Act 4 — CARMINA FESTIVA

The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, Was like the man who dug it, free, Now slave-like thro' the market clanks In chains of corporate tyranny.

The Standard Fish-Trust of New York Holds every clam-bank in control; And like base Beef and menial Pork, The free-born Clam has lost its soul.

No more the bivalve treads the sands In freedom's rapture, free from guilt: It follows now the harsh commands Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.

Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just! Call on the Sherman Act to dam The floods of this devouring Trust, And liberate the fettered Clam.

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr, Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,—ah, no! Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.

But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.

Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, And rose and fell responsively with every tide.

“Clam O! Fres' Clam!” How strange it sounds and sweet, The Dago's cry along the New York street! “Dago” we call him, like the thoughtless crowd; And yet this humble man may well be proud To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,— Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,— From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.

To me his chant, with alien accent sung, Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue: It seems to cry against the city's woe, In liquid Latin syllables,—Clamo! As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams! Receive his secret plaint with pity warm, And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Therefore I like to sit beside Her at a very smart set dinner, And whisper love, and try to win her.

The little-necks,—in number six,— That from their pearly shells she picks And swallows whole,—ah, is it selfish To wish my heart among those shell-fish?

“But Phyllis is another's wife; And if she should absorb thy life 'Twould leave thy bosom vacant.”—Well, I'd keep at least the empty shell!

Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse The bliss of battle and the strain of strife. Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!

Some three-score years and ten ago A prince was born at Florida, Mo.; And though he came incognito, With just the usual yells of woe, The watchful fairies seemed to know Precisely what the row meant; For when he was but five days old, (December fifth as I've been told,) They pattered through the midnight cold, And came around his crib, to hold A “Council of Endowment.”

“I give him Wit,” the eldest said, And stooped above the little bed, To touch his forehead round and red. “Within this bald, unfurnished head, Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread And wave in years hereafter, I kindle now the lively spark, That still shall flash by day and dark, And everywhere he goes shall mark His way with light and laughter.”

The fairies laughed to think of it That such a rosy, wrinkled bit Of flesh should be endowed with Wit! But something serious seemed to hit The mind of one, as if a fit Of fear had come upon her. “I give him Truth,” she quickly cried, “That laughter may not lead aside To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,— I give him Truth and Honour!”

“I give him Love,” exclaimed the third; And as she breathed the mystic word, I know not if the baby heard, But softly in his dream he stirred, And twittered like a little bird, And stretched his hands above him. The fairy's gift was sealed and signed With kisses twain the deed to bind: “A heart of love to human-kind, And human-kind to love him!”

“Now stay your giving!” cried the Queen. “These gifts are passing rich I ween; And if reporters should be mean Enough to spy upon this scene, 'Twould make all other babies green With envy at the rumour. Yet since I love this child, forsooth, I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, With spirits of Immortal Youth, And call the mixture Humour!”

The fairies vanished with their glittering train; But here's the Prince with all their gifts,—Mark Twain.

Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes. Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:— Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.

So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps and salad, I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad: A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East, Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and curious beast.

Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should think it lucky If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Kentucky; Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large, Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge.

But this amazing little ass was never satisfied, He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside: His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were bleared and dim, But nothing in the wide, wide world was good enough for him.

He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice And said that any other way would be a better choice. He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait, While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.

It mattered not how fair the land through which the road might run, He found new causes for complaint with every Morning Sun: And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world grew nappy, They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not happy.

He thought his load was far too large, he thought his food was bad, He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise Men mad: He did not like to hear them laugh,—'twas childish to be jolly; And if perchance they sang a hymn,—'twas sentimental folly!

So day by day this little beast performed his level best To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest: And when they laid them down at night, he would not let them sleep, But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep.

One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit tent, And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful merriment, The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way, And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray.

“Now by my head,” Balthazar said (his real name was Choate), “We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote. I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to grass, And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass.”

The vote was aye! and with a whack the Wise Men drove him out; But still he wanders up and down, and all the world about; You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious ways, And likewise by his morning kicks and by his evening brays.

But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth Night cheer, Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here: For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the King, And every one must play his part, and laugh, and likewise sing.

The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find, And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheerful mind: We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the right to rest, We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a jest.

A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright! A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night! A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide! A health, a health to all the world,—and the solemn ass, outside!

Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira, I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra: The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature,— The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.

A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian, He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan: But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble, He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.

Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married; But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried. St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking, And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.

Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded; The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked “We'll all be drownded!” St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo; He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.

The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken, And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon. St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,— They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, “St. Nicholas forever!”

And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel, And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle, And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron, In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.

He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving; He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living; He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation; He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.

Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December, And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember. Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features, And said, “Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!”

All hail, ye famous Farmers! Ye vegetable-charmers, Who know the art of making barren earth Smile with prolific mirth And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth! Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil, And horny-handed sons of toil! To-night from all your arduous cares released, With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, Ye hold your annual feast, And like the Concord farmers long ago, Ye meet above the “Bridge” below, And draw the cork heard round the world!

What memories are yours! What tales Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed, Telling how ye have won your first Potatoes from the stubborn mead, (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!) And how the luscious cabbages and kails Have bloomed before you in their bed At seven dollars a head! And how your onions took a prize For bringing tears into the eyes Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke! And how ye broke, Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies! And how ye did not quail Before th' invading armies of San José Scale, But met them bravely with your little pail Of poison, which ye put upon each tail O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail! And how ye did acquit yourselves like men In fields of agricultural strife, and then, Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease And gently to your gardener said, “Let us have Pease!”

But were there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no! The course of Nature is not ordered so. For when we want a vegetable most, She holds it back; And when we boast To our week-endly friends Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack, Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.

O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars, How often have ye saved from scars Of shame, and deep embarrassment, The disingenuous farmer-gent, To whom some wondering guest has cried, “How do you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?” Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied The compliment, but smiling has replied, “To raise such things you must have lots of glass.”

From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; Accept no praise unless you have the proof. If niggard Nature should withhold the green And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean. Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, If grown by your own toil are extra sweet. Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford. Say to Mæcenas, when he is your guest, “No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best.” Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field What honesty a farmer's life may yield, And like G. Washington in early youth, Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.

But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow. In January when the world is drear, And bills come in, and no results appear, And snow-storms veil the skies, And ice the streamlet clogs, Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues! What visions and what dreams are these Of cauliflower obese,— Of giant celery, taller than a mast,— Of strawberries Like red pincushions, round and vast,— Of succulent and spicy gumbo,— Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,— Of high-strung beans without the strings,— And of a host of other wild, romantic things!

Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare That modern habits mental force impair? And why should H. Marquand complain That jokes as good as his will never come again? And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien About the lack of fiction for his Magazine? The seedsman's catalogue is all we need To stir our dull imaginations To new creations, And lead us, by the hand Of Hope, into a fairy-land.

So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will; And let your fancy all your garners fill With wondrous crops; but always recollect That Nature gives us less than we expect. Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth That, spent upon your farms, renews your health; And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her, “A country-place is cheaper than a doctor.” May roses bloom for you, and may you find Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.

Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, And his road through the world is bright; For he lives with the laughing stream all day, And he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day! The angler's life is a very jolly life And that's what the anglers say!

Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game, And his creel may be full or light, But the tale that he tells will be just the same When he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day! We love the fire and the music of the lyre, And that's what the anglers say!

I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot's a “lure”; But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks, To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high, But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes! Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,— A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,— But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

She's loopin' down the hillside,—the driffs is fadin' out. She's runnin' down the river,—d'ye see them risin' trout? She's loafin' down the canyon,—the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between, Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!

The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; So saddle up, my sonny,—it's time to ride, I think!

We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.

We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes; For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!

Oh, wot's the use o' “red gods,” an' “Pan,” an' all that stuff? The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff! An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Just about the proper size For the trout of Dickey's Run,— Luck go with them every one!

Dainty little feathered beauties, Listen now, and learn your duties: Not to tangle in the box; Not to catch on logs or rocks, Boughs that wave or weeds that float, Nor in the angler's “pants” or coat! Not to lure the glutton frog From his banquet in the bog; Nor the lazy chub to fool, Splashing idly round the pool; Nor the sullen hornèd pout From the mud to hustle out!

None of this vulgarian crew, Dainty flies, is game for you. Darting swiftly through the air Guided by the angler's care, Light upon the flowing stream Like a wingèd fairy dream; Float upon the water dancing, Through the lights and shadows glancing, Till the rippling current brings you, And with quiet motion swings you, Where a speckled beauty lies Watching you with hungry eyes.

Here's your game and here's your prize! Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast! Then remember well your duty,— Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is Salvelinus Fontinalis.

So, you plumed illusions, go, Let my comrade Archie know Every day he goes a-fishing I'll be with him in well-wishing. Most of all when lunch is laid In the dappled orchard shade, With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too, Sitting as we used to do Round the white cloth on the grass While the lazy hours pass, And the brook's contented tune Lulls the sleepy afternoon,— Then's the time my heart will be With that pleasant company!