Chapter II (3)

How can he work? He has no inner strength
Urging him on to action, no desire
To strain and wrestle, to achieve at length,
Burning in all his veins,—a hidden fire.

Why should he work? There is no debt behind
That man’s nobility most longs to pay;
No claim upon him,—only the one blind
Brute instinct that his dinner lies that way.

And that is not enough. Who may not eat
Freely at life’s full table all his youth,
Can never work in power and joy complete,
In fulness, and in honor, and in truth.

HIS OWN LABOR.

Let every man be given what he earns!
We cry, and call it justice. Let him have
The product of his labor—and no more!
Well, then, let us begin with life’s first needs,
And give him of the earth what he can make;
As much of air and light as he can make,
As much of ocean, and sweet wind and rain,
And flowers, and grass, and fruit, as he can make.
But no, we answer this is mockery:
No man makes these things. But of human wealth
Let every man be given what he makes,
The product of his labor, and no more.
Ah, well! So to the farmer let us give
Corn, and still corn, and only corn at last.
So to the grazier, meat; the fisher, fish;
Cloth to the weaver; to the mason, walls;
And let the writer sit and read his books—
The product of his labor—and naught else!
But no, we answer! Still you laugh at us.
We mean not his own labor in that sense,
But his share in the work of other men.
As much of what they make as he can buy
In fair exchange for labor of his own.
So let it be. As much of life’s rich fruit—
The product of the labor of the world—
As he can equal with his own two hands,
His own supply of energy and skill!
As much of Shakespeare, Homer, Socrates,
As much of Wagner, Beethoven, and Bach,
As much of Franklin, Morse, and Edison,
As much of Watt, and Stephenson and Bell,
Of Euclid, Aristotle, Angelo,
Columbus, Raleigh, and George Washington,
Of all the learning of our patient years,
Of all the peace and smoothness we have won,
Of all the heaped up sciences and arts,
And luxuries that man has ever made,—
He is to have what his own toil can match!
Or, passing even this, giving no thought
To this our heritage, our vast bequest,
Condemn him to no more of human help
From living men than he can give to them!
Toil of the soldiers on the western plains,
Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea,
Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field,
The engine-driver, digger in the mine,
And weary weaver in the roaring mill.
Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil
To fill the world with riches day by day,
Shall he have naught of this but what one man
Can give return for from his own supply?
Brother—There is no payment in the world!
We work and pour our labor at the feet
Of those who are around us and to come.
We live and take our living at the hands
Of those who are around us and have been.
No one is paid. No person can have more
Than he can hold. And none can do beyond
The power that’s in him. To each child that’s born
Belongs as much of all our human good
As he can take and use to make him strong.
And from each man, debtor to all the world,
Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers,
His whole life’s labor, proudly rendered up,
Not as return—can moments pay an age?
But as the simple duty of a man.
Can he do less—receiving everything?

AS FLEW THE CROSS.

As flew the fiery cross from hand to hand,
Kindling the scattered people to one flame,
Out-blazing fiercely to a sudden war;
As beacon fires flamed up from hill to hill,
Crying afar to valleys hidden wide
To tell their many dwellers of a fear
That made them one—a danger shadowing all!—
So flies to-day the torch of living fire,
From mouth to mouth, from distant ear to ear;
And all the people of all nations hear;
The printed word, the living word that tells
Of the great glory of the coming day,—
The joy that makes us one forevermore!

TO LABOR.

Shall you complain who feed the world?
Who clothe the world?
Who house the world?
Shall you complain who are the world,
Of what the world may do?
As from this hour
You use your power,
The world must follow you!

The world’s life hangs on your right hand!
Your strong right hand!
Your skilled right hand!
You hold the whole world in your hand.
See to it what you do!
Or dark or light,
Or wrong or right,
The world is made by you!

Then rise as you never rose before!
Nor hoped before!
Nor dared before!
And show as was never shown before,
The power that lies in you!
Stand all as one!
See justice done!
Believe, and Dare, and Do!

HARDLY A PLEASURE.

She had found it dull in her city;
So had they, in a different mob.
She travelled to look for amusement;
They travelled to look for a job.

She was loaded with fruit and candy,
And her section piled with flowers,
With magazine, novels, and papers
To shorten the weary hours.

Her friends came down in a body
With farewells merry and sweet,
And left her with laughter and kisses,
On the broad plush-cushioned seat.

She was bored before she started,
And the journey was dull and far.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the girl in the palace car.

——————

Then they skulked out in the darkness
And crawled in under the cars,
To ride on the trucks as best they might,
To hang by the chains and bars.

None came to see their starting,
And their friendliest look that day
Was that of a green young brakeman,
Who looked the other way.

They were hungry before they started,
With the hunger that turns to pain—
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,”
Said the three men under the train.

——————

She complained of the smoke and cinders,
She complained of the noise and heat,
She complained of the table service,
She complained of the things to eat.

She said it was so expensive,
In spite of one’s utmost care;
That feeing the porters and waiters
Cost as much as a third-class fare.

That the seats were dirty and stuffy,
That the berths were worse by far.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the girl in the palace car.

——————

They hung on in desperate silence,
For a word was a tell-tale shout;
Their foul hats low on their bloodshot eyes,
To keep the cinders out.

The dirt beat hard on their faces,
The noise beat hard on their ears,
And a moment’s rest to a straining limb
Meant the worst of human fears.

They clutched and clung in the darkness
While the stiffness turned to pain.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,”
Said the three men under the train.

——————

She stepped airily out in the morning,
When the porter had brushed her awhile.
She gave him a silver dollar;
He gave her an ivory smile.

She complained to her friends that morning
Of a most distressing dream:
“I thought I heard in the darkness
A sort of a jolting scream!

“I thought I felt in the darkness
The great wheels joggle and swing;
Travelling’s hardly a pleasure
When you dream such a horrible thing!”

——————

They crept shuddering out in the morning,
Red spots with the coal’s black stain.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the two men under the train.

NATIONALISM.

The nation is a unit. That which makes
You an American of our to-day
Requires the nation and its history,
Requires the sum of all our citizens,
Requires the product of our common toil,
Requires the freedom of our common laws,
The common heart of our humanity.
Decrease our population, check our growth,
Deprive us of our wealth, our liberty,
Lower the nation’s conscience by a hair,
And you are less than that you were before!
You stand here in the world the man you are
Because your country is America.
Our liberty belongs to each of us;
The nation guarantees it; in return
We serve the nation, serving so ourselves.
Our education is a common right;
The state provides it, equally to all,
Each taking what he can, and in return
We serve the state, so serving best ourselves.
Food, clothing, all necessities of life,—
These are a right as much as liberty!
The nation feeds its children. In return
We serve the nation, serving still ourselves—
Nay, not ourselves—ourself! We are but parts,
The unit is the state,—America.

THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING!

When man, the hunter, winning in the race,
Had conquered much, and, conquering, grown apace,
Till out of victory he found defeat,
And, having eaten all, had naught to eat,—
Then might some Jeremiah sad have said,
Seeing his hopeless case, “The King is dead!”

But man is master most in power to change;
He turned his forest to a cattle range;
There was no foe to strive with—wherefore strive?
No food to kill—he kept his food alive.
Herding his dinner, see him sit and sing
Serene, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

When man the shepherd, after years did pass,
By nature’s increase grew, until the grass
Failed to support the requisite supply
Of cattle who must live lest he should die;
Again a grieved observer might be led
To pitifully say, “The King is dead!”

But man, who turned his prey into a pet,
To outwit hunger, was not baffled yet;
He’d searched for grass so long he’d learned to praise it,
And now that grass was short—why, he could raise it!
His dinner sprouted with the happy spring
Profuse, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

When man, the farmer, growing very great,
Out of his children built the busy State,
Those greedy children, to his loud alarm,
Pinched all the profits off the old man’s farm,
Killing the golden goose, and while he bled,
Cried sage economists, “The King is dead!”

But he, good sooth, was never more alive;
He watched the pools and trusts around him strive,
And when he’d learned the trick—it was not long—
He organized himself—a million strong!
Cornered the food supply! A Farmer’s Ring!
Hurrah! “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

“HOW MANY POOR!”

“Whene’er I take my walks abroad, how many poor I see!”
Said pious Watts, and thanked the Lord that not so poor was he.
I see so many poor to-day I think I’ll walk no more,
And then the poor in long array come knocking at my door.
The hungry poor! The dirty poor! The poor of evil smell!
Yet even these we could endure if they were only well!
But, O, this sick and crippled crew! The lame, the deaf, the blind!
What can a Christian person do with these upon his mind!
They keep diseases growing still like plants on greenhouse shelves,
And they’re so generous they will not keep them to themselves;
They propagate amazing crimes and vices scandalous,
And then at most uncertain times they wreak the same on us!
With charity we would prevent this poverty and woe,
But find the more we’ve fondly spent, the more the poor do grow!
We’ve tried by punishment full sore to mend the case they’re in;
The more we punish them the more they sin, and sin, and sin!
We make the punishment more kind, we give them wise reform,
And they, with a contented mind, flock to our prisons warm!
Then science comes with solemn air, and shows us social laws,
Explaining how the poor are there from a purely natural cause.
’Tis natural for low and high to struggle and to strive;
’Tis natural for the worse to die and the better to survive.
We swallowed all this soothing stuff, and easily were led
To think if we were stern enough, the poor would soon be dead.
But, O! in vain we squeeze, and grind, and drive them to the wall—
For all our deadly work we find it does not kill them all!
The more we struggle they survive! increase and multiply!
There seem to be more poor alive, in spite of all that die!
Whene’er I take my walks abroad how many poor I see,
And eke at home! How long, O Lord! How long must this thing be!

THE DEAD LEVEL.

There is a fear among us as we strive,
As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel,
That there will be no pleasure left alive
When we in peace and joy at last arrive
At one dead level.

And still the strangest part of this strange fear
Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it.
We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead
To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead;
We wish that peace, but wish no other near it!

Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town
To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses?
Is your house dearer when its eye looks down
On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown?
Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is?

Are you unhappy at some noble fête
To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses?
Is your State safer when each other State
That borders it is full of want and hate?
Peace must be peace to all before it blesses.

Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in
By ignorance that does not know its master?
Is goodness easier when plenteous sin
Surrounds it? And can you not win
Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster?

O foolish children! With more foolish fear,
Unworthy even of a well-trained devil!
Good things are good for all men,—that is clear;
To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near
To that much-dreaded level!

THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.

Our business system has its base
On one small thought that’s out of place;
The merest trifle—nothing much, of course.
The truth is there—who says it’s not?
Only—the trouble is—you’ve got
The cart before the horse!

You say unless a man shall work
Right earnestly, and never shirk,
He may not eat. Now look—the change is small,
And yet the truth is plain to see—
Unless man eats, and frequently,
He cannot work at all!

And which comes first! Why, that is plain,
The man comes first. And, look again—
A baby! with an appetite to fit!
You have to feed him years and years,
And train him up with toil and tears,
Before he works a bit!

So let us change our old ideas,
And learn with these advancing years
To give the oats before we ask for speed;
Not set the hungry horse to run,
And tell him when the race is done
That he shall have his feed!

THE AMŒBOID CELL.

Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“Why don’t you develop like me?
Just combine with the others,
Unite with your brothers,
And grow to a thing you can see,—
An organized creature like me!”

Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell,
“But where would my liberty be?
If I’m one with a class,
I should lose in the mass
All my Individualitee!
And that is a horror to me!”

Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“What good does it do you to-day?
You’re amorphous and small,
You’ve no organs at all,
You can’t even get out of the way!
You don’t half understand what I say!”

Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell,
“But I’m independent and free!
I can float as I please
In these populous seas,
I’m not fastened to anybodee!
I have personal freedom, you see!

“And when I want organs and members and such,
I project them,—an arm or a wing;
I can change as I will,
But you have to keep still—
Just a part of the mass where you cling!
You never can be but one thing!”

Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“What you say is undoubtedly true,
But I’d rather be part
Of a thing with a heart
Than the whole of a creature like you!
A memberless morsel like you!

“You say you’re immortal and separate and free,
Yet you’ve died by the billion before;
Just a speck in the slime
At the birthday of time,
And you never can be any more!
As you are, you’ve no future in store!

“You say you can be many things in yourself,
Yet you’re all just alike to the end!
I am part of a whole—
Of a thing with a soul—
And the whole is the unit, my friend!
But that you can scarce comprehend!

“You are only yourself,—just a series of ones;
You can only say ‘I’—never ‘we’;
All of us are combined
In a creature with mind,
And _we_ are the creature you see!
And the creature feeds _us_—which is _me_!

“And being combined in a body like that
It can wisely provide us with food;
And we vary and change
In a limitless range;
We are specialized now, for our good!
And we each do our work—as we should!

“What protection have you from the chances of Fate?
What provision have you for the morrow?
You get food when it drops,
And you die when it stops!
You can’t give or take, lend or borrow!
You helpless free-agent of sorrow!”

Just then came a frost, and the Amœboid Cell
Died out by the billion again;
But the Specialized Cell
In the body felt well
And rejoiced in his place in the brain!
The dead level of life with a brain!

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

In northern zones the ranging bear
Protects himself with fat and hair.
Where snow is deep, and ice is stark,
And half the year is cold and dark,
He still survives a clime like that
By growing fur, by growing fat.
These traits, O Bear, which thou transmittest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!

To polar regions, waste and wan,
Comes the encroaching race of man;
A puny, feeble little lubber,
He had no fur, he had no blubber.
The scornful bear sat down at ease
To see the stranger starve and freeze;
But, lo! the stranger slew the bear,
And ate his fat, and wore his hair!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!

In modern times the millionaire
Protects himself as did the bear.
Where Poverty and Hunger are,
He counts his bullion by the car.
Where thousands suffer, still he thrives,
And after death his will survives.
The wealth, O Crœsus, thou transmittest
Proves the survival of the fittest!

But, lo! some people, odd and funny,
Some men without a cent of money,
The simple common Human Race,
Chose to improve their dwelling-place.
They had no use for millionaires;
They calmly said the world was theirs;
They were so wise, so strong, so many—
The millionaire? There wasn’t any!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!

DIVISION OF PROPERTY.

Some sailors were starving at sea
On a raft where they happened to be,
When one of the crew
Who was hidden from view
Was found to be feasting most free.

Then they cursed him in language profane,
Because there on the pitiless main
While the others did starve,
He could ladle and carve,
Eating food which they could not obtain.

“But,” said he, “’tis my own little store!
To feed all of you would take more!
If I shared, ’twould be found
That it would not go round;
And you all would starve on as before!

“It would only prolong your distress
To distribute this one little mess!
The supply is so small
I had best eat it all,
For me it will comfort and bless!”

This reasoning sounded most fair,
But the men had large appetites there,
And while he explained
They ate all that remained,
Forgetting to leave out his share!

CHRISTIAN VIRTUES.

Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
Nowhere on land or sea
Will be room for charity!
Nowhere, in field or city,
A person to help or pity!
Better for them, no doubt,
Not to need helping out
Of their old miry ditch.
But, alas for us, the rich!
For we shall lose, you see,
Our boasted charity!—
Lose all the pride and joy
Of giving the poor employ,
And money, and food, and love
(And making stock thereof!).
Our Christian virtues are gone,
With nothing to practise on!

It don’t hurt them a bit,
For they can’t practise it;
But it’s our great joy and pride—
What virtue have we beside?
We believe, as sure as we live,
That it is more blessed to give
Than to want, and waste, and grieve,
And occasionally receive!
And here are the people pressing
To rob us of our pet blessing!
No chance to endow or bedizen
A hospital, school, or prison,
And leave our own proud name
To Gratitude and Fame!
No chance to do one good deed,
To give what we do not need,
To leave what we cannot use
To those whom we deign to choose!
When none want broken meat,
How shall our cake be sweet?
When none want flannels and coals,
How shall we save our souls?
Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!

The poor have their virtues rude,—
Meekness and gratitude,
Endurance, and respect
For us, the world’s elect;
Economy, self-denial,
Patience in every trial,
Self-sacrifice, self-restraint,—
Virtues enough for a saint!
Virtues enough to bear
All this life’s sorrow and care!
Virtues by which to rise
To a front seat in the skies!
How can they turn from this
To common earthly bliss,—
Mere clothes, and food, and drink,
And leisure to read and think,
And art, and beauty, and ease,—
There is no crown for these!
True, if their gratitude
Were not for fire and food,
They might still learn to bless
The Lord for their happiness!
And, instead of respect for wealth,
Might learn from beauty, and health,
And freedom in power and pelf,
Each man to respect himself!
And, instead of scraping and saving,
Might learn from using and having
That man’s life should be spent
In a grand development!
But this is petty and small;
These are not virtues at all;
They do not look as they should;
They don’t do _us_ any good!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!

WHAT’S THAT?

I met a little person on my land,
A-fishing in the waters of my stream;
He seemed a man, yet could not understand
Things that to most men very simple seem.

“Get off!” said I; “this land is mine, my friend!
Get out!” said I; “this brook belongs to me!
I own the land, and you must make an end
Of fishing here so free.

“I own this place, the land and water too!
You have no right to be here, that is flat!
Get off it! That is all I ask of you!—”
“Own it?” said he; “what’s that?”

“What’s that?” said I, “why, that is common sense!
I own the water and the fishing right;
I own the land from here to yonder fence;
Get off, my friend, or fight!”

He looked at the clear stream so neatly kept;
He looked at teeming vine and laden tree,
And wealthy fields of grain that stirred and slept;
“I see!” he cried, “I see!

“You mean you cut the wood and plowed the field,
From your hard labor all this beauty grew,
To you is due the richness of the yield;
You have some claim, ’tis true.”

“Not so,” said I, with manner very cool,
And tossed my purse into the air and caught it;
“Do I look like a laborer, you fool?
It’s mine because I bought it!”

Again he looked as if I talked in Greek,
Again he scratched his head and twirled his hat,
Before he mustered wit enough to speak.
“Bought it?” said he, “what’s that?”

And then he said again, “I see! I see!
You mean that some men toiled with plows and hoes,
And while those worked for you, you toiled with glee
At other work for those.”

“Not so!” said I, getting a little hot,
Thinking the man a fool as well as funny;
“I’m not a working-man, you idiot;
I bought it with my money!”

And still that creature stared and dropped his jaw,
Till I could have destroyed him where he sat.
“Money,” said I, “money, and moneyed law!”
“Money?” said he, “what’s that?”

AN ECONOMIST.

The serene savage sitting in his tree
Saw empires rise and fall,
And moralized on their uncertainty.
(He never rose at all!)

He was full fat from god-sent droves of prey;
He was full calm from satisfied desire;
He was full wise in that he chose to stay
Free from ambition’s fire.

“See,” quoth the savage, “how they toil and strive
To make things better,—vain and idle wish!
Here is good store of what keeps man alive,
Of fruit, and flesh, and fish.

“Poor discontented wretches, fed on air,
Seeking to change the normal lot of man,
To lure him from this natural strife and care,
With vague Utopian plan!

“Here’s wealth and joy—why seek for any change?
Why labor for a more elaborate life?
As if God could not his own world arrange
Without our fretful strife!

“Those who complain of savagery as low
Are merely proven lazy, and too weak
To live by skilful hunt and deadly blow;
It is their needs that speak.

“Complain of warfare! Cry that peace is sweet!
Complain of hunting! Prate of toil and trade!
It only proves that they cannot compete
In the free life we’ve made.”

Another empire reeled into its grave;
The savage sat serenely as before,
As calm and wise, as cunning and as brave—
Never an atom more.

CHARITY.

Came two young children to their mother’s shelf
(One was quite little, and the other big),
And each in freedom calmly helped himself.
(One was a pig.)

The food was free and plenty for them both,
But one was rather dull and very small;
So the big smarter brother, nothing loath,
He took it all.

At which the little fellow raised a yell
Which tired the other’s more æsthetic ears;
He gave him here a crust, and there a shell
To stop his tears.

He gave with pride, in manner calm and bland,
Finding the other’s hunger a delight;
He gave with piety—his full left hand
Hid from his right.

He gave and gave—O blessed Charity!
How sweet and beautiful a thing it is!
How fine to see that big boy giving free
What is not his!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's In this our world, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman