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HILLSBORO IN THE WAR 
 
HILLSBORO IN 
 THE WAR 
 
 RICHARD D. WARE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 
 1917 
 
Copyright, 191 7, by Richard D. Ware 
 
 — J* ^ 
 
 All Rights Reserved Q^p Oj ,1 
 
 4=^ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 QC'i 27 1917 
 ©GI.A476792 #/j6au# 
 
The only Autocrat whose mandates were ever 
 grateful to the people of these United Democra- 
 cies once declared that Boston was not a place 
 but a state of mind. It might be said equally well 
 of Hillsboro. The county and the state of mind 
 were both established when the Scotch-Irish who 
 had founded the Londonderry settlement drifted 
 farther west into the hills and dug themselves in. 
 They have never been dug out again. Newcomers 
 from all countries outnumber their descendants, 
 but the spirit of the Londonderry men still speaks. 
 And so speaks Hillsboro. Or is silent. These 
 men or their sons left the Hillsboro settlements 
 in turn and went still farther into the western 
 country, and wherever they went, the state of 
 mind went with them and still persists. 
 
 Those Scotch-Irish took everything hard. They 
 took their thinking hard. They were stubborn 
 men, and not being wont to yield, insisted that 
 facts be proved facts before they yielded to their 
 stubbornness. Their minds were clear visioned in 
 simplicity, concrete, keen to cut away the veneer 
 of sham and sharp to prick the bladder of hifalu- 
 tin. They were men who dwelt upon and valued 
 past experience. They were slow to leap at the 
 New This and the New That dangled before 
 them. If the merit of those things was proved 
 they became facts and were accepted as such. 
 
In those days a great deal of men's thinking 
 was on things political, and they took their poli- 
 tics hard. Hillsboro still does. Republicans are 
 Lincoln Republicans. Democrats are Jacksonian 
 Democrats, not Jeffersonian nor Christian Science 
 Democrats. 
 
 They took their daily labors hard, in that noth- 
 ing was too hard to be undertaken and put 
 through. 
 
 They took their fighting hard. Never were 
 more tenacious and bitter fighters. In their minds, 
 to fight was to beat up the enemy, private or public, 
 to such degree as might be necessary to prove to 
 him that he was beaten, and then make him do 
 what he had been unwilling to do unbeaten. "Beat 
 him first" was "Safety First" in those days of In- 
 dians, Hessians and Red Coats, and the Hessians 
 are still with us. 
 
 Most of the subjects which follow have to do with 
 the Hillsboro state of mind as to facts appearing 'in 
 the early days of the war after this country entered 
 it. 
 
 A few of them have to do with fancies of my 
 own. 
 
 As to form, why should not all verse be called 
 "free"? No one ever buys it. 
 
 Why, therefore, while the air is full of Freedom 
 and its flags, drum beats, shells, bullets, shrieks, 
 groans and other emblems, shall not this great 
 4 
 
Democracy make all verse and song free, along 
 with its justice, health and pursuit of happiness? 
 It would cost but little in these days of billions. 
 
 R. D. W. 
 
 Amherst, New Hampshire, 
 
 August, 191 7. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 All the World's at War n 
 
 The Pigeons 13 
 
 The Censors 19 
 
 The Trenches 25 
 
 The War Hoe 27 
 
 Moth Nests 30 
 
 The Railroad Commissioners 32 
 
 At the Store 37 
 
 The Milk Man 43 
 
 An Aged Man 46 
 
 The Phrasemakers 53 
 
 Mr. Hoover 56 
 
 The Ministers 59 
 
 The Camps 66 
 
 The Garbage Pail 70 
 
 The Exemption Boards 73 
 
 The Judges 80 
 
HILLSBORO IN THE WAR 
 
ALL THE WORLD'S AT WAR 
 
 And all the iron mongery, 
 
 Castings and forgings, things mechanical, 
 The whole vast enginery 
 
 Of cogs and toggles, wires, cranks and wheels 
 Which man has reared, a soulless Frankenstein, 
 
 Now turns to rend him and destroy. 
 A war has seven stages. First the typewriter 
 
 Clicking and clacking off the fateful word 
 Some autocrat has spoken as his will; 
 
 And then the printing press with rumbling roar 
 Spreading the printed word on broadcast page 
 
 To rouse the honor of the land to make it good. 
 Then the trip hammers crash on clanging steel 
 
 Forging great billets for the mighty guns 
 Which in their turn shall blast abroad the word 
 
 Into the brains and bodies of the foe. 
 And then the whirling, never-ceasing lathes 
 
 Turning the shells to bear aloft the word, 
 Affronting God's own heavens with their screams. 
 
 Then steaming vats and bubbling retorts 
 Simmer and surge with fierce reactions strained 
 
 From which are born explosives for the guns 
 and shells. 
 The sixth stage shifts into the offices and counting 
 rooms 
 
 Of money changers, men with things for sale, 
 contractors, 
 
 II 
 
Where silently, well oiled, wheels within wheels 
 Make the machine of Business move on 
 
 In subtle swift accomplishment. Then last of all 
 Upon the roll of martial mechanisms, 
 
 The Government like car of Juggernaut appears, 
 Slow, creaking, rusty, wrenched, 
 
 But irresistible. 
 
 12 
 
THE PIGEONS 
 
 There were some pigeon-holes beneath the eaves 
 
 Which led into the loft within the barn, 
 So, that they might fulfill their obvious purpose 
 there, 
 
 I got some pigeons, to go in and out those holes, 
 And sit upon the ridgepole, cooingly, 
 
 Or trot about in love chase in the yard. 
 Six loving pairs they were, 
 
 Fast wedded severally 
 Or so the vendor said, 
 
 And white as snow, 
 So that they well might seem 
 
 Another apostolic twelve 
 In robes immaculate ; 
 
 Emblems of peace, 
 Domestic love 
 
 And gentleness. 
 Put not one's utter trust 
 
 In emblems! 
 They're all right till the britchin' breaks 
 
 And then — 
 But let us to our doves. 
 
 Beyond all things I wished to watch them fly, 
 Gleaming and flashing in the summer sun 
 
 Or like white snow flakes out of winter skies, 
 But this I learned 
 
 Was not to be as yet, 
 
 13 
 
For such was their instinctive love of home 
 
 That back to Melrose 
 They would wing their way 
 
 Assuredly, 
 If soon let loose 
 
 Just as that song bird 
 The fair Geraldine 
 
 Is wont at times to flit 
 To her home town and theirs 
 
 For rest and peace 
 From tortured Toscas and bruised Butterflies. 
 
 So they were close confined up in the loft 
 And left to their devices, 
 
 Which were such 
 That when came spring I found 
 
 A flock of fifty 
 Perching on the beams, 
 
 Grunting and growling like dogs over bones, 
 Or uttering a cry which sounds more like 
 
 "Kruk-kruk-ker-roo, 
 Wuk-wuk" 
 
 Than anything, 
 And which I'm sure must mean 
 
 "You are the only girl I ever loved." 
 So first I learned that pigeons do not coo. 
 
 Then 
 That for progenitive accomplishment 
 
 The hare's a tortoise to them, 
 While as to plighted troth 
 14 
 
A sailor of the Seven Seas 
 Each sea with seven ports of call 
 
 And at each port 
 Seven syren sweethearts 
 
 Waiting watchfully 
 Is slothful laggard in the lists of love 
 
 Compared to one of these 
 Sweet ruffians. 
 
 And with these appetites 
 Were more. 
 
 Such gluttons of the trough 
 Swine never were, 
 
 Pushing and crowding, 
 Strong elbowing the weak, 
 
 Tossing and wasting what they did not gorge. 
 Great guzzlers too they were. 
 
 The legend of the dove 
 Began to totter 
 
 On its pedestal. 
 Then came a day 
 
 When two fat squabs 
 From pulpy nakedness 
 
 In parti-colored garb appeared, 
 In lieu of the white habit of the flock. 
 
 Up strutted in cold blood 
 A squad 
 
 Of bull-necked executioners 
 And beat them on the head 
 
 And slew them. 
 
 15 
 
So I learned that doves 
 
 Were murderers. 
 In spite of crimes 
 
 I sought to set them free, 
 So one bright day in June 
 
 I let them loose. 
 Out-swarming from the holes they came 
 
 And making swift survey, 
 Into the air they swept, 
 
 Wheeling, circling, 
 Flashing in the sun, 
 
 The rushing of the swooping wings 
 Like wind among the pines. 
 
 Then with eyes satisfied 
 I went down to the field. 
 
 At noon returning, work there done, 
 From the young garden by the barn 
 
 Up leaped the flock 
 Aloft to nearby roof 
 
 And looked down on the havoc they had made. 
 Young beets pulled up; 
 
 Young cauliflowers broke; 
 Young cabbages laid low upon the ground. 
 
 Such slaughter of the innocent 
 There had not been 
 
 Since Pharaoh's time. 
 Seed beds with flowering plants 
 
 Were tramped and torn; 
 
 16 
 
Green heads of lettuce wilted in the sun 
 
 Leaves scissored small ; 
 Young rosebushes, inedible, 
 
 Stood stark and stripped. 
 So had the gentle doves come down 
 
 Like the Assyrian 
 Upon the fold, 
 
 And so when they went up that night 
 They stayed there 
 
 Behind bars. 
 That settled the sweet legend of the dove. 
 
 Then came the war abroad, 
 And as I read 
 
 How the invaders of a peaceful land 
 Had roared and blasphemed, 
 
 Ravished, slain, 
 And laid it waste, 
 
 All these things seemed 
 Familiar to the mind ; 
 
 And then it turned 
 To understanding of the Doves, — 
 
 Their whole Kultur 
 Was German! 
 
 In cynic mood 
 And thought of the efficiency 
 
 That nation sought 
 On such affairs as these 
 
 I wrote — 
 
 17 
 
Back to the kennel with the Dogs of War. 
 
 Let the fierce brutes lie growling in their lair. 
 Throw wide the dove cotes to the winged hosts 
 
 And loose them hurtling through the air. 
 Bred murderous by Man, fly forth, 
 
 Ungentled, turned to harpies by his will ; 
 His newest allies in his lust of war, 
 
 And join the vultures where they sate their fill. 
 Would that thy wings still greater weight might 
 waft 
 
 Of dire destruction from the sky to launch; 
 No more to bear as sign of love and peace 
 
 The futile burden of the olive branch. 
 Thy brighter iris smear with pestilence 
 
 And loose disease and death along thy path; 
 God's messenger turned fiend in whited plumage 
 
 To be the engine of Man's bestial wrath. 
 Bear traitrous messages from camps beleaguered, 
 
 Bear heartbreak to the stricken ones afar; 
 Such are they tasks, thou bird of evil omen 
 
 When men are at their horrid work of war. 
 
 And soon, 
 
 As if in answer to a prophecy, 
 Der Taube 
 
 Swept across the sky. 
 
 18 
 
THE CENSORS 
 
 Freedom shrieked ; 
 
 War howled, 
 And with its dogs let loose 
 
 An horde of poetasters rushed 
 With streaming fountain pens in hand 
 
 Fine frenzied from their lairs. 
 There songs of hate were sung; 
 
 Here dirges for the dead; 
 Now paeans of Victory resound; 
 
 Now hymns of Peace without it; 
 Epithalamia of war-won brides; 
 
 The lullabies of martial infants crooned; 
 No theme nor reason was too trite for rhyme, 
 
 No rhyme unreasonable in stress of war, 
 While in an undertone of lawless ecstasy 
 
 The rhythmic beat of free verse boomed and 
 growled 
 Like tom-toms from the Niger's ebon shades. 
 
 World wide contagion raged. 
 Peers, prelates, plumbers, all became infect. 
 
 Wealth could not buy immunity. 
 It fattened on the poor. 
 
 There was no sanctuary 
 On shore nor in the hills. 
 
 No hamlet was too small 
 To miss a visitation of the plague. 
 
 The cities reeked with it. 
 19 
 
No home of simple folk or merchant prince 
 
 Might mark its lintel for its passover, 
 And even well screened sanitaria 
 
 Failed utterly to stay the deadly germs. 
 I thought at first that certainly my place 
 
 Beneath the sun up here in Hillsboro 
 With air and water pure would sterilize 
 
 The dread bacilli if they wafted here. 
 But no, and thus it came about. 
 
 At the beginnings of the war 
 The cabled tidings bore 
 
 Constant quotations of the Kaiser's words, 
 And they had most to do 
 
 With murderous mandates he addressed to God 
 And praises for his own beloved son 
 
 And heir, who, if truth be not dead, 
 Is of the crew of royal scalawags 
 
 And skunks 
 The worst. 
 
 Then came a battle on the Prince's front 
 And to the son, now blooded, there was sent 
 
 By the proud father as his gift 
 The Iron Cross. 
 
 I read of this beneath a clear blue sky, 
 Sweet scented breezes drifting through the fields, 
 
 No thought of danger near. 
 Then the next instant, something in my brain 
 
 Began to click, and my turn too had come. 
 The symptoms were acute. There had to be 
 20 
 
Blood letting or some purifying flux 
 To ease the fever, so I seized a pen 
 
 And purged my mind free of its distillate. 
 
 THE SECOND IN COMMAND 
 
 Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
 mander, 
 
 God, 
 His orders from headquarters for the long well 
 plotted fight: 
 "Support our forward column until we break their 
 line ; 
 Then let thy rod and staff descend and smite!" 
 
 Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
 mander, 
 
 God, 
 A bi-plane with a message through the racked 
 and reeking air: 
 "The Count and I go murdering as soon as it is 
 night; 
 See to it that the wind to-night is fair." 
 
 Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
 mander, 
 
 God, 
 
 21 
 
An uhlan with a message out of screaming 
 shrieking hell : 
 "My Son has gained his battle and has won the 
 Iron Cross. 
 
 See to it that your son deserves as well!" 
 The direst symptom of this new disease 
 
 Is that as one succumbs he grows a-thirst 
 To spread it. 
 
 And so to one of those 
 Who guard the freedom of the people's speech 
 
 Beneath the aegis of the printed page 
 With two editions daily, to say naught 
 
 Of watchful "extras" turning day to night 
 Before its close, and on the seventh day 
 
 A monstrous parti-colored mass 
 Of printed pulp as final bulwark raised, 
 
 To one of these I say I took my lines 
 And stood with trembling knees the while he read. 
 
 "Fine! Bully! We must sure use this. 
 Great stuff; it's got the punch and lots of pep. 
 
 That ought to make the Hyphens take a think 
 And see where they get off at; here, Jim, quick, 
 
 Take this right up to Mr. Clipping's room — 
 He has to pass on things like this, you know." 
 
 And so we talked and passed the time of day 
 Until young Jim came back with note in hand. 
 
 The editor perused the message brought. 
 "Well, I'll be — hum — I never thought of that; 
 
 I guess he's right; he says it wouldn't do." 
 22 
 
And handing me the screed from higher up 
 
 I read that heavy advertising came 
 From sundry firms with harsh Teutonic names 
 
 And that the Romish priesthood would declare 
 The lines anathema. 
 
 "So there you see," he said, 
 "What we are up against." 
 
 And as I looked I saw 
 The aegis rent by stealthy foes within 
 
 The city's walls, with clinking gold in hand 
 Instead of daggers drawn, 
 
 To rot its vitals through 
 Instead of stabbing them. 
 
 So back to Hillsboro went the lines 
 Innocuous, and in a drawer 
 
 They lay in rural quietude 
 Until one day 
 
 A friend with pro-Alliance in his soul 
 Turned in the yard to "set a spell" and talk; 
 
 And as we talked some phrasement gave the cue 
 To let him read the lines, and so he did. 
 
 "By thunder, I must see this thing in print 
 And I know just the place to take it, too. 
 
 One of the papers gets out every week 
 A commentary covering the war 
 
 In all its phases, 
 Battles lost and won, 
 
 Diplomacies, things written and things said ; 
 I know the man who has it all in hand 
 
 And this is just the sort of thing he'd want." 
 23 
 
And so the lines went out into the world 
 
 A second time to seek to have their say. 
 Time moved along and yet no loud outcry 
 
 Arose from outraged Teuton or from priest 
 aghast 
 Up from the city to the quiet hills, 
 
 And so, 
 I wrote a letter of inquiry to ask 
 
 Had yet the lines been used or would they be. 
 No answer. With an interval 
 
 I wrote again. 
 Again the man of war 
 
 Deigned not to make reply 
 And must have pocketed 
 
 The stamp from a directed envelope 
 I put inside my own in hopes to rouse 
 
 His better nature from its lethargy. 
 A third time sent and once more answer came 
 
 As when a forest tree 
 Comes crashing down 
 
 With no one by to hear it. 
 Then I knew 
 
 That now the deed was done; 
 One more birth-strangled babe 
 
 Had gasped its life away 
 Beneath the censor's hand. 
 
 But laid its ghost was not, 
 And like the Phoenix from a waste basket 
 
 Once more those lines rise up 
 To haunt 'em. 
 
 24 
 
THE TRENCHES 
 
 Below a New England hillside 
 
 The broad hay meadows lie, 
 Sour and dank in the old time days; 
 
 By toil turned sweet and dry. 
 The old time men fought for them 
 
 And held against the foe 
 With trenches dug in the battleground 
 
 To meet the freshet's flow. 
 
 First came the swaying oxen 
 
 Tugging against the plow, 
 Cutting the deep black furrows 
 
 Into the sodden slough. 
 Followed the strength of rugged men 
 
 With mattock, bill and spade, 
 Deepening wide through the peat and muck 
 
 On the trail the plowshare laid. 
 
 And their trenches gained the victory 
 
 For those men who had worked and willed, 
 Those men who feared not honest toil 
 
 And who honored the soil they tilled. 
 The flags and rushes died away; 
 
 Up sprang the lush green sward 
 And righteously the conquerors 
 
 Came into their reward. 
 25 
 
Below a Belgian hillside 
 
 Still other meadows lie ; 
 Here too are lines of trenches 
 
 And upturned earth banked high. 
 Here too are marks upon the sward 
 
 The plowshare might have drawn 
 But from these entrenched meadows 
 
 All light and life are gone. 
 
 Those furrows bursting shells have plowed 
 
 Death's harvest to prepare. 
 The green has turned to ashen gray 
 
 Bleached by the poisoned air. 
 Down through the earth those trenches drain 
 
 The heart's blood of the land 
 That dared maintain its honor 
 
 Against the Iron Hand. 
 
 Honored throughout the ages 
 
 Those scars shall still endure. 
 For in those blood-stained trenches 
 
 The right still lives, secure. 
 But from each shell-plowed furrow 
 
 A nation without a name 
 Shall reap its awful harvest 
 
 Of hate, disgrace and shame. 
 
 26 
 
THE WAR HOE 
 
 Aroused by the alarm before the sun 
 
 Had tinged the sky with dawn, 
 
 The veteran 
 
 Cut short his dream of peace 
 
 And roused to consciousness. 
 
 Full well he knew 
 
 How the efficient crafty foe, 
 
 All laws, humanities ignored, 
 
 Was creeping on his trenches, 
 
 For weeds and vermin work 
 
 While men do sleep. 
 
 Firstly he girded up his loins, 
 
 Which up in Hillsboro means 
 
 Put on his pants. 
 
 And then, descending to the commissariat, 
 
 Attended to the needs 
 
 The inner man made known; 
 
 Then seizing his war hoe with horny hand 
 
 He sallied forth invasion to repel. 
 
 The clash came swift. 
 An outpost of black crows 
 He put to flight 
 
 With gallant charge in flank across the field 
 Where corn was up, and from his path 
 A woodchuck scuttled for his dug-out lair. 
 Him he pursued with shouts and brandished blade 
 27 
 
Until, forgetful of the wire entanglement 
 
 Which after many fees and days of law 
 
 Now marked his neighbor's acres from his own, 
 
 He dashed thereon, and there became impaled. 
 
 His wounds were slight and honorable, — 
 
 In front. 
 
 So after taking breath and stock 
 
 Of scratch and puncture, rent and tear to gear, 
 
 He turned back to the trenches over-run, 
 
 Content to put the enemy to rout. 
 
 There found he work for his good blade, 
 
 His great war hoe new purchased at the store 
 
 When the whole nation, mad for war, 
 
 Surged with the tide of dire preparedness 
 
 Till even the hills of Hillsboro convulsed 
 
 As with the throes of Vulcan at his bonds. 
 
 Platoons of pigweed, companies of dock, 
 Witchgrass and sorrel in battalions ranged; 
 Reserves of serried regiments 
 Of murderous unnamed auxiliaries 
 Stood there embattled with the corn. 
 He raised his battle cry and trusty steel, 
 And plunged into the thickest of the fray. 
 All day the battle raged; 
 But when the whistle blew 
 Down at the new saw mill at five o'clock, 
 He stood there victor on the stricken field, 
 The dead and dying prostrate at his feet. 
 28 
 
Then shouldering his trenchant hoe once more 
 He homeward turned, aweary of the war. 
 The dust of battle at the kitchen sink removed, 
 He sought well-earned refreshment at his board. 
 Then cut a plug and filled the blackened pipe; 
 Uplifted stockinged feet to nearby chair; 
 Drew close the lamp and spread the weekly sheet; 
 Then, taking out his teeth for ease complete, 
 And laying them upon the checkered cloth, 
 He muttered to himself: 
 
 "Let there be Peace." 
 
 29 
 
MOTH NESTS 
 
 I walked among my trees to-day 
 
 With can of creosote and brush in hand 
 
 With which to smear 
 
 The nests the gypsy moths had left 
 
 Last fall, dull white excrescences 
 
 Glued fast to under side of limb 
 
 Or on the sunny side of trunk, 
 
 In devilish preparedness for spring. 
 
 When first I saw the pallid leprous mark 
 
 Upon a plum tree bursting into bud, 
 
 I felt the meaning of the new war word, 
 
 To "strafe" what one dislikes exceedingly, 
 
 And with a smear of sticky, dark brown stink 
 
 I strafed that whited sepulchre forthwith. 
 
 The day was warm, and as the buds had swelled 
 
 So had that vermin pesthouse gravid grown 
 
 With the vile horde that squirmed within its tent 
 
 To which to live meant only to destroy. 
 
 Perhaps the war word started up the train 
 
 Of thought that sometimes crackles from the 
 
 tongue 
 In words, for as I smeared 
 I heard that I had said, 
 "So much for you, Zeebrugge," 
 And, pleased with what I heard, 
 I smeared again. 
 Cuxhaven got it next 
 
 30 
 
And then Heligoland, 
 
 Then Wilhelmshaven, here a double dose; 
 
 The same for Kiel, a nest that fairly writhed 
 
 With pent-up pestilence and death to life. 
 
 But there were far more nests than I had names 
 
 In my geography, and so 
 
 The game must end before the work was done. 
 
 And then I thought 
 
 How bully it would be 
 
 If even now 
 
 The God to whom all kindly peoples pray 
 
 Would get it in for that Divine Pervert 
 
 With "Made in Germany" stencilled on h 
 
 throne, 
 Just as the old time gods of Greece and Rome 
 Took up the battles of their votaries, 
 And with the vials of His wrath in hand 
 Uncork His chemicals upon those nests 
 And slay those other vermin in their slime. 
 
 31 
 
THE RAILROAD COMMISSIONERS 
 
 Farm labor's scarcer than hens' teeth up here 
 
 In Hillsboro 
 And them as has a hired man 
 
 Just cosset him, I tell you what. 
 But every day or so we find we've got 
 
 All unbeknownst, 
 A brand new public servant. 
 
 Just where the servitude comes in for him 
 We find it hard to see, 
 
 For the first upshot of the critter comes 
 With something that he tells us 
 
 We have got to do 
 Or be took out behind the barn and shot 
 
 At sunrise. 
 But who they be or where they come from 
 
 We don't know. 
 We never saw 'em, 
 
 Much less voted for the likes of them 
 To rule us. 
 
 We looked up one, and far as we could learn, 
 He'd just been hauled out from some woodchuck 
 hole 
 
 Somewhere in the great United States 
 To sit beneath the Democratic sun 
 
 In cabinet or bureau or commode, — 
 Some kind of office furniture it was, 
 
 I don't remember which, — 
 32 
 
And there he sat, bedazzled and half blind, 
 
 And crowbars couldn't pry him off his job. 
 Yet now they tell us there's more comin' still 
 
 As soon as the whole business of this war 
 Lock, stock, and barrel, 
 
 All gets put 
 Into one pair of hands. 
 
 Great God Almighty! 
 There's no hands but His 
 
 Can take a holt on such a job as that 
 And keep it! 
 
 No matter who the man is 
 He must do the work 
 
 Though called his own 
 Through other men. 
 
 And who will they be? 
 No one knows. 
 
 But up in Hillsboro we know 
 They've hauled out chucks enough 
 
 The way things lay. 
 Some of the boys down to the store last night 
 
 Allowed 
 One lot o' public servants wa'n't so bad, — 
 
 The Railroad fellers, for the evenin' paper said 
 As how they had decided, 
 
 After settin' on it 
 About three weeks, — 
 
 Just the same time it takes a settin' hen 
 To do her job — 
 
 33 
 
That we could have some coal 
 To keep school buildin's warm 
 
 And heat the kitchen stove 
 Come winter, 
 
 So far as they's concerned, 
 If we would find the cars 
 
 And haul 'em up. 
 Don't sound so big, but when you come to think — 
 
 You know those cards you see 
 Stuck up in offices 
 
 With "Do it now" writ on 'em ; 
 Well, public servants' cards all say 
 
 "It Can't Be Done." 
 So seein's how the Railroaders had showed 
 
 They'd got some guts 
 Tucked in 'em somewhere, 
 
 We thought of a few things right in their line 
 To put up to 'em. 
 
 First let 'em scrap 
 Ail narrow gauge and one-track minds 
 
 That make obstruction on the right o' way, 
 Makin' no time themselves and in the road 
 
 So nothin' else can pass 'em. 
 Make everything broad gauge and double track 
 
 So when some new ideas 
 From men whose brains 
 
 Have had the truth burnt into 'em 
 Come over here to tell us, 
 
 Not just talk, 
 
 34 
 
There'll be some place to switch 'em on 
 
 And help our engine puffin' up the grade. 
 Then have some turn-tables along the line 
 
 So if a washout comes, 
 Or some one blows a bridge up 'cross a stream 
 
 You just run on and turn the other way 
 Instead of standin' like a balky mule 
 
 And starin' at the hole, 
 Or worse yet 
 
 Pilin' into it, too proud to yield to facts. 
 Then let 'em get a million of those cards, 
 
 The "Do It Now" kind, not the other ones 
 I spoke about, 
 
 And give each public servant 
 A full deck — 
 
 And joker too, — 
 Except it ain't no joke. 
 
 Then when they've fixed this up 
 There's one more thing to do. 
 
 Go down into a round-house in the yard, 
 The last one, just beyond the old junk pile, 
 
 And there they'll find an engine hid away 
 All cylinders and drivin' wheels and things 
 
 To make her hum 
 I never knew the names of, 
 
 And up in front two head-lights, 
 On the one the letter T, 
 
 And on the other 
 R. 
 
 35 
 
Just steam her up and put her on the rails ; 
 Then give her half a chance . 
 
 And watch her go. 
 They couldn't use her on the single track,- 
 
 She'd bust into a rear collision sure, — 
 And so all that hosspower's gone to waste 
 
 Just like the Merrimac would be 
 Without no mills. 
 
 Then when they get those cylinders 
 And drivin' wheels 
 
 And hummin' things 
 All goin' right 
 
 Perhaps we'll get somewhere. 
 
 36 
 
AT THE STORE 
 
 There are two stores in our community 
 
 Which serve our daily needs 
 
 In friendly rivalry. 
 
 They don't compete, for both men are too smart 
 
 To swallow whole the economic fallacy 
 
 That one is bound to cut the other's throat 
 
 Because of public policy, 
 
 While the consumer gloats to see the gore; 
 
 Nor yet do they combine 
 
 In secret midnight conference, 
 
 Or at midday repast 
 
 To boost the price to their consumers 
 
 Or lower credit on what comes in trade. 
 
 Both sell their sugar at so much a pound. 
 
 Both take our new-laid eggs at equal price. 
 
 They treat us decent; and it would be well 
 
 If bigger business would adopt their ways. 
 
 One of the stores maintains a tenancy 
 
 In a brick building where in former days, 
 
 Before our civic glory made decline 
 
 And fell, where here made rendezvous 
 
 Courts with their constables, 
 
 When on the village green 
 
 Plumed captains pranced, maneuvering their men, 
 
 A printing office typed the newsy sheet; 
 
 Then stoves became the output from its doors, 
 
 But when the ironmaster died, 
 
 37 
 
His works died with him, and the silent place 
 Became the home of spiders and stray cats, 
 Until, through some new deal political, 
 The post-office changed hands once more. 
 And up in Hillsboro 
 
 Post-office means a store, as store means post-office. 
 In came the counters, shelves and pigeon-holes; 
 A furnace was put in 
 Down in the cellar, 
 
 And by that installation, ill conceived, 
 The enterprise was frustrate from the start, 
 For in the other store there was a stove, 
 A little off the center of the floor, 
 A stove rotund, on squatty iron legs, 
 Of maw capacious, coal devouring; 
 A monster of a stove, a fierce retort 
 Of conflagration, with some mystic power 
 As of magnetic metal to attract 
 Near half the town to cuddle by its sides 
 O' nights. 
 
 Here sat the Old Guard in accustomed seats, 
 Set in accord with ranges found 
 By tried experience upon the sanded box 
 For salvos of a deadly skilled artillery. 
 No mere post-office could compete with this ; 
 And so the fire worshippers in our town 
 Most all trade here. 
 
 The Baptists, Orthodox and other creeds 
 Do business down the street. 
 38 
 
The other night a man came in the store 
 
 To buy some bacon. 
 
 That starts up a tongue. — 
 
 "Jim Williams killed his pig the other day" — 
 
 A silence — in respect to the deceased — 
 
 And then, "How long'd he had him? 'Bout four 
 
 years ?" 
 "Full that; I don't know but it's goin' five." 
 "Well, what'd he think that he was waitin' for? 
 Still pork's gone up like thunder since the war; 
 But seein's he's been boarding him so long 
 I don't believe- he'd come out square at that." 
 "I asked him why, myself, last fall, 
 And he 
 
 Said, if he was goin' to keep a pig 
 He might as well keep that one, seein's how 
 He had him for so long and knew his ways." 
 Another man came in. 
 "Hello," said he. 
 The Old Guard grunted. 
 "Hello, yourself," said one. 
 "How many trout d'you ketch last Sunday up the 
 
 brook 
 Before the minister ketched you?" 
 Homeric laughter roared, for each man knew 
 How caught red handed with a dangling trout 
 The gentle angler had been herded home, 
 He in his Ford, the parson in his team, 
 Like sleuth-hound on the track of panting deer, 
 39 
 
Keeping his quarry under frowning gaze 
 Until he reached the entrance to his yard. 
 He made defence. 
 "Huh! I just waited round 
 
 Until the bell began to ring, and then went up again 
 And started in where I left off 
 And got six good ones before milkin' time." 
 "He couldn't have done nothin', anyhow," 
 From one Old Guard. 
 
 "Well, I don't know, he might ha' made com- 
 plaint," 
 Another veteran spoke. 
 "He'd had to have a warrant to arrest." 
 "It warn't his business, anyhow's I see." 
 And then in common wrangle all joined in, 
 Afire with theology and law. 
 "Is young Hurd goin' to enlist, d'you 'spose?" 
 "He says he would, but thinks he hadn't ought, 
 Seein' his mother's a dependent on him now." 
 Contemptuously one of the listeners spat. 
 "Dependent! Hell! ! 
 
 He got five dollars from her six months back, 
 And hasn't paid it yet. 
 
 If she's dependin' upon that, she'll starve to death, 
 War or no war." 
 
 At the dread word, a gray haired man hunched up 
 A little higher in his council seat. 
 "Well, I don't know," said he, 
 "As I'd enlist myself. I done it once, 
 40 
 
And glad to, and almost any time 
 These last three years or so 
 I'd get so God damned mad 
 At readin' of the devil's work out there 
 In Belgium, or in France, or on the sea, 
 Drownin' and murderin', women, kids and all, 
 That I'd ha' sailed right in, old as I be, 
 Like any decent man if he should see 
 Some woman bein' beat, or child abused. 
 But there wa'n't nothin' done 
 Towards helpin' those poor folks 
 Or tannin' the black hides 
 Of those bedevilin' 'em, 
 
 And so when war's declared at last, it seemed 
 'S if I'd petered out and wasn't mad at all. 
 I 'spose I'd sort 've got all call'used up, 
 The time had been so long; and then, besides, 
 When you get frettin' about some blame thing 
 That ought to be done now, and ain't at all, 
 The doin' sort o' peacifies your mind. 
 So why fight now, says I, 
 When we wa'n't fightin' then? 
 What's happened new? 
 Nothin's I see, except the President 
 Decided that the world must be made safe 
 For Democrats. 
 So we're to fight for that. 
 By thunder! I remember times 
 When they weren't safe round here: 
 41 
 
No more were Copperheads; 
 
 But last election time they won the state 
 
 By fifty-four — or was it fifty-six — 
 
 And now they want the earth. 
 
 I'll bet Cy Sulloway is glad he's dead 
 
 Before he had to vote for such a war 
 
 And send the boys across the sea to fight 
 
 To hold down Henry Hollis on his job ; 
 
 And I can't seem to get my dander up 
 
 To where it was. There's one thing, though, 
 
 This war for Democrats might bring about 
 
 I'd like to see. 
 
 They won't send our Colonel out ; 
 
 Let 'em send theirs, the old he coon 
 
 Of the kaboodle of 'em ; 
 
 Put Colonel William Bryan on the firing line 
 
 And see how well he'd run." 
 
 "Better'n he ever did at home, I guess." 
 
 And no one said the speaker nay. 
 
 The keeper of the store just then appeared, 
 
 A pan of ginger cookies in his hand. 
 
 One of the Council pulled up a wooden box 
 
 Into their midst to hold the offering. 
 
 "How many tonics do you fellows want? 
 
 There's sa'saparilla ; all the ginger's gone." 
 
 "It's my turn, Al;" 
 
 "All right," the merchant said, 
 
 And counting noses, went out to the shed. 
 
 42 
 
THE MILKMAN 
 
 My neighbor up the road keeps cows. 
 He used to think 
 That they kept him 
 Until one night down at the Grange 
 He heard the County Agent talk 
 In terms statistical 
 Of protein, 
 And fats, 
 And carbohydrates, 
 
 With mystic charts beruled in deadly parallels 
 Of costs and credits, ratios, averages, 
 And now he's not so sure. 
 But there are the cows, 
 
 Chewing their drowsy cuds with minds at ease, 
 Fast-stanchioned in the barn, 
 All unconcerned as to the clashing claims 
 And traffickings 
 Producers, 
 Transport, 
 And distributors 
 Evolve, 
 
 And pass on up to him 
 Who sups and pays. 
 And there's the rut he's trod 
 From kitchen door to barn 
 Since boyhood days, 
 
 And there's the contract signed * 
 
 43 
 
Still operative, 
 Whereby he's bound 
 
 To stand and deliver at the morning train 
 And having there passed title to his goods 
 Pay freightage on them to the market place 
 As if they still were his. 
 So, though a look has come into his eyes 
 As of one wondering 
 Whether he ran a farm 
 Or a philanthropy, 
 
 My neighbor up the road keeps cows. 
 The other night he went to get his mail 
 And opening a letter put in hand 
 Perused a moment, 
 Then beamed smilingly, 
 And generous to share good news 
 Burst out: — 
 
 "Well now, that ain't so bad. 
 The Company's sent word 
 That owin' to the war 
 They're goin' to raise the price they pay 
 A cent a quart 
 Come first the month. 
 It comes in handy, too, just now; 
 Somehow or other cash is kind o' scarce 
 These days. 
 
 If war can help a feller out like that 
 I guess it ain't so bad." 
 
 The station agent heard the words and smiled. 
 44 
 
"Oh, by the way," he said. 
 "Owing to the war 
 
 They're going to raise the tariff rate on milk 
 A cent a can 
 Come first the month. 
 The notice came to-day." 
 My neighbor pondered. 
 "Well, that's seven cents 
 Still to the good: 
 I guess I'll shove the cows 
 A little harder while the price is up 
 And take some feed 'long back with me to-night. 
 About six bags, Al; 
 That'll do for now." 
 "Oh, by the way," 
 The merchant made reply, 
 "Owing to the war 
 Stock feed's up to three-fifty 
 Since last week." 
 
 Again my neighbor pondered at the news 
 In mental struggle 
 Arithmetical ; 
 
 Then tearing into scattered paper scraps 
 The futile message of beneficence 
 He turned to go. 
 "I guess we'll let the cows 
 Keep on the way they be. 
 Say, fellers, ain't this war 
 Just Hell?" 
 
 45 
 
AN AGED MAN 
 
 An aged man lives near my house 
 Up here in Hillsboro, 
 A lonely man with neither wife nor child. 
 He lives more with his memories 
 Than with the world, 
 For neighbors are not near 
 And well nigh all his kin 
 Have left their farms and moved 
 Down back of the white church 
 That fronts the green. 
 When he was born his father too 
 Might have been called 
 An aged man, 
 And likewise before him 
 His father's father came to parenthood 
 When most men of those fruitful days 
 Looked to their grandsons rather than their sons 
 To keep their memory green 
 And by their lives maintain 
 That earthly immortality of self 
 To which men cling 
 All prophecy and deaconed text apart. 
 And so it came about 
 That these three lives became a chain 
 Which linked the nation's present with the past 
 When nation it was not, 
 But scattered, scant communities 
 46 
 
Clinging like limpets to the rockbound coast 
 Or palisaded in the backwoods wilderness 
 Against the old time owners of the soil. 
 Diverse of custom, race and creed 
 They had perforce set up 
 A jealous nagging intercourse 
 Among themselves, 
 With only common ground 
 In their allegiance to the distant realm 
 Of which they were a part, 
 As colonies, provincial, 
 And this a quaking sand 
 Except at moments when in fear of death 
 And arsons, ravishings and scalping knives 
 They lifted up their voices to their King. 
 Beneath his shield 
 They waxed strong and grew fat. 
 Then they discovered that they were not free. 
 Thus came the first war 
 In those three linked lives, 
 And father told to son how when the news 
 That Prescott needed men down by the Charles 
 Was borne to Hillsboro, 
 John Stark stood up in eager leadership 
 And led down Hillsboro's men 
 To give their aid. 
 
 He told him how that greatest leader came 
 God sent from far Virginia on the day 
 When Freedom's need was greatest, 
 47 
 
And how then, godlike he led 
 Upon the weary way 
 
 Those bloodstained feet up to the final end. 
 He told how when the Hessian raiders came 
 Well nigh up to our doors at Bennington, 
 John Stark stood up again 
 To lead 
 
 Green Mountain boys and Hillsboro men 
 Against the hirelings 
 Their German prince had sold 
 For cannon fodder in an unknown war. 
 So these things were passed on. 
 Then this man's son told his 
 How when the British came 
 With fleets and veterans 
 To New Orleans 
 
 Old Hickory led down from Tennessee 
 His coonskinned riflemen 
 Whose volleys flaming from the cotton bales 
 Laid low platoons like windrows on the field. 
 Then how in '48 when Mexico 
 Drew down the nation's wrath 
 By Crockett's death and other murderings, 
 Burnings and robberies such as have passed by 
 No notice taken other than statistics kept 
 Or some bizarre demand inanely made, 
 Frank Pierce of Hillsboro stood up 
 And by sheer force of leadership 
 Led forth New England men to foreign war, 
 48 
 
Unsought, unwelcome to their hearts and minds. 
 So the son's son had known the living word 
 Of all the wars the country then had waged. 
 Then he went forth, 
 In answer to the call 
 Of that great leader of the nation's soul 
 Who voiced the cry 
 
 Of Liberty in chains down in the South. 
 By his pure spirit got 
 Then there were born 
 In every village and in every town 
 In Hillsboro and throughout the land 
 Men fierce to lead upon the chosen path 
 As though they bore the cross upon crusade. 
 As these first leaders fell 
 New men arose 
 
 Inspired by the breath of Lincoln's soul 
 To seize the standard stricken hands had loosed 
 And bear it through the battle of his cause. 
 The aged man who lives near by my house 
 Was one of these. 
 Thus grandsire, sire and son 
 Each fought his country's wars, 
 And though there was no other son to go 
 Down from the hills into the pit of war 
 When Spain unloosed her ancient savagery 
 And Freedom starved and died before our doors 
 This aged man saw still new leaders rise 
 And take their stand in front 
 49 
 
To blaze the way 
 And make his roll complete. 
 The aged man who lives near by my house 
 Is rich in memories but poor in purse. 
 An old wartime investment he once made 
 Of blood and splintered bone now has to yield 
 Most all his income though inadequate. 
 But there's a treasure chest, 
 And from it, once each year 
 He takes a well brushed uniform, 
 Dark blue with shining buttons on the breast, 
 A black felt hat, wide brimmed with cord of gold, 
 A sabre, brazen hiked and its belt, 
 And clad in these he musters with his Post, 
 To march beneath the flag 
 Behind the band. 
 This is his day of days. 
 
 Christmas and New Years, Easter, are as naught. 
 The Glorious Fourth 
 Pales into insignificance 
 Despite its flare of rockets and red lights 
 Before Memorial Day, when all his memories 
 Grow young again, 
 And he with them. 
 
 This year he did not march but rode in state ; 
 Last year he found he tottered on the way, 
 And had to rest and leave his chores undone. 
 We talked a while the evening of his day, 
 Or rather he talked, for the memories 
 50 
 
Refreshed by what had been 
 
 Sought shape in words and forth they came 
 
 For me to listen to. 
 
 He spoke of wars, 
 
 His grandsire's, 
 
 His father's 
 
 And his own, 
 
 With keen reflections and comparisons. 
 
 And then he said: 
 
 "Why, when they called for men in '61 
 
 A feller here in town was on the job 
 
 A-puttin' that tin roof up on the ell 
 
 That's on that house of yours. 
 
 He'd just begun and had to see it through, 
 
 But he got frettin' so up on the stage 
 
 The young lad helpin' with him got afeared 
 
 He'd break his neck, his mind was that upset, 
 
 And when he got the flashin' fixed up tight — 
 
 I guess it's tight now, ain't it — well, that's good — 
 
 He just come down that ladder on the run 
 
 And legged it to the clerk to take his name. 
 
 Somehow I ain't seen no one comin' down 
 
 Off any ladders like that feller did, 
 
 And there's some shinglin' goin' on in town 
 
 This spring though shingles is so awful high. 
 
 But I have noticed this 
 
 In this here war, — 
 
 I don't hear no one holler 
 
 'Come' ; 
 
 51 
 
It's all 'Must go.' 
 
 Oh, yes, I know; 
 
 He said it. 
 
 And when he showed his teeth 
 
 He got a bit shoved in 'em quick enough. 
 
 Where are the leaders anyhow, 
 
 The men the people know, 
 
 To take the boys across the sea! 
 
 Land sakes, that's where the war is; 
 
 Thank the Lord 
 
 It ain't round here as yet a while." 
 
 I thought a moment and then queried, 
 
 "Washington?" 
 
 "I s'pose so, but the trouble is 
 
 'T ain't George," 
 
 Said he. 
 
 52 
 
THE PHRASEMAKERS 
 
 I'm tired of these phrasemakers at war, 
 
 The pedagogues and pacifists who preach 
 
 And blow their chilly breath, much better saved 
 
 To cool their porridge with, 
 
 On the fierce fires of a nation's wrath 
 
 Which seeks for retribution, 
 
 Eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth, 
 
 That plain old-fashioned justice may be done. 
 
 That is the reason why the nation fights, 
 
 And while the man behind the desk evolves 
 
 Some subtle sophistry that will not shock 
 
 The long-eared listeners still of the elect, 
 
 The man behind the gun expounds the ancient text 
 
 In common speech of short and ugly words. 
 
 If phrases there must be, 
 
 Then let them be of war, 
 
 And such as warriors use when in a righteous 
 
 cause 
 Their straining hearts speak out and set aflame 
 Their listeners with fires like their own. 
 No philosophic cant, no soft solicitude 
 For those in arms arrayed against that cause, 
 No speculative social maxim serves 
 To voice a nation's war cry for the fray. 
 We love our brothers as ourselves 
 Won't do. Rome knew and cried 
 Carthage must be destroyed, and so it was. 
 53 
 
But let there be no phrases now 
 
 Of Peace 
 
 Until the nation knows there has been War 
 
 And borne and won its crosses on the field. 
 
 When that time comes "Let there be Peace" 
 
 Will cover all the ground, just Pea*"* 
 
 With no new frills. 
 
 "Peace without victory?" 
 
 Up here in Hillsboro 
 
 "Holes without doughnuts" would ring just as 
 
 true 
 And smack as sweetly on the tasteless tongue. 
 Peace without victory means their kind of Peace, 
 Not ours, and that means 
 We're licked before we're even started in, 
 And asking for it, 
 For war is but the aim 
 
 To jam your will right down another's throat, 
 With such bicuspids and the like that bar the way 
 Until he swallows it. 
 A "Peace with Justice" is foretold. 
 Not without Victory, and Victory with wings. 
 But why, unless we pattern on our foe 
 In mock of justice, righteousness and law 
 Do we protest so much and that so soon 
 That we alone are just before the cause is tried? 
 Pray, fight on to victory, then Peace. 
 That is the order of a war; 
 So let us hitch our war horse on before 
 54 
 
Our chariot, not tie it to the tail. 
 Withal, the phrasemakers are valiant men 
 And first of all bear wounds in this their war, 
 For every time the winged words go forth, 
 Some fragment comes a-boomeranging back 
 And hits 'em in the eye. 
 
 55 
 
MR. HOOVER 
 
 I'm glad that Hoover is a man with fat. 
 
 No lean and hungry Cassius would suffice 
 
 As arbiter of our internal needs: 
 
 He'd lack simpatica. 
 
 A plump man knows 
 
 That mice will fatten 
 
 Where the lion starves, 
 
 And be more lenient to needed nourishment 
 
 Than would a meagre man. 
 
 I'm glad, too, that he is a man who laughs 
 In spite of all the piteous things he's seen. 
 He wept for them: 
 Now let him laugh with us 
 Until we laugh away 
 
 The sordid scares and panics and hysterias 
 The glum-faced statisticians spread abroad, 
 And learn how paltry is the sacrifice 
 Of cherished savors from our pots and pans. 
 A titbit that we do without 
 Perchance may be the only bit we do. 
 Nor is it an accepted sacrifice 
 To share one's daily bread with hungry men, 
 So let us laugh that ever we thought thus. 
 No one shall starve so long as Hillsboro hoes 
 Can flashing rise in air, 
 As did the stout broadswords 
 56 
 
At Londonderry overseas erstwhile, 
 
 And as they flash 
 
 They send from hill to hill, 
 
 From hill to plain and then across the land 
 
 The message that the fight is being won. 
 
 So hold you to your faith, for there shall be 
 
 Your daily bread 
 
 And theirs. 
 
 Now what a hoover is I do not know, 
 
 But by presumption he is one who hooves; 
 
 But what it is to hoove I do not know, 
 
 Nor can I find 
 
 Elucidation in my new Britannica, 
 
 On India paper and that sort of thing, 
 
 But something tells me that the word must mean 
 
 To act with energy, efficiency, 
 
 And kindliness. 
 
 So let us place, like bronze upon a monument 
 
 To our plump, laughing fellow-citizen, 
 
 This word among those used in daily speech: 
 
 That, when our daughter's daughter tells with 
 
 pride 
 How much she's hooved that day 
 We'll know just what she means. 
 There's one thing quite in line with the campaign 
 I hope he'll do. 
 
 'Twould help conserve the food if we're to live 
 And take the sting from death if we're to die, 
 57 
 
First let him cause to register 
 
 All those of either sex and every age 
 
 Who come to breakfast mornings with a grouch 
 
 And say their coffee is too hot or cold, 
 
 Then sniff the cream as if in search of taint, 
 
 Making one's own well-savored brew suspect. 
 
 Then those whose beef is always too much done 
 
 Or yet too rare, or cut too thick or thin ; 
 
 Too something anyway. 
 
 Then those who can't eat this and don't like that 
 
 That's set before them for a peaceful meal, 
 
 But order special dishes from the cook, 
 
 Who's on the verge of leaving as it is. 
 
 Then those who sit at table with proud talk 
 
 Of dietetic ailments, symptoms new 
 
 And organs out of tune 
 
 Until you feel you know 
 
 Their inwards better than the outward self. 
 
 Then, having commandeered a ship, 
 
 Let them embark for one of those new isles 
 
 We've lately purchased in the southern seas 
 
 Where fresh health-bread-fruit grows upon the 
 
 trees, 
 Bananas, mangoes, cocoanuts galore, 
 And juicy pineapples beneath the palms. 
 There let them feast as Eve and Adam did 
 Until replete, they sleep, 
 And then 
 
 Sink that fair isle beneath the rippling waves. 
 58 
 
THE MINISTERS 
 
 The roaring furnaces of War 
 
 Burn out the dross 
 From men and nations, 
 
 And the metal, 
 Cleansed, 
 
 Pours into new-cast moulds, 
 While their fierce flames 
 
 Cast on the drab of daily life 
 Resolve it into the stark white 
 
 Of Truth, 
 Or black, of lies. 
 
 We see that Governments are men 
 Who get up, 
 
 Wash 
 And go to bed 
 
 Just like ourselves, 
 Whether they rule by Grace of God,-- 
 
 Or so they say, — 
 In states imperial 
 
 Or as the servants of the people's will— 
 Or so they say — 
 
 With louder voices or more stealthy tread 
 Than their constituents, 
 
 As in democracies. 
 All men, 
 
 Born into place 
 Or sitting in place sought, 
 59 
 
Or hangers-on of those with goals attained, 
 Thrust by Olympian hand to high estate 
 
 Unsought, — 
 Or so they say — 
 
 And grin to hear it said — 
 We come to know. 
 
 A nation 
 Is the soul 
 
 Of hills and valleys, 
 Mountains, plains, 
 
 Whatever is the soil, 
 And of the lakes and rivers 
 
 Freshening the soil 
 That life may still endure, 
 
 By Grace of God. 
 We learn to know 
 
 That when the men in place 
 Are national in soul themselves, 
 
 That soul speaks through them, 
 Clear throughout the world, 
 
 And when those men are not, 
 But sectional, 
 
 Or partisan 
 Or subdivided still 
 
 Into a group of egoists, 
 There's but a Babel 
 
 Inarticulate. 
 Of lesser things 
 
 We learn that we must eat 
 60 
 
To live; 
 
 Some must unlearn that living is to eat, 
 And all must learn at last 
 
 We're still alive, 
 All unproductive wasters that we are, 
 
 Because some men we know not of 
 Have labored in some fields we know not where 
 
 And fed us. 
 We paid, 
 
 Three prices, 
 But not to those men, 
 
 So now we learn ; 
 And they, the oxen treading out the corn 
 
 Stopped treading, 
 Many, 
 
 And so we paid the more, 
 But still not to those men ; 
 
 And so their sons 
 Shied at the yoke which bowed their fathers' headi 
 
 And left the farms, untutored, for the towns, 
 To sit in offices 
 
 Or clerk it in the stores, 
 Thinking they thought, — 
 
 Though all untaught to think at all, 
 Such effort was superior estate 
 
 To laboring two handed on the land. 
 Nor were these youths to blame 
 
 That they thought thus. 
 Their thinking was done for them. 
 61 
 
They saw their fathers' toil 
 Unrecompensed, 
 
 And daily at their schools 
 The mind and all its works so deified 
 
 They got ashamed of having any hands. 
 School Boards, 
 
 Exalted pedagogues state salaried, 
 Prescribed curricula 
 
 With far less purpose than the homely dose 
 Of sulphur and molasses 
 
 In the spring, 
 Except to "train the mind." 
 
 To teach, — like them — 
 Was held up as the goal, 
 
 For it had not been said so all could hear 
 That those who can 
 
 Will do, 
 And those who can't 
 
 Will teach. 
 To teach, no matter what, 
 
 No matter why, 
 That was the highest aim: 
 
 In less degree 
 Stood occupations clerical 
 
 To do with desk and pen, 
 Bookkeeping, making sales 
 
 Of petty merchandise for petty sums. 
 These things alone were worthy of the mind. 
 Sweat was a vulgar word 
 62 
 
Not in good use, 
 
 And work that made it run 
 More vulgar still. 
 
 So on week days 
 The teachers set on high 
 
 Their own profession 
 As the final word educative, 
 
 And on the Seventh Day 
 The ministers 
 
 Reared theirs, 
 And harrowed in the seed already sowed. 
 
 They went the pedagogues one better. 
 Besides the mind 
 
 The alleged soul of man 
 Must have its training, 
 
 And for that 
 The ancient texts of languages deceased 
 
 Must be perused. 
 They did not understand 
 
 That if the living truth be in a tongue 
 It will not die. 
 
 So let both soul and mind be trained 
 As theirs had been, 
 
 And there would stand 
 An educated man, 
 
 With hands ungrimed — 
 And well nigh atrophied. 
 
 Such were the values taught among the farms 
 As true ones, 
 
 63 
 
Not only yesterday 
 But still to-day, 
 
 By pedagogues half hanged in tiic red ta;>e 
 They spin about themselves 
 
 Like spiders' webs 
 And by those men who set themselves apart, 
 
 And there are kept, 
 Immaculate 
 
 From knowledge of the facts of life 
 As it is lived to-day; 
 
 Not yesterday 
 Among the Babylonians, 
 
 Nor yet to-morrow, 
 After life is flown. 
 
 Whither, they know not 
 From all they may have read 
 
 In cuneiform or script, 
 No more than we. 
 
 One of the modern minor prophets wrote 
 That God while working up his clay 
 
 First made 
 An idiot. 
 
 That was for practice; 
 Then reassured He made, like Rogers group, 
 
 A School Board. 
 I have a seat on such a board as that 
 
 Up here in Hillsboro 
 And splintery it is, 
 
 But we are sitting tight 
 64 
 
And trying to work out 
 
 The right best thing to do 
 To help our youngsters on their purposed plans 
 
 If such they have, 
 Or turn them to our fields 
 
 If they have not, 
 Equipped to till them in full self-respect 
 
 As did their forefathers, 
 That they may feed 
 
 The starving ones abroad: 
 Send down good food to keep in strength 
 
 Our fighting men who go 
 That they shall starve no more; 
 
 Provide for honorable price 
 For those who stay at home; 
 
 And now that War 
 Has stamped the sterling mark 
 
 On work like this 
 We think we'll put it over, 
 
 Though cloistered minds may do 
 Their damnedest. 
 
 65 
 
THE CAMPS 
 
 Where is the rude, licentious soldiery 
 
 Of former days! 
 The roisterers and swaggerers who dashed 
 
 Hot foot 
 Through some sweet village of the plain 
 
 With barking pistols, 
 Flashing blades, 
 
 And plumes astream, 
 And having put to rout its garrison 
 
 Made rendezvous 
 Before the village inn, 
 
 Chucking the chickens beneath uplifted chins, 
 The chickens chuckling to be thus chucked, 
 
 Then crowding round the board with jests and 
 shouts, 
 "Hola, good host, another stoup of wine!" 
 
 The d'Artagnans, the Hawkwoods, the Dundees, 
 The Falstaffs, Zaglobas and Cids; 
 
 Those blood-letters and tosspots of the past; 
 Those men with blood as red as the red wine 
 
 They quaffed ; 
 Those men we've loved, 
 
 Whose feats in love and war 
 First made our infant hearts swell emulate 
 
 In virile rhythmic beat; 
 Where is the rude, licentious soldiery 
 
 Of former days! 
 
 66 
 
Where are the bully boys 
 
 Of former days! 
 Those tarry pig-tailed mariners who sailed 
 
 The Seven Seas, 
 Blood brothers of Long Tom and Davy Jones, 
 
 Squaring their yards according to the wind 
 For fair-haired Hilda 
 
 Of the Skagerrack, 
 Or dark-eyed Nita 
 
 Of the Spanish Main, 
 And as the sun peered over the yard arm, 
 
 Poured down their thirsty throats 
 Their pannikins 
 
 Of fiery grog! 
 Those lions of the sea 
 
 Whose rants and roars 
 Outvoiced the tumult of the winds and waves; 
 
 Where are the bully boys 
 Of former days! 
 
 The d'Artagnans 
 One Secretary says 
 
 He has, 
 Enrolled, benumbered in red ink, 
 
 Card-catalogued, 
 Hog-tied and bound in Gordian red tape. 
 
 The bully boys 
 Josephus says 
 
 He has, 
 
 67 
 
Caged with his taming lions of the sea 
 
 To lap their milk 
 And eat out of his hand. 
 
 And both these war lords 
 Constantly maintain 
 
 By act official or the spoken word 
 Their charges are not fit 
 
 To be at large, 
 As though, when putting on 
 
 Their country's uniform, 
 They had cast off 
 
 All else 
 Save appetites. 
 
 So with the end to save 
 The countryside from them, 
 
 Them from themselves, 
 Barbed wired camps are planned 
 
 And at each guarded gate 
 Signs Janus faced set up 
 
 "You shall not pass," 
 Just as was said at Verdun 
 
 To the Huns. 
 Within the precincts sanctified 
 
 Movies well censored, 
 Soda water stands, 
 
 Chautauquan lecturers on themes of peace 
 All pander to the happy warriors 
 
 Sequestered there 
 And dissipate their minds 
 68 
 
Of vain carnalities. 
 Outside the bounds 
 
 The world still wags. 
 It almost seems 
 
 As if a present benefit might come 
 If those our war lords would but call to mind 
 
 That legend of the cloistered monk 
 Siberian, 
 
 Who, drearied by the life he'd led, 
 Burst forth 
 
 With horrid cries 
 And — well, a moral's there. 
 
 Now one sees on the screen 
 Our d'Artagnan, 
 
 Our hero, Bakerized, 
 Strolling along a straight and narrow path, 
 
 Lights shining virginal — 
 Not red — 
 
 On either side; 
 Sweet Molly Coddle 
 
 Clinging to his strong right arm. 
 Grim Mrs. Grundy 
 
 Closing up the rear, 
 Seeking a sundae before sound of taps; 
 
 And so to bed. 
 
 69 
 
THE GARBAGE PAIL 
 
 Instead of keeping Watch upon the Rhine 
 
 As do pur enemies, 
 Our good friend Mr. Hoover tells us all 
 
 To Watch the Garbage Pail, 
 And so our voices rise 
 
 In choral anthem national. 
 I, being bowed with years, 
 
 Flat-footed and bespectacled, 
 With mastication turned 
 
 From instinct 
 To an art, 
 
 And so debarred from mixing it 
 With younger men with bombs and bayonets, 
 
 And yet with spirit keen 
 To do my bit, 
 
 Avowed myself to watch 
 The one 
 
 The Dei ex-machina Democratica maintain 
 In Washington 
 
 Wherein they dump 
 Discarded policies too raw to serve 
 
 Upon the people's plate 
 As yet; 
 
 Fads, phrases, theories 
 Charred and burnt to crisp 
 
 Beneath the flame of Truth; 
 Mexican messes mixed and served 
 70 
 
To be spat out again, 
 And all things unambrosial 
 
 To their taste. 
 I watched, and came the day I saw 
 
 A soldier, 
 Brave, loyal, much-beloved, 
 
 Dumped into the brew 
 And disappear. 
 
 Defective vision was the whispered uoid. 
 His keen eyes saw too far 
 
 Ahead, 
 When those who would not see 
 
 Were blind. 
 But worse, he told abroad of what he saw 
 
 And broke the new command 
 "Thou shalt not tell." 
 
 Next with a mighty splash 
 As when 
 
 Into the blue JEgean fell 
 The Rhodian colossus, 
 
 Came an ex-President, 
 And the cauldron seethed 
 
 And boiled 
 Until the lid was clamped 
 
 Fast down 
 And sat on by the baker 
 
 Palpitant, 
 Whose hands had not the strength 
 
 To knead such dough 
 71 
 
And so made waste of it 
 
 With half of Europe crying for such bread 
 As it would make. 
 
 Another day and joined these two 
 A third, 
 
 Another soldier, 
 Known to all the world 
 
 By works no Pharaoh had dared, 
 Canned ! 
 
 I shall still sit 
 Up here 
 
 Upon my Hillsboro Hill 
 And watch, 
 
 Just as the knitting women watched 
 The falling heads 
 
 Beneath the guillotine, 
 And as I sit 
 
 I'll think 
 What noble company there is 
 
 Inside that pail! 
 And I shall wait and see 
 
 What in the end 
 Will fill that pail 
 
 And who will fill it. 
 
 72 
 
THE EXEMPTION BOARDS 
 
 The Squire came up to the house last night 
 To sit beneath the elms out in the yard 
 And watch the fireflies and stars come out 
 Over the orchard just across the wall. 
 He likes to hear my tree frogs 
 With abodes 
 
 Somewhere aloft up in the whispering leaves, 
 Clacking and trilling in their weird discourse, 
 And listen to a vagrant whippoorwill 
 Who chants our country's war cry 
 From the pines. 
 So there we sit and smoke 
 Our pipes 
 
 When he thus honors me, 
 And watch and listen to those things 
 And to each other as the thought may move 
 To speech. 
 
 Last night a gentle breeze came eddying by- 
 Heavy with perfume from the patch of mint 
 Beside the kitchen door. 
 There are oases in all desert lands 
 And when such inspiration wafts 
 Straight from the starry skies, 
 There's just one thing to do. 
 I did it, 
 
 And as the Squire laid 
 His clinking frosted glass 
 73 
 
Upon wide arm of chair, 
 
 "That's good," he said, 
 
 And so it was. 
 
 Then in a moment, 
 
 "We got through to-day. 
 
 The draft is drawn 
 
 And those exempt excused. 
 
 Some of those men exempt 
 
 Will stay 
 
 With honor equal to the accolade 
 
 On those who go, 
 
 And some will not. 
 
 Taking it all in all, 
 
 It's been the greatest test 
 
 The Country as a whole 
 
 Has ever had, 
 
 And it has proved 
 
 That flabby, incoherent, as it seemed, 
 
 The Nation has a Soul 
 
 That's all its own, 
 
 Knowing no North nor South 
 
 Nor East nor West, 
 
 For everywhere the acid was laid on 
 
 Pure metal showed 
 
 Magnetic 
 
 To the Stars and Stripes. 
 
 It was a thing I hoped 
 
 But did not know. 
 
 Now I know that 
 
 74 
 
And I've learned more besides 
 These last days I've been handling men's lives 
 Like chessmen 
 Than all I ever knew 
 Before. 
 
 What was our job ; 
 To pick and choose 
 From those the doctors, 
 Having turned away all those 
 Diseased, unsound of body or of mind, 
 Had certified as fit, 
 The fittest 
 
 To do the Country's business 
 Abroad, 
 And maybe 
 Die at it, 
 
 Leaving those same 
 Diseased, 
 Unsound of body 
 Or of mind, 
 
 To do the Country's business 
 At home, 
 And maybe 
 Fatten on it. 
 What is the Law ; 
 The fittest shall survive; 
 And every time I wrote my name 
 Made mock of it. 
 Now I have lived my life 
 75 
 
Within the law, 
 And when I see a hand 
 Upraised against it, 
 Though the hand be mine, 
 My instinct is to strike it down. 
 But as I sat with mind disturbed, 
 Well nigh rebellious at the things I did 
 I came to see 
 
 That such is the law of flesh, 
 But that the higher law 
 The spirit serves 
 Is this, 
 
 That he who has the most 
 To give 
 
 Must give the most 
 Or stand ignoble. 
 
 But take this matter of the Country's business 
 Done as I've said: 
 Reduce it down 
 To lowest terms 
 And some absurdity 
 And let's see what we see. 
 There are the generous, 
 The fittest, 
 Going forth 
 For war to swallow up. 
 Here the self-seekers, 
 The lame, halt and blind, 
 The morons, criminals, degenerates, 
 7 6 
 
Breeding like rabbits 
 
 With their proper mates 
 
 While thoroughbreds remain 
 
 Unhusbanded. 
 
 And these male derelicts will be 
 
 The voting strength 
 
 To place in office representatives 
 
 Of such as they. 
 
 In Boston, 
 
 When the Legislature sits 
 
 The crier calls upon his God to save 
 
 The Commonwealth. 
 
 So far 
 
 He has, 
 
 But take it there and here and everywhere, 
 
 State capitols and national, 
 
 With Houses filled 
 
 With such a scum 
 
 As would be bound to rise 
 
 From such a broth, — 
 
 I guess He'd have his hands full. 
 
 The draft was called 
 
 Selective 
 
 And the Boards 
 
 Exemption. 
 
 Our phrasemakers went wrong again 
 
 On that. 
 
 The calling many for the chosen few 
 
 Is one thing, 
 
 77 
 
But Exemption means 
 A letting off, 
 And not a taking on 
 And honor. 
 But be that as it may, 
 It's done, 
 And so well done 
 By all those boys and men 
 Who came up to the scratch 
 When duty called 
 I marvel at it, 
 For they came 
 Undriven, 
 And unled. 
 
 Now let us left behind 
 Do what we can for them 
 To make the Country safe 
 While they're away. 
 So let the same Boards sit 
 And make selective draft 
 Of those most fit 
 To do the Country's business 
 At home 
 
 While they accomplish it 
 Abroad. 
 
 Cancel the voting lists 
 And let a plague descend 
 On parties. 
 
 Then let the Nation's sons and daughters come 
 78 
 
And show cause why they should be deemed of 
 
 worth 
 To govern it. 
 Yes, I said daughters. 
 It's the first time, too, 
 And yet for fifty years 
 I've known 
 
 My mother knew lots more 
 Than I did." 
 
 A falling star swept flaming through the sky. 
 "Do you suppose what I just said 
 Did that? 
 
 I guess I'd better get along 
 Before the heavens fall." 
 
 79 
 
THE JUDGES 
 
 A man built him a house of logs 
 
 And in the clearing that he made 
 He planted corn, 
 
 And while he hunted for their meat 
 His wife and children tended it. 
 
 Then other men 
 Came hewing through the wilderness 
 
 And built their houses near at hand 
 Until a scattered settlement took shape 
 
 And thoughts of common welfare came to mind. 
 They built a mill to grind their corn to meal 
 
 And saw the great pine logs 
 To timbers and wide boards 
 
 So clean of knot and rot 
 They seemed like parchment surfaces. 
 
 The man most reverend 
 And learned in the Book 
 
 They made their pastor; 
 The most valiant man 
 
 They made their captain, 
 And the wisest man in life and law 
 
 They made their magistrate, 
 And in him sat 
 
 The law they willed to serve. 
 
 So with the common weal thus organized 
 
 Their doings prospered. 
 The clearings turned to fields with waving wheat 
 80 
 
Where once the corn 
 Hilled in among the blackened stumps 
 
 Had rustled in the wind, 
 And woolly sheep and cows with calves 
 
 Fed where the an tiered stag had browsed. 
 Their wealth increased in goods, 
 
 And of their lands 
 The bounds and monuments 
 
 Once indeterminate, 
 Became of moment, for entitlement 
 
 To present use or ultimate descent; 
 So new surveys were made, 
 
 Lines run and scraps of paper signed 
 In covenant of rights established there 
 
 Between man and his neighbor man. 
 With new assurance new endeavor came. 
 
 Young fruit trees were set out, 
 White with sweet blossoms for the humming bees. 
 
 New fields were plowed, 
 Wet meadow lands were drained 
 
 For hay and pasture for the flocks and herds 
 And sturdy horses they had learned to rear. 
 
 Men's eyes grow envious as they behold such 
 things 
 That are not theirs. 
 
 One summer night 
 An envious man 
 
 Of violence and craft 
 Arose and entered on the acreage 
 81 
 
That joined his own, 
 An orchard of young trees about to bear, 
 
 Upon a slope with outcrop in a ledge 
 His mind obsessed with greed opined 
 
 Held precious mineral. 
 There sat him down with loaded gun in hand, 
 
 And when his neighbor came 
 Declared the land was his. 
 
 It lay beneath the sun ; the harvest was assured ; 
 His own bounds were outgrown; 
 
 He wanted it; 
 Therefore 'twas his, 
 
 And threatening with his piece 
 He thrust the owner from the land 
 
 He'd worked and toiled for. 
 The magistrate arrived with record in his hand 
 
 Showing the metes and bounds set up 
 By covenants recorded, 
 
 But the envious man 
 Laid hands upon the proffered document 
 
 And tore it up, 
 And spit upon the fragments on the ground, 
 
 And shouted God would this and God would 
 that 
 Before he'd yield the land. 
 
 Then to the captain went the magistrate, 
 And to the man of wrath the captain went, 
 
 Up to the very muzzle of the gun 
 That belched into his face, 
 82 
 
But all unscathed, 
 The captain smote the man, 
 
 And knocked him down 
 And mastered him, 
 
 Struggling and biting like a rat 
 Within that stalwart grip. 
 
 And then the captain brought him to the place 
 Of common gathering 
 
 And sent out the word 
 That every man with lands should gather there 
 
 Forthwith, and likewise there be brought 
 The wife and child of the unrighteous man 
 
 To look upon him sitting in his bonds 
 And hear what might be said 
 
 As to his deeds. 
 Together came those men, well armed. 
 
 Up rose the captain with the man of law 
 Beside him, giving countenance 
 
 And earnest of the law 
 To what was to be done. 
 
 And then the captain spoke and said: 
 "You men of Hillsboro are now a court; 
 
 Not a court martial for there is no war. 
 I have made peace with this right hand of mine 
 
 And stopped the envious war 
 This man here had declared against us all, 
 
 Threatening our lives unless our lands be his, 
 For as such do to one they do to all. 
 
 There's no end to it when it once begins. 
 83 
 
But as a court of peace and equity 
 
 You sit, 
 And now the question is for your decree 
 
 What shall be done with this man tethered here 
 Who knows not how to give 
 
 I2ut only fierce to take 
 From those more weak and needful than himself. 
 
 We've known his works and ways 
 As he has lived among us, 
 
 Unloved, unneighbored, but were unsuspect 
 Such violence and greed 
 
 Were in him till to-day. 
 But now this day has come and well it came 
 
 Before the mind diseased 
 With covetous imaginings, 
 
 Lust for possession and his envious greed 
 Had made him strong as men insane are strong 
 
 And I'd not handled him. 
 And let not this day end 
 
 Until we're done with him 
 For good and all, 
 
 That lives and lands be safe 
 And peace be kept among us. 
 
 So now do you consult, then speak your will." 
 Then rose the pastor from his place. 
 
 "It is our will 
 That this man be outcast 
 
 From our community. 
 There's no communion with him 
 84 
 
For the bread and wine 
 Have never touched his lips. 
 
 There shall be paid to him 
 Just value for his land 
 
 And for the buildings he has raised 
 Upon it, 
 
 And for such goods of his 
 As are not moveable. 
 
 Then with his cattle let him go his way 
 Into the further wilderness, 
 
 And there, 
 Where tooth and nail establish right and law, 
 
 Among his fellow beasts let him contend 
 As with his kind. 
 
 His wife and child may follow if they will 
 Or dwell with us and from the common wealth 
 
 Be here maintained as need may be 
 As they may choose." 
 
 The magistrate took down the fateful words, 
 And then the captain, bending down, 
 
 Unloosed the cords which bound the banished 
 man. 
 "Stand up; 
 
 Now go," he said, 
 "Accounting will be made." 
 
 The man stood up with curses in his eyes. 
 "Come, woman." 
 
 The young wife shrank away 
 With face averted. 
 
 85 
 
"Come, you," he spoke again. 
 The little child 
 
 Gazed at the naked soul of him whom she had 
 called 
 Her father, 
 
 And said, "I am afraid." 
 
 86 
 
W 19 
 


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