PEOPLE AND THINGS

Now a man’s true heart is his home, I think, And the hearth with the crackling pine, With the leaping flames and the glowing stones, Is somehow its inmost shrine. And the stones must come from the river’s bed— Softly colorful must they be, Like the long-dulled rose and the faded green Of an old-time tapestry. And the light must fall with a fitful flare On the logs in the lichened wall— (Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill note Once echoed the bluejay’s call.) And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyes From the flash of each burning brand, And the man will know from its quickening touch, The where of a woman’s hand. And the fears that weighed till he grew afraid Will be turned into nothingness With the strength that comes from a tender word And the warmth of a soft caress. And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived days Out over the rainbow’s rim— They will be more real than the stuff of dreams Through her wonderful faith in him. And it’s this and that which the hearth gives back In the glow of the crackling pine, That endears the place to a man’s own soul Till it’s somehow his inmost shrine.

My need, which is my creed, I write upon this scroll— Be pleased, oh gracious Lord, to heed the want-ad of my soul. A cheer that does not lean upon digestion or the sun— Supports itself and never asks a boost of any one. To laugh whole-heartedly—or should ill-fortune crowd me in, Cause me to smile—give me, oh Lord, at least the gift to grin. Not quite too proud, oh Lord, to fight, but if the thing’s to do, Then tutor me to battle clean—until the round is through. If I have good to speak of men, then may that good be said— Let me not hold like miser’s gold my say until they’re dead. And Lord, I would be schooled to do with neither pomp nor fuss, Some decent thing and yet not feel so thundering virtuous. Should gossip drop around to claim my hospitality, May I not send him forth again but bid him stop with me. And if I have to fore-flush, Lord, to keep up with the brood Of Fortune’s darlings, then give me the eagle’s solitude. Make this almighty me to know that as I trudge along, Perhaps once in ten thousand times I’m likely to be wrong; And that by some miraculous, unprecedented flight Of lucky stars that shelter him, my neighbor may be right. Forbid it that my soul grow stale—let me not be defiled Nor cloyed with surfeit—let me keep the ardor of a child. Give me imagination, Lord, to see the unseen things— To know the yonder, far-off feel that comes when some bird sings. Help me to square with all the best traditions of my clan— Make me, oh Lord, a regular, real, bang-up, manly man.

Give me imagination, Lord, To see the unseen things— To know the yonder, far-off feel That comes when some bird sings.

I am a cat and I am cruel! But beautiful! My fur Is soft. I have deep amber eyes And a most pleasing purr. I am a plaything for a child To pinch or squeeze or pull Or to adore with soft caress, For I am beautiful. I am a cat and I am cruel! The upper Nile knew me, Roaming and wild. Then hunters came, I was no longer free. For Egypt had great granaries, So came a plague of rats, They held us sacred like their gods For Egypt needed cats. I am a cat. Since Pharaoh’s day I am what men call tame, But deep in me the lust for gore Is lurking just the same. Stroke me, I purr—my claws relax, I drowse—but for all that The murderer in me sleeps not, Sleeps not, for I’m a cat. My mistress too is beautiful, Blue-veined with snowy skin, She smooths my fur and cuddles me Close to her dainty chin. An amorous perfume clings to Her soft gown’s silken mesh— I only want to smell her blood And eat her pretty flesh! I love to watch the agony Of some affrighted thing, Life ebbing scarlet, bit by bit, Through my slow torturing. I am a cat—this is my life, To be a pet until The age-long urge bestirs my soul And I go forth to kill. Through velvet black the paws of me Touch oh so soft and noiselessly. The burning amber of my eyes Pierces the night; the rose-moon dies. I hear a twitter in the vine, My throat is parched—it craves red wine. I lift a foot—and all is well Until—until—I shake my bell! For she has tied a bell on me, A bell—a bell—a bell on me, A tinkly bell to tell on me, To tell—to tell—to tell on me; The bell that foils each move I make, The bell that tells my prey awake, The single dingle jingle-bell The little tittle-tattle bell, The bell that holds my stroke in check, The cursed bell around my neck.

You’ve never heard Bill Sunday speak? No more had I until last week. Yes, every mother’s son Was there—bar none, And women folks—the kids all came Just like it was a baseball game! Up to the grove on Dobson’s Hill, And there was Bill— Thumpin’, jumpin’, hell-fire Bill Right from his ranch to spill Religion till we’d drunk our fill. Well say, Since Bill let loose that day There’s not a kid ’round here for miles But what can juggle more new styles Of double-jointed, back-talk stuff And compound cursin’ guff Than they’d have picked up with their ears In twenty years From other folks. But to resume, Bill started on the temperance boom! Statistics? Gosh! Blood-curdlin’ tales— He had ’em stacked ’round there in bales, With starvin’ children, murdered wives, And drunken males with guns and knives. The way Bill talked you would have thought Our Valley here had gone to pot And ruin from the curse of drink. But what I think Is mostly wrong with this here place Is just a simple case Of scandal! Why, drinkin’ doesn’t hold a candle To all the dirty mess that’s stirred With every slanderous word That’s rolled along—and every time It’s shoved a bit, it gathers slime. When certain people get together It ain’t the weather Worries them! Not much! It’s who the heck Deserves it hardest in the neck! I’ve read somewhere how they could hear A little whisper ringin’ clear Across the dome Of old St. Peter’s there in Rome. Well, I have heard a whisper go From Hillman’s ranch down there below The base-line road, to Eric Lane’s Then shoot across and hit MacGrain’s, From where it kept on bouncin’ till It struck the Hendricks on the hill, Then glanced and hit our house kerzip, Two days exactly on the trip! Though whisperin’s good down there in Rome, We’ve some acoustics here at home. Accordin’ to Amanda Higgins, Jim Gillan’s wild on Mrs. Wiggins; That’s why Jim’s wife goes ’round so white And frets her heart out day and night. Accordin’ to Matilda Blink “That teacher last year used to drink— She roamed at will with Ruf MacGrore, Who was immoral to the core; That car Zeb Brinker bought for Blanche Meant one more mortgage on their ranch, While Hiram Tyler, he sets back And drives the same old squeaky hack And makes his wife and daughters face Shame and disgrace— Old Hiram who has laid away Enough to pay For twenty cars— My stars!” So runs the gospel link by link Accordin’ to Matilda Blink. Of course you can’t gainsay the claim That some small flame Of truth might be Where gossip’s smoke blows ’round so free, But oh the misery that’s begun When each poor family skeleton Is wakened from its peaceful trance And made to dance A shandigee For all the blame community. What’s wanted most around this place Is supernatural grace. If we could find Some heavenly-antiseptic kind Of moral mouth-wash that would take A slanderous tongue and make It CLEAN—and God knows there Would have to be enough to spare For all of us—both wives and men, To take a gargle now and then— If we could ever hope To find that kind of dope, Our little parson on the hill As well as Bill, Could save a precious pile Of energy and rest a while.

John had the “con,” the Doctor said. He stayed around the house and read Most of the time or worked at such Chores as would not exert him much And slept on the veranda where The Doctor thought was better air. Each little thing the family knew Would make him happier, they’d do. “He won’t be with us long,” they’d say, Then scrap and wrangle on, the way That families do when rounding curves, Each getting on the other’s nerves With back-bite, spit-fire—loading full The fleeting hours per usual. At times of utmost unction, Bill Would be the goat—on him they’d spill The general peeve and blame. Bill stood The gaff to help the common good. One day Bill up and got the flu And did what flu-folks sometimes do— He died. Three days was all he took. He lay there in a curtained nook; It hit them sort of by surprise To see him there with calm, closed eyes And flowers all ’round and all so still. They stood there looking down on Bill And sobbed as families do when caught So sudden like—they looked and thought Of all the times they’d given him Hell; And John—oh yes, poor John got well.

He chose to do his stint by deed— Not words but action was his creed; When at his door some need would knock, He gave—and wasted little talk. He never had too big a load To ease the traveller on the road; His hearth was warm—so was his bed And no one left his house unfed. He did not gossip—if he talked ’Twas well advised—he never knocked; He never knocked nor did he raise At any time his voice in praise; The little gracious things folks say, He left them out—it was his way. He left so many out that they Who shared his roof from day to day, Went hungering in their souls the while For just a pleasant word or smile. It was as if he’d gone and made A covenant with God to aid His fellowman—so far as he Could help that man materially; But as for giving from his store Those gifts the heart keeps longing for— And lacking which goes beggaring— Well that was quite another thing. Somehow I think that such an one Leaves half his task in life undone.

The whelp who did the trick, I think he knows— I think he feels it everywhere he goes. A dog knows he’s a dog—there’s no pretend, He starts out dog and he’s dog to the end. At that, he’s got a dog’s sense of what’s right And lives dog-loyalty according to his light. And when a man less than a dog, he knows— Though he may look like man and wear man’s clothes, He knows the scut he is beneath it all. The dog knew too—that’s why he tried to crawl Back home—up to his kennel by the shed— Dragged all the way—just like a lump of lead, Because no self-respecting, decent hound Would want to die upon his poisoner’s ground If he could get away. Just what the use Was, doing it—or what kind of excuse He had, is more than I can figure out. We raised that yellow hound—he’s gone about For five years now and he was decent stuff, And there’s no reason I know good enough For what he got. A poisoner’s not the kind To say—“That yellow cur of yours—you’ll find Him here—I murdered him!” Or else—“That hound You’ve got up there—I poisoned him, I found Him running round my stable-yard today.” When he’s through with his job, he doesn’t say Those things, because it’s not a poisoner’s way— His secret’s kept between himself and God And that dumb brute that rots beneath the sod.

A shingled shack beneath a hill, A clump of alders—dangling still Their russet leaves and just below, A creek half-filled with ice and snow; A chicken-coop and little pens— Against the snow some rust-red hens; A cow, a child with ragged coat— And by the fence a billy-goat. These were the things that caught my eye From a car-window passing by. To me it was a hill, a brook, A house caught in a passing look; But to the child with ragged coat It was the house, the hill, the goat. To me and to each other eye That saw as we went swiftly by, It was one rill of many rills, One hill among a thousand hills, One little man-made blotch upon A changing ’scape that’s come and gone— Oh what a difference there can be ’Twixt little things like A and The.

Evergreen, holly and mistletoe, Heigho and a Christmas night! Wind in the pines and drifting snow, Stars and a world of white. Oh, the joyful Christmas music! There’s a carol—do you hear? Have you caught the thrill of gladness On this night of all the year? Golden bells and shining baubles, Spangled angels—do you see? Silvered globes and painted soldiers, Gay and gallant, gaudy soldiers, Dangling from the Christmas tree. There are candles, gleaming candles, Down and ’round and overhead, Twinkling, blinking ’twixt the branches, Candles pink and blue and red. Christmas candles, waxen candles, Once so hard but soft’ning now, Candles that the flames are melting, Tiny Yuletide flames are melting, Melting on the greenwood bough. There is love and grace abounding In the vibrant Christmas air. Has it touched you? Has it thrilled you? Have you felt it pulsing there? Where the hearthstone of your heart is? Or have all the wintry years Only left beneath their drifting, ’Neath their cold and cheerless drifting, Cherished wrongs and bitter tears? Is there nothing in the spirit Of the garlands and the wreathes? Is there nothing in the message That the fragrant balsam breathes? Is there nothing in the legend Of the Christ-child that can move The lifeless souls of mortals, The bleak, gray souls of mortals To forgiveness, grace and love? Oh, the hearts that beat resentment While the Yuletides come and go, Hearts that crave one little token, Hearts too proud to have it so. Christmas magic, may it move them, Wheresoever rankle be, Melt them as the flaming beacons, As the radiant Yuletide beacons Melt the candles on the tree. Evergreen, holly and mistletoe, Heigho and a Christmas night! Wind in the pines and drifting snow, Stars and a world of white.

There’s holly on our lawn—all year It grows, and when the Yuletide’s here And others from the market bring, We take from our tree’s burgeoning And with each gleaming emerald spray Our house is glad on Christmas day. Throughout the year our holly tree Tells of a Christmas that’s to be And like its own rich evergreen Keeps fresh the Yuletides that have been— One—long ago near Galilee— I’m glad we have a holly tree.