Chapter V: Act III: Scene I (2)

Old Santa Claus came with his pack
On his back
Right down the chimney flue;
His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weird
But his cheeks had a ruddy hue;
And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's head
But his breeches, I think, were blue.

I heard a soft step like a hoof
On the roof,
And I closed my outside eye;
Then played-like I slept, but the other eye kept
A watch on the jolly old guy;
And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,
But I'm not going to tell, not I.

When Santa comes again this year
With his deer
And a sled full of toys for me,
I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleep
While he climbs my Christmas tree;
For I don't think it's right to the happy old wight
To spy on his mystery.

A RHYMELESS SONNET

Sardonic _Death_, clothed in a scarlet shroud,
Salutes his minions on the crumbling thrones
Of Tyranny, and with malicious leer,
He points a fleshless finger toward the fields
Of Belgium: "No harvest since the days
Of Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filled
My flagons with a wine of such a taste;
Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"

But _One_ has entered in at lowly doors
And sits by every hearthstone where they will:
"My _Word_ enthron-ed in Democracy
Has twined the holly round Columbia's brow--
A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
I am the _Resurrection_ and the _Life_!"

AMBITION

I covet not the warrior's flashing steel
That drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight;
I envy not the czar his ruthless might
That grinds a state beneath an iron heel;
I do not ask that I may ever feel
The thrill that follows fame's uncertain light;
And in the game of life I do not quite
Expect always to hold a winning deal.

Grant me the power to help my fellow man
To bear some ill that he may not deserve;
Give me the heart that I may never swerve,
In scorn of Death, to do what good I can;
But most of all let me but light the fires
Upon the altar of the _youth's_ desires.

OPPORTUNITY

I often met her in the days of youth
Along the highway where the world goes by;
And sometimes when I caught her wistful eye
I wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth.
She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth,
And unattractive, and I thought, "Now why
Should one seek her companionship; not I--
At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"

And so I passed her by and had my day,
And met a thousand whom I thought more fair
In tinsel gowns beneath electric glare--
A thousand, but they went their primrose way.
Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons--
Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!

HOLIDAY THOUGHTS

The night was like some monster omen ill,
Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones;
But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones,
The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill.
The world lay parching in the noonday grill,
And blades of corn were twisting into cones;
But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones,
The fruited shocks deride October's chill.

Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith,
However cold and dark the day may seem,
And trust that every cloud is just a wraith,
And every shadow but a fading dream.
Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lights
That blaze forever on the peaks and heights!

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW

Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief;
I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here,
For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer,
And never murmured, but assuaged my grief.
When buds of promise never came to leaf;
When broken resolutions, doubt, and fear
Did mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year,
Thy reassuring smile restored belief.

Good-bye--farewell! I trust thy dear young child,
Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn,
Will deal as gently with me and my friends,
And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild,
O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and on
To where the path of chill December ends.

FELLOW TRAVELERS

Old comrade, must we separate to-day?
Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired,
And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired,
But it has always helped to hear you say,
"The road is fine a little further on."
Your optimism and your hearty cheer
Have made the journey pleasant, good Old Year,
And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.

Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide,
In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of things
Before we start, and make some offerings
To gods whose love, I fear, will not abide.
And yet I like my new companion's face.
Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heart
A sympathy it hardly knew before--
A yearning kinship and a spirit lore
Of humble folk, a love transcending art!
The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song.
No mystic, blindly groping on the shore
Of dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore,
Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.

Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess,
The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue,
The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew;
The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless;
Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew--
All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!

CALE YOUNG RICE

He loves the boom of breakers on the shore,
And winds that lash the billows into foam;
He loves the placid seas beneath the dome
Of blue infinitudes--not less, but more;
He loves to brood upon the mystic lore
Of silent stars above the silent seas,
And feel the passion of infinities
Beyond, where only Faith would dare explore.

Thus groping after God has helped him find
Divinity in man (where only sin
And brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in),
And taught his heart that Fate is never blind.
That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken,
One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.

PILATE'S MONOLOGUE

[_This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few
days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius
Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch
of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward
the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset._]

Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him--
The Man of Galilee? Clearly He
Belonged within thy jurisdiction. Didst
Thou fear to do thy duty? Still I blame
Thee not--the mob was clamorous for blood!
I questioned Him, but like a lamb before
His shearers He was dumb and answered me
No word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?
But even then I offered to release
Him, till the rabble shouted, "Crucify
This Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,
But we demand the life of Jesus whom
They call the _Christ_." Oh! dost thou think His blood
Can be upon my head? I washed my hands
Before the multitude and told them I
Was innocent of any crime toward Him.
I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.
They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robe
Of scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thorns
Upon His head, and then they mocked and jeered
And spat upon Him, hailing Him as _King_!
I can not think that this was right, but still
They say He blasphemed and deserved to die.
But what Is blasphemy?
Oh, Herod, I
Can never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.
He turned His eyes upon me as I dipped
My fingers in the bowl--a glance that seemed
More fraught with love and pity than with hate.
He blessed the people as He hung upon
The cross in agony of pain, and prayed
His God to pardon them because they knew
Not what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, think
This Nazarene was more than man? It can't
Be possible that He whom Pilate scourged
Was _Christ_ indeed! But could a _man_ forgive
His murderers? They say the tomb is burst
And that His body is no longer there!
I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbed
To death a thousand men and never felt
Compunction for the deed, because I knew
They hated me. But now the voice that haunts
My sleep asks only blessings on my head.
They say He wept for men because of sin,
And yet no guile was found in Him. If I
Could close my eyes and see that face no more
I might find peace again.
Three nights I have
Not slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself!
And now no guard that watched before
The sepulchre can anywhere be found.
Had I but set the Galilean free!
But did he not insult my majesty?
He must have known I ruled in Caesar's stead.
What if my wife was troubled in a dream
And suffered many things on His account?
A Roman governor must be a man!
They say the temple's veil was rent in twain--
The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.
He said I had no power to crucify
Except that it be given from above.
He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!
'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hast
Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,
The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead
Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!
Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?
Behold the Man--the Man of Galilee!
With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,
The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.
I hear Him cry in agony of soul,
"How often would I, O Jerusalem,
Have gathered unto Me thy children as
A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye
Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?
It is impossible! It can not be!
He must not know that I am Pilate! Still
He calls my name! I can not, dare not go!
What would the people think? I will
Be free. There is no blood upon my hands.
See, I wash them clean and am myself
Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not
The king, I am governor of the Jews!

THE VIRILE SPIRIT

[_Written after reading a letter in which the writer
said: "I covet for our country a great war--one that
will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth
to fight and die for our country."_]

What is courage? To face the bursting shell
When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs
Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;
When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,
Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,
To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps
Sing only martial airs that stir the blood!
It is a noble thing to die in war--
To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel
The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch
Not that one's country may be great or free.
Many a generation yet unborn
Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold
In reverence the field of Gettysburg.
But war is not the only thing that tries
The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take
More courage than to close with death; and oft
The coward shrinks from living when the brave
Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note
To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men
Is clear and strong. It is not to repel
The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet
To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.
We must send forth our men to live, not die--
We need to save, not kill our fellow man,
To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop
The tribute greater now than all the tolls
Of war. The beast in man is ravenous
And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits
Of toil, and blights the home with poverty;
He drags the innocent to dens of shame
To satisfy his brute carnality.
No fiery dragon in the days of myth
Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath
More foul or appetite insatiate.
This is the enemy that we must fight.
No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,
No legions that may ever bivouac on
Our shores, no Zeppelins disgorging fire
Portend the dire disasters wrought upon
Our nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.
The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,
The arm of Beowulf not strong enough
To battle with Cupidity and Sin.
We need the breastplate of a righteous life,
Our loins must be girt about with truth,
The heart protected by the shield of faith,
And in the right hand there must ever be
The spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!
And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes
A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's
To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness--
To grapple with this Grendel that invades
The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.

BLUEBIRD.

Bluebird in the cedar bush--
Fresh and clean as the evergreen,
Through a rift of leaves,
Or my eye deceives.
But silent! Hush!
He calls, he calls!
The first spring note
From a feathered throat
My heart enthralls;
And my pulses leap
As a child from sleep
On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,
To meet, to greet,
The choral sweet
From bluebird in the cedar bush:
_At last, at last
The snow and sleet
Of winter's blast
Have passed, have passed,
And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!_
The call comes ringing in to me
From Bluebird in the cedar tree.

AN AUTUMN MINOR

Russet and amber and gold,
Crimson and yellow and green,
And far away the blue and gray,
A twinkling silver sheen.

Violet, scarlet and red,
Purple and dark maroon,
And over it all the music of fall--
A weird prismatic tune.

An opera serious and grand,
An orchestra mystic and sad--
A symphony alone of color and tone
To drive a mortal mad.

SLABS AND OBELISK

Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn,
Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn,
Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red--
Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.
Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath--
Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death;
Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown,
Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.

Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow,
Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know;
Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore,
Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.
Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade,
Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade--
Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue,
Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.

All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the end
In the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend--
Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance,
In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.
But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill,
Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.
Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky,
Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.

ON BROADWAY

Even as to-night on Broadway
Long ago I wandered down
The Great White Way of childhood,
Mystified, enchanted, as I watched
The million butterflies
That tilted through the air in rhythmic flight,
And pulsed above the petaled sweets,
And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom,
Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.

POSTSCRIPT

Postscript

AN EMBER ETCHING

An old man sat before his great log fire
And gazed dreamily into the dying blaze.
His eyes were red as though with weeping.
The long, thin locks of hair
Were spotless as the snow
Silently mantling the earth
That last sad night of the dying year.
Four days and nights
He had sat beside the bed
Of his life-companion.
But now the watchers by the bier
In the adjoining room,
Were dozing in their chairs.
The cold night
Had driven the mice from their hiding,
And the loud tick of the clock
No longer frightened them
As they scampered over the hearth.

The man was breathing heavily,
Although his eyes were open,
And his stare fixed upon the fire:
_Down by a gnarled oak near the spring
Two children played.
Rebecca had dipped a dock leaf
In the water,
And now whisked it in the sunlight.
Against the trunk of the tree
There was a playhouse made of broken boughs.
The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed,
And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground.
An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate.
Two childish hands had traced their names:
"Rupert--Rebecca."
And the words were linked together by lines
That looked like twisted ropes.
The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse,
And crossed their hands in imitation
Of the lines that bound their names together.
And then they smiled
And looked upon the dolls
Asleep in the fresh June morning._

A chunk broke and fell in the ashes.
The blaze died into a glow of coals.
In the gray beyond the dog irons
The old man saw two figures
Sitting before an awning:
_Two golden haired children
Slept in a little bed.
The man and woman who sat beside the shelter
Were old and bent,
Their faces thin and white.
They clasped their hands
And looked into each other's face.
And then they turned and looked
Upon the children.
A coal dropped into the picture,
And the fitful fire died
Into deepening shadows._

Next day the pall-bearers
Bore two bodies away
And lowered a single coffin
Into a grave
Beneath the snow-laden cedar.

A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLAND

A little maiden blue-jay,
Fresh from her April morning bath,
Sat on the limb of a weeping willow,
Preening her shining feathers
And dreaming of a song
To which she had listened
On the afternoon of the preceding day.
A wild joy was in her heart
And yet it took all the sunshine and song
From a hundred other throats
To withstand the gloom
That seemed hovering just above her.
She was conscious of the threatening cloud,
But her heart beat furiously
And hope thrilled her bird-being
With an unwonted light.
And yet she knew,
When she dared to think at all,
That it was a hopeless hope
That flooded her soul with love--
A hope that must ere long
Change to a black despair.
She lifted her crested head
And looked toward the old beech tree
Where her blue-jay lover now sat
In melancholy gloom.
Why not raise her voice
And gladden his heart?
He had been true and faithful
For many weeks,
And his suit would long since
Have won another's love.
Why had she thrilled
At the alien voice of another throat?
She had been a foolish maiden
To have entertained so wild a thought.

But hark! Again the song!
On the topmost spire
Of yonder Gothic poplar
Sits a cardinal fop,
In a coat of matchless red,
And a beak of shining ivory.
He lifts his sumach plume
Into the glinting sunlight
And sends a Cupid shaft
From his beaded eye
Into the trembling breast
Of little maiden blue-jay.
Poor little mademoiselle!
Once more the notes
Come whistling and glittering
Like a shower of pearls
Through the sunshine:
"Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay--
Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle,
My little gazelle, and I love her well.
Fresh and sweet from her morning spray
She sits on the willow and her crest is gay--
Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well."

Down from his commanding height
Flashed the cardinal flame
And perched on another limb
Of the weeping willow.
And then he strutted and pranced
And capered and danced
And shot his fiery glances
Toward the modest little maiden
Whose heart was now fluttering
Beyond all control. Master blue-jay
Over on the beech bough
Saw the terrible tragedy
That would follow in the wake of betrayal
And was desperate to save this Psyche
To whom he had often poured out his soul
In amorous vows,
Swearing by all the gods in birdland
That there was none other beside her.
But like many another lover
Of larger experience and better advantage,
He forgot that the very way
To lose his loved one
Was to berate his rival,
And lifting his reed
To the upper register of a clarinet,
He almost screamed:

"He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds,
A master of villainous art--
A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words,
This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer,
A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer--
He'll crush thy innocent heart."

Poor little maiden blue-jay
Heard his screams of anger and despair
But heeded not the warning.
She only fluttered over
To where the cardinal sat
And threw herself under his protecting arm,
Declaring her perfect faith
In his undying love.

The red prince lifted
His burning plume triumphantly
Into the sunlight,
And shot a contemptuous glance
Toward the old beech tree.
Master Blue-Jay unable
Longer to control himself,
Darted like a lance of blue steel
At the red coat.
But the high churchman was a skilled fencer,
And stepped aside just in time
To send his antagonist
With terrible momentum
Into the thorn tree
Beyond the willow,
Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered,
Pinioned through his body
By a sword-like thorn
That projected from the trunk of the spiny tree.
It was a sight to touch the heart
Of the most abandoned denizen of birdland.
But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay,
Who would ordinarily have wept
At so sad a fate of one of her kind,
Was just now too happy
In the love of her wooer
To notice another;
And unmindful of the ebbing life-blood
That was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coat
Of bright and shining blue
To one of dark and dull maroon,
She nestled close
To the false-hearted ecclesiastic
And sighed the lovelorn sigh
That has come from the maiden heart
Since the foundation of the world.

The low cedar
In which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now sat
On such a nest of eggs
As no blue-jay had ever brooded over before,
Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing--
Was only a rod or so from the spiny thorn
Where the dried body of the fated lover
Still hung.
But where now was the supercilious fop
Whose seductive vows of love
Had won the little maiden's confidence
And robbed her true and faithful lover
Of that incense that belonged of right
Only to him?
For more than a week
She had not seen him.
Surely he would return on the morrow,
For he must remember
That soon the little brood
Would need his protecting love.
Yes, he would return again
To praise her slender form and shining crest
And call her once more his little gazelle.

But the cardinal came not.
The brood had hatched,
And the little birds were covered now
With tiny feathers.
Strange sight!
All the blue-jays in the woods around
Had gathered to witness
What no mortal bird had ever seen before--
Little birdling blue-jays
With crimson stains on wings and breasts!
And the poor little mother,
Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal,
No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle,
But an outcast and disgraced mother
Of a mongrel offspring,
Left alone in this hour of shame,
Remembered now the words of him
Who had warned against this sad hour.

But the memory brought her only bitter grief,
And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow,
As they looked with wondering eyes
At the strange panorama in birdland.
And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnation
Of the unpardonable sin.
There was no mercy
To be found in all the land of birds
For either the forsaken mother
Or her little brood.
The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jay
Suddenly threw her wings
Over the astonished little children,
As though to wipe the stain of sin
From their innocent lives,
And as she did so,
The crested cardinal
With a fresh crimson bride flashed by,
And perched upon the old beech limb.
And there he sat
In undisturbed and cynical silence,
While all the court
Of high crimes and misdemeanors
Praised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre.
The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing,
And their scarlet stain suffuse her being.
She looked toward the thorn tree
But no word was spoken.
A wise old owl that moped and moaned
On the limb of a sycamore tree
That overhung the little stream
Suddenly lifted his voice and cried:

"Let him who is without stain of sin,
Lift the first note of song
Against the little blue-jay."

But all the woods were still.
Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze,
And then a flute-like note floated out
Upon the wondering air:
"Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell,
I would I could come to thee;
I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood,
And thy bridegroom I should be.
That villainous fop on the old beech limb
And the arrogant wife that sits by him
Have broken the heart of my little bluebell,
The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well,
And they laugh in their cynical glee.
Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin,
Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin,
And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride,
Forever happy at my side.
My hope, my joy, my love, my pride,
If I could only come to thee,
If I could only come to thee."

Again the air was silent as the tomb.
The little mother bird
Moved with her frightened children
Toward the old thorn tree.
And when she at last stood
Beneath the sword
Upon which her faithful lover was pinioned
Behold the miracle that was enacted
Before her wondering eyes.
The crimson dyes
That streaked the birdlings' wings and breasts
Turned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon,
And not a jay in all birdland
But would swear that her little children
Now resembled in every line and stain
The dead body of her valiant lover
Who had shed his blood
To save his little bluebell from betrayal.

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

Minor Puncutuation errors have been corrected without comment.

Stage directions have been placed at uniform indentation, regardless of where they appeared in the original text.

Spelling corrections:

p. 60, "syncophantic" to "sycophantic" (A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords;)

p. 96, "shubbery" to "shrubbery" (O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali)

Word Variations:

"Agagite" (1) and "Aggagite" (1) "ghost-like" (1) and "ghostlike" (1)

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