University of Virginia Library

CHARACTER AND EPISODE

FIREARMS

• Characters: Mrs. Houston
• Georgiana, her daughter
• A Federal Lieutenant
• Uncle Mote, a former slave of the Houstons

Time: 1864
Scene: Entrance hall of Houston House in the State of Kentucky. Large doorway, center, opening on a pillared verandah, visible in part from hall through large window to left of door. Colonial stairway to right, a doorway back and beyond stairway leading to dining-room, etc. Another doorway, left, leading to drawing-room. As the curtain rises enter from drawing-room Mrs. Houston, Georgiana, and Uncle Mote, all three very much agitated; the old negro gesticulating and explaining vehemently:
Mote:
Yass 'um; Miss' Sally, dey's dun fotched 'um all—
Tuh de las' hoss; an' ebery pig and keow—
Dey neber lef' us one ob all dat herd.
Ut's a-gwine to break dis here ole nigger's heart:
Ut's almos' broke ut now, indeed ut has.
Ole Bess wuz de las'—de las' keow; she's de las'—
De las' ob twenty head.—Hit ain't no use!
But Ah c'u'd swaar an' swaar, an' jus' cut loose
An', an'—kill a pa'cel o' Yankeemen; Ah c'u'd;
If Ah jus' had a gun!—Gimme a gun, Miss Sally!
Gimme a gun, er pistul—anythin'—
An'—an'—Ah 'ull show 'um.

Mrs. Houston
(greatly distressed):
Cows and horses gone!
Oh, what shall we do, Georgiana, what shall we do?

Georgiana
(desperately):
I wish there were a gun about the place
I'd bushwhack them—at least I'd get revenge
On one or two. A pistol'd do.

Mote
(eagerly):
Yass 'um. Dat's hit!

Georgiana:
They're bad as Sherman's men. Insulting hounds!—
Robbers of women!

Mrs. Houston:
Thieves! hateful thieves and bandits!—Georgiana,
What shall we do now? Not a horse to drive
Or cow to milk!—All gone you say, Mote?—gone?

Mote
(with tears in his voice):
Yass 'um, Miss' Sally, nary a one wuz lef'.

Georgiana
(more desperately than before):
I wish I were a man! Oh to be a man!
To face these cowards that make war on women!

Military footsteps are heard on the verandah, and the jingle of accoutrements. Old Mote hurries to the window, peers out cautiously, and then hurries back to Mrs. Houston and Georgiana, who have remained in the background, near the stairway, whither they fled at the sound of soldiers' approach.
Mote
(huskily):
Dey's dar, Miss' Sally; an' de Cap'un's wid 'um.—
Yuh'd better hide yuhself. No tellin' now
Whut's hup. De Cap'un-man is wid 'um.

Georgiana
(despairingly):
More shame! disgrace!—Oh, God! were I a man!

Mrs. Houston
(weepingly):
Another outrage! Not a day goes by
But that some new affront or insult's offered.

A voice commanding “Halt!” is heard outside the door. The footsteps cease with a clatter of arms. A peremptory knock is given the door. The two women stand waiting in attitudes of expectation and defiance, old Mote behind them. No notice is taken of the first knock. It is repeated more vigorously, and again ignored.
Mrs. Houston
(breathlessly):
What can they want now! oh, what can they want?

Georgiana
(still desperately):
To be a man! to be a man right now!
Armed with some sort of weapon.—I would give
My soul. ...

The door is flung violently open and a Lieutenant, with a squad of Federal soldiers in soiled uniforms, is discovered in the doorway. The Lieutenant is a man of about five and twenty, of an assured military bearing, and a handsome manner. Saluting he advances unsmilingly towards the two ladies, his soldiers filling the doorway.
Lieutenant
(courteously):
I might have knocked again.

Georgiana
(scornfully):
And why?
You could not enter here except by force.
You overwhelm us with your courtesies.

Mrs. Houston
(very rapidly):
'T is not enough that you have robbed us, sir,
But you must march your ruffians to our door,
And through our house perhaps. Is't not sufficient
That you have stripped our barns and pastures of
The last of all our herds? Needs must you now
Add outrage unto outrage; insult to injury?
Why have you come here? and are twenty men
Required for the arresting of two women?
This must be Yankee bravery.

Lieutenant
(courteously):
Pardon, Madam!

Georgiana
(interrupting him furiously):
Pardon indeed!—When thieves and thugs win pardon
For deeds like yours, honor will be a name,
And honesty a by-word. Why are you here?
And back of you these bristling bayonets?
Are we then spies? and would you hang us now?
Or loot the house and burn it afterwards,
As Sherman does in Georgia? What would you here?

Lieutenant
(quietly, half smilingly):
I was about to tell you when I entered.
No outrage is intended, and no insult.
I have received my orders from Headquarters
To search out firearms in this rebel district.
And disinfect it, as it were, of danger.
I'll to the point, however: Weapons, firearms,
Whatever arms you have, or great or small,
Must be delivered up.

Georgiana
(scornfully):
And, pray sir, why?
We are but women. Two against an army.
You seem to think that we are dangerous.

Lieutenant
(calmly):
You are notorious rebels. This is war.
The country all about us here is hostile.
Our sentinels are ambushed in the night.
We have lost many men through such guerillas.
Therefore the Government has issued orders:
“Where any are suspect their homes be searched
And weapons seized, and they, when they are men,
Imprisoned.”—It is known that you have housed
Confederates lately. And I have commands
To search your house unless you willingly
Give up all firearms that you have concealed.—
This I regret. But I obey my orders.

Mrs. Houston
(plaintively):
Have we not had indignities enough
This year from you invaders? Grief, distress
Of mind and body too in death and loss.
My son slain there at Gettysburg: my husband
Wounded,—in prison: then our property
Even to our last cow confiscated.—Now
You would invade our home.

Lieutenant:
'T is hard. But such is war.

Georgiana
(defiantly):
War?—Yes!—But must you level war on women?
If we had arms we might protect ourselves.
But we have none, only our hands,—and hearts,
That build a bulwark 'gainst you. Were I a man
I would wipe out this insult with a sword,
Or die in trying to. Even now, had I a weapon,
I would resist you. But we have no arms.

Lieutenant
(firmly, but courteously):
So much the better since you are for war.
Yet I must search the house to prove it true.

Beckons to the corporal at the door, who, with several men, enters the hall, saluting the Lieutenant, and stands awaiting orders.
Mrs. Houston
(in tears):
We're only women. We can not resist.
Insult us as you please, or slay us here.
Might makes for right. We're helpless to withstand
The many that are back of you. Indignities
We have grown used to, as one may become
Accustomed to diseases when prolonged.—
This man will search our house, you heard, Georgiana?

Georgiana
(impatiently):
I heard him, mother. (To the Lieutenant):

Will you take my word
We have no firearms here, concealed or unconcealed?

Lieutenant
(suavely):
I would not doubt your word, but I must see.

Georgiana
(with sarcasm):
Why not proclaim me liar and be done?
Your very words have put a doubt on truth.—
Well, sir, since you insist, I'll fetch what firearms,
The only ones I know of, we may have.
They may be useful to you. As for us—
They're ancient implements we do not need;
Therefore 't is folly to keep them.—I will fetch them
If you'll permit me, and will order these
(Indicating the corporal and his men)
To quit the house. I will deliver all
That I can find, and with them your dismissal.

Lieutenant:
I ask no more. 'T is all that I require.
And I shall thank you, madam, and remove
The cause of this contention.

Georgiana
(scornfully):
You are kind.
(To old Mote who has been hesitating in the background during this colloquy):
Come with me, Mote. I need a little assistance.
(To Lieutenant, as she is about to ascend the stairway respectfully followed by the old darkey):
Give me your word of honor as a man
And officer that you will quit this house
And with you all these raiders.

Lieutenant
(smiling):
If the arms,—
All that you have,—are here delivered me,
I pledge myself as officer and gentleman
Immediately to remove from you the cause
Of your disturbance.

Georgiana
(ironically):
You are kind indeed!
(To Mrs. Houston):
Now, mother, you must calm yourself. You've heard
Him name himself a gentleman. No harm
Will come to any woman from a man,
Even a Yankee, who's a gentleman.

(Exit with Mote up stairway.)
Mrs. Houston
(bewildered):
That we have firearms in the house is more
Than I can understand. Who brought them here?
Georgiana says they're here, and she must know.
But 't is bewildering. I knew of none.

Lieutenant
(affably):
Believe me, madam, I am very sorry
That we have so distressed you. I would rather
Be friends than enemies with Houston House,
Famed for its hospitality throughout the State.
But these are war times; and in such, you know,
Unfriendliness is breeder of suspicion,
And all suspects are subject to intrusion.

Mrs. Houston:
But, sir, we have not entertained a Southern soldier
For months. We have not, to my certain knowledge,
A firearm on the place. It is our Cause,
I fear, that's our offence, and your excuse
For this intrusion. Georgiana now,
Unless I am mistaken, will discover
Nothing that you demand. A young girl's pride
In that which she holds sacred, which she'd keep
From desecration, has devised a ruse.
But then she may have at some time discovered,
There in the attic, gun or old horse-pistol,
Useless and harmless now. We had a flintlock
And powder-horn, both relics of old days,—
'T was said they once belonged to Daniel Boone,—
Hung up there o'er the doorway to that room
Upon those antlers, but they disappeared
Some months ago and with them a young slave.
Search in your army; you may find them there
With him, our runaway.—We are not now
What once we were. The war has taken much,
And will take all, perhaps, before it end.

Lieutenant
(sympathetically):
War is not kind to any. Least of all
To women, who must stay at home and brood.
War is not kind to women's hearts, dear lady.
Men glory in war, and to them all the glory. ...
The mothers and the sweethearts have to bear
The heavier burden—sorrow and despair.
They sit or busy themselves at home and wait
For tidings of their loved ones: battles fought,
Or battles to be fought. Anxiety
Sits with them or goes at their side forever.
The pathos of it! In the bivouac
Or battle men know nothing at all of this.
The eyes of danger lure them on to deeds
And death perhaps; and deprivations only
Turn their male thoughts to home and wife and sweetheart,
And comforts that they miss. But at the bugle
Their hearts are fire again with dreams of battle,
And victory, bright in a cloud of banners,
And smoke of cannon, glittering ranks of steel,
Waving them on to glory, or destruction. ...
War is not kind, war is not kind to women.
Why have I spoken words like these to you?—
Perhaps because I have a mother and sister.—
But here's your daughter.

(Enter Georgiana on the stairway, followed by Mote, both of them fairly loaded down with a miscellaneous collection of hearth utensils: such as andirons, fire-tongs, ash-shovels, pokers, etc.)
Georgiana
(advancing rapidly and defiantly, with flushed face and flashing eyes, clashing her armful of iron and brass down at the feet of the Lieutenant):
Here are your firearms!
There! take them all away. We have no others.—
Now quit our house.—

(Old Mote advances chuckling and deposits his armful carefully on top of Georgiana's.)
Mote
(grinning):
An' dar's de rest un 'um.

Lieutenant
(astonished; then reddening with confusion at the smiles of his soldiers):
What's this?—your firearms, madam?—True!—
(Recovering himself, he continues with seeming seriousness):
They might prove deadly weapons in desperate hands.

Mrs. Houston
(who has begun to like the young Lieutenant since her tête-à-tête with him a moment ago):
Why, Georgiana! child, how could you?

Georgiana
(still defiant):
Well!
He said he wanted them, and there they are.
They are the only firearms that we have.
Now let him take them, all of them away,
And himself too.—All we desire is peace.

Lieutenant
(smiling, mockery and admiration in his face):
Indeed! an iron argument for peace, dear lady.—
But, pray you, now retain your arms. And let
Peace be declared between us.
(Turning to his amused squad):
Attention. Face.
Salute the ladies. Right about. March.

(Exit bowing.)
Mrs. Houston
(forlornly; while old Mote, exploding with laughter, retires by doorway, center):
Well, well, my dear, however could you do it?
And he so kind.

Georgiana
(surprised at her mother's tone):
So kind?—And do you call it kindness
To force your way, with arms, into our house,
And search out reasons to confirm suspicions?
I call it outrage! Never call it kindness.—
(A little mollified):
I hope we've seen the last of him and all
Who wear his hateful uniform.—Oh dear!

Mrs. Houston
(in a gentle voice):
He had his orders, Georgiana, dear.
You must not blame him too much. War's at fault.

Georgiana
(suddenly despondent):
I do not blame him, mother. He was nice.
But that he should come prying here awoke
A rage in me I can not understand.
If it had been another man, why, I—
Would not have cared at all. But he aroused
An angry opposition here in me
I can not well explain. I'd rather have died
Than let him search the house.—Oh, I am tired
Of this long war.—When will it end? oh, when!
The grief, the heartbreak of it all! the waiting,
The weary waiting and the lack of loving.—
Mother, he, too, is young; may have a sister,
A sweetheart, maybe. And he may be killed,
Next week, to-night.—Oh, mother, war's so cruel.—
I am unhappy, mother, so unhappy.

Mrs. Houston
(taking her soothingly into her arms):
There, there, my child! my little Georgiana!
Have patience yet awhile. We must be brave.
And trust in God. All will come right with time.

Georgiana
(sighing):
He had kind eyes; and when he smiled I thought
He looked like brother. Had he come to us
In any way but this, I could have—liked him.
But he is gone now, never to return.
War is so cruel, mother, Love unkind.

Curtain

A CRYING IN THE NIGHT

Persons:

• A Sick Girl
• A Girl Friend

Scene: A poorly but neatly furnished cottage bedroom, adjoining and opening into a kitchen.
Sick Girl:
It's in the kitchen. Don't you hear it crying?

Girl Friend:
There's nothing there but trouble of the flue
With wind and rain.

Sick Girl:
You know, when it was dying
It cried like that.—What shall I, can I do?—

Girl Friend:
You poor, poor thing! there, there.

Sick Girl:
I saw the fire
Was low, and put it ... underneath the coal;
And as it burned its cry rose high and higher.—
Tell me?—Can imperfection have a soul?
An embryo, no human thing could love,
That must associate itself with shame!—
Are you quite sure there's nothing in the stove?—
Ah, God! ah, God! for what am I to blame?

Girl Friend:
Keep still; and try to think of that no more.
You will go mad if you keep on like this.

Sick Girl
(listening intently):
Now! don't you hear it crying at the door?—
Surely you must.—How horrible it is!—
To think it suffers there!—But you—you know
How, so unthinking, and how, unprepared
For all, I've suffered. It was like a blow.
I should have been advised, and never dared
To face my mother.

Girl Friend
(positively):
Why, you should have shared
Your trouble with her.

Sick Girl:
Never, never that!
To have her know? That would have ended all.
But how I've suffered!—Smiling I have sat,—
Smiling, yet dreadful of what would befall:
Fearful of every movement; as I went
Studying concealment; she suspecting naught.
God help me now to keep her ignorant
Of this my crime, that blackened all my thought
For months, till it was done.—But let it be.—
You are the one who understood somehow,
You are the one who has befriended me. ...
But, listen!—don't you hear it crying now?—

Girl Friend:
Lie quiet. 'T is the wind in some wild crack. ...
I know your mother.—That she'd be away
These two bad days now! When does she come back?

Sick Girl:
I fear to-morrow; or, perhaps, next day.
Could we devise some plan to make her stay?—

Girl Friend:
The sooner she returns the better.

Sick Girl:
Nay!—
Oh, had my father lived this had not been!
How hard life is! how miserable and hard!—
When father died I was not seventeen,
And from that time it seems my life was marred.
I had to go to work.—Then brother died.—
It seems all things combined to make me bad.
I lost my place. How was I to decide?
We had to live.—No work was to be had.
There was but one thing left: my hands were tied;
And I was sold, like any slave: nor knew
Who in the end would pay the reckoning.
There was no other thing for me to do.
I was so ignorant of everything.
This way seemed easy. God would give no sign.
And there was mother who was ailing much,
And if I lost her, too, what fate were mine!
The wonder is that God permitted such. ...
But that's a thing Life often wonders at—
God's huge indifference, and disregard
Of all distress; the misery, leaving scarred,
Or stained, the soul, that gropes in utter night:
Ah, if the soul had but a little light!—
There came no sign. My faith brought nothing in.
We could not live on prayer, when by our hearth
Starvation sat, gaunt knuckled, hand on chin,
Staring the soul dead. What was virtue worth
Before that stare, that mixed it with the earth?
Something to barter in the House of Sin,
Of little value, and just left to rot,
Whether 't is sold, or whether it is not.

Girl Friend:
You must not talk like that.—'T will injure you.

Sick Girl:
And does it matter?—Shall I live?—For what?

Girl Friend:
Your mother!—When she comes what will you do?

Sick Girl
(with determination and conviction):
Oh, when she comes I must be out and up.

Girl Friend:
Have in the doctor.

Sick Girl:
That would not be safe.
He would ask questions.—

Girl Friend:
Well, then. Drink this cup
Of tea: 't will help you.

Sick Girl
(suddenly starting up, a look of inexpressible fear on her face):
Hark!—the little waif
Is crying there again!—Oh, you must hear!—
You hear but say you don't.

Girl Friend
(shuddering):
You make me creep.
It's just perhaps a singing in your ear
The tea would make.

Sick Girl
(sobbing):
Will it always weep,
And never cease, from year to haunted year?

Girl Friend
(going cautiously to the kitchen door; listening; and then returning to the Sick Girl's side):
There's nothing there, I tell you, but your fear.—
Be quiet now and try to go to sleep.

Sick Girl
(gazing wildly about the room):
I can not sleep. And yet not for myself
Am I afraid. You know what I believe:
The Bible there upon that under-shelf
Damns me forever. Not for that I grieve—
But that the Thing had life which I thought dead!
That it had life, and was so slain by me,
That makes the crying here, here in my head,
And in my heart the piercing agony.

Girl Friend:
I think, perhaps, I'll have the doctor in.

Sick Girl:
Not you!—And have him know?—Put that thought by!
You'd have the whole town yelping of my sin.
Think of my mother!—Ah!—I'd rather die.

Girl Friend:
Then I must go.

Sick Girl:
And leave me here with it!

Girl Friend:
Yes; I must go.

Sick Girl:
And would you leave me so?—
When I'm afraid the door there where you sit,—
If you should go, will open very slow
And it will enter, with its blackened face,
All accusation, and its eyes aglow
With God's damnation.

Girl Friend
(concealing her own terror under a nervous smile):
There is not a trace
Of sense in all this horror!—If I stay
You'll have to talk less.

Sick Girl:
That's my girl-friend Grace!
How kind you are. But close the kitchen door,
And shut the voice out.—If I could but pray,
Then it might hush its crying; take away
This terror too down deep in my heart's core.

Girl Friend:
You're hard on your poor self. If you could sleep!

Sick Girl:
I can not sleep, I can not sleep to-night!
That crying there. If you would only keep
The door locked fast, and light another light.

Girl Friend
(goes into the kitchen, returns with another lighted lamp):
There now. Don't trouble. It is closed once more. (Closing door.)

I've brought the kitchen lamp along.

Sick Girl:
That's right.—
And did you hear it crying as before?

Girl Friend:
Naught heard I save the water in a pan
Simmering and steaming. Now I'll lock the door.

(Goes to the door and locks it carefully.)
Sick Girl
(with a sigh of relief):
To me you are far braver than a man.
(Listening intently for a minute or two.)
It's stopped its wailing. (Brightening up.)

When my mother comes
To-morrow morning I must be about.

Girl Friend:
You'll stay in bed.

Sick Girl:
Lie here and bite my thumbs?—
No; I'll be up. And better, too, no doubt.

Girl Friend:
You'll kill yourself.

Sick Girl
(with pensive pathos):
There is no other way.
I have to pay—that's all that I regret.
It is the woman always has to pay.
The man can sin: his sin entails no debt.—
(After a long pause):
But what I did I did deliberately
For money for my mother, who has fought
Want all her life!—That clears me, don't you see?
(With conviction):
And if she never knows—why give 't a thought?—
(She lifts herself, listening again. Smiles wanly as if satisfied with the stillness, and sighs):
Now prop my pillow up, and smooth the sheet:
I feel so drowsy.—Ah, the hush is deep!
It's good as music; but to me more sweet
Than any sound.—And, oh, how I shall sleep!

THE WOMAN ON THE ROAD

Persons:

• A Woman, with a Child in her arms
• A Little Boy
• A Man

Scene: A Country Road near a deep and hilly wood.
The Man
(overtaking the Woman, who looks worn and tired):
That's a good load now for a weary woman!
The babe's enough, but the big bag beside!—
It is too much.

The Woman
(wearily, looking at him and speaking with impatience):
What would you have me do, man?—
They who have money can afford to ride.
It seems to me I am no longer human.—
What time is it?

The Man
(with a kindly smile):
Not long till eventide.—
Your boy looks worn out, too.

The Woman
(fiercely, addressing, as it were, the malign cause of it all):
No wonder! Walking
Since seven to-day, and little rest between,
And less of food. But I'm too tired for talking.

The Man
(softly):
That you are tired is easy to be seen.

The Woman
(somewhat mollified and setting down bundle):
But what one don't see is the heavy aching
Here. (Laying hand on heart.)
While I walk it does n't bother so.
The rocking keeps the baby too from waking.
Perhaps you are a father, and you know.

The Man
(quietly smiling):
I wish I knew.—Your children are quite taking. ...
And where's their father?

The Woman
(dejectedly):
Dead a year ago.
Killed by a train—a freight, where he was braking.

The Man
(quickly):
And did n't the railroad pay?—

The Woman
(indignantly):
Pay?—Carelessness
They proved it was. And all our savings went.
And then—and then—the baby came.

The Man
(sympathizingly):
I guess
What followed:—hunger.— (Indignantly):

They not mulct a cent!

The Woman
(wearily):
We've walked and begged our way for many a mile.
It's Shepherdstown that we are walking to.
My husband's folks are there.

The Man
(musingly):
'T will take a while.—
At least till midnight. (With decision):
It would never do.
You can not walk it with that tired boy.—
How old is he? A sturdy lad.

The Woman:
Just six.

The Man
(ingratiatingly):
Come here, young man. What have you there? A toy?

Child:
No, sir: a torch,—just berries stuck on sticks,—
To light the way with.—Have you any cakes?
I'm hungry, Mister. (Smiling up wistfully at the Man.)


The Man
(with decision, turning to the Woman):
Give the babe to me,
And rest you here.

The Woman
(as the baby wakes, seating herself and beginning to nurse it):
How my poor body aches!
So Shepherdstown is miles away?

The Man
(vaguely):
May be.—
My farm is close. You'll stop there for awhile,
Till I search out the people you would know
At Shepherdstown. (Suddenly)
: Your boy now has the smile
Of someone that I know, or knew. But, no,
Impossible.

The Woman
(impressively):
He has his father's eyes.
His father came from Shepherdstown, you see.

The Man
(intently):
And may I ask his name?

The Woman:
His name was Wise—
Jim Wise.—Perhaps you know his family?
You live so near to Shepherdstown.

The Man
(with emotion):
Why, yes.
I know his family. Why, Jim, now,—Jim—
Why, my name's Wise!—My brother Jim, I guess,
You're speaking of.—Years since we heard of him.

The Woman
(incredulously):
Where do you live, sir?

The Man
(dreamily):
Not so far from here:
Beyond this strip of wood.—You see, I farm.
Jim never did like farming. It was queer.
The City swallowed him. He came to harm,
So I have heard, through women.

The Woman
(vehemently, starting to her feet):
It's a lie!—
Here is the only woman whom he knew,
And here the children you may know her by.

The Man:
I meant no insult. Why, I know how true
A woman you are. You must have helped my brother.—
We heard he'd married, that was all.—Well, well.
And you're his widow?—This is news for mother.

The Boy
(who has been looking wide-eyed at the Man during all this talk):
It's suppertime. It's nearly time to start.

The Man
(laughing and hugging the boy close up to him):
Why, so it is. And there's a lot to tell
To your old Granny.—Seems incredible.—
Look at me, boy. Why, you're Jim's counterpart.

The Boy
(looking earnestly at the Man):
What is a counterpart?—Where people eat?—
And will 't be cake? or something like a tart?—

The Man
(with decision in his manner and voice):
Yes, it'll be cake.—Now hurry.—Come this way.
But I must carry you. Your little feet
Have earned a ride. (Mounting boy on his back):
There!

The Woman
(smiling wanly):
You're Jim's brother Ray.

The Man
(nodding over his shoulder):
How did you guess?

The Woman:
Just by the way you treat
My little boy and me. One need not say.—
Often I've heard Jim tell of you.

The Man
(pointing):
But look!
There is your home now; by the roadside there,
Among the flowers, beyond this cressy brook.

The Woman:
How honeysuckle-sweet! And what a bed
Of Giant-of-Battle roses!—Everywhere
Are flowers!—Just as Jim has often said.
He loved to picture it. ... All those iron years
The memory of this place kept soft his heart.
He was a good man—Jim.

The Man:
Don't cry now. Tears
Are done with. This is home. You've done your part
By Jim, and now we'll do our part by you.

The Woman
(drying her eyes):
It seems to me too beautiful to be true.
It is a dream I'll wake from.

The Man
(smiling at her):
Not this week
Nor many a week to come.—There's mother, see!
Look where she waits now in that sunset streak
Beside the gate, gray in the shrubbery.

The Woman:
What a kind face she has; it breathes of rest.
But we've no right here.

The Man:
That's no way to speak!
Our home is your home.—Don't look so distressed.
You are Jim's widow.—Mother'll daughter you.—
And there're your children!—Don't, or won't you see
You're giving more than you receive?—I do.—
Now let's meet mother.—Leave it all to me.

ROBBER GOLD

THE BATTLEFIELD

AN OLD SOLDIER TO HIS DOG

THE HOUSE OF NIGHT

THE HOUSE OF PRIDE

GUILT

THE OLD LOVE

IN LILAC TIME

THE RETURN

THE GRAY GARDEN

WHEN THE YEARS WERE YOUNG

THE HILL ROAD

ROSE AND JASMINE

THE CLOSE OF DAY

FEUDISTS

THE MOUND MEN

THE SPANISH MAIN

THE BURDEN OF THE BURIED DEAD

REFLECTIONS

“OH, WHEN I HEARD”

ON THE DEATH OF T. B. A.

The cavalier cry of Lovelace and Carew
And Herrick's lyric call together grew,
And here in Aldrich,—lark and nightingale,—
Made sweet with song Art's new-world intervale.

MODERN POETRY

Reluctant praise and meagre kindness,
In spite of all thy beauty, see,
O Poetry,
Th' ignoble World now gives to thee:
While Fame, with strange, pretended blindness,
Through whom thou hadst authority
Through many a golden century,
Fares on her way with other company.

THE SECRET ROOM

There is a room the soul has set apart,
Dark in the House of Dreams and Melody;
A secret room, no eye may ever see,
Hung with the perished passions of the heart:
There once I entered with a Dream of Art,
And sat me down with Love and Memory
Before a harp's decaying ebony,
From whose dim strings, I felt, old ghosts might start.
And suddenly, through some superior will,
My hand went forth and, groping blindly, swept
One chord of chords, hollow with loss and fear;
And all the darkness shuddered and was still:
Then in the silence something near me crept,
And on my hands dropped tear on terrible tear.

THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER

I

The Voice of a Man.
What of the Night, O Watcher?

The Voice of a Woman
Yea, what of it?

The Watcher
A star has risen; and a wind blows strong.

Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.

The Watcher
But God is there above it.

Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.

II

Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?

Voice of the Woman
Night of sorrow!

The Watcher
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song.

Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.

The Watcher
Have courage! There's To-morrow.

Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.

III

Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?

Voice of the Woman
Is it other?

The Watcher
I see a gleam; a thorn of light; a thong.

Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.

The Watcher
The Morning comes, my Brother.

Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.

IV

Voice of the Man
What now, what now, O Watcher!

The Watcher
Red as slaughter
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong.

Voice of the Man
The Night was long.—What sayest thou, my Daughter?

Voice of the Woman
The Night was dark; the Night was dark and long.

PANDORA

That's my Pandora: look you, good as gold;
No evil in her. Yet, as once of old,
Zeus formed her namesake, she, in body and soul,
Was made for man's allurement. He who stole
Fire from high Heaven, and so brought on Earth
A scourge of evils, was of not more worth
Than she, the woman, of whom we are told.
Now my Pandora's of the selfsame mold:
A sweet disturbance, filling every hour
With personality, that's kin to power;
But still concealing her immortal dower
Of love, like her, whom Epimetheus
Gave heart and soul to.—But I like her thus:
A woman through and through, with all the fuss
And fervor and nice curiosity
In all that we name life, whate'er it be,
Though at the last it may end evilly.
But could it end so? when, within her mind,
Like Hope shut in the casket, you will find,
Mid doubts, she keeps her faith in humankind.
Now looking at her there you'd never know
The fire of the faith which burns below—
That's my Pandora!—her chaste bosom's snow.

ATTAINMENT