The Blood Of Rachel Part 14

_Ahasuerus_

Ahafid's death was only Persia's gain.

[_Meditatively._]

Could Vashti look upon this gorgeous scene The bitter tears would scald her faded cheeks At thoughts of her own folly.

[_Confusion and much disturbance. Ahasuerus, surprised, cries in angry pa.s.sion._]

Ho! What means This rude confusion? Who has dared disturb The king in this unwonted way?

[_Enter messenger._]

_Messenger_

Tidings, O king, of riot and revolt!

_Ahasuerus_

Restore The court to order. I will hear no news!

There is no news but this night's joy. What fear Need Persia have? The world is safe; The emperor lives! Go put the messengers to death!

This is no time to cloud the royal brow!

Bring forth the vintage from the deepest vault.

Here are a hundred irised pearls. They cost A million sesterces. Let each man crush A l.u.s.trous sh.e.l.l and drink it to the health Of Esther, beauteous queen of all the East.

Arise! She comes! A blaze of splendor. Now Let every instrument be sounded.

The revels shall continue till the dawn!

_Zeresh_

[_Rus.h.i.+ng in with uplifted dagger and thrusting it into the heart of Esther, crying as she flourishes it before the astonished court._]

The dawn, O king, is breaking in the east!

[_Curtain._]

FINIS

POEMS AND SONNETS

To DOCTOR W. W. RAY PHYSICIAN, SCIENTIST, POET, MUSICIAN

To Whom Whether in Art or Nature Truth is Beauty and Beauty Truth, To Whose Appreciation and Enthusiasm I Owed my Intellectual Awakening in Youth, and Whose Friends.h.i.+p and Love have Increased That Obligation Immeasureably as the Years have Pa.s.sed,

I Dedicate these Poems With the Affection of a Full Heart

COTTON NOE

[Ill.u.s.tration:

"_Then why not praise the tallow-dip, the dog irons and the crane, The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?_"]

Poems and Sonnets

THE OLD DOG IRONS

Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul, As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal: When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame, That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame.

Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow With its s.h.i.+fting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show?

I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite, Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light; I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline, And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene; The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press, And the blessings of the wireless when a s.h.i.+p is in distress.

I marvel at invention and its all but magic art, But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart.

Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane, The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?

The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days-- The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways; The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun, The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun.

We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men, How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen.

We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth, And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth; To guard the honor of our name, and s.h.i.+eld a virtuous home, To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome.

I know our home was humble then--rag carpet on the floor-- But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door.

The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed, Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead-- Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich, But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which?

Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days, When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze; The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes, When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets; When children did the ch.o.r.es at night, nor ever heard of gym, Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim.

We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played, Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made; And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time, We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme: 'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze, And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways.

THE AGE ELECTRIC

The glory of the good old days has pa.s.sed from earth away, The lumbering loom, the spinning wheel, Maud Muller raking hay; The old rail fence, the moldboard plough, the scythe and reaping hook, Corn shuckings, and Virginia reel, and young folks' bashful look.

Now poor old father limps behind his motorcycle son And sees the world go whizzing by and knows his race is run.

With rheumatism in his joints and crotchets in his brain, He finds that he can hardly catch th' accommodation train.

Two dozen bottles of the oil of Dr. Up-To-Date Would put to flight the rheumatiz and straighten out his pate; But fogy folks don't have the faith, nor interest in the race, They'd rather drive a slow coach horse than go at such a pace.

Efficiency! efficiency! In business, church and school, Where Culture in a dunce's cap sits grinning on a stool, And wondering where the thing will end, and what the prize will be, When Intellect, all geared and greased, is mere machinery.

Old Homer and the Iliad, the Trojan and the Greek, The Parthenon and Phidias, not ancient, but antique.

Great Caesar and the Gallic War and Virgil with his rhyme, And Cicero have all gone down beneath the wheel of time.

And Dante now lies buried deep beneath the art debris, Where Michael Angelo once wrought for immortality.

The Swan of Avon's not in school, but on the movie screen, The Prince of Denmark can not talk but still he may be seen.

All history and literature, philosophy and truth Would take about three evenings off of any modern youth To master through the picture art if he the time could spare, From vaudeville shows and joy rides and tango with the fair.

The problem is to find an hour so busy is the age, And so important is the work and tempting is the wage.

Then what's the use of poetry or history anyhow?

Best turn your back upon the past and face the present _now_!

Get busy, and be on the job, the world will pay for skill.

It says: "Deliver me the goods, and then present your bill."

The family circle and the talk around the old hearth stone, The sage advice, when backlogs glowed and grease lamps dimly shone, Are mouldy pictures of the past, mere myths of long ago, When grandsires had found out some things that children didn't know.

How many bushels can you raise upon your plot of ground?