Spoon River Anthology Part 22

But in those moments of tragic silence, When the wine and bread were pa.s.sed, Came the reconciliation for us-- Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood, Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee-- To us came the Comforter And the consolation of tongues of flame!

Isaiah Beethoven

THEY told me I had three months to live, So I crept to Bernadotte, And sat by the mill for hours and hours Where the gathered waters deeply moving Seemed not to move: O world, that's you!

You are but a widened place in the river Where Life looks down and we rejoice for her Mirrored in us, and so we dream And turn away, but when again We look for the face, behold the low-lands And blasted cotton-wood trees where we empty Into the larger stream!

But here by the mill the castled clouds Mocked themselves in the dizzy water; And over its agate floor at night The flame of the moon ran under my eyes Amid a forest stillness broken By a flute in a hut on the hill.

At last when I came to lie in bed Weak and in pain, with the dreams about me, The soul of the river had entered my soul, And the gathered power of my soul was moving So swiftly it seemed to be at rest Under cities of cloud and under Spheres of silver and changing worlds-- Until I saw a flash of trumpets Above the battlements over Time.

Elijah Browning

I WAS among mult.i.tudes of children Dancing at the foot of a mountain.

A breeze blew out of the east and swept them as leaves, Driving some up the slopes. . . .

All was changed.

Here were flying lights, and mystic moons, and dream-music.

A cloud fell upon us.

When it lifted all was changed.

I was now amid mult.i.tudes who were wrangling.

Then a figure in s.h.i.+mmering gold, and one with a trumpet, And one with a sceptre stood before me.

They mocked me and danced a rigadoon and vanished. . . .

All was changed again.

Out of a bower of poppies A woman bared her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and lifted her open mouth to mine.

I kissed her.

The taste of her lips was like salt.

She left blood on my lips.

I fell exhausted.

I arose and ascended higher, but a mist as from an iceberg Clouded my steps.

I was cold and in pain.

Then the sun streamed on me again, And I saw the mists below me hiding all below them.

And I, bent over my staff, knew myself Silhouetted against the snow.

And above me Was the soundless air, pierced by a cone of ice, Over which hung a solitary star!

A shudder of ecstasy, a shudder of fear Ran through me.

But I could not return to the slopes-- Nay, I wished not to return.

For the spent waves of the symphony of freedom Lapped the ethereal cliffs about me.

Therefore I climbed to the pinnacle.

I flung away my staff.

I touched that star With my outstretched hand.

I vanished utterly.

For the mountain delivers to Infinite Truth Whosoever touches the star.

Webster Ford

Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo, The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M'Grew Cried, "There's a ghost," and I, "It's Delphic Apollo,".

And the son of the banker derided us, saying, "It's light By the flags at the water's edge, you half-witted fools."

And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long after Poor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carried The vision which perished with him like a rocket which falls And quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fear Of the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?

Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hour When I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branches Growing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoning In laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel, Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbness Creeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!

'Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.

Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring, If die you must in the spring. For none shall look On the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must 'Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow, Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand, Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbness Creeping up to the laurel leaves that never cease To flourish until you fall. O leaves of me Too sere for coronal wreaths, and fit alone For urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themes For hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers-- Delphic Apollo.

The Spooniad

OF John Cabanis, wrath and of the strife Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat Who led the common people in the cause Of freedom for Spoon River, and the fall Of Rhodes, bank that brought unnumbered woes And loss to many, with engendered hate That flamed into the torch in Anarch hands To burn the court--house, on whose blackened wreck A fairer temple rose and Progress stood-- Sing, muse, that lit the Chian's face with smiles Who saw the ant-like Greeks and Trojans crawl About Scamander, over walls, pursued Or else pursuing, and the funeral pyres And sacred hecatombs, and first because Of Helen who with Paris fled to Troy As soul-mate; and the wrath of Peleus, son, Decreed to lose Chryseis, lovely spoil Of war, and dearest concubine.

Say first, Thou son of night, called Momus, from whose eyes No secret hides, and Thalia, smiling one, What bred 'twixt Thomas Rhodes and John Cabanis The deadly strife? His daughter Flossie, she, Returning from her wandering with a troop Of strolling players, walked the village streets, Her bracelets tinkling and with sparkling rings And words of serpent wisdom and a smile Of cunning in her eyes. Then Thomas Rhodes, Who ruled the church and ruled the bank as well, Made known his disapproval of the maid; And all Spoon River whispered and the eyes Of all the church frowned on her, till she knew They feared her and condemned.

But them to flout She gave a dance to viols and to flutes, Brought from Peoria, and many youths, But lately made regenerate through the prayers Of zealous preachers and of earnest souls, Danced merrily, and sought her in the dance, Who wore a dress so low of neck that eyes Down straying might survey the snowy swale 'Till it was lost in whiteness.

With the dance The village changed to merriment from gloom.

The milliner, Mrs. Williams, could not fill Her orders for new hats, and every seamstress Plied busy needles making gowns; old trunks And chests were opened for their store of laces And rings and trinkets were brought out of hiding And all the youths fastidious grew of dress; Notes pa.s.sed, and many a fair one's door at eve Knew a bouquet, and strolling lovers thronged About the hills that overlooked the river.

Then, since the mercy seats more empty showed, One of G.o.d's chosen lifted up his voice: "The woman of Babylon is among us; rise Ye sons of light and drive the wanton forth!"

So John Cabanis left the church and left The hosts of law and order with his eyes By anger cleared, and him the liberal cause Acclaimed as nominee to the mayoralty To vanquish A. D. Blood.

But as the war Waged bitterly for votes and rumors flew About the bank, and of the heavy loans Which Rhodes, son had made to prop his loss In wheat, and many drew their coin and left The bank of Rhodes more hollow, with the talk Among the liberals of another bank Soon to be chartered, lo, the bubble burst 'Mid cries and curses; but the liberals laughed And in the hall of Nicholas Bindle held Wise converse and inspiriting debate.

High on a stage that overlooked the chairs Where dozens sat, and where a pop--eyed daub Of Shakespeare, very like the hired man Of Christian Dallman, brow and pointed beard, Upon a drab proscenium outward stared, Sat Harmon Whitney, to that eminence, By merit raised in ribaldry and guile, And to the a.s.sembled rebels thus he spake: "Whether to lie supine and let a clique Cold-blooded, scheming, hungry, singing psalms, Devour our substance, wreck our banks and drain Our little h.o.a.rds for hazards on the price Of wheat or pork, or yet to cower beneath The shadow of a spire upreared to curb A breed of lackeys and to serve the bank Coadjutor in greed, that is the question.

Shall we have music and the jocund dance, Or tolling bells? Or shall young romance roam These hills about the river, flowering now To April's tears, or shall they sit at home, Or play croquet where Thomas Rhodes may see, I ask you? If the blood of youth runs o'er And riots 'gainst this regimen of gloom, Shall we submit to have these youths and maids Branded as libertines and wantons?"

Ere His words were done a woman's voice called "No!"

Then rose a sound of moving chairs, as when The numerous swine o'er-run the replenished troughs; And every head was turned, as when a flock Of geese back-turning to the hunter's tread Rise up with flapping wings; then rang the hall With riotous laughter, for with battered hat Tilted upon her saucy head, and fist Raised in defiance, Daisy Fraser stood.

Headlong she had been hurled from out the hall Save Wendell Bloyd, who spoke for woman's rights, Prevented, and the bellowing voice of Burchard.

Then, mid applause she hastened toward the stage And flung both gold and silver to the cause And swiftly left the hall.

Meantime upstood A giant figure, bearded like the son Of Alcmene, deep-chested, round of paunch, And spoke in thunder: "Over there behold A man who for the truth withstood his wife-- Such is our spirit--when that A. D. Blood Compelled me to remove Dom Pedro--"

Quick Before Jim Brown could finish, Jefferson Howard Obtained the floor and spake: "Ill suits the time For clownish words, and trivial is our cause If naught's at stake but John Cabanis, wrath, He who was erstwhile of the other side And came to us for vengeance. More's at stake Than triumph for New England or Virginia.

And whether rum be sold, or for two years As in the past two years, this town be dry Matters but little-- Oh yes, revenue For sidewalks, sewers; that is well enough!

I wish to G.o.d this fight were now inspired By other pa.s.sion than to salve the pride Of John Cabanis or his daughter.

Why Can never contests of great moment spring From worthy things, not little? Still, if men Must always act so, and if rum must be The symbol and the medium to release From life's denial and from slavery, Then give me rum!"

Exultant cries arose.

Then, as George Trimble had o'ercome his fear And vacillation and begun to speak, The door creaked and the idiot, Willie Metcalf, Breathless and hatless, whiter than a sheet, Entered and cried: "The marshal's on his way To arrest you all. And if you only knew Who's coming here to--morrow; I was listening Beneath the window where the other side Are making plans."

So to a smaller room To hear the idiot's secret some withdrew Selected by the Chair; the Chair himself And Jefferson Howard, Benjamin Pantier, And Wendell Bloyd, George Trimble, Adam Weirauch, Imanuel Ehrenhardt, Seth Compton, G.o.dwin James And Enoch Dunlap, Hiram Scates, Roy Butler, Carl Hamblin, Roger Heston, Ernest Hyde And Penniwit, the artist, Kinsey Keene, And E. C. Culbertson and Franklin Jones, Benjamin Fraser, son of Benjamin Pantier By Daisy Fraser, some of lesser note, And secretly conferred.

But in the hall Disorder reigned and when the marshal came And found it so, he marched the hoodlums out And locked them up.

Meanwhile within a room Back in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the church, with Blood Counseled the wisest heads. Judge Somers first, Deep learned in life, and next him, Elliott Hawkins And Lambert Hutchins; next him Thomas Rhodes And Editor Whedon; next him Garrison Standard, A traitor to the liberals, who with lip Upcurled in scorn and with a bitter sneer: "Such strife about an insult to a woman-- A girl of eighteen "--Christian Dallman too, And others unrecorded. Some there were Who frowned not on the cup but loathed the rule Democracy achieved thereby, the freedom And l.u.s.t of life it symbolized.

Now morn with snowy fingers up the sky Flung like an orange at a festival The ruddy sun, when from their hasty beds Poured forth the hostile forces, and the streets Resounded to the rattle of the wheels That drove this way and that to gather in The tardy voters, and the cries of chieftains Who manned the battle. But at ten o'clock The liberals bellowed fraud, and at the polls The rival candidates growled and came to blows.

Then proved the idiot's tale of yester-eve A word of warning. Suddenly on the streets Walked hog-eyed Allen, terror of the hills That looked on Bernadotte ten miles removed.

No man of this degenerate day could lift The boulders which he threw, and when he spoke The windows rattled, and beneath his brows Thatched like a shed with bristling hair of black, His small eyes glistened like a maddened boar.

And as he walked the boards creaked, as he walked A song of menace rumbled. Thus he came, The champion of A. D. Blood, commissioned To terrify the liberals. Many fled As when a hawk soars o'er the chicken yard.

He pa.s.sed the polls and with a playful hand Touched Brown, the giant, and he fell against, As though he were a child, the wall; so strong Was hog-eyed Allen. But the liberals smiled.

For soon as hog-eyed Allen reached the walk, Close on his steps paced Bengal Mike, brought in By Kinsey Keene, the subtle-witted one, To match the hog-eyed Allen. He was scarce Three-fourths the other's bulk, but steel his arms, And with a tiger's heart. Two men he killed And many wounded in the days before, And no one feared.

But when the hog-eyed one Saw Bengal Mike his countenance grew dark, The bristles o'er his red eyes twitched with rage, The song he rumbled lowered. Round and round The court-house paced he, followed stealthily By Bengal Mike, who jeered him every step: "Come, elephant, and fight! Come, hog-eyed coward!

Come, face about and fight me, lumbering sneak!

Come, beefy bully, hit me, if you can!

Take out your gun, you duffer, give me reason To draw and kill you. Take your billy out.

I'll crack your boar's head with a piece of brick!"

But never a word the hog-eyed one returned But trod about the court-house, followed both By troops of boys and watched by all the men.

All day, they walked the square. But when Apollo Stood with reluctant look above the hills As fain to see the end, and all the votes Were cast, and closed the polls, before the door Of Trainor's drug store Bengal Mike, in tones That echoed through the village, bawled the taunt: "Who was your mother, hog--eyed?" In a trice As when a wild boar turns upon the hound That through the brakes upon an August day Has gashed him with its teeth, the hog--one Rushed with his giant arms on Bengal Mike And grabbed him by the throat. Then rose to heaven The frightened cries of boys, and yells of men Forth rus.h.i.+ng to the street. And Bengal Mike Moved this way and now that, drew in his head As if his neck to shorten, and bent down To break the death grip of the hog-eyed one; 'Twixt guttural wrath and fast-expiring strength Striking his fists against the invulnerable chest Of hog-eyed Allen. Then, when some came in To part them, others stayed them, and the fight Spread among dozens; many valiant souls Went down from clubs and bricks.

But tell me, Muse, What G.o.d or G.o.ddess rescued Bengal Mike?

With one last, mighty struggle did he grasp The murderous hands and turning kick his foe.