begged that he would move a bit - And let me travel by. - He smiled, but as for moving!— - He didn’t even try. - - And then I reasoned quietly - With that colossal mule: - My time was short—no other path— - The mountain winds were cool. - I argued like a Solomon; - He sat there like a fool. - - Then I flew into a passion, - I danced and howled and swore. - I pelted and belabored him - Till I was stiff and sore; - He got as mad as I did— - But he sat there as before. - - And then I begged him on my knees; - I might be kneeling still - If so I hoped to move that mass - Of obdurate ill-will— - As well invite the monument - To vacate Bunker Hill! - - So I sat before him helpless, - In an ecstasy of woe— - The mountain mists were rising fast, - The sun was sinking slow— - When a sudden inspiration came, - As sudden winds do blow. - - I took my hat, I took my stick, - My load I settled fair, - I approached that awful incubus - With an absent-minded air— - And I walked directly through him, - As if he wasn’t there! - - - - - THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL. - - - The fox who had lost his tail found out - That now he could faster go; - He had less to cover when hid for prey, - He had less to carry on hunting day, - He had less to guard when he stood at bay; - He was really better so! - - Now he was a fine altruistical fox - With the good of his race at heart, - So he ran to his people with tailless speed, - To tell of the change they all must need, - And recommend as a righteous deed - That they and their tails should part! - - Plain was the gain as plain could be, - But his words did not avail; - For they all replied, “We perceive your case; - You do not speak for the good of the race, - But only to cover your own disgrace, - Because you have lost your tail!” - - Then another fox, of a liberal mind, - With a tail of splendid size, - Became convinced that the tailless state - Was better for all of them, soon or late. - Said he, “I will let my own tail wait, - And so I can open their eyes.” - - Plain was the gain as plain could be, - But his words did not avail, - For they all made answer, “My plausible friend, - You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end. - We know you’re dishonest and only pretend, - For you have not lost your tail!” - - - - - THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY. - - - In Norway fiords, in summer-time, - The Norway birch is fair: - The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine, - The whole tree groweth tall and fine; - For all it wants is there,— - Water and warmth and air,— - Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing - That nature in perfection by its growing. - - But follow the persistent tree - To the limit of endless snow - There you may see what a birch can be! - The product showeth plain and free - How nobly plants can grow - With nine months’ winter slow. - ’Tis fitted to survive in that position, - Developed by the force of bad condition. - - See now what life the tree doth keep,— - Branchless, three-leaved, and tough; - In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep - To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep. - Strong is the tree and rough, - It lives, and that’s enough. - “Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by— - A Norway birch—and less than one inch high! - - · · · · · - - That silver monarch of the summer wood, - Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good, - Knew not in his perversity - The sweeter uses of adversity! - - - - - CONNOISSEURS. - - - “No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily - Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily, - From canons free; - “Work such as this lacks value and perspective, - Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,— - Does not appeal to me.” - - Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely, - Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly, - “Why, ain’t that flat?” - Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly, - Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly, - “I don’t like that!” - - The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly - Of what some genius had attempted daringly, - “This fellow tries; - He handles his conception frankly, feelingly. - Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly, - I recognize.” - - The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly, - Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly, - “Oh, come and see!” - But all that they could say of art’s reality - Was this poor voice of poorer personality, - “Now, that suits me!” - - - - - TECHNIQUE. - - - Cometh to-day the very skilful man; - Profoundly skilful in his chosen art; - All things that other men can do he can, - And do them better. He is very smart. - - Sayeth, “My work is here before you all; - Come now with duly cultured mind to view it. - Here is great work, no part of it is small; - Perceive how well I do it! - - “I do it to perfection. Studious years - Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won; - Labor and thought are in my work, and tears. - Behold how well ’tis done! - - “See with what power this great effect is shown; - See with what ease you get the main idea; - A master in my art, I stand alone; - Now you may praise,—I hear.” - - And I, “O master, I perceive your sway, - I note the years of study, toil, and strain - That brought the easy power you wield to-day, - The height you now attain. - - “Freely your well-trained power I see you spend, - Such skill in all my life I never saw; - You have done nobly; but, my able friend, - What have you done it for? - - “You have no doubt achieved your dearest end: - Your work is faultless to the cultured view. - You do it well, but, O my able friend, - What is it that you do?” - - - - - THE PASTELLETTE. - - - “The pastelle is too strong,” said he. - “Lo! I will make it fainter yet!” - And he wrought with tepid ecstasy - A pastellette. - - A touch—a word—a tone half caught— - He softly felt and handled them; - Flavor of feeling—scent of thought— - Shimmer of gem— - That we may read, and feel as he - What vague, pale pleasure we can get - From this mild, witless mystery,— - The pastellette. - - - - - THE PIG AND THE PEARL. - - - Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie! - Tasteless, and hard, and dry— - Get out of my sty! - Glittering, smooth, and clean, - You only seek to be seen! - I am dirty and big! - A virtuous, valuable pig. - For me all things are sweet - That I can possibly eat; - But you—how can you be good - Without being fit for food? - Not even food for me, - Who can eat all this you see, - No matter how foul and sour; - I revel from hour to hour - In refuse of great and small; - But you are no good at all, - And if I should gulp you, quick, - It would probably make me sick!” - Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!” - And she rooted her out of the sty. - A Philosopher chancing to pass - Saw the Pearl in the grass, - And laid hands on the same in a trice, - For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price. - Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew - What a fool thing you do, - It would grieve even you! - Grant that pearls are not just to your taste, - Must you let them run waste? - You care only for hogwash, I know, - For your litter and you. Even so, - This tasteless hard thing which you scorn - Would buy acres of corn; - And apples, and pumpkins, and pease, - By the ton, if you please! - By the wealth which this pearl represents, - You could grow so immense— - You, and every last one of your young— - That your fame would be sung - As the takers of every first prize, - For your flavor and size! - From even a Pig’s point of view - The Pearl was worth millions to you. - Be a Pig—and a fool—(you must be them) - But try to know Pearls when you see them!” - - - - - POOR HUMAN NATURE. - - - I saw a meagre, melancholy cow, - Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain; - Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how—? - Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!” - Poor bovine nature! - - I saw a sickly horse of shambling gait, - Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back, - Useless in all ways, in a wretched state. - “We’re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack. - Poor equine nature! - - I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground, - Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears, - The mice escaping from her aimless bound. - Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!” - Poor feline nature! - - Then did I glory in my noble race, - Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong, - Rejoicing that we held a higher place - And need not add to theirs our mournful song,— - Poor human nature! - - - - - OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE. - - - Said I to my friend from the East,— - A tenderfoot he,— - As I showed him the greatest and least - Of our hills by the sea, - “How do you like our climate?” - And I smiled in my glee. - - I showed him the blue of the hills, - And the blue of the sky, - And the blue of the beautiful bay - Where the ferry-boats ply; - And “How do you like our climate?” - Securely asked I. - - Then the wind blew over the sand, - And the fog came down, - And the papers and dust were on hand - All over the town. - “How do you like our climate?” - I cried with a frown. - - On the corner we stood as we met - Awaiting a car; - Beneath us a vent-hole was set, - As our street corners are— - And street corners in our San Francisco - Are perceptible far. - - He meant to have answered, of course, - I could see that he tried; - But he had not the strength of a horse, - And before he replied - The climate rose up from that corner in force, - And he died! - - SAN FRANCISCO, 1895. - - - - - CRITICISM. - - - The Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray, - Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west; - To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display, - “’Tis n’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday! - I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away, - “The sunsets can’t be always at their best!” - - - - - ANOTHER CREED. - - - Another creed! We’re all so pleased! - A gentle, tentative new creed. We’re eased - Of all those things we could not quite believe, - But would not give the lie to. Now perceive - How charmingly this suits us! Science even - Has naught against our modern views of Heaven; - And yet the most emotional of women - May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in. - - Here’s something now so loose and large of fit - That all the churches may come under it, - And we may see upon the earth once more - A church united,—as we had before! - Before so much of precious blood was poured - That each in his own way might serve the Lord! - All wide divergence in sweet union sunk, - Like branches growing up into a trunk! - - And in our intellectual delight - In this sweet formula that sets us right; - And controversial exercises gay - With those who still prefer a differing way; - And our glad effort to make known this wonder - And get all others to unite thereunder,— - We, joying in this newest, best of creeds, - Continue still to do our usual deeds! - - - - - THE LITTLE LION. - - - It was a little lion lay— - In wait he lay—he lay in wait. - Came those who said, “Pray come my way; - We joy to see a lion play, - And laud his, gait!” - - The little lion mildly came— - In wait for prey—for prey in wait. - The people all adored his name, - And those who led him saw the same - With hearts elate. - - The little lion grew that day,— - In glee he went—he went in glee. - Said he, “I love to seek my prey, - But also love to see the way - My prey seek me!” - - - - - A MISFIT. - - - O Lord, take me out of this! - I do not fit! - My body does not suit my mind, - My brain is weak in the knees and blind, - My clothes are not what I want to find— - Not one bit! - - My house is not the house I like— - Not one bit! - My church is built so loose and thin - That ten fall out where one falls in; - My creed is buttoned with a pin— - It does not fit! - - The school I went to wasn’t right— - Not one bit! - The education given me - Was meant for the community, - And my poor head works differently— - It does not fit! - - I try to move and find I can’t— - Not one bit! - Things that were given me to stay - Are mostly lost and blown away, - And what I have to use to-day— - It does not fit! - - What I was taught I cannot do— - Not one bit! - And what I do I was not taught - And what I find I have not sought; - I never say the thing I ought— - It does not fit! - - I have not meant to be like this— - Not one bit! - But in the puzzle and the strife - I fail my friend and pain my wife; - Oh, how it hurts to have a life - That does not fit! - - - - - ON NEW YEAR’S DAY. - - - On New Year’s Day he plans a cruise - To Heaven straight—no time to lose! - Vowing to live so virtuously - That each besetting sin shall flee— - Good resolutions wide he strews - On New Year’s Day. - - A while he minds his p’s and q’s, - And all temptations doth refuse, - Recalling his resolves so free - On New Year’s Day. - - But in the long year that ensues, - They fade away by threes and twos— - The place we do not wish to see - Is paved with all he meant to be, - When he next year his life reviews— - On New Year’s Day. - - - - - OUR EAST. - - - Our East, long looking backward over sea, - In loving study of what used to be, - Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn - England has had for us since we were born. - - You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment hard - The West was just New England’s back yard! - That all the West was made for, last and least, - Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East! - - A place to travel in, for rest and health, - A place to struggle in and get the wealth, - The only normal end of which, of course, - Is to return to its historic source! - - Our Western acres, curving to the sun, - The Western strength whereby our work is done, - All Western progress, they attribute fair - To Eastern Capital invested there! - - New England never liked old England’s scorn. - Do they think theirs more easy to be borne? - Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child, - Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild? - - In union still our sovereignty has stood, - A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood. - We stand together. Patience, mighty West! - Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest! - - - - - UNMENTIONABLE. - - - There is a thing of which I fain would speak, - Yet shun the deed; - Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek - Of those who read. - - And yet it is as common in our sight - As dust or grass; - Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light, - Of those who pass. - - We say no word, but the big placard rests - Frequent in view, - To sicken those who do not with requests - Of those who do. - - “Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say. - They read with scorn. - “Gentlemen must not”—they defile the way - Of those who warn. - - On boat and car the careful lady lifts - Her dress aside; - If careless—think, fair traveller, of the gifts - Of those who ride! - - On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair, - Where man’s at home, - This loathsomeness is added to the care - Of those who come. - - As some foul slug his trail of slime displays - On leaf and stalk, - These street-beasts make a horror in the ways - Of those who walk. - - We cannot ask reform of those who do— - They can’t or won’t. - We can express the scorn, intense and true, - Of those who don’t. - - - - - AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA. - - - Aren’t you tired of protection from the weather? - Of defences, guards, and shields? - Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether - This year the farm land yields? - - Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness, - The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold? - Of waiting on the weather man with shyness - To see if the last plans hold? - - Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing, - Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,— - Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing - At Providence and undertakers’ bills? - - Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting, - The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie; - The dubiety of any sort of outing; - The chip upon the shoulder of the sky? - - Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses, - Like a child abused who ducks before your frown, - Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses— - O come and live and take your elbow down! - - Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences; - This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end; - Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses! - This weather is your friend! - - A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven, - A peace that wins your frightened soul at length; - A place where rest as well as work is given,— - Rest is the food of strength. - - - - - RESOLVE. - - - To keep my health! - To do my work! - To live! - To see to it I grow and gain and give! - Never to look behind me for an hour! - To wait in weakness, and to walk in power; - But always fronting onward to the light, - Always and always facing toward the right. - Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray— - On, with what strength I have! - Back to the way! - - - - - WOMAN. - - - - - SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING. - - - She walketh veiled and sleeping, - For she knoweth not her power; - She obeyeth but the pleading - Of her heart, and the high leading - Of her soul, unto this hour. - Slow advancing, halting, creeping, - Comes the Woman to the hour!— - She walketh veiled and sleeping, - For she knoweth not her power. - - - - - TO MAN. - - - In dark and early ages, through the primal forests faring, - Ere the soul came shining into prehistoric night, - Two-fold man was equal; they were comrades dear and daring, - Living wild and free together in unreasoning delight. - - Ere the soul was born and consciousness came slowly, - Ere the soul was born, to man and woman too, - Ere he found the Tree of Knowledge, that awful tree and holy, - Ere he knew he felt, and knew he knew. - - Then said he to Pain, “I am wise now, and I know you! - No more will I suffer while power and wisdom last!” - Then said he to Pleasure, “I am strong, and I will show you - That the will of man can seize you; aye, and hold you fast!” - - Food he ate for pleasure, and wine he drank for gladness, - And woman? Ah, the woman! the crown of all delight!— - His now—he knew it! He was strong to madness - In that early dawning after prehistoric night. - - His—his forever! That glory sweet and tender! - Ah, but he would love her! And she should love but him! - He would work and struggle for her, he would shelter and defend her; - She should never leave him, never, till their eyes in death were dim. - - Close, close he bound her, that she should leave him never; - Weak still he kept her, lest she be strong to flee; - And the fainting flame of passion he kept alive forever - With all the arts and forces of earth and sky and sea. - - And, ah, the long journey! The slow and awful ages - They have labored up together, blind and crippled, all astray! - Through what a mighty volume, with a million shameful pages, - From the freedom of the forest to the prisons of to-day! - - Food he ate for pleasure, and it slew him with diseases! - Wine he drank for gladness, and it led the way to crime! - And woman? He will hold her—he will have her when he pleases— - And he never once hath seen her since the prehistoric time! - - Gone the friend and comrade of the day when life was younger, - She who rests and comforts, she who helps and saves; - Still he seeks her vainly, with a never-dying hunger; - Alone beneath his tyrants, alone above his slaves! - - Toiler, bent and weary with the load of thine own making! - Thou who art sad and lonely, though lonely all in vain! - Who hast sought to conquer Pleasure and have her for the taking, - And found that Pleasure only was another name for Pain,— - - Nature hath reclaimed thee, forgiving dispossession! - God hath not forgotten, though man doth still forget! - The woman-soul is rising, in despite of thy transgression; - Loose her now—and trust her! She will love thee yet! - - Love thee? She will love thee as only freedom knoweth; - Love thee? She will love thee while Love itself doth live! - Fear not the heart of woman! No bitterness it showeth! - The ages of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive! - - - - - WOMEN OF TO-DAY. - - - You women of to-day who fear so much - The women of the future, showing how - The dangers of her course are such and such— - What are you now? - - Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth! - Great names! you cry, full scope to rule and please! - Boom for wise age and energetic youth!— - But are you these? - - Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore, - Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease? - No, you keep servants only! What is more, - You don’t keep these! - - Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they - Who hold of love the everlasting keys, - Keeping their husbands’ hearts! Alas the day! - You don’t keep these! - - And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry - From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees! - Why, half the children born—as children die! - You don’t keep these! - - And still the wailing babies come and go, - And homes are waste, and husbands’ hearts fly far, - There is no hope until you dare to know - The thing you are! - - - - - TO THE YOUNG WIFE. - - - Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife? - Are you content and satisfied to live - On what your loving husband loves to give, - And give to him your life? - - Are you content with work,—to toil alone, - To clean things dirty and to soil things clean; - To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen,— - Queen of a cook-stove throne? - - Are you content to reign in that small space— - A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land— - With other queens abundant on each hand, - Each fastened in her place? - - Are you content to rear your children so? - Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed, - Are you so sure your way is always best? - That you can always know? - - Have you forgotten how you used to long - In days of ardent girlhood, to be great, - To help the groaning world, to serve the state, - To be so wise—so strong? - - And are you quite convinced this is the way, - The only way a woman’s duty lies— - Knowing all women so have shut their eyes? - Seeing the world to-day? - - Have you no dream of life in fuller store? - Of growing to be more than that you are? - Doing the things you now do better far, - Yet doing others—more? - - Losing no love, but finding as you grew - That as you entered upon nobler life - You so became a richer, sweeter wife, - A wiser mother too? - - What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne, - Your paltry queenship in that narrow place, - Your antique labors, your restricted space, - Your working all alone! - - Be not deceived! ’Tis not your wifely bond - That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power, - But selfish, slavish service hour by hour— - A life with no beyond! - - - - - FALSE PLAY. - - - “Do you love me?” asked the mother of her child, - And the baby answered, “No!” - Great Love listened and sadly smiled; - He knew the love in the heart of the child— - That you could not wake it so. - - “Do not love me?” the foolish mother cried, - And the baby answered, “No!” - He knew the worth of the trick she tried— - Great Love listened, and grieving, sighed - That the mother scorned him so. - - “Oh, poor mama!” and she played her part - Till the baby’s strength gave way: - He knew it was false in his inmost heart, - But he could not bear that her tears should start, - So he joined in the lying play. - - “Then love mama!” and the soft lips crept - To the kiss that his love should show,— - The mouth to speak while the spirit slept! - Great Love listened, and blushed, and wept - That they blasphemed him so. - - - - - MOTHERHOOD. - - - Motherhood: First mere laying of an egg, - With blind foreseeing of the wisest place, - And blind provision of the proper food - For unseen larva to grow fat upon - After the instinct-guided mother died,— - Posthumous motherhood, no love, no joy. - - Motherhood: Brooding patient o’er the nest, - With gentle stirring of an unknown love; - Defending eggs unhatched, feeding the young - For days of callow feebleness, and then - Driving the fledglings from the nest to fly. - - Motherhood: When the kitten and the cub - Cried out alive, and first the mother knew - The fumbling of furry little paws, - The pressure of the hungry little mouths - Against the more than ready mother-breast,— - The love that comes of giving and of care. - - Motherhood: Nursing with her heart-warm milk, - Fighting to death all danger to her young, - Hunting for food for little ones half-weaned, - Teaching them how to hunt and fight in turn,— - Then loving not till the new litter came. - - Motherhood: When the little savage grew - Tall at his mother’s side, and learned to feel - Some mother even in his father’s heart, - Love coming to new babies while the first - Still needed mother’s care, and therefore love,— - Love lasting longer because childhood did. - - Motherhood: Semi-civilized, intense, - Fierce with brute passion, narrow with the range - Of slavish lives to meanest service bowed; - Devoted—to the sacrifice of life; - Jealous beyond belief, and ignorant - Even of what should keep the child alive. - Love spreading with the spread of human needs, - The child’s new, changing, ever-growing wants, - Yet seeking like brute mothers of the past - To give all things to her own child herself. - Loving to the exclusion of all else; - To the child’s service bending a whole life; - Yet stunting the young creature day by day - With lack of Justice, Liberty, and Peace. - - Motherhood: Civilized. There stands at last, - Facing the heavens with as calm a smile, - The highest fruit of the long work of God; - The highest type of this, the highest race; - She from whose groping instinct grew all love— - All love—in which is all the life of man. - - Motherhood: Seeing with her clear, kind eyes, - Luminous, tender eyes, wherein the smile - Is like the smile of sunlight on the sea, - That the new children of the newer day - Need more than any single heart can give, - More than is known to any single mind, - More than is found in any single house, - And need it from the day they see the light. - Then, measuring her love by what they need, - Gives, from the heart of modern motherhood. - Gives first, as tree to bear God’s highest fruit, - A clean, strong body, perfect and full grown, - Fair for the purpose of its womanhood, - Not for light fancy of a lower mind; - Gives a clear mind, athletic, beautiful, - Dispassionate, unswerving from the truth; - Gives a great heart that throbs with human love, - As she would wish her son to love the world. - Then, when the child comes, lovely as a star, - She, in the peace of primal motherhood, - Nurses her baby with unceasing joy, - With milk of human kindness, human health, - Bright human beauty, and immortal love. - And then? Ah! here is the New Motherhood— - The motherhood of the fair new-made world— - O glorious New Mother of New Men! - Her child, with other children from its birth, - In the unstinted freedom of warm air, - Under the wisest eyes, the tenderest thought, - Surrounded by all beauty and all peace, - Led, playing, through the gardens of the world, - With the crowned heads of science and great love - Mapping safe paths for those small, rosy feet,— - Taught human love by feeling human love, - Taught justice by the laws that rule his days, - Taught wisdom by the way in which he lives, - Taught to love all mankind and serve them fair - By seeing, from his birth, all children served - With the same righteous, all-embracing care. - - O Mother! Noble Mother, yet to come! - How shall thy child point to the bright career - Of her of whom he boasts to be the son— - Not for assiduous service spent on him, - But for the wisdom which has set him forth - A clear-brained, pure-souled, noble-hearted man, - With health and strength and beauty his by birth; - And, more, for the wide record of her life, - Great work, well done, that makes him praise her name - And long to make as great a one his own! - And how shall all the children of the world, - Feeling all mothers love them, loving all, - Rise up and call her blessed! - This shall be. - - - - - SIX HOURS A DAY. - - - Six hours a day the woman spends on food! - Six mortal hours a day.... - With fire and water toiling, heat and cold; - Struggling with laws she does not understand - Of chemistry and physics, and the weight - Of poverty and ignorance besides. - Toiling for those she loves, the added strain - Of tense emotion on her humble skill, - The sensitiveness born of love and fear, - Making it harder to do even work. - Toiling without release, no hope ahead - Of taking up another business soon, - Of varying the task she finds too hard— - This, her career, so closely interknit - With holier demands as deep as life - That to refuse to cook is held the same - As to refuse her wife and motherhood. - Six mortal hours a day to handle food,— - Prepare it, serve it, clean it all away,— - With allied labors of the stove and tub, - The pan, the dishcloth, and the scrubbing-brush. - Developing forever in her brain - The power to do this work in which she lives; - While the slow finger of Heredity - Writes on the forehead of each living man, - Strive as he may, “His mother was a cook!” - - - - - AN OLD PROVERB. - - “As much pity to see a woman weep as to see a goose go barefoot.” - - - No escape, little creature! The earth hath no place - For the woman who seeketh to fly from her race. - Poor, ignorant, timid, too helpless to roam, - The woman must bear what befalls her, at home. - Bear bravely, bear dumbly—it is but the same - That all others endure who live under the name. - No escape, little creature! - - No escape under heaven! Can man treat you worse - After God has laid on you his infinite curse? - The heaviest burden of sorrow you win - Cannot weigh with the load of original sin; - No shame be too black for the cowering face - Of her who brought shame to the whole human race! - No escape under heaven! - - Yet you feel, being human. You shrink from the pain - That each child, born a woman, must suffer again. - From the strongest of bonds heart can feel, man can shape, - You cannot rebel, or appeal, or escape. - You must bear and endure. If the heart cannot sleep, - And the pain groweth bitter,—too bitter,—then weep! - For you feel, being human. - - And she wept, being woman. The numberless years - Have counted her burdens and counted her tears; - The maid wept forsaken, the mother forlorn - For the child that was dead, and the child that was born. - Wept for joy—as a miracle!—wept in her pain! - Wept aloud, wept in secret, wept ever in vain! - Still she weeps, being woman. - - - - - REASSURANCE. - - - Can you imagine nothing better, brother, - Than that which you have always had before? - Have you been so content with “wife and mother,” - You dare hope nothing more? - - Have you forever prized her, praised her, sung her, - The happy queen of a most happy reign? - Never dishonored her, despised her, flung her - Derision and disdain? - - Go ask the literature of all the ages! - Books that were written before women read! - Pagan and Christian, satirists and sages,— - Read what the world has said! - - There was no power on earth to bid you slacken - The generous hand that painted her disgrace! - There was no shame on earth too black to blacken - That much praised woman-face! - - Eve and Pandora!—always you begin it— - The ancients called her Sin and Shame and Death! - “There is no evil without woman in it,” - The modern proverb saith! - - She has been yours in uttermost possession,— - Your slave, your mother, your well-chosen bride,— - And you have owned, in million-fold confession, - You were not satisfied. - - Peace, then! Fear not the coming woman, brother! - Owning herself, she giveth all the more! - She shall be better woman, wife, and mother - Than man hath known before! - - - - - MOTHER TO CHILD. - - - How best can I serve thee, my child! My child! - Flesh of my flesh and dear heart of my heart! - Once thou wast within me—I held thee—I fed thee— - By the force of my loving and longing I led thee— - Now we are apart! - - I may blind thee with kisses and crush with embracing, - Thy warm mouth in my neck and our arms interlacing; - But here in my body my soul lives alone, - And thou answerest me from a house of thine own,— - That house which I builded! - - Which we builded together, thy father and I; - In which thou must live, O my darling, and die! - Not one stone can I alter, one atom relay,— - Not to save or defend thee or help thee to stay— - That gift is completed! - - How best can I serve thee? O child, if they knew - How my heart aches with loving! How deep and how true, - How brave and enduring, how patient, how strong, - How longing for good and how fearful of wrong, - Is the love of thy mother! - - Could I crown thee with riches! Surround, overflow thee - With fame and with power till the whole world should know thee; - With wisdom and genius to hold the world still, - To bring laughter and tears, joy and pain, at thy will, - Still—_thou_ mightst not be happy! - - Such have lived—and in sorrow. The greater the mind, - The wider and deeper the grief it can find. - The richer, the gladder, the more thou canst feel - The keen stings that a lifetime is sure to reveal. - O my child! Must thou suffer? - - Is there no way my life can save thine from a pain? - Is the love of a mother no possible gain? - No labor of Hercules—search for the Grail— - No way for this wonderful love to avail? - God in Heaven—O teach me! - - My prayer has been answered. The pain thou must bear - Is the pain of the world’s life which thy life must share. - Thou art one with the world—though I love thee the best; - And to save thee from pain I must save all the rest— - Well—with God’s help I’ll do it! - - Thou art one with the rest. I must love thee in them. - Thou wilt sin with the rest; and thy mother must stem - The world’s sin. Thou wilt weep; and thy mother must dry - The tears of the world lest her darling should cry. - I will do it—God helping! - - And I stand not alone. I will gather a band - Of all loving mothers from land unto land. - Our children are part of the world! do ye hear? - They are one with the world—we must hold them all dear! - Love all for the child’s sake! - - For the sake of my child I must hasten to save - All the children on earth from the jail and the grave. - For so, and so only, I lighten the share - Of the pain of the world that my darling must bear— - Even so, and so only! - - - - - SERVICES. - - - She was dead. Forth went the word, - And every creature heard. - To the last hamlet in the farthest lands, - To people countless as the sands - Of primal seas. - - And with the word so sent - Her life’s full record went,— - Of what fair line, how gifted, how endowed, - How educated; and then, told aloud, - The splendid tale of what her life had done; - And all the people heard and felt as one; - Exulting all together in their dead, - And the grand story of the life she led. - - But in the city where her body lay - Great services were held on that fair day: - People by thousands; music to the sky; - Flowers of a garnered season; winding by, - Processions, glorious in rich array, - All massing in the temple where she lay. - - Then, when the music rested, rose and stood - Those who could speak of her and count the good, - The measureless great good her life had spread, - That all might hear the praises of their dead. - And those who loved her sent from the world’s end - Their tribute to the memory of their friend; - While teachers to their children whispered low, - “See that you have as many when you go!” - - Then was recited how her life had part - In building up this science and that art, - Inventing here, administering there, - Helping to organize, create, prepare, - - With fullest figures to expatiate - On her unmeasured value to the state. - And the child, listening, grew in noble pride, - And planned for greater praises when he died. - - Then the Poet spoke of those long ripening years; - And tenderer music brought the grateful tears; - And then, lest grief upon their heartstrings hang, - Her children stood around the bier and sang: - - In the name of the mother that bore us— - Bore us strong—bore us free— - We will strive in the labors before us, - Even as she! Even as she! - - In the name of her wisdom and beauty, - Of her life full of light, - We will live in our national duty, - We will help on the right: - - We will love as her heart loved before us, - Warm and wide—strong and high! - In the name of the mother that bore us, - We will live! We will die! - - - - - IN MOTHER-TIME. - - - When woman looks at woman with the glory in her eyes, - When eternity lies open like a scroll, - - When immortal life is being felt,—the life that never dies,— - And the triumph of it ringeth - And the sweetness of it singeth - In the soul, - - Then we come to California, the Garden of the Lord, - Through all its leagues of endless blossoming; - And we sing, we sing together, to the whole world’s deep accord— - And we feel each other praying - Over what the flowers are saying - As we sing. - - We were waiting, we were growing, glad of heart and strong of soul, - Like the peace and power of all these virgin lands; - Through the years of holy maidenhood with motherhood for goal— - And soon we shall be holding - Fruit of all life’s glad unfolding - In our hands. - - White-robed mothers, flower-crowned mothers, in the splendor of their - youth, - In the grandeur of maturity and power; - Feeling life has passed the telling in its joyousness and truth, - - Feeling life will soon be giving - Them the golden key of living - In one hour. - - We come to California for the sunshine and the flowers; - Our motherhood has brought us here as one; - For the fruit of all the ages should share the shining hours, - With the blossoms ever-springing - And the golden globes low swinging, - In the sun. - - - - - SHE WHO IS TO COME. - - - A woman—in so far as she beholdeth - Her one Beloved’s face; - A mother—with a great heart that enfoldeth - The children of the Race; - A body, free and strong, with that high beauty - That comes of perfect use, is built thereof; - A mind where Reason ruleth over Duty, - And Justice reigns with Love; - A self-poised, royal soul, brave, wise, and tender, - No longer blind and dumb; - A Human Being, of an unknown splendor, - Is she who is to come! - - - - - GIRLS OF TO-DAY. - - - Girls of to-day! Give ear! - Never since time began - Has come to the race of man - A year, a day, an hour, - So full of promise and power - As the time that now is here! - - Never in all the lands - Was there a power so great, - To move the wheels of state, - To lift up body and mind, - To waken the deaf and blind, - As the power that is in your hands! - - Here at the gates of gold - You stand in the pride of youth, - Strong in courage and truth, - Stirred by a force kept back - Through centuries long and black, - Armed with a power threefold! - - First: You are makers of men! - Then Be the things you preach! - Let your own greatness teach! - When mothers like this you see - Men will be strong and free— - Then, and not till then! - - Second: Since Adam fell, - Have you not heard it said - That men by women are led? - True is the saying—true! - See to it what you do! - See that you lead them well! - - Third: You have work of your own! - Maid and mother and wife, - Look in the face of life! - There are duties you owe the race! - Outside your dwelling-place - There is work for you alone! - - Maid and mother and wife, - See your own work be done! - Be worthy a noble son! - Help man in the upward way! - Truly, a girl to-day - Is the strongest thing in life! - - - - - “WE, AS WOMEN.” - - - There’s a cry in the air about us— - We hear it before, behind— - Of the way in which “We, as women,” - Are going to lift mankind! - - With our white frocks starched and ruffled, - And our soft hair brushed and curled— - Hats off! for “we, as women,” - Are coming to help the world! - - Fair sisters, listen one moment— - And perhaps you’ll pause for ten: - The business of women as women - Is only with men as men! - - What we do, “we, as women,” - We have done all through our life; - The work that is ours as women - Is the work of mother and wife! - - But to elevate public opinion, - And to lift up erring man, - Is the work of the Human Being; - Let us do it—if we can. - - But wait, warm-hearted sisters— - Not quite so fast, so far. - Tell me how we are going to lift a thing - Any higher than we are! - - We are going to “purify politics” - And to “elevate the press.” - We enter the foul paths of the world - To sweeten and cleanse and bless. - - To hear the high things we are going to do, - And the horrors of man we tell, - One would think “we, as women,” were angels, - And our brothers were fiends of hell. - - We, that were born of one mother, - And reared in the selfsame place,— - In the school and the church together,— - We, of one blood, one race! - - Now then, all forward together! - But remember, every one, - That it is not by feminine innocence - The work of the world is done. - - The world needs strength and courage, - And wisdom to help and feed— - When “we, as women,” bring these to man, - We shall lift the world indeed! - - - - - IF MOTHER KNEW. - - - If mother knew the way I felt,— - And I’m sure a mother should,— - She wouldn’t make it quite so hard - For a person to be good! - - I want to do the way she says; - I try to all day long; - And then she just skips all the right, - And pounces on the wrong! - - A dozen times I do a thing, - And one time I forget; - And then she looks at me and asks - If I can’t remember yet? - - She’ll tell me to do something, - And I’ll really start to go; - But she’ll keep right on telling it - As if I didn’t know. - - Till it seems as if I couldn’t— - It makes me kind of wild; - And then she says she never saw - Such a disobliging child. - - I go to bed all sorry, - And say my prayers, and cry, - And mean next day to be so good - I just can’t wait to try. - - And I get up next morning, - And mean to do just right; - But mother’s sure to scold me - About something, before night. - - I wonder if she really thinks - A child could go so far, - As to be perfect all the time - As the grown up people are! - - If she only knew I tried to,— - And I’m sure a mother should,— - She wouldn’t make it quite so hard - For a person to be good! - - - - - THE ANTI-SUFFRAGISTS. - - - Fashionable women in luxurious homes, - With men to feed them, clothe them, pay their bills, - Bow, doff the hat, and fetch the handkerchief; - Hostess or guest, and always so supplied - With graceful deference and courtesy; - Surrounded by their servants, horses, dogs,— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - Successful women who have won their way - Alone, with strength of their unaided arm, - Or helped by friends, or softly climbing up - By the sweet aid of “woman’s influence;” - Successful any way, and caring naught - For any other woman’s unsuccess,— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - Religious women of the feebler sort,— - Not the religion of a righteous world, - A free, enlightened, upward-reaching world, - But the religion that considers life - As something to back out of!—whose ideal - Is to renounce, submit, and sacrifice, - Counting on being patted on the head - And given a high chair when they get to heaven,— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - Ignorant women—college-bred sometimes, - But ignorant of life’s realities - And principles of righteous government, - And how the privileges they enjoy - Were won with blood and tears by those before— - Those they condemn, whose ways they now oppose; - Saying, “Why not let well enough alone? - Our world is very pleasant as it is,”— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - And selfish women,—pigs in petticoats,— - Rich, poor, wise, unwise, top or bottom round, - But all sublimely innocent of thought, - And guiltless of ambition, save the one - Deep, voiceless aspiration—to be fed! - These have no use for rights or duties more. - Duties to-day are more than they can meet, - And law insures their right to clothes and food,— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - And, more’s the pity, some good women, too; - Good conscientious women, with ideas; - Who think—or think they think—that woman’s cause - Is best advanced by letting it alone; - That she somehow is not a human thing, - And not to be helped on by human means, - Just added to humanity—an “L”— - A wing, a branch, an extra, not mankind,— - These tell us they have all the rights they want. - - And out of these has come a monstrous thing, - A strange, down-sucking whirlpool of disgrace, - Women uniting against womanhood, - And using that great name to hide their sin! - Vain are their words as that old king’s command - Who set his will against the rising tide. - But who shall measure the historic shame - Of these poor traitors—traitors are they all— - To great Democracy and Womanhood! - - - - - WOMEN DO NOT WANT IT. - - - When the woman suffrage argument first stood upon its legs, - They answered it with cabbages, they answered it with eggs, - They answered it with ridicule, they answered it with scorn, - They thought it a monstrosity that should not have been born. - - When the woman suffrage argument grew vigorous and wise, - And was not to be silenced by these apposite replies, - They turned their opposition into reasoning severe - Upon the limitations of our God-appointed sphere. - - We were told of disabilities,—a long array of these, - Till one would think that womanhood was merely a disease; - And “the maternal sacrifice” was added to the plan - Of the various sacrifices we have always made—to man. - - Religionists and scientists, in amity and bliss, - However else they disagreed, could all agree on this, - And the gist of all their discourse, when you got down to it, - Was—we could not have the ballot because we were not fit! - - They would not hear to reason, they would not fairly yield, - They would not own their arguments were beaten in the field; - But time passed on, and someway, we need not ask them how, - Whatever ails those arguments—we do not hear them now! - - You may talk of woman suffrage now with an educated man, - And he agrees with all you say, as sweetly as he can; - ’Twould be better for us all, of course, if womanhood was free; - But “the women do not want it”—and so it must not be! - - ’Tis such a tender thoughtfulness! So exquisite a care! - Not to pile on our fair shoulders what we do not wish to bear! - But, oh, most generous brother! Let us look a little more— - Have we women always wanted what you gave to us before? - - Did we ask for veils and harems in the Oriental races? - Did we beseech to be “unclean,” shut out of sacred places? - Did we beg for scolding bridles and ducking stools to come? - And clamor for the beating stick no thicker than your thumb? - - Did we seek to be forbidden from all the trades that pay? - Did we claim the lower wages for a man’s full work to-day? - Have we petitioned for the laws wherein our shame is shown: - That not a woman’s child—nor her own body—is her own? - - What women want has never been a strongly acting cause - When woman has been wronged by man in churches, customs, laws; - Why should he find this preference so largely in his way - When he himself admits the right of what we ask to-day? - - - - - WEDDED BLISS. - - - “O come and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen; - “I love to soar, but then - I want my mate to rest - Forever in the nest!” - Said the Hen, “I cannot fly, - I have no wish to try, - But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!” - They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” - And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone. - - “O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep; - “My love for you is deep! - I slay, a Lion should, - But you are mild and good!” - Said the Sheep, “I do no ill— - Could not, had I the will— - But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.” - They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” - And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone. - - “O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam; - “You are not wise, but I am. - I know sea and stream as well; - You know nothing but your shell.” - Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion, - But my love is all devotion, - And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!” - They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” - And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone. - - - - - THE HOLY STOVE. - - - O the soap-vat is a common thing! - The pickle-tub is low! - The loom and wheel have lost their grace - In falling from the dwelling-place - To mills where all may go! - The bread-tray needeth not your love; - The wash-tub wide doth roam; - Even the oven free may rove; - But bow ye down to the Holy Stove, - The Altar of the Home! - - Before it bend the worshippers, - And wreaths of parsley twine; - Above it still the incense curls, - And a passing train of hired girls - Do service at the shrine. - We toil to keep the altar crowned - With dishes new and nice, - And Art and Love, and Time and Truth, - We offer up, with Health and Youth, - In daily sacrifice. - - Speak not to us of a fairer faith, - Of a lifetime free from pain. - Our fathers always worshipped here, - Our mothers served this altar drear, - And still we serve amain. - Our earliest dreams around it cling, - Bright hopes that childhood sees, - And memory leaves a vista wide - Where Mother’s Doughnuts rank beside - The thought of Mother’s Knees. - - The wood-box hath no sanctity; - No glamour gilds the coal; - But the Cook-Stove is a sacred thing - To which a reverent faith we bring - And serve with heart and soul. - The Home’s a temple all divine, - By the Poker and the Hod! - The Holy Stove is the altar fine, - The wife the priestess at the shrine— - Now who can be the god? - - - - - THE MOTHER’S CHARGE. - - - She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye, - “I know,” she said, “that I am going to die. - Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear. - Let me make plain to you your duty here; - My duty once—I never failed to try— - But for some reason I am going to die.” - She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild, - Poured these instructions on the gasping child: - - “Begin at once—don’t iron sitting down— - Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown— - Monday, unless it rains—it always pays - To get fall sewing done on the right days— - A carpet-sweeper and a little broom— - Save dishes—wash the summer dining-room - With soda—keep the children out of doors— - The starch is out—beeswax on all the floors— - If girls are treated like your friends they stay— - They stay, and treat you like their friends—the way - To make home happy is to keep a jar— - And save the prettiest pieces for the star - In the middle—blue’s too dark—all silk is best— - And don’t forget the corners—when they’re dressed - Put them on ice—and always wash the chest - Three times a day, the windows every week— - We need more flour—the bedroom ceilings leak— - It’s better than onion—keep the boys at home— - Gardening is good—a load, three loads of loam— - They bloom in spring—and smile, smile always, dear— - Be brave, keep on—I hope I’ve made it clear.” - - She died, as all her mothers died before. - Her daughter died in turn, and made one more. - - - - - A BROOD MARE. - - It is a significant fact that the phenomenal - improvement in horses during recent years is - accompanied by the growing conviction that good - points and a good record are as desirable in the - dam as in the sire, if not more so. - - - I had a quarrel yesterday, - A violent dispute, - With a man who tried to sell to me - A strange amorphous brute; - - A creature disproportionate, - A beast to make you stare, - An undeveloped, overgrown, - Outrageous-looking mare. - - Her fore legs they were weak and thin, - Her hind legs weak and fat; - She was heavy in the quarters, - With a narrow chest and flat; - - And she had managed to combine— - I’m sure I don’t know how— - The barrel of a greyhound - With the belly of a cow. - - She seemed exceeding feeble, - And he owned with manner bland - That she walked a little, easily, - But wasn’t fit to stand. - - I tried to mount the animal - To test her on the track; - But he cried in real anxiety, - “Get off! You’ll strain her back!” - - And then I sought to harness her, - But he explained at length - That any draught or carriage work - Was quite beyond her strength. - - “No use to carry or to pull! - No use upon the course!” - Said I, “How can you have the face - To call that thing a horse?” - - Said he, indignantly, “I don’t! - I’m dealing on the square; - I never said it was a horse, - I told you ’twas a mare! - - “A mare was never meant to race, - To carry, or to pull; - She is meant for breeding only, so - Her place in life is full.” - - Said I, “Do you pretend to breed - From such a beast as that? - A mass of shapeless skin and bone, - Or shapeless skin and fat?” - - Said he, “Her sire was thoroughbred, - As fine as walked the earth, - And all her colts receive from him - The marks of noble birth; - - “And then I mate her carefully - With horses fine and fit; - Mares do not need to have themselves - The points which they transmit!” - - Said I, “Do you pretend to say - You can raise colts as fair - From that fat cripple as you can - From an able-bodied mare?” - - Quoth he, “I solemnly assert, - Just as I said before, - A mare that’s good for breeding - Can be good for nothing more!” - - Cried I, “One thing is certain proof; - One thing I want to see; - Trot out the noble colts you raise - From your anomaly.” - - He looked a little dashed at this, - And the poor mare hung her head. - “Fact is,” said he, “she’s had but one, - And that one—well, it’s dead!” - - - - - FEMININE VANITY. - - - Feminine Vanity! O ye Gods! Hear to this man! - As if silk and velvet and feathers and fur - And jewels and gold had been just for her, - Since the world began! - - Where is his memory? Let him look back—all of the way! - Let him study the history of his race - From the first he-savage that painted his face - To the dude of to-day! - - Vanity! Oh! Are the twists and curls, - The intricate patterns in red, black, and blue, - The wearisome tortures of rich tattoo, - Just made for girls? - - Is it only the squaw who files the teeth, - And dangles the lip, and bores the ear, - And wears bracelet and necklet and anklet as queer - As the bones beneath? - - Look at the soldier, the noble, the king! - Egypt or Greece or Rome discloses - The purples and perfumes and gems and roses - On a masculine thing! - - Look at the men of our own dark ages! - Heroes too, in their cloth of gold, - With jewels as thick as the cloth could hold, - On the knights and pages! - - We wear false hair? Our man looks big! - But it’s not so long, let me beg to state, - Since every gentleman shaved his pate - And wore a wig. - - French heels? Sharp toes? See our feet defaced? - But there was a day when the soldier free - Tied the toe of his shoe to the manly knee— - Yes, and even his waist! - - We pad and stuff? Our man looks bolder. - Don’t speak of the time when a bran-filled bunch - Made an English gentleman look like Punch— - But feel of his shoulder! - - Feminine Vanity! O ye Gods! Hear to these men! - Vanity’s wide as the world is wide! - Look at the peacock in his pride— - Is it a hen? - - - - - THE MODEST MAID. - - - I am a modest San Francisco maid, - Fresh, fair, and young, - Such as the painters gladly have displayed, - The poets sung. - - Modest?—Oh, modest as a bud unblown, - A thought unspoken; - Hidden and cherished, unbeheld, unknown, - In peace unbroken. - - Far from the holy shades of this my home, - The coarse world raves, - And the New Woman cries to heaven’s dome - For what she craves. - - Loud, vulgar, public, screaming from the stage, - Her skirt divided, - Riding cross-saddled on the dying age, - Justly derided. - - I blush for her, I blush for our sweet sex - By her disgraced. - My sphere is home. My soul I do not vex - With zeal misplaced. - - Come then to me with happy heart, O man! - I wait your visit. - To guide your footsteps I do all I can, - Am most explicit. - - As veined flower-petals teach the passing bee - The way to honey, - So printer’s ink displayed instructeth thee - Where lies my money. - - Go see! In type and cut across the page, - Before the nation, - There you may read about my eyes, my age, - My education, - - My fluffy golden hair, my tiny feet, - My pet ambition, - My well-developed figure, and my sweet, - Retiring disposition. - - All, all is there, and now I coyly wait. - Pray don’t delay. - My address does the Blue Book plainly state, - And mamma’s “day.” - - SAN FRANCISCO, 1895. - - - - - UNSEXED. - - - It was a wild rebellious drone - That loudly did complain; - He wished he was a worker bee - With all his might and main. - - “I want to work,” the drone declared. - Quoth they, “The thing you mean - Is that you scorn to be a drone - And long to be a queen. - - “You long to lay unnumbered eggs, - And rule the waiting throng; - You long to lead our summer flight, - And this is rankly wrong.” - - Cried he, “My life is pitiful! - I only eat and wed, - And in my marriage is the end— - Thereafter I am dead. - - “I would I were the busy bee - That flits from flower to flower; - I long to share in work and care - And feel the worker’s power.” - - Quoth they, “The life you dare to spurn - Is set before you here - As your one great, prescribed, ordained, - Divinely ordered sphere! - - “Without your, services as drone, - We should not be alive; - Your modest task, when well fulfilled, - Preserves the busy hive. - - “Why underrate your blessed power? - Why leave your rightful throne - To choose a field of life that’s made - For working bees alone?” - - Cried he, “But it is not enough, - My momentary task! - Let me do that and more beside: - To work is all I ask!” - - Then fiercely rose the workers all, - For sorely were they vexed; - “O wretch!” they cried, “should this betide, - You would become _unsexed_!” - - And yet he had not sighed for eggs, - Nor yet for royal mien; - He longed to be a worker bee, - But not to be a queen. - - - - - FEMALES. - - - The female fox she is a fox; - The female whale a whale; - The female eagle holds her place - As representative of race - As truly as the male. - - The mother hen doth scratch for her chicks, - And scratch for herself beside; - The mother cow doth nurse her calf, - Yet fares as well as her other half - In the pasture free and wide. - - The female bird doth soar in air; - The female fish doth swim; - The fleet-foot mare upon the course - Doth hold her own with the flying horse— - Yea, and she beateth him! - - One female in the world we find - Telling a different tale. - It is the female of our race, - Who holds a parasitic place - Dependent on the male. - - Not so, saith she, ye slander me! - No parasite am I! - I earn my living as a wife; - My children take my very life. - Why should I share in human strife. - To plant and build and buy? - - The human race holds highest place - In all the world so wide, - Yet these inferior females wive, - And raise their little ones alive, - And feed themselves beside. - - The race is higher than the sex, - Though sex be fair and good; - A Human Creature is your state, - And to be human is more great - Than even womanhood! - - The female fox she is a fox; - The female whale a whale; - The female eagle holds her place - As representative of race - As truly as the male. - - - - - A MOTHER’S SOLILOQUY. - - - You soft, pink, moving thing! - Young limbs that crave - Motion as free as zephyr-lifted wave; - Uneasy with the push of unlearned powers! - Exploring slowly through half-conscious hours; - With what rich new surprise and joy you feel - Your own will move yourself from head to heel! - So, let me swaddle you in bandage tight, - Dress you in wide, confining folds of white, - Cover you warmly, hold you close, and so - A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show! - - Mysterious little frame! - Each organ new - And learning swiftly what it has to do! - - Thy life’s bright stream—as yet so newly thine— - Refreshed by heaven’s sunlit air divine; - With what delight you breathe in rosy ease - The strengthening, restful, blossom-scented breeze! - So, let me wrap you in a blanket shawl, - And veil your face in woollen, when at all - You meet the air. Here in my arms is best - The curtained bedroom where your elders rest; - So shall I guard you from a draught, and so - A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show. - - Young earnest mind at work! - Each sense attends - To teach you life’s approaching foes and friends; - Eye, ear, nose, tongue, and ever ready hand, - Eager to help you learn and understand. - What floods of happiness the day insures, - While each new knowledge is becoming yours! - So, let me firmly take away from you - The things you so persistently would view; - And when you stretch the hand that tells so much, - Rap your soft knuckles and exclaim, “Don’t touch!” - I’ll tell you what you ought to learn, and so, - A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show. - - An ordinary child at best, - So neighbors tell; - Not very large and strong, not very well; - A victim to the measles and the croup, - Fevers that flush and chill, and coughs that whoop; - To unknown naughtiness and well-known pain; - No racial progress here—no special gain! - But I, your mother, see with other eyes; - I hold you second to none under skies, - This estimate, unbased on any fact, - Shall teach you how to feel and how to act, - Shall make you wise, and true, and strong, and so, - A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show. - - - - - THEY WANDERED FORTH. - - - They wandered forth in springtime woods, - Three women, thickly hung - With yards and yards of woollen goods— - To play that they were young! - - The river raced with the racing air; - The woods were wild with song; - The glad birds darted everywhere— - And so they walked along! - - Stiff-bodied, fat, oppressed with cloth, - Dull-colored, sad to see, - Slow-moving over the bright grass, - Their shapeless shadows fall and pass, - And dreaming not—alas! alas! - Of what dear life might be! - - - - - BABY LOVE. - - - Baby Love came prancing by, - Cap on head and sword on thigh, - Horse to ride and drum to beat,— - All the world beneath his feet. - - Mother Life was sitting there, - Hard at work and full of care, - Set of mouth and sad of eye. - Baby Love came prancing by. - - Baby Love was very proud, - Very lively, very loud; - Mother Life arose in wrath, - Set an arm across his path. - - Baby Love wept loud and long, - But his mother’s arm was strong. - Mother had to work, she said. - Baby Love was put to bed. - - - - - THE MARCH. - - - - - THE WOLF AT THE DOOR. - - - There’s a haunting horror near us - That nothing drives away: - Fierce lamping eyes at nightfall, - A crouching shade by day; - There’s a whining at the threshold, - There’s a scratching at the floor. - To work! To work! In Heaven’s name! - The wolf is at the door! - - The day was long, the night was short, - The bed was hard and cold; - Still weary are the little ones, - Still weary are the old. - We are weary in our cradles - From our mother’s toil untold; - We are born to hoarded weariness - As some to hoarded gold. - - We will not rise! We will not work! - Nothing the day can give - Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep; - Better to sleep than live! - What power can stir these heavy limbs? - What hope these dull hearts swell? - What fear more cold, what pain more sharp, - Than the life we know so well? - - To die like a man by lead or steel - Is nothing that we should fear; - No human death would be worse to feel - Than the life that holds us here. - But this is a fear no heart can face— - A fate no man can dare— - To be run to earth and die by the teeth - Of the gnawing monster there! - - The slow, relentless, padding step - That never goes astray— - The rustle in the underbrush— - The shadow in the way— - The straining flight—the long pursuit— - The steady gain behind— - Death-wearied man and tireless brute, - And the struggle wild and blind! - - There’s a hot breath at the keyhole - And a tearing as of teeth! - Well do I know the bloodshot eyes - And the dripping jaws beneath! - There’s a whining at the threshold— - There’s a scratching at the floor— - To work! To work! In Heaven’s name! - The wolf is at the door! - - - - - THE LOST GAME. - - - Came the big children to the little ones, - And unto them full pleasantly did say, - “Lo! we have spread for you a merry game, - And ye shall all be winners at the same. - Come now and play!” - - _Great is the game they enter in,— - Rouge et Noir on a giant scale,— - Red with blood and black with sin, - Where many must lose and few may win, - And the players never fail!_ - - Said the strong children to the weaker ones, - “See, ye are many, and we are but few! - The mass of all the counters ye divide, - But few remain to share upon our side. - Play—as we do!” - - _Strange is the game they enter in,— - Rouge et Noir on a field of pain! - And the silver white and the yellow gold - Pile and pile in the victor’s hold, - While the many play in vain!_ - - Said the weak children to the stronger ones, - “See now, howe’er it fall, we lose our share! - And play we well or ill we always lose; - While ye gain always more than ye can use. - Bethink ye—is it fair?” - - _Strange is the game they enter in,— - Rouge et Noir, and the bank is strong! - Play they well or play they wide - The gold is still on the banker’s side, - And the game endureth long._ - - Said the strong children, each aside to each, - “The game is slow—our gains are all too small! - Play we together now, ’gainst them apart; - So shall these dull ones lose it from the start, - And we shall gain it all!” - - _Strange is the game that now they win,— - Rouge et Noir with a new design! - What can the many players do - Whose wits are weak and counters few - When the Power and the Gold combine?_ - - Said the weak children to the stronger ones, - “We care not for the game! - For play as we may our chance is small, - And play as ye may ye have it all. - The end’s the same!” - - _Strange is the game the world doth play,— - Rouge et Noir, with the counters gold, - Red with blood and black with sin; - Few and fewer are they that win - As the ages pass untold._ - - Said the strong children to the weaker ones, - “Ye lose in laziness! ye lose in sleep! - Play faster now and make the counters spin! - Play well, as we, and ye in time shall win! - Play fast! Play deep!” - - _Strange is the game of Rouge et Noir,— - Never a point have the little ones won. - The winners are strong and flushed with gain, - The losers are weak with want and pain, - And still the game goes on._ - - But those rich players grew so very few, - So many grew the poor ones, that one day - They rose up from that table, side by side, - Calm, countless, terrible—they rose and cried - In one great voice that shook the heavens wide, - “WE WILL NOT PLAY!” - - _Where is the game of Rouge et Noir? - Where is the wealth of yesterday? - What availeth the power ye tell, - And the skill in the game ye play so well? - If the players will not play?_ - - - - - THE LOOKER-ON. - - - The world was full of the battle, - The whole world far and wide; - Men and women and children - Were fighting on either side. - - I was sent from the hottest combat - With a message of life and death, - Black with smoke and red with blood, - Weary and out of breath, - - Forced to linger a moment, - And bind a stubborn wound, - Cursing the hurt that kept me back - From the fiery battle-ground. - - When I found a cheerful stranger, - Calm, critical, serene, - Well sheltered from all danger, - Painting a battle-scene. - - He was cordially glad to see me— - The coolly smiling wretch— - And inquired with admiration, - “Do you mind if I make a sketch?” - - So he had me down in a minute, - With murmurs of real delight; - My “color” was “delicious,” - My “action” was “just right!” - - And he prattled on with ardor - Of the moving scene below; - Of the “values” of the smoke-wreaths, - And “the splendid rush and go” - - Of the headlong desperate charges - Where a thousand lives were spent; - Of the “massing” in the foreground - With the “middle distance” blent. - - Said I, “You speak serenely - Of the living death in view. - These are human creatures dying— - Are you not human too? - - “This is a present battle, - Where all men strive to-day. - How does it chance you sit apart? - Which is your banner—say!” - - His fresh cheek blanched a little, - But he answered with a smile - That he fought not on either side; - He was watching a little while. - - “Watching!” said I, “and neutral! - Neutral in times like these!” - And I plucked him off his sketching stool - And brought him to his knees. - - I stripped him of his travelling cloak - And showed him to the sky: - By his uniform—a traitor! - By his handiwork—a spy! - - I dragged him back to the field he left; - To the fate he was fitted for. - We have no place for lookers on - When all the world’s at war! - - - - - THE OLD-TIME WAIL. - - An Associated Press despatch describe the - utterance of a Banners’ Alliance meeting in - Kansas as consisting mostly of “the old-time - wail of distress.” - - - Still Dives hath no peace. Broken his slumber, - His feasts are troubled, and his pleasures fail; - For still he hears from voices without number - The same old wail. - - They gather yet in field and town and city,— - The people, discontented, bitter, pale,— - And murmur of oppression, pain, and pity,— - The old-time wail. - - And weary Dives, jaded in his pleasures, - Finding the endless clamor tiresome, stale— - Would gladly give a part of his wide treasures - To quiet that old wail. - - Old? Yes, as old as Egypt. Sounding lowly - From naked millions, in the desert hid, - Starving and bleeding while they builded, slowly, - The Pharaohs’ pyramid. - - As old as Rome. That endless empire’s minions - Raised ever and again the same dull cry; - And even Cæsar’s eagle bent his pinions - While it disturbed the sky. - - As old as the Dark Ages. The lean peasant, - Numerous, patient, still as time went by - Made his lord’s pastimes something less than pleasant - With that unceasing cry. - - It grew in volume down the crowding ages; - Unheeded still, and unappeased, it swelled. - And now it pleads in vain, and now it rages— - The answer still withheld. - - A century ago it shrieked and clamored - Till trembled emperors and kings grew pale; - At gates of palaces it roared and hammered,— - The same old wail. - - It got no final answer, though its passion - Altered the face of Europe, monarchs slew; - But ere it sank to silence, in some fashion - Others were wailing, too. - - And now in broad America we hear it,— - From crowded street, from boundless hill and vale. - Hear, Dives! Have ye not some cause to fear it,— - This old-time wail? - - Louder, my brother! Let us wail no longer - Like those past sufferers whose hearts did break. - We are a wiser race, a braver, stronger— - Let us not ask, but take! - - So Dives shall have no distress soever, - No sound of anguished voice by land or sea; - The old-time wail shall so be stilled forever, - And Dives shall not be! - - - - - FREE LAND IS NOT ENOUGH. - - - Free land is not enough. In earliest days - When man, the baby, from the earth’s bare breast - Drew for himself his simple sustenance, - Then freedom and his effort were enough. - The world to which a man is born to-day - Is a constructed, human, man-built world. - As the first savage needed the free wood, - We need the road, the ship, the bridge, the house, - The government, society, and church,— - These are the basis of our life to-day, - As much necessities to modern man - As was the forest to his ancestor. - To say to the new-born, “Take here your land; - In primal freedom settle where you will, - And work your own salvation in the world,” - Is but to put the last come upon earth - Back with the dim forerunners of his race - To climb the race’s stairway in one life! - Allied society owes to the young— - The new men come to carry on the world— - Account for all the past, the deeds, the keys, - Full access to the riches of the earth. - Why? That these new ones may not be compelled, - Each for himself, to do our work again— - But reach their manhood even with to-day, - And gain to-morrow sooner. To go on— - To start from where we are and go ahead— - That is true progress, true humanity! - - - - - WHO IS TO BLAME? - - - Who was to blame in that old time - Of the unnoticed groan, - When prisoners without proof of crime - Rotted in dungeons wet with slime, - And died unknown? - - When torture was a common thing, - When fire could speak, - When the flayed wretch hung quivering, - And rack-strained tendons, string by string, - Snapped with a shriek? - - Is it the Headsman, following still - The laws his masters give? - Is it the Church or King who kill? - Or just the People, by whose will - Church, King, and Headsman live? - - The People, bowing slavish knee - With tribute fruits of earth; - The People, gathering to see - The stake, the axe, the gallows-tree, - In brutal mirth! - - The People, countenancing pain - By willing presence there; - The People—you might shriek in vain, - Poor son of Abel or of Cain— - The People did not care! - - And now, in this fair age we’re in, - Who is to blame? - When men go mad and women sin - Because the life they struggle in - Enforces shame! - - When torture is so deep, so wide— - The kind we give— - So long drawn out, so well supplied, - That men die now by suicide, - Rather than live! - - Is it the Rich Man, grinding still - The faces of the poor? - Is it our System which must kill? - Or just the People, by whose will - That system can endure? - - The People, bowing slavish knee - With tribute fruits of earth; - The People, who can bear to see - In crime and death and poverty - Fair ground for mirth! - - The People, countenancing pain - By willing presence there; - The People—you may shriek in vain— - Protest, rebel, beseech, complain— - The People do not care! - - Each man and woman feels the weight - Of their own private share; - But for the suffering of the state, - That falls on all men soon or late, - The People do not care! - - - - - IF A MAN MAY NOT EAT NEITHER CAN HE WORK. - - - How can he work? He never has been taught - The free use of what faculties he had. - Why should he work? Who ever yet has thought - To give a love of working to the lad. - - How can he work? His life has felt the lack - Of all that makes us work; the proud, the free, - Each saying to the world, “I give you back - Part of the glory you have given me!” - - Why should he work? He has no honor high, - Born of great trust and wealth and sense of power; - Honor, that makes us yearn before we die - To add our labor to the world’s rich dower. - - How can he work? He has no inner strength - Urging him on to action, no desire - To strain and wrestle, to achieve at length, - Burning in all his veins,—a hidden fire. - - Why should he work? There is no debt behind - That man’s nobility most longs to pay; - No claim upon him,—only the one blind - Brute instinct that his dinner lies that way. - - And that is not enough. Who may not eat - Freely at life’s full table all his youth, - Can never work in power and joy complete, - In fulness, and in honor, and in truth. - - - - - HIS OWN LABOR. - - - Let every man be given what he earns! - We cry, and call it justice. Let him have - The product of his labor—and no more! - Well, then, let us begin with life’s first needs, - And give him of the earth what he can make; - As much of air and light as he can make, - As much of ocean, and sweet wind and rain, - And flowers, and grass, and fruit, as he can make. - But no, we answer this is mockery: - No man makes these things. But of human wealth - Let every man be given what he makes, - The product of his labor, and no more. - Ah, well! So to the farmer let us give - Corn, and still corn, and only corn at last. - So to the grazier, meat; the fisher, fish; - Cloth to the weaver; to the mason, walls; - And let the writer sit and read his books— - The product of his labor—and naught else! - But no, we answer! Still you laugh at us. - We mean not his own labor in that sense, - But his share in the work of other men. - As much of what they make as he can buy - In fair exchange for labor of his own. - So let it be. As much of life’s rich fruit— - The product of the labor of the world— - As he can equal with his own two hands, - His own supply of energy and skill! - As much of Shakespeare, Homer, Socrates, - As much of Wagner, Beethoven, and Bach, - As much of Franklin, Morse, and Edison, - As much of Watt, and Stephenson and Bell, - Of Euclid, Aristotle, Angelo, - Columbus, Raleigh, and George Washington, - Of all the learning of our patient years, - Of all the peace and smoothness we have won, - Of all the heaped up sciences and arts, - And luxuries that man has ever made,— - He is to have what his own toil can match! - Or, passing even this, giving no thought - To this our heritage, our vast bequest, - Condemn him to no more of human help - From living men than he can give to them! - Toil of the soldiers on the western plains, - Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea, - Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field, - The engine-driver, digger in the mine, - And weary weaver in the roaring mill. - Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil - To fill the world with riches day by day, - Shall he have naught of this but what one man - Can give return for from his own supply? - Brother—There is no payment in the world! - We work and pour our labor at the feet - Of those who are around us and to come. - We live and take our living at the hands - Of those who are around us and have been. - No one is paid. No person can have more - Than he can hold. And none can do beyond - The power that’s in him. To each child that’s born - Belongs as much of all our human good - As he can take and use to make him strong. - And from each man, debtor to all the world, - Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers, - His whole life’s labor, proudly rendered up, - Not as return—can moments pay an age? - But as the simple duty of a man. - Can he do less—receiving everything? - - - - - AS FLEW THE CROSS. - - - As flew the fiery cross from hand to hand, - Kindling the scattered people to one flame, - Out-blazing fiercely to a sudden war; - As beacon fires flamed up from hill to hill, - Crying afar to valleys hidden wide - To tell their many dwellers of a fear - That made them one—a danger shadowing all!— - So flies to-day the torch of living fire, - From mouth to mouth, from distant ear to ear; - And all the people of all nations hear; - The printed word, the living word that tells - Of the great glory of the coming day,— - The joy that makes us one forevermore! - - - - - TO LABOR. - - - Shall you complain who feed the world? - Who clothe the world? - Who house the world? - Shall you complain who are the world, - Of what the world may do? - As from this hour - You use your power, - The world must follow you! - - The world’s life hangs on your right hand! - Your strong right hand! - Your skilled right hand! - You hold the whole world in your hand. - See to it what you do! - Or dark or light, - Or wrong or right, - The world is made by you! - - Then rise as you never rose before! - Nor hoped before! - Nor dared before! - And show as was never shown before, - The power that lies in you! - Stand all as one! - See justice done! - Believe, and Dare, and Do! - - - - - HARDLY A PLEASURE. - - - She had found it dull in her city; - So had they, in a different mob. - She travelled to look for amusement; - They travelled to look for a job. - - She was loaded with fruit and candy, - And her section piled with flowers, - With magazine, novels, and papers - To shorten the weary hours. - - Her friends came down in a body - With farewells merry and sweet, - And left her with laughter and kisses, - On the broad plush-cushioned seat. - - She was bored before she started, - And the journey was dull and far. - “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” - Said the girl in the palace car. - - —————— - - Then they skulked out in the darkness - And crawled in under the cars, - To ride on the trucks as best they might, - To hang by the chains and bars. - - None came to see their starting, - And their friendliest look that day - Was that of a green young brakeman, - Who looked the other way. - - They were hungry before they started, - With the hunger that turns to pain— - “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,” - Said the three men under the train. - - —————— - - She complained of the smoke and cinders, - She complained of the noise and heat, - She complained of the table service, - She complained of the things to eat. - - She said it was so expensive, - In spite of one’s utmost care; - That feeing the porters and waiters - Cost as much as a third-class fare. - - That the seats were dirty and stuffy, - That the berths were worse by far. - “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” - Said the girl in the palace car. - - —————— - - They hung on in desperate silence, - For a word was a tell-tale shout; - Their foul hats low on their bloodshot eyes, - To keep the cinders out. - - The dirt beat hard on their faces, - The noise beat hard on their ears, - And a moment’s rest to a straining limb - Meant the worst of human fears. - - They clutched and clung in the darkness - While the stiffness turned to pain. - “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,” - Said the three men under the train. - - —————— - - She stepped airily out in the morning, - When the porter had brushed her awhile. - She gave him a silver dollar; - He gave her an ivory smile. - - She complained to her friends that morning - Of a most distressing dream: - “I thought I heard in the darkness - A sort of a jolting scream! - - “I thought I felt in the darkness - The great wheels joggle and swing; - Travelling’s hardly a pleasure - When you dream such a horrible thing!” - - —————— - - They crept shuddering out in the morning, - Red spots with the coal’s black stain. - “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” - Said the two men under the train. - - - - - NATIONALISM. - - - The nation is a unit. That which makes - You an American of our to-day - Requires the nation and its history, - Requires the sum of all our citizens, - Requires the product of our common toil, - Requires the freedom of our common laws, - The common heart of our humanity. - Decrease our population, check our growth, - Deprive us of our wealth, our liberty, - Lower the nation’s conscience by a hair, - And you are less than that you were before! - You stand here in the world the man you are - Because your country is America. - Our liberty belongs to each of us; - The nation guarantees it; in return - We serve the nation, serving so ourselves. - Our education is a common right; - The state provides it, equally to all, - Each taking what he can, and in return - We serve the state, so serving best ourselves. - Food, clothing, all necessities of life,— - These are a right as much as liberty! - The nation feeds its children. In return - We serve the nation, serving still ourselves— - Nay, not ourselves—ourself! We are but parts, - The unit is the state,—America. - - - - - THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING! - - - When man, the hunter, winning in the race, - Had conquered much, and, conquering, grown apace, - Till out of victory he found defeat, - And, having eaten all, had naught to eat,— - Then might some Jeremiah sad have said, - Seeing his hopeless case, “The King is dead!” - - But man is master most in power to change; - He turned his forest to a cattle range; - There was no foe to strive with—wherefore strive? - No food to kill—he kept his food alive. - Herding his dinner, see him sit and sing - Serene, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” - - When man the shepherd, after years did pass, - By nature’s increase grew, until the grass - Failed to support the requisite supply - Of cattle who must live lest he should die; - Again a grieved observer might be led - To pitifully say, “The King is dead!” - - But man, who turned his prey into a pet, - To outwit hunger, was not baffled yet; - He’d searched for grass so long he’d learned to praise it, - And now that grass was short—why, he could raise it! - His dinner sprouted with the happy spring - Profuse, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” - - When man, the farmer, growing very great, - Out of his children built the busy State, - Those greedy children, to his loud alarm, - Pinched all the profits off the old man’s farm, - Killing the golden goose, and while he bled, - Cried sage economists, “The King is dead!” - - But he, good sooth, was never more alive; - He watched the pools and trusts around him strive, - And when he’d learned the trick—it was not long— - He organized himself—a million strong! - Cornered the food supply! A Farmer’s Ring! - Hurrah! “The King is dead! Long live the King!” - - - - - “HOW MANY POOR!” - - - “Whene’er I take my walks abroad, how many poor I see!” - Said pious Watts, and thanked the Lord that not so poor was he. - I see so many poor to-day I think I’ll walk no more, - And then the poor in long array come knocking at my door. - The hungry poor! The dirty poor! The poor of evil smell! - Yet even these we could endure if they were only well! - But, O, this sick and crippled crew! The lame, the deaf, the blind! - What can a Christian person do with these upon his mind! - They keep diseases growing still like plants on greenhouse shelves, - And they’re so generous they will not keep them to themselves; - They propagate amazing crimes and vices scandalous, - And then at most uncertain times they wreak the same on us! - With charity we would prevent this poverty and woe, - But find the more we’ve fondly spent, the more the poor do grow! - We’ve tried by punishment full sore to mend the case they’re in; - The more we punish them the more they sin, and sin, and sin! - We make the punishment more kind, we give them wise reform, - And they, with a contented mind, flock to our prisons warm! - Then science comes with solemn air, and shows us social laws, - Explaining how the poor are there from a purely natural cause. - ’Tis natural for low and high to struggle and to strive; - ’Tis natural for the worse to die and the better to survive. - We swallowed all this soothing stuff, and easily were led - To think if we were stern enough, the poor would soon be dead. - But, O! in vain we squeeze, and grind, and drive them to the wall— - For all our deadly work we find it does not kill them all! - The more we struggle they survive! increase and multiply! - There seem to be more poor alive, in spite of all that die! - Whene’er I take my walks abroad how many poor I see, - And eke at home! How long, O Lord! How long must this thing be! - - - - - THE DEAD LEVEL. - - - There is a fear among us as we strive, - As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel, - That there will be no pleasure left alive - When we in peace and joy at last arrive - At one dead level. - - And still the strangest part of this strange fear - Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it. - We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead - To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead; - We wish that peace, but wish no other near it! - - Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town - To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses? - Is your house dearer when its eye looks down - On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown? - Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is? - - Are you unhappy at some noble fête - To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses? - Is your State safer when each other State - That borders it is full of want and hate? - Peace must be peace to all before it blesses. - - Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in - By ignorance that does not know its master? - Is goodness easier when plenteous sin - Surrounds it? And can you not win - Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster? - - O foolish children! With more foolish fear, - Unworthy even of a well-trained devil! - Good things are good for all men,—that is clear; - To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near - To that much-dreaded level! - - - - - THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE. - - - Our business system has its base - On one small thought that’s out of place; - The merest trifle—nothing much, of course. - The truth is there—who says it’s not? - Only—the trouble is—you’ve got - The cart before the horse! - - You say unless a man shall work - Right earnestly, and never shirk, - He may not eat. Now look—the change is small, - And yet the truth is plain to see— - Unless man eats, and frequently, - He cannot work at all! - - And which comes first! Why, that is plain, - The man comes first. And, look again— - A baby! with an appetite to fit! - You have to feed him years and years, - And train him up with toil and tears, - Before he works a bit! - - So let us change our old ideas, - And learn with these advancing years - To give the oats before we ask for speed; - Not set the hungry horse to run, - And tell him when the race is done - That he shall have his feed! - - - - - THE AMŒBOID CELL. - - - Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell, - “Why don’t you develop like me? - Just combine with the others, - Unite with your brothers, - And grow to a thing you can see,— - An organized creature like me!” - - Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell, - “But where would my liberty be? - If I’m one with a class, - I should lose in the mass - All my Individualitee! - And that is a horror to me!” - - Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell, - “What good does it do you to-day? - You’re amorphous and small, - You’ve no organs at all, - You can’t even get out of the way! - You don’t half understand what I say!” - - Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell, - “But I’m independent and free! - I can float as I please - In these populous seas, - I’m not fastened to anybodee! - I have personal freedom, you see! - - “And when I want organs and members and such, - I project them,—an arm or a wing; - I can change as I will, - But you have to keep still— - Just a part of the mass where you cling! - You never can be but one thing!” - - Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell, - “What you say is undoubtedly true, - But I’d rather be part - Of a thing with a heart - Than the whole of a creature like you! - A memberless morsel like you! - - “You say you’re immortal and separate and free, - Yet you’ve died by the billion before; - Just a speck in the slime - At the birthday of time, - And you never can be any more! - As you are, you’ve no future in store! - - “You say you can be many things in yourself, - Yet you’re all just alike to the end! - I am part of a whole— - Of a thing with a soul— - And the whole is the unit, my friend! - But that you can scarce comprehend! - - “You are only yourself,—just a series of ones; - You can only say ‘I’—never ‘we’; - All of us are combined - In a creature with mind, - And _we_ are the creature you see! - And the creature feeds _us_—which is _me_! - - “And being combined in a body like that - It can wisely provide us with food; - And we vary and change - In a limitless range; - We are specialized now, for our good! - And we each do our work—as we should! - - “What protection have you from the chances of Fate? - What provision have you for the morrow? - You get food when it drops, - And you die when it stops! - You can’t give or take, lend or borrow! - You helpless free-agent of sorrow!” - - Just then came a frost, and the Amœboid Cell - Died out by the billion again; - But the Specialized Cell - In the body felt well - And rejoiced in his place in the brain! - The dead level of life with a brain! - - - - - THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST. - - - In northern zones the ranging bear - Protects himself with fat and hair. - Where snow is deep, and ice is stark, - And half the year is cold and dark, - He still survives a clime like that - By growing fur, by growing fat. - These traits, O Bear, which thou transmittest, - Prove the survival of the fittest! - - To polar regions, waste and wan, - Comes the encroaching race of man; - A puny, feeble little lubber, - He had no fur, he had no blubber. - The scornful bear sat down at ease - To see the stranger starve and freeze; - But, lo! the stranger slew the bear, - And ate his fat, and wore his hair! - These deeds, O Man, which thou committest, - Prove the survival of the fittest! - - In modern times the millionaire - Protects himself as did the bear. - Where Poverty and Hunger are, - He counts his bullion by the car. - Where thousands suffer, still he thrives, - And after death his will survives. - The wealth, O Crœsus, thou transmittest - Proves the survival of the fittest! - - But, lo! some people, odd and funny, - Some men without a cent of money, - The simple common Human Race, - Chose to improve their dwelling-place. - They had no use for millionaires; - They calmly said the world was theirs; - They were so wise, so strong, so many— - The millionaire? There wasn’t any! - These deeds, O Man, which thou committest, - Prove the survival of the fittest! - - - - - DIVISION OF PROPERTY. - - - Some sailors were starving at sea - On a raft where they happened to be, - When one of the crew - Who was hidden from view - Was found to be feasting most free. - - Then they cursed him in language profane, - Because there on the pitiless main - While the others did starve, - He could ladle and carve, - Eating food which they could not obtain. - - “But,” said he, “’tis my own little store! - To feed all of you would take more! - If I shared, ’twould be found - That it would not go round; - And you all would starve on as before! - - “It would only prolong your distress - To distribute this one little mess! - The supply is so small - I had best eat it all, - For me it will comfort and bless!” - - This reasoning sounded most fair, - But the men had large appetites there, - And while he explained - They ate all that remained, - Forgetting to leave out his share! - - - - - CHRISTIAN VIRTUES. - - - Oh, dear! - The Christian virtues will disappear! - Nowhere on land or sea - Will be room for charity! - Nowhere, in field or city, - A person to help or pity! - Better for them, no doubt, - Not to need helping out - Of their old miry ditch. - But, alas for us, the rich! - For we shall lose, you see, - Our boasted charity!— - Lose all the pride and joy - Of giving the poor employ, - And money, and food, and love - (And making stock thereof!). - Our Christian virtues are gone, - With nothing to practise on! - - It don’t hurt them a bit, - For they can’t practise it; - But it’s our great joy and pride— - What virtue have we beside? - We believe, as sure as we live, - That it is more blessed to give - Than to want, and waste, and grieve, - And occasionally receive! - And here are the people pressing - To rob us of our pet blessing! - No chance to endow or bedizen - A hospital, school, or prison, - And leave our own proud name - To Gratitude and Fame! - No chance to do one good deed, - To give what we do not need, - To leave what we cannot use - To those whom we deign to choose! - When none want broken meat, - How shall our cake be sweet? - When none want flannels and coals, - How shall we save our souls? - Oh, dear! Oh, dear! - The Christian virtues will disappear! - - The poor have their virtues rude,— - Meekness and gratitude, - Endurance, and respect - For us, the world’s elect; - Economy, self-denial, - Patience in every trial, - Self-sacrifice, self-restraint,— - Virtues enough for a saint! - Virtues enough to bear - All this life’s sorrow and care! - Virtues by which to rise - To a front seat in the skies! - How can they turn from this - To common earthly bliss,— - Mere clothes, and food, and drink, - And leisure to read and think, - And art, and beauty, and ease,— - There is no crown for these! - True, if their gratitude - Were not for fire and food, - They might still learn to bless - The Lord for their happiness! - And, instead of respect for wealth, - Might learn from beauty, and health, - And freedom in power and pelf, - Each man to respect himself! - And, instead of scraping and saving, - Might learn from using and having - That man’s life should be spent - In a grand development! - But this is petty and small; - These are not virtues at all; - They do not look as they should; - They don’t do _us_ any good! - Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! - The Christian virtues will disappear! - - - - - WHAT’S THAT? - - - I met a little person on my land, - A-fishing in the waters of my stream; - He seemed a man, yet could not understand - Things that to most men very simple seem. - - “Get off!” said I; “this land is mine, my friend! - Get out!” said I; “this brook belongs to me! - I own the land, and you must make an end - Of fishing here so free. - - “I own this place, the land and water too! - You have no right to be here, that is flat! - Get off it! That is all I ask of you!—” - “Own it?” said he; “what’s that?” - - “What’s that?” said I, “why, that is common sense! - I own the water and the fishing right; - I own the land from here to yonder fence; - Get off, my friend, or fight!” - - He looked at the clear stream so neatly kept; - He looked at teeming vine and laden tree, - And wealthy fields of grain that stirred and slept; - “I see!” he cried, “I see! - - “You mean you cut the wood and plowed the field, - From your hard labor all this beauty grew, - To you is due the richness of the yield; - You have some claim, ’tis true.” - - “Not so,” said I, with manner very cool, - And tossed my purse into the air and caught it; - “Do I look like a laborer, you fool? - It’s mine because I bought it!” - - Again he looked as if I talked in Greek, - Again he scratched his head and twirled his hat, - Before he mustered wit enough to speak. - “Bought it?” said he, “what’s that?” - - And then he said again, “I see! I see! - You mean that some men toiled with plows and hoes, - And while those worked for you, you toiled with glee - At other work for those.” - - “Not so!” said I, getting a little hot, - Thinking the man a fool as well as funny; - “I’m not a working-man, you idiot; - I bought it with my money!” - - And still that creature stared and dropped his jaw, - Till I could have destroyed him where he sat. - “Money,” said I, “money, and moneyed law!” - “Money?” said he, “what’s that?” - - - - - AN ECONOMIST. - - - The serene savage sitting in his tree - Saw empires rise and fall, - And moralized on their uncertainty. - (He never rose at all!) - - He was full fat from god-sent droves of prey; - He was full calm from satisfied desire; - He was full wise in that he chose to stay - Free from ambition’s fire. - - “See,” quoth the savage, “how they toil and strive - To make things better,—vain and idle wish! - Here is good store of what keeps man alive, - Of fruit, and flesh, and fish. - - “Poor discontented wretches, fed on air, - Seeking to change the normal lot of man, - To lure him from this natural strife and care, - With vague Utopian plan! - - “Here’s wealth and joy—why seek for any change? - Why labor for a more elaborate life? - As if God could not his own world arrange - Without our fretful strife! - - “Those who complain of savagery as low - Are merely proven lazy, and too weak - To live by skilful hunt and deadly blow; - It is their needs that speak. - - “Complain of warfare! Cry that peace is sweet! - Complain of hunting! Prate of toil and trade! - It only proves that they cannot compete - In the free life we’ve made.” - - Another empire reeled into its grave; - The savage sat serenely as before, - As calm and wise, as cunning and as brave— - Never an atom more. - - - - - CHARITY. - - - Came two young children to their mother’s shelf - (One was quite little, and the other big), - And each in freedom calmly helped himself. - (One was a pig.) - - The food was free and plenty for them both, - But one was rather dull and very small; - So the big smarter brother, nothing loath, - He took it all. - - At which the little fellow raised a yell - Which tired the other’s more æsthetic ears; - He gave him here a crust, and there a shell - To stop his tears. - - He gave with pride, in manner calm and bland, - Finding the other’s hunger a delight; - He gave with piety—his full left hand - Hid from his right. - - He gave and gave—O blessed Charity! - How sweet and beautiful a thing it is! - How fine to see that big boy giving free - What is not his! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as - printed. - 3. 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