The Blood Of Rachel Part 20

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 suns.h.i.+ne: "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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s!

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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.