The Blood Of Rachel Part 15

How many blades of gra.s.s now grow where once just one was found?

Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop, San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop.

Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead.

Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head.

Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch, Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch.

The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight, Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight.

If man could live a century it may be in the strife, He'd learn to make a _living_ if he didn't make a _life_!

What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim, A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him, He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme), Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time!

GRANDMOTHER DAYS

Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old When she sat by the mantelpiece; And she wore a cap with many a fold Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold, And worked in many a crease: And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled From her little stone pipe whenever she told Of the quest of the Golden Fleece, Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung Of the G.o.ds of ancient Greece.

But all of her marvelous mythical lore Was naught to her magical power-- Transforming a house with a puncheon floor To a palace of wealth with a golden door That lead to a castle tower-- An attic loft with a wonderful store Of things that we feared, but longed to explore-- Our grandmother's ancient dower.

Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase, A weed to a royal flower.

Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace And my child-heart wors.h.i.+pped there, When Balm-of-Gilead around the place, Like incense, for a mile of s.p.a.ce, Perfumed the glorious air; And the song that came from the feathered race In the boughs of the tangled interlace Of apple and peach and pear, Enthralled me like the magic spell Of siren music when it fell On old Ulysses' ear.

Last summer I pa.s.sed where the palace once stood Whose beauty my life beguiled; It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood Of walnut and hickory, aisled For gathering nuts and the merry mood That only our childhood understood, By man has been defiled.

Oh, how can I ever cease to praise The fairy enchantment of grandmother days When I was a little child!

JUST TO DREAM

Just to dream when sapphire skies Are as blue as maidens' eyes; Just to dream when petals sow All the earth with pink and snow; Just to sit by youth's bright stream, Gazing at its crystal gleam-- Listening to the wren and dove-- Hearing only songs of love-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream of sabre's flash When the lines of battle clash; See the army put to rout-- Hear the world's triumphant shout; Just to dream our name supreme-- Hero of a poet's theme, First among the sons of men, Master of the sword or pen-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream when skies grow gray, Just to dream the days away-- Living over childhood's joys, Sorrow that no longer cloys; Just to muse of days that seem Like the sunlight's golden beam, Summer nights and winter's snow.

Just to dream of long ago-- _Just to dream_.

AMNEMON

"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long-- The wine-press I have trodden, Paved with flint and shard; And many times my feet have stained The flagstones of the street with blood.

Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love The world was always dull and dark to me.

Hours I have stood upon the beach And watched the whitecaps glinting In the sunlight and listened to the breakers Booming on the sinuous sh.o.r.e, While little children clapped their hands And shouted out across the waters, And gray-haired men and women shook their heads In silence and looked toward the sunset.

But everything was always meaningless to me.

Season after season I have watched the b.u.t.terflies By millions come and go And katydids each year have sung The song monotonous and pa.s.sed away.

Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.

Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue; The droning hum of beetles on the breeze Is like an orchestra of lovely music.

The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.

For two bright hours I have strolled Among the flowering shrubbery near the seash.o.r.e, Listening to a song I had not heard for years.

And now once more that I am happy, May I not confess it all?

I did you wrong, great wrong.

There was no stain upon my life, No taint of blood within my veins.

I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.

I did not understand my heart, And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity, I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love, And part for self-protection.

I have suffered much, but justly.

You said my story broke your heart, And left me where I stood, Pondering on the sin I had committed.

I had proved your love, but all too late.

Your talent meant a brilliant future, And I knew your great ambition.

For years I scanned the periodicals Where names of most renown in literature are found, Expecting always to see my lover's there, But always doomed to disappointment.

And yet I now rejoice That you have not achieved great fame, For otherwise I could not write this letter.

Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it; If so, it will not find its way to you.

It may be that you think me dead, Or worse--I may have been forgotten.

This is April twenty-first; The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.

I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third, And be at Hotel Utah.

If your heart, through all these years, Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.

Geraldine."

Alfred Milner read this letter While great drops of perspiration Stood upon his brow and trembling hand.

For seven winters he had tried To bury in oblivion a face and form That always with the dogwood blossoms Came again, and each time seemed more fair.

He had tried for fame and failed.

But now his book that bore a pen name only Was selling daily by the thousands And fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints, Were building him a shrine.

But did she know of his success, And was her conduct Years before base cowardice?

Had she only told the cruel tale Because she knew his theory of insane blood, And hid her lack of faith By taking refuge in his prejudice?

Or was her story true?

If true or false, why had she kept it back Until she knew red pa.s.sion Was a-riot in his heart?

He tore the letter into strips And blew them fiercely through the air.

He had suffered much himself, But she was not concerned.

What if this letter had been sent To open healing wounds, To win some wager with another man To whom she boasted of her power?

He would not go!

The air was growing foul and stuffy In his suite of rooms, And Alfred threw the window open.

The subway in the distance Rumbled like a gathering storm; The palisades across the Hudson Now were darkling in the falling shadows.

April thirtieth at noon.

The Rocky Mountains looked like towers On the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.

Would he make connection at Pueblo?

The gray monotony of gra.s.s and cacti Had begun to wear upon his nerves.

He longed to see the Royal Gorge-- The steep and jagged heights of hills.

They spoke of giant strength He needed for the coming struggle.

It might be that the air From off eternal snows Would cool the fever in his brain.

"May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake, Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."

Alfred put his pen upon the register Of Hotel Utah, And read the list of names above.

She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."

Finally he scrawled a signature, But wrote his _nom de plume_.

The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.

Two porters swooped upon his grips, And soon the lobby hummed.

But Alfred Milner sat alone within his room Battling with emotions he could neither Overcome nor understand.

He did not know the stir his name upon the register Had made below, or knew what name he wrote.

At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy: This is May the third and I am here."

Thoughtfully he creased the sheet And rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."

The smell of brine was heavy on the air That blew across the lake.

The mountains to the north were white with snow above And dogwood petals on the southern slopes.