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FRESCOES 
 
FRESCOES 
 
 BY 
 
 JAY G. SIGMUND 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 
 1922 
 

 Copyright, 1922 
 By B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 
 
 Set up and printed. Published September, 1922 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 
 
 AMBROSE PRESS, INC. 
 
 Norwood, Mass. 
 
 CU690808 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 LOUISE B. SIGMUND 
 (Herself a Poem) 
 
Grateful acknowledgments are due the 
 editors of Rock Island Argus, Cedar Rapids 
 Republican, Cinciufiati Times Star, Daven- 
 port Times, Springfield, Mass., Republican, 
 Chicago Post, William Stanley Braithwaite's 
 Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1922, 
 American Poetry Magazine, Sports Afield, 
 New Pen, Country Bard and Tempo, in 
 whose pages some of the poems herein 
 have appeared. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Father of Waters I 
 
 Birds of Prey 2 
 
 To a Nurse 4 
 
 To My Son 6 
 
 A White Pigeon 7 
 
 To the First Robin 8 
 
 The Parrot 9 
 
 The Arrow-Head II 
 
 The Folk Dancer 12 
 
 Ego 13 
 
 The Cardinal 15 
 
 The Etcher 17 
 
 "They Say" 18 
 
 Walt Whitman 20 
 
 Barnacles 21 
 
 The Athenian 22 
 
 Improvidence 24 
 
 The Bat 25 
 
 Lady's Maid 26 
 
 To a Scissors Grinder 27 
 
 Sunday 28 
 
 The Killers 30 
 
 To a Goldfinch 33 
 
 Progress 34 
 
 The Minister's Wife 36 
 
 A Fur Coat 39 
 
 The Serpent 40 
 
 The Wise Man 43 
 
 vii 
 
viii Contents 
 
 Fossils 45 
 
 Train-Window Movies 46 
 
 The Drudge 49 
 
 John Turner, M. D 52 
 
 Birch and Maple 54 
 
 Thistles 55 
 
 The Humming Bird 57 
 
THE FATHER OF WATERS 
 
 When I try to sing of your rushing flood, 
 
 Oh mighty Mississippi, 
 
 I find myself mute. 
 
 Awed, I gaze from the hills 
 
 Over the wide silver expanse 
 
 That carries the waters of a continent 
 
 To the waiting Gulf. 
 
 From Itaska to the delta. 
 
 Hemmed in by God's master-handiwork, 
 
 You cleave the world's bread-basket, 
 
 And drain the acres 
 
 For millions of her children, 
 
 That they may have food. 
 
 When I ponder on you. 
 
 Father of Waters, 
 
 I am as some actor — 
 
 Frozen and struck with quaking fright : 
 
 Nay — perhaps more as a child stands dumbly 
 
 At sight of his first Christmas-tree, 
 
 Or a blaring circus parade. 
 
 It is in my heart 
 To sing paens of praise to you, 
 Oh mighty river : 
 
 But I pause on your banks instead, 
 Awed and mute . . . 
 And speechless with very rapture ! 
 1 
 
BIRDS OF PREY 
 
 I saw an osprey 
 Soaring In the heavens, 
 Floating high on strong pinions, 
 Monarch of all beneath him. 
 He sailed and wheeled over a lake, 
 Pausing a moment : then arrow-like 
 He struck the cool water with a splash, 
 Emerging with a wriggling fish 
 Firmly grasped In his talons. 
 
 Another day I watched him 
 
 Leave the huge oak 
 
 Where his mate mothered two fledglings ; 
 
 Scarce was he well on his way 
 
 When two smaller birds pursued him — 
 
 Two tiny king-birds — mere specks : 
 
 But I could hear their screeching 
 
 As they rushed their giant quarry : 
 
 They worried and harassed him 
 
 Until he took refuge in the forest depths," 
 
 Helpless against the fury of their assaults. 
 
 Yesterday I visited a courtroom. 
 There I listened to the trial of a man. 
 Once he had been a power in the world of finance. 
 There were the judge and the balHff 
 And the men of law. 
 Mighty In their little places. 
 
 2 
 
Birds of Prey 
 
 I heard him tell the faltering story of his misdeeds, 
 
 And then his attorney pleaded for him. 
 
 I gazed about on the curious crowd 
 
 That had gathered to see a man fight for his future - 
 
 Morbid women, idle men, street walkers : 
 
 Some grinned and gaped, some whispered, 
 
 Some wiped their necks with grimy handkerchieves, 
 
 Some shuffled their feet, some chewed gum : 
 
 To them it was not a tragic struggle — 
 
 It was an entertainment 
 
 Which they welcomed and entered into greedily. 
 
 And I minded me of the great osprey, 
 
 That mighty bird of prey, 
 
 Helpless and hemmed in by his little adversaries. . . 
 
TO A NURSE 
 
 You are like a white angel . . . 
 A benediction. 
 
 Your light touch 
 Soothes my pain : 
 Your cool presence 
 Calms my fevered brow : 
 You tie together delicately 
 The frayed ends 
 Of life's ragged fabric. 
 
 For countless others, 
 
 You greet little new lives 
 
 Into the world : 
 
 You stroke clammy hands, 
 
 And breathe encouragement 
 
 To those whose feet 
 
 Are just starting 
 
 On the last bewildering journey. 
 
 But . . . 
 
 Never will your name. 
 
 As a name, 
 
 Be blazoned forth 
 
 On Fame's escutcheon : 
 
 It is on a brighter tablet 
 
 Than that : 
 
 4 
 
To a Nurse 
 
 A tablet of constant and never-varying glory, 
 
 Which shines so amazingly, 
 
 And with so blinding a splendor. 
 
 That all the fair names thereon 
 
 Are miraculously blended 
 
 Into one golden name : 
 
 LOVE.., 
 
TO MY SON 
 
 You are leaving babyhood 
 
 Far behind you, son : 
 Boyhood years are claiming you, 
 
 With their ready fun : 
 Manhood waits just down the lane. 
 With its happiness . . . and pain. 
 
 I am glad you're growing up : 
 But my eyes are wet . . . 
 
 The old world will need you, son. 
 For Its schemes . . . and yet — 
 
 How my heart aches when I see 
 
 My wee baby gone from me ! 
 
A WHITE PIGEON 
 
 What bizarre whim 
 Of Fate 
 Has cast you 
 Into this maelstrom 
 Called a city ? 
 
 You . . . 
 
 The symbol of peace, 
 
 Gentle bearer of the olive branch, 
 
 Emblem of quiet purity : 
 
 Your soiled feathers 
 
 Represent grimmest irony . . . 
 
 The irony 
 
 Of living. 
 
 A girl 
 
 Watches you with sad eyes. 
 As you trail in the gutter 
 For scraps of food. 
 
 Is it, perchance, 
 
 That in her heart 
 
 She understands you ? — 
 
 You . . . 
 
 Whom the city has also stained 
 
 W^ith its grime . . . 
 
TO THE FIRST ROBIN 
 
 Now does your tawny breast-plate, 
 
 Among dead leaves, 
 Lend me a new-sprung courage — 
 
 Whose sad heart grieves. 
 
 Once I was sure that always 
 
 Life would be grey : 
 E'en you in sombre Autumn 
 
 Winged far away. 
 
 My eyes from the dull heavens, 
 
 Glow'ring and dark, 
 Turn now : ah, you are lighting 
 
 Hope's dying spark ! 
 
 And I am sure that beauty 
 
 Near my world plays : 
 ,And joy once more will 'habit 
 
 JMy empty days ! 
 
THE PARROT 
 
 Blink, 
 
 Under your monkish cowl, 
 
 Stupid one. 
 
 Nature's paint brush 
 
 Was lavish with color 
 
 When she came to you ; 
 
 And then, as though to mock your brilliance, 
 
 She added 
 
 A voice of rancorous discord. 
 
 You set me to thinking. 
 
 Stupid, blinking one : 
 
 Though but a bird. 
 
 You are like 
 
 So many of the humans 
 
 Who gaze up at you ; 
 
 For you wear gorgeous plumage, 
 
 But do woefully little thinking . . . 
 
 Mechanically repeating 
 
 Things you have heard 
 
 Spoken by others. 
 
 Time after time. 
 
 Have you not one single thought 
 That is your own. 
 Under that monkish cowl. 
 Stupid one .? . . . 
 
 9 
 
THE ARROW-HEAD 
 
 Speak, arrow-head ! . . . 
 
 I would hear your story : 
 
 I would hear of the part you played 
 
 In the great drama which man calls history. 
 
 Ages have sunk away since a straight-spined redskin 
 
 fashioned you ; 
 What was the mission that you accomplished 
 Ere I found you 
 
 Among the pebbles at the brook's edge ? 
 Was your possessor a warrior, 
 Or some mighty hunter ? 
 What errand was it on which he sent you 
 When you sprang from his taut bow-string ? 
 Was it some enemy's quivering heart 
 Through which you tore your ragged way ? 
 Or did you bring some frighted stag 
 Low upon a smiling hillside ? 
 Was it you that turned the tide of battle — 
 Or was bison-flesh your quarry ? 
 And your possessor, arrow-head ? . . . 
 I would hear of him, too. 
 Did he return a conqueror when you had sped upon 
 
 your deadly way ? 
 Or did hiiS bones blister and bleach under a too-steady 
 
 sun } 
 It may be that his fingers fumbled 
 And you fell useless at his feet : 
 
 10 
 
The Arrow- Head 11 
 
 For even at best 
 
 Some efforts must be vain. . . . 
 
 This I know . . . 
 
 You are not quite perfect — 
 
 There are flaws here and there to mar a beautiful con- 
 tour — 
 
 Ah, the brave who chiseled you was young . . . 
 
 Youth Is ever hasty 
 
 And not over-neat : 
 
 Your uneven surfaces hint at romances 
 
 Which sapped betimes the skill from his strong 
 fingers . . . 
 
 Did the young arrow-maker 
 
 Chant a love-song under his breath 
 
 As he worked ? 
 
 Did a sloe-eyed maiden smile from her teepee 
 
 In answer to his wooing ? 
 
 Mayhap the young warrior returned not 
 
 From the battle . . . 
 
 And mayhap 
 
 The maiden wept . . . 
 
 What followed, year on year, 
 
 Oh, arrow-head ? 
 
 Or Is your voice as silent 
 
 A3 the stern flint from which the young buck fashioned 
 you ? 
 
 A tombstone Immortal . . . 
 
 With its Inscription erased 
 
 By the mocking hand of Time. . . . 
 
THE FOLK DANCER 
 
 I watched you dance ; 
 
 Your graceful limbs 
 
 Were quartz crystals, 
 
 Sparkling, 
 
 Iridescent, 
 
 Refracting the light 
 
 Into all the splendid colors 
 
 Of the spectrum. 
 
 Your swaying body 
 Moved like the rhythm 
 Of a poem. 
 
 A fairy wand 
 Seemed to touch me ; 
 I grew young . . . 
 Watching you dance. 
 
 12 
 
EGO 
 
 A field mouse 
 Doubtless thinks 
 That the farmer 
 Places corn shocks 
 For his shelter. 
 
 " Here comes my supper ! " 
 Said the weasel, 
 Speaking of 
 This same mouse. 
 
 " How fortunate," 
 Says the society belle, 
 *' That there are weasels 
 To provide me 
 With imitation ermine ! " 
 
 " I am glad 
 
 That this great tree 
 
 Was put here 
 
 As a location for my nest 1 '' 
 
 Cried the magpie. 
 
 " How kind of someone 
 To make this ocean 
 For me to swim in 1 " 
 Quoth the herring. 
 13 
 
14 Ego 
 
 Don't pity the savage 
 
 Because he is naked. 
 
 He is sorry for us 
 
 Because we must wear clothes. 
 
 " Look,'* 
 
 Says the proud mother, 
 " They're all out of step 
 But my Jim ! " 
 
 The pronoun " I " 
 Is very frail, 
 Because worn thin 
 By constant use. 
 
 Often I think 
 Everybody's queer . . . 
 But me. 
 
THE CARDINAL 
 
 To him 
 
 Of the understanding heart, 
 
 Each day 
 
 Hath its lesson. . . . 
 
 I have found 
 
 My lesson for today. . . . 
 
 My tutor 
 
 Was a scarlet cardinal, 
 
 Who darted like a tongue of flame 
 
 Among the bare elm-branches. 
 
 I, 
 
 Deep in selfish thought, 
 
 Stood watching the east 
 
 Tint like a conch-shell . . . 
 
 When suddenly 
 
 Up spoke my red-garbed preceptor 
 
 " What cheer ? " 
 
 Ah, 
 
 What a divine question 
 
 For the waking earth to answer. 
 
 Morning by morning 1 
 
 But earth 
 
 Would have to be ready 
 
 With an answer, 
 
 15 
 
16 The Cardinal 
 
 Even as I have resolved 
 
 To be ready with my answer, 
 
 And it must be full 
 
 Of joy and thankfulness : 
 
 But principally . . . 
 
 Joy. 
 
 " What cheer ? " 
 
 Ah, crested cardinal, 
 
 That is all there is 
 
 To life, after all, isn't it ? . . 
 
 Cheer ! 
 
 Are you listening there, 
 
 Gray world ? . . . 
 
 " What cheer ? " 
 
THE ETCHER 
 
 Dear, 
 
 Time is an etcher, 
 
 Who scratches fine, fine lines 
 
 In your face . . . 
 
 To tell their little story 
 
 Of joy and grief. 
 
 Love and disappointment : 
 
 But, as Time works. 
 
 It seems to me 
 
 You grow only more lovely ! 
 
 Dear, 
 
 Time is an etcher . . . 
 
 But, in his wisdom, 
 
 He makes 
 
 Trees and mountains and faces 
 
 Always and only 
 
 More beautiful. . . . 
 
 17 
 
"THEY SAY" 
 
 " Hear about that fakir Christ 
 Claiming he can heal the sick ? 
 He should be stoned 
 From our city ! " 
 
 " There goes that dago, Columbus, 
 Who says the earth 
 Is round. 
 Poor idiot 1 " 
 
 " What ? 
 
 George Washington, 
 That young surveyor ? 
 Oh he's too light weight ! " 
 
 " I'll tell you a good one : 
 
 That long-geared Lincoln, 
 
 Who's splittin' rails 
 
 For John Stewart, 
 
 Says he's goin' to study law ! 
 
 Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " 
 
 " They say, that 
 
 This dreaming Marconi fellow 
 
 Is about nuts ! 
 
 Talks about a telegraph 
 
 Without wires. 
 
 Too bad ! " 
 
 18 
 
" They Say " 19 
 
 " Them Wright kids 
 Will never amount to a damn ! 
 They spend all their time 
 Just tinkering ! " 
 
 There's one short sentence, 
 Often heard, 
 
 That rasps the ear-drums ; 
 It's, " They say." 
 
WALT WHITMAN 
 
 On a great canvas spread 
 For man's keen eye, 
 He painted true : 
 Pictures of life and love, 
 Landscapes of green and gold, 
 And heaven's blue. 
 
 Shackles of steel he broke, 
 Slaves he set free, 
 With his strong hand : 
 Thanks be to God, that such 
 Walked among men ... so they 
 Might understand ! 
 
 20 
 
BARNACLES 
 
 Our good ship ploughs its careful way to shore ; 
 
 The breezes lift, and peaceful lies the sea ; 
 A world of mellow sunshine floods us o'er, 
 
 And promises a safe return for me : 
 
 But on our vessel's hull a shell of stone 
 Makes every beam and every timber groan. 
 
 The swarthy sailors hack at this gray crust, 
 And free the keel of its disastrous load : 
 
 So on our trackless way, with certain trust, 
 We fare with naught but ripples in our road : 
 
 Dear God, my secret prayer goes up to Thee : 
 From clogging barnacles my soul keep free 1 
 
 21 
 
THE ATHENIAN 
 
 Two tawny hands 
 Deftly manipulate a scrap of cloth 
 Over my boots with rhythmic snaps ; 
 A guttural voice ripples in musical measures 
 To a fellow-serf ; 
 
 His talk is the language of Demosthenes : 
 His glance broods upon me from lack-lustre eyes 
 This Athenian, this fragment 
 Broken from a race of men once great ! 
 I can but compare him 
 With other Greeks of other days . . . 
 O little peninsula, 
 
 How tender and tragic is your story ! 
 And how great your fall ! 
 Can it be this humble soul 
 Is true kin to those mighty ones 
 Whose names are blazoned 
 On the gold and crimson pages 
 Of your life-story ? 
 Aristotle, Homer, Pericles, 
 Look on this clay! your descendant ! 
 He tells me in broken, halting accents 
 That he was born in Athens . . . 
 Athens, the cradle of beauty 
 In those days long dead ! 
 He says he wandered in his youth 
 Among the olive groves — on those fugged hills 
 
 22 
 
The Athenian 23 
 
 Where his illustrious forebears 
 
 Sang and played and plotted . . . and loved ! 
 
 Helen of Troy he knew not ; 
 
 But his feet have walked the streets 
 
 That once knew her light footfalls . . . 
 
 Socrates — Plato — Diogenes — 
 
 Does the blood of these 
 
 Flow also in his veins ? 
 
 Ah, the difference 
 
 Between the lyre of a singing bard, 
 
 Or the chisel of a sculptor, 
 
 And this polish-brush 
 
 That flirts the dust from my boot-toes ! 
 
 Yet — who knows ? . . . 
 
 There may be a very virgin art 
 
 In thus transforming dingy leather 
 
 Into convex twin mirrors ! 
 
 This to the accompaniment 
 
 Of soft syllables — 
 
 They may be honeyed hymns 
 
 Of adoration to his heart's love, 
 
 For aught I know — 
 
 Or curses consigning me and all my ilk 
 
 To torment eternal 
 
 Because my foot slips ! 
 
 Ah — Service, service . . . 
 
 From the daubed hands 
 
 Of a son's son, 
 
 Down the long, noble line 
 
 To Sophocles ! 
 
IMPROVIDENCE 
 
 The towering sunflower stalk 
 
 Laughed at the rhubarb plants 
 
 In the garden 
 
 When they shriveled 
 
 Under the frost's crushing grip — 
 
 Last Autumn. 
 
 " I have a granary of food 
 
 That is inexhaustible ! " he cried. 
 
 Cardinals and other gay plumaged buffoons 
 
 Will dine at my board 
 
 All winter, 
 
 Providing me 
 
 With entertainment ! 
 
 Yesterday the sunflower stalk 
 Helped kindle a fire . . . 
 His seed pods empty. 
 
 A scarlet cardinal 
 Whistled with joy, 
 When he saw the new green 
 Of the rejuvenated rhubarb ! 
 
 24 
 
THE BAT 
 
 A sable-winged Mephlsto, 
 You flit across the dark ; 
 
 A miniature Death-angel 
 On some excursion stark : 
 
 Your body soft and furry, 
 Yet soaring like a lark. 
 
 On gnat and bug and beetle, 
 You gorge yourself at will : 
 
 And then when morn approaches. 
 And you have had your fill. 
 
 You doze in some dark attic, 
 Suspended from a sill. 
 
 How like some greedy human . . . 
 
 Tho none would quite admit 
 The cynical resemblance ; 
 
 Yet man will flit and flit, 
 And scorch his foolish pinions. 
 
 As nightly lamps are lit. 
 
 And man will chase a firefly, 
 All spangle-splashed and bright. 
 
 And man will gorge and frolic 
 Thruout his span of night . . . 
 
 Then hide from eyes that question 
 As soon as stars take flight ! 
 
 25 
 
LADY'S MAID 
 
 The smiling sun 
 Is a lady's maid 
 To slovenly earth. 
 
 The dark cloud-s 
 
 Brimming with moisture 
 
 Are jars of cosmetics ; 
 
 The gentle wind 
 
 Is a flesh-brush ; 
 
 Each silver fog 
 
 Is a rare scent-bottle . . . 
 
 Ah, the change 
 
 Wrought 
 
 By this golden-eyed servant, 
 
 When she looks 
 
 On the disheveled garb 
 
 Of her heedless mistress ! 
 
 With what deft hands 
 
 She uses 
 
 Brush and cosmetic 
 
 And magic perfume ! . . . 
 
 After all, 
 
 Are artists found 
 
 Only among serfs ? . . . 
 
 26 
 
TO A SCISSORS GRINDER 
 
 Ruddy-breasted bluebirds 
 And swelling tulip-buds 
 Do not herald Spring 
 More surely than do you. 
 
 In June, 
 
 What with brides' trousseaux 
 And graduation frocks, 
 We shall forget you. 
 
 But in April, 
 
 Your grindstone sharpens 
 
 All dressmakers' scissors. 
 
 A single bluebird 
 
 Means not Spring : 
 
 'Tis so only when many bluebirds gather 
 
 So when I hear the jangle 
 
 Of your tuneless bell, 
 
 I glimpse a mirage of ruffles and roses 
 
 In June ! 
 
 27 
 
SUNDAY 
 
 I have often wondered 
 
 Why it is 
 
 That a few select human beings 
 
 Strive so heroically 
 
 To make others 
 
 Hate Sunday. . . . 
 
 Especially working-folk and children. 
 
 How well I remember, 
 
 When a boy, 
 
 How I thought of Sunday as just a day 
 
 When I must not go swimming, 
 
 Nor whistle, 
 
 Nor fish for bull-heads, 
 
 Nor play ball, 
 
 Nor do any of the various things 
 
 Which I wanted to do : 
 
 And always on this hated day 
 
 I must wear shoes 
 
 And a coat . . . 
 
 And be altogether dull and miserable. 
 
 Presently I grew up : 
 And I found 
 
 That men were busy making laws 
 To prevent everybody 
 From enjoying the Lord's Day. 
 28 
 
Sunday 29 
 
 Lately 
 
 I have harbored the conviction 
 
 That, were Christ to come back 
 
 Some radiant Sunday morning, 
 
 His first act would be 
 
 To gather together 
 
 All the children and working-people, 
 
 And let them be wholly happy 
 
 That one day. 
 
 But it has occurred to me 
 
 That He would probably be arrested 
 
 For breaking some Blue Law, 
 
 Were He to walk in the corn-fields 
 
 On that day . . . 
 
 As once He walked. . . . 
 
THE KILLERS 
 
 One day I wandered 
 
 Through a great packing plant, 
 
 Merely to gratify idle curiosity. 
 
 Into this giant ark of industry 
 They herd droves of animals — 
 Terrified, wild-eyed and gasping, 
 Lowing and rumbling ; 
 Some shrieking with a namfeless fright. 
 Knowing not their fate, 
 Yet with brute instinct 
 Dreading overwhelming disaster. 
 Lambs bleating plantively, 
 
 Cattle trembling, swine squealing and struggliAg 
 Laying down their lives, all of them, 
 That man may be nourished . . . 
 Swarms of brawny laborers — 
 Great, sweating, half-naked men 
 Covered with slime and gore, 
 Appear to glory in their deeds of blood — 
 Leering, boisterous, profane, lustful. 
 Burly negroes 
 
 Slashing with huge axes and knives 
 The muscles which still twitch, 
 And still are supple with living warmth. 
 A fetid odor fills the air, 
 A low droning wears the ear-drums : 
 Everywhere sickening spectacles greet the eye. 
 
 30 
 
The Killers 31 
 
 I watch all this, 
 And wonder at the irony of it, 
 The uselessness of it, 
 Awed at the endless killings 
 Of dumb and patient beasts. 
 
 Suddenly I am lost in a vision : 
 
 I travel centuries backward . . . 
 
 I sense a vast hush — 
 
 All noises lose their rasping, their harshness . . . 
 
 A white-bearded patriarch descends into a pit, 
 
 Softening the weird nightmare 
 
 Of a moment back . . . 
 
 This ancient Jew, this gentle old Rabbi, 
 
 Steps from a page of Scripture : 
 
 Solemnly he performs 
 
 His world-old rites . . . 
 
 No filthy pens here — 
 
 No pools of blood . . . 
 
 It is an holy place. 
 
 And this venerable man. 
 
 This prophet of old, 
 
 Himself lends to the vision 
 
 A charm that is a benediction. . . . 
 
 My reverie passes . . . 
 
 This is no place for dreams 1 
 
 Hungry man must be fed ! — 
 
 His children also cry for flesh, 
 
 And the herds of the wilderness must supply it ! 
 
 Even as the silver-haired Semite raises his knife, 
 
32 The Killers 
 
 He becomes a different being : 
 
 He thrusts, 
 
 Severing the heads from shuddering kine, 
 
 Their struggling bodies lashed to timbers by chains : 
 
 He kills, 
 
 That his people may not hunger. 
 
 A killer . . . 
 
 Like those others in the sweating mob 
 
 Of black and white killers ! 
 
 A killer — 
 
 One with those who leer and curse 
 
 And kill with no thought 
 
 Or prayer or ceremonial ! 
 
 A killer — 
 
 That the sons of men 
 
 May flourish and increase . . . 
 
 And in their savage turn 
 
 Strike down their meat ! 
 
TO A GOLDFINCH 
 
 Are you a tiny fragment 
 Of some yellow moon, 
 
 Carelessly tossed down to earth 
 With your cheery tune ? 
 
 Your home swings in a thistle, 
 And the thistle's bloom 
 
 Lines a couch with luxury. 
 In your silken room. 
 
 Mankind oft hints that thistles 
 
 Punish him for sin : 
 No avenging demon that, 
 
 Which your nest sways in ! 
 
 33 
 
PROGRESS 
 
 Time's keen sickle 
 
 Has sliced away centuries 
 
 Since the Spanish Inquisition : 
 
 Decades have passed 
 
 Since the Salem witches 
 
 Sizzled. 
 
 Ask any of the so-called leading minds 
 
 Of our time, 
 
 As to whether the human race improves. 
 
 " Yes," they will answer. 
 
 " We are making great strides forward : 
 
 The world grows better : 
 
 Civilization marches on triumphantly ! " 
 
 Indeed, 
 
 I believe so, myself , . . 
 
 Still, I could wish 
 
 That the day had arrived 
 
 When a man might speak his thoughts 
 
 Without being jailed . . . 
 
 If his ideas chanced to clash 
 
 With those of his fellows. 
 
 I disHke to complain . . . 
 
 But I cannot help wondering 
 
 If I shall live to behold that time and season 
 
 In which success is not measured 
 
 By dollars and cents. 
 
 34 
 
Progress 35 
 
 No question at all : 
 
 The world progresses . . . 
 
 But I should like to see the day 
 
 When dignitaries turned their attention 
 
 From the ponderous crime 
 
 Of breaking some modern fool law 
 
 To the more trivial and commonplace matter 
 
 Of murder, 
 
 Or cheating a man 
 
 Of all that he hath ! 
 
THE MINISTER'S WIFE 
 
 Ours is a peaceful town 
 Of a thousand souls or so ; 
 It is cradled among the hills, 
 And we are provincial, 
 Self-satisfied, 
 And contented. . . . 
 But souls must be saved : 
 So we hire parsons to do this 
 Little service for us : 
 And we have five churches 
 Whose lofty spires, 
 Like great inverted icicles, 
 Pierce the blue sky- 
 Overhead. 
 
 No, I shall not waste time 
 
 Telling you of the five pastors 
 
 Who labor in those churches — 
 
 Though many noble things might be said of them 
 
 And the good works wrought by their hands. 
 
 Nay : 
 
 I have rather to speak of a woman 
 
 Whom I saw to-day. . . . 
 
 She stood in a doorway 
 
 Of a modest cottage, 
 
 Watching her three children 
 
 As they left for school. 
 
 36 
 
The Minister's Wife 37 
 
 Her calico dress was a little faded, 
 
 And her smile a little tired 
 
 And worried : 
 
 Her face was pinched, 
 
 And wore the gray shadow of self-denial : 
 
 But she waved a joyous goodbye 
 
 To the neatly-dressed children. 
 
 I have seen her frequently before. 
 
 In various places : 
 
 I have seen her in church, 
 
 In her run-over shoes and shabby hat. 
 
 For she teaches a Sunday School class ; 
 
 I have seen her calling on the sick ; 
 
 I have heard the kind words she spoke to a shiftless 
 
 loafer : 
 I have seen the warming smile she gave a wayward 
 
 girl . . . 
 The village Magdalene ; 
 I have heard her voice in the choir, 
 Singing old hymns. . . . 
 
 But once I saw a flush creep over her face, 
 
 And her eyes flashed fire : 
 
 That was when the banker's pretty daughter 
 
 Tittered at her old-fashioned coat . . . 
 
 But this was the only sign 
 
 That jibes stung her. 
 
 Or that her cross was heavy. . . . 
 
 She is a brave woman. 
 
38 The Minister's Wife 
 
 In our village, 
 
 Souls must be saved : 
 
 And souls may be the property 
 
 Of humans exceeding poor in purse : 
 
 And ministers have wives . . . 
 
 And oh, 
 
 We expect so much of them ! 
 
 Poor things ! 
 
 Why do we watch them so closely. 
 
 Expecting them to set an example 
 
 For us — 
 
 Who have less privation, 
 
 And so little that calls 
 
 For rebellion ? 
 
A FUR COAT 
 
 Sparkling eyes . . . 
 
 Follow her a moment . . . 
 
 How quickly she notes 
 
 Your glance of admiration ! 
 
 How her shallow heart thrills to it ! 
 
 Along the Red River 
 
 An Indian half-breed 
 
 Finally despatches a writhing muskrat 
 
 Which has struggled for hours 
 
 In agony 
 
 In a steel trap : 
 
 He leaves the bloody carcass 
 
 On a sand bar . . . 
 
 But 
 
 Eyes must sparkle ; 
 
 Vanity must be appeased . . . 
 
 (Vanity Is such a hungry god !) 
 
 Daughters of Eve 
 
 Must be coddled 
 
 In soft luxury : 
 
 But this bitter exchange . . . 
 Why ? . . . Why ? 
 
 39 
 
THE SERPENT 
 
 Sexless spinster, 
 
 With your saintly smile, 
 
 And finger in Bible — 
 
 You may deceive some — 
 
 Undiscerning ones, 
 
 But not me — 
 
 Not me. 
 
 My eyes see through the veil 
 
 Enshrouding you 
 
 Like the coarse-woven wrappings 
 
 Of some crumbling mummy ; 
 
 I behold your shriveled soul, 
 
 Brown and dry and unlovely. . . . 
 
 And I shudder . . . 
 
 Day after day 
 
 You peer out upon a sweet green world 
 
 Through the narrow slits 
 
 In that ugly shell 
 
 Which houses 
 
 Your mean and rancid soul ; 
 
 You are conventional, suave and pious ; 
 
 You go through the forms of prayer, 
 
 You sing psalms ; 
 
 You smile. 
 
 When it is correct or tactful 
 
 To smile ; 
 
 40 
 
The Serpent 41 
 
 But to me 
 
 It is a warped and terrible grimace. 
 
 Sometimes you purr and flatter — 
 
 You are passing clever at that ! 
 
 You are smug and well-kept, 
 
 Like all hypocrites ; 
 
 But you are a serpent — • 
 
 A crawling reptile, 
 
 With venom 
 
 Spouting from a lightning tongue : 
 
 Your fangs are none the less cruel and deadly 
 
 For being hidden. 
 
 You are the arch-assassin 
 
 Of reputation : 
 
 In gluttonous delirium of feasting, 
 
 You devour crumbs of scandal, 
 
 Smacking your drooling lips the while : 
 
 All that is salacious and decayed 
 
 Is your meat ; 
 
 A fair name to you 
 
 Is but an image 
 
 To be defaced and befouled ; 
 
 To the innocent 
 
 You are as a coiled snake : 
 
 For you lie in wait 
 
 Ever watching eagerly 
 
 For a word or look 
 
 From young lips and eyes 
 
 Which you can tear to shreds, 
 
 To weave of them 
 
42 The Serpent 
 
 A scarlet robe for innocence ; 
 Each scrap of filth 
 You clutch at hungrily — 
 Fondling it, and adding thereto 
 An hundred other ugly morsels 
 Of your own devising. 
 
 In your little, festering space, 
 
 Nothing is sacred ; 
 
 Youth is cheap. 
 
 And womanhood is prostituted ; 
 
 Manhood is scum ; 
 
 Home is a den of noisome things : 
 
 A knife were kinder and more merciful : 
 
 To stab the body is but to bleed it dry — 
 
 But to kill the soul — 
 
 Ah, that were murder damnable indeed ! 
 
 Out upon you ! 
 
 I would nail your putrid spirit 
 
 To a cross of flame — 
 
 I would bare it and burn it — 
 
 And so purify 
 
 A world created sweet 
 
 By the Great All-Father ! 
 
THE WISE MAN 
 
 Henry Hopkins 
 
 Furnishes vast amusement 
 
 For the small boys 
 
 Of our town. 
 
 Henry is the village half-wit 
 
 (At least, everybody calls him a half-wit). 
 
 Henry is a familiar figure 
 
 On our streets . . . 
 
 A blighting fever did its cruel work 
 
 When he was just a baby : 
 
 He has grown 
 
 Only in stature. 
 
 But one time 
 
 I was talking to Henry. 
 
 He leered at me in his simple way, 
 
 And said, 
 
 " I'm an idiot ! " 
 
 He emphasized that word pitifully, 
 
 Although a faint twinkle Illumined 
 
 His dead-fish eyes , . . 
 
 It started me thinking . . . 
 
 Henry, 
 
 You're not so hopeless an idiot. 
 After all ! 
 
 If everybody knew to the full 
 Their weaknesses and shortcomings, 
 43 
 
44 The Wise Man 
 
 As you do : 
 
 If we all realized our limitations, 
 
 As you realize yours, 
 
 And beheld our true smallness and incompetence, 
 
 'Twould be a mighty different world. 
 
 Wouldn't it ? 
 
 Henry 
 
 YOU are the wise man ! . . . 
 Because you, though being an idiot, 
 Know it ! 
 
FOSSILS 
 Its label reads. 
 
 " Silurian Period," 
 
 Awfully tame, isn't it ? 
 
 But it is history 
 
 Written by Dame Nature herself 
 
 The one infallible historian. 
 
 Bones of a creature 
 
 Long extinct : 
 
 Embedded in a matrix 
 
 Of clay. 
 
 Yonder goes a man 
 Rated at a million ! 
 See how the herd 
 Bow to him. 
 And do him homage. 
 
 I laugh . . . 
 
 It may be 
 
 That this man's skull 
 
 Will a million years hence 
 
 Lie in some museum ! 
 
 And what curious onlooker 
 
 Will know or care 
 
 That he was worth a million ? 
 
 He will then be 
 Only a fossil ; 
 A relic of a period 
 In world history. 
 
 45 
 
TRAIN-WINDOW MOVIES 
 
 Shrieks from a brazen throat . . . 
 
 Discordant clanging of bells ; 
 
 Hissing of steam, 
 
 Shouting of goodbys, 
 
 Bawlings from leathern lungs . . . 
 
 This last a cue 
 
 For the curtain of the dark train-shed to lift 
 
 That I, perched on red velvet, 
 
 May watch a movie 
 
 From a car-window. 
 
 So they come . . . 
 
 Tenements, crowded houses, 
 
 Store-buildings, abandoned gin-mills, 
 
 Billboards, flying streets . . . 
 
 I watch them all : 
 
 I must be patient : 
 
 This is but the comedy ... 
 
 The feature picture will soon flash on. 
 
 Now, then. 
 Here we are ! . . . 
 These scattered trees. 
 This grass-green carpet — 
 These are just the captions, 
 Foretelling the plot 
 Presently to be unfolded. 
 46 
 
Train-Window Movies 47 
 
 And then ... 
 
 I am entranced ! 
 
 Come and watch with me . . . 
 
 Grey ribbon-roads : 
 
 Puppet-driven toy motors : 
 
 Noah's Ark cows and sheep and horses ; 
 
 The sun a great poHshed metal disc, 
 
 Clouds like the tails of grey stallions ; 
 
 Spectrum colors furnished by feathered things — 
 
 Goldfinch! cardinal, tanager, bunting ; 
 
 Snuff-colored plowed fields. 
 
 Shrinking from the glances 
 
 Of their curious sisters. 
 
 The sweet virgin meadows. 
 
 And here is romance, too . . . 
 
 The prairie and the plow mate : 
 
 There are houses sheltering new love, 
 
 And barns hovering over little young things ; 
 
 Wheat fields, corn fields . . , 
 
 Mute answers to man's ceaseless prayer 
 
 For daily bread . . . 
 
 Ah, 
 
 I picked a good show — 
 
 A marvelously good show ! 
 
 But my pleasure is short-lived . . . 
 
 Grinding brakes : 
 
 A brick building 
 
 Blots out my picture : 
 
 And the audience is beginning to leave : 
 
 Somebody in a uniform 
 
48 Train-Window Movies 
 
 Bawls a name — 
 My station ! 
 
 Ah, but it was a picture 
 
 Worth seeing ! . . . 
 
 I wonder 
 
 How many millions of ages and lives 
 
 It cost . . . 
 
 To produce that picture. . . . 
 
THE DRUDGE 
 
 I am bound down for all time ... a serf. 
 
 But I must slave in silence and patience. 
 
 Not for me is lamenting 
 
 Or any complaining : 
 
 For I am the lawful wife 
 
 Of a hard-working farmer 
 
 Of the Middle- West. 
 
 He is a tyrant — 
 
 But he is my master. 
 
 He looks upon me 
 
 (When he notices me at all) 
 
 As a chattel, a beast of burden . . . 
 
 Because I am joined to him in wedlock, 
 
 I am his bond-woman 
 
 And his vassal. 
 
 This man whose fetters I wear 
 Is my whole government and my stern judge. 
 I am but his property, 
 To do with as he sees fit — 
 For which he has bought and paid 
 With a handful of his substance. 
 Lands and timber, 
 Grain and cattle. 
 Has he in generous abundance ; 
 He has laid up substantial riches. 
 And he is a power 
 Among men of his breed — 
 
 49 
 
50 The Drudge 
 
 Brutal, heavy-handed, self-centered, 
 
 He believes that I, 
 
 Or any other woman. 
 
 Should be glad to fetch and carry for him ; 
 
 Should be grateful — nay, proud — 
 
 That I may pay him obedience ! 
 
 I have served him well ... 
 
 I have borne his flock of children ; 
 
 I have tolled for him without surcease or remuneration ; 
 
 I have shouldered the burdens 
 
 At which any of his horses would rebel . . . 
 
 And I have received less reward 
 
 Than would they. 
 
 I have not expected much — 
 
 I would be satisfied with so little ! . . . 
 
 Just a soft word now and then, 
 
 A touch, a shy caress, a rare kiss ; 
 
 But he is incapable of such response — 
 
 He cannot comprehend. 
 
 And he will never know . . . 
 
 For he wears his heart in a shell 
 
 Hard as adamant. 
 
 Ugly, misshapen, shriveled and faded, 
 
 I struggle on. 
 
 Ah, it was a cruel fate 
 
 That chained me to this beast — 
 
 This grubber of the ground, 
 
 Who never thinks or cares 
 
 Of aught but his herds and acres ! 
 
The Drudge 51 
 
 This swine, who dreams only of his trough ! 
 
 But somewhere I must find patience : 
 
 No word of complaint 
 
 Must tear at my shrunken lips ! 
 
 I may sob, and beg release — 
 
 But this only to God . . . 
 
 For he must not know 
 
 That I, his lawful wife, 
 
 Bound in the relentless irons of wedlock, 
 
 Am soft and yielding 
 
 In my heart ! 
 
 He must not suspect 
 
 My hunger and my fierce thirst 
 
 For what is sweet and lovely ! 
 
 He must not dream 
 
 That I wish life 
 
 Held an hour of ease now and then 
 
 For prayer — and for love ! 
 
 He must not know, I say . . . 
 
 For I am the pitiful puppet 
 
 Of a despot, 
 
 Parading as my mate ! 
 
JOHN TURNER, M. D. 
 
 Do you wonder who he is, 
 
 That somewhat shabby individual 
 
 With the pleasant smile 
 
 And cheery " Hello " ? 
 
 And maybe you wonder, too, 
 
 Why everybody knows him 
 
 And appears glad to know him : 
 
 Why no one passes him on the street 
 
 W^ithout a glad word 
 
 Or a smile and a wave of the hand. 
 
 Shall I tell you ? . . . 
 The sign next to his office window 
 Reads, " John Turner, M. D." ; 
 But we all call him just " Doc," 
 And we all love him. 
 He has been with us many years now : 
 No one knows us quite as well as he. 
 Nor understands us better. 
 He has spent all his time 
 Easing pain and mending wounds. 
 Reckoned in dollars and cents, 
 He isn't worth much, 
 " Doc " isn't ; 
 
 He doesn't own a lot of land, 
 And his income isn't much to speak of ; 
 But his word is more unshakable 
 Than the strongest bank in the world . . 
 
 52 
 
John Turner, M, D, 53 
 
 There are lots of babies named after him . . . 
 And he's mighty rich in friends. 
 
 You see it's this way : 
 
 When " Doc " comes to call on us, 
 
 We're not wearing our best clothes : 
 
 We're sick in bed, 
 
 And sometimes 
 
 We're not very pleasant to look at . . . 
 
 But when you're down sick, 
 
 You'll be surprised to find 
 
 How easy it is to get acquainted with " Doc." 
 
 The sign on his office reads, 
 
 " John Turner, M. D.," 
 
 But we can't help just caUing him " Doc." 
 
 It meang so much more to us — 
 
 It makes us feel sort of a kinship with him . . . 
 
 And we're proud of that. 
 
 There he goes now in his old car — 
 
 Scarlet fever out in the Sandy Hook neighborhood . . . 
 
 They're slow pay out in that section. 
 
 But " Doc " doesn't care — 
 
 He'd never hang off because of that. 
 
 You see, 
 
 His business is easing pain and mending wounds . . . 
 
 Wouldn't you like pretty well 
 
 To meet him yourself ^ 
 
BIRCH AND MAPLE 
 
 Why do you caress each other 
 Like sweethearts ? . . . 
 You two trees, 
 Birch and maple. . . . 
 
 Maple tree, 
 
 I draw a little of your precious sap, 
 
 And I find it sweet as honey. 
 
 The essence of your soul 
 
 Is lovely . . . 
 
 As your children 
 
 Would be lovely. 
 
 But you, birch tree — 
 
 W^hen I taste of you, 
 
 I find you sour, biting, stinging. . . . 
 
 Very harsh to my tongue. 
 
 And repugnant to my soul. . . . 
 
 And I wonder if you would beget children 
 
 Like yourself. . . . 
 
 Why are you not lovers. 
 Oh birch and maple ^ 
 Lovers . . . 
 
 To mingle the bitter of the birch 
 And the sweet of the maple. . . . 
 For it is the way of lovers : 
 Whose perfect union 
 Defies the bitter 
 In glorifying the sweet. . . . 
 54 
 
THISTLES 
 
 This tiny plot of virgin prairie 
 
 Has never known a ploughshare, 
 
 Nor has Nature here ever been disturbed 
 
 And her sweet beauty ravished. 
 
 Her handiwork is still lovely. 
 
 Man the meddler 
 
 Has not borrowed her fairy sceptre 
 
 To rob her of her beautifuls. 
 
 Set like an amethyst 
 
 Among the other blossomed glories 
 
 Of the painted prairie, 
 
 Here stands a plumed knight : 
 
 His armor dipped in the first clear tints 
 
 Of falling water, 
 
 He holds himself aloo? 
 
 From daisies and tiger lilies . . . 
 
 Does he wait to defend a kingdom — 
 
 Or a lady ? 
 
 For when I draw near to look more closely, 
 
 I find he bristles with sharp spines — 
 
 Frosty-green, delicately pointed, 
 
 And needle-fine . . . 
 
 A thistle — stormy and venomous. 
 
 For all its plumed array. 
 
 And so I ponder . . . 
 There are friendships like thistles. 
 
 55 
 
56 Thistles 
 
 At first they lure and please — 
 
 There is beauty and a certain air 
 
 Of refinement and sweet reserve — 
 
 But they are wary . . . 
 
 Anon they draw you closer than you will : 
 
 They wear a veil but to tease you on ; 
 
 And then suddenly, when you are sure of understanding 
 
 And communing response, 
 
 You crush the warm friendship 
 
 To your hungry heart — 
 
 And there are thorns piercing you 
 
 And poisoning you 
 
 And wounding you deeper than can heal 
 
 In a life-time — 
 
 Thistles, withal ... 
 
 To tear and sting 
 
 And uproot belief 
 
 In all friendships . . . 
 
 And in God. 
 
THE HUMMING BIRD 
 
 Your rhythmic humming 
 Drones in my ears 
 Like the weird music 
 Of a reed pipe. 
 It fascinates me 
 And charms me. 
 
 The radiant ruby 
 
 Which bedecks your throat 
 
 Captivates me — 
 
 But not more 
 
 Than does the iridescent sheen 
 
 Of your other emerald glories. 
 
 Your mission 
 
 Seems to be 
 
 To delight the eyes of humans - 
 
 And impart the kiss of life 
 
 To blossoming beautifuls. 
 
 Splendor is yours ! 
 
 And indeed, why not ^ — 
 
 When you feed 
 
 On drops of nectar 
 
 Dripping from the cool hearts 
 
 Of smiling flowers ! 
 
 57 
 
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