Catoninetales A Domestic Epic: By Hattie Brown: A young lady of colour lately deceased at the age of 14 [i.e. W. J. Linton] |
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| 9. | MYSTERY |
 | Catoninetales |  |
67
MYSTERY
What a caterwauling you do keep. Shakspere.
We knew on what a thread hung Robyn's life,
And pray'd him to be careful; but as rife
As ever were his wanderings in and out.
We seldom learn'd ought of his whereabout.
Still, when a week had gone without a sight
Of his fool's tabard, anxious love grew white
With apprehension, troublesome for news.
I did not mention that all kinds of stews
And broils and pies and funeral baked meats,
Even cold, he hated now; and made retreats
From coals and cinders out into the snow,
Which was quite deep, and never let us know
How to provide for him, so had to fast
For days and days, his mind his sole repast.
And pray'd him to be careful; but as rife
As ever were his wanderings in and out.
We seldom learn'd ought of his whereabout.
Still, when a week had gone without a sight
Of his fool's tabard, anxious love grew white
With apprehension, troublesome for news.
I did not mention that all kinds of stews
And broils and pies and funeral baked meats,
Even cold, he hated now; and made retreats
From coals and cinders out into the snow,
Which was quite deep, and never let us know
How to provide for him, so had to fast
For days and days, his mind his sole repast.
The bitter winter had begun at last,
With fitful gusts of wind and stinging snow;
Then clearer weather, and the earth below
Ice-bound; and then a poor essay at glow
And possibly a chance of some o' rain;
Then the white feathers flutter'd down again;
Then lace and sparkling jewels hung on the trees,
Next morning booted to their very knees
In white, the delicate slim birches bow'd
Before the majesty of frost, or cow'd
By the mere weight of ice, like milkmaid's yoke;
And under eaves of snow brown walls of oak;
White copings on the hemlocks, and, still seen,
Some slurs of yellow ice beneath the green;
And then again a heavier fall o'erspreads
The landscape, only here and there the heads
Of greyish hedgehog spines above the white,
Those dimly visible.
With fitful gusts of wind and stinging snow;
Then clearer weather, and the earth below
Ice-bound; and then a poor essay at glow
And possibly a chance of some o' rain;
Then the white feathers flutter'd down again;
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Next morning booted to their very knees
In white, the delicate slim birches bow'd
Before the majesty of frost, or cow'd
By the mere weight of ice, like milkmaid's yoke;
And under eaves of snow brown walls of oak;
White copings on the hemlocks, and, still seen,
Some slurs of yellow ice beneath the green;
And then again a heavier fall o'erspreads
The landscape, only here and there the heads
Of greyish hedgehog spines above the white,
Those dimly visible.
On such a night
Robyn, who since Thanksgiving Day had shirk'd
The warm fire-side, and but too often lurk'd
Where ovens were not, took it in his head,
Or it might suit my taile (he had been fed
On milk scarce thaw'd, within it parboil'd bread)
To wander woodward in this snowy depth o'
Winter, where his wilful vow like Jephtha
Brought him to trouble. Several mornings kiss'd
The eaves' long icicles; and still we miss'd
Our household Robyn Why should I persist
As if I hoped the rime would raise a ghost?
Our Robyn came not: Robyn must be lost.
Robyn, who since Thanksgiving Day had shirk'd
The warm fire-side, and but too often lurk'd
Where ovens were not, took it in his head,
Or it might suit my taile (he had been fed
On milk scarce thaw'd, within it parboil'd bread)
To wander woodward in this snowy depth o'
Winter, where his wilful vow like Jephtha
Brought him to trouble. Several mornings kiss'd
The eaves' long icicles; and still we miss'd
Our household Robyn Why should I persist
As if I hoped the rime would raise a ghost?
Our Robyn came not: Robyn must be lost.
My uncle Slate (some people call him Slade),
His name was Ebenezer, was by trade
A spirit-dealer. I don't mean he sold
Spirituous liquors, either hot or cold,
But he call'd spirits from the vasty deep
Glendower-like wholesale, retailing cheap
To whoso would. He was what the poor Injìne
Would call a most almighty Medicìne,
No medium man. He'd taken his degree
At Philadelphia or in Germany,
And studied much among the Chippewas,
Where Catlin found him, balancing of straws
And swallowing knives, or acting other sleights
To keep poor ignorant squaws awake o' nights
With admiration of the marvelous man.
By birth he was a full-blood African,
Born at Congo; had join'd a caravan
In youth and visited Egypt, where he learn'd
Mosaic work; had been in the Bush, and burn'd
His skin in Australasian lands; in Ind
Had sometime raised the Devil if not the wind;
Could beat Aladdin's Uncle at his tricks
Of lamps and air-castles; knew how to fix
A ghost by simple twirling of his thumbs;
Had been down Babylonish catacombs
And read on Solomon's Seal the mystic words
That taught him languages of beasts and birds
And fishes, which the same at his command,
A nod, obey'd him; he could understand
Signs of the times, and of the Zodiac;
He had stood with the Devil, back to back,
And faced the whirlwind; he one night had hid
Himself in the middle of the Pyramid
Of Djizeh and conversed with Pharaoh's ghost;
And he had been in Lapland, where they boast
Their Wizards. Even there he ruled the roast.
His name was Ebenezer, was by trade
A spirit-dealer. I don't mean he sold
Spirituous liquors, either hot or cold,
But he call'd spirits from the vasty deep
Glendower-like wholesale, retailing cheap
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Would call a most almighty Medicìne,
No medium man. He'd taken his degree
At Philadelphia or in Germany,
And studied much among the Chippewas,
Where Catlin found him, balancing of straws
And swallowing knives, or acting other sleights
To keep poor ignorant squaws awake o' nights
With admiration of the marvelous man.
By birth he was a full-blood African,
Born at Congo; had join'd a caravan
In youth and visited Egypt, where he learn'd
Mosaic work; had been in the Bush, and burn'd
His skin in Australasian lands; in Ind
Had sometime raised the Devil if not the wind;
Could beat Aladdin's Uncle at his tricks
Of lamps and air-castles; knew how to fix
A ghost by simple twirling of his thumbs;
Had been down Babylonish catacombs
And read on Solomon's Seal the mystic words
That taught him languages of beasts and birds
And fishes, which the same at his command,
A nod, obey'd him; he could understand
Signs of the times, and of the Zodiac;
He had stood with the Devil, back to back,
And faced the whirlwind; he one night had hid
Himself in the middle of the Pyramid
Of Djizeh and conversed with Pharaoh's ghost;
And he had been in Lapland, where they boast
Their Wizards. Even there he ruled the roast.
This was my Uncle, on my Mother's side:
My Father's name was Brown, but fair his hide.
No ebon he, Sir! he was baptised James,
And set no store upon those magic games.
But Mother had of sorcery a spice.
So, when Rob was not found, we sought advice
Of Uncle Eben. Did I say before
He was likewise a joiner, therefore more
Knowing than most folk to put this and that
Together. We would tell him of the Cat
Miss'd so mysteriously, and claim his help
For Rob's recovery. Why, many a whelp
Straying from doting mistress Uncle had
Restored, and oft housewifely hearts made glad
With home-returning spoons or other such:
Wherefore we thought it not presuming much
To use his office for inquiry now,
Difficulty unseen, or I avow
I had not put the old man to such cost.
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No ebon he, Sir! he was baptised James,
And set no store upon those magic games.
But Mother had of sorcery a spice.
So, when Rob was not found, we sought advice
Of Uncle Eben. Did I say before
He was likewise a joiner, therefore more
Knowing than most folk to put this and that
Together. We would tell him of the Cat
Miss'd so mysteriously, and claim his help
For Rob's recovery. Why, many a whelp
Straying from doting mistress Uncle had
Restored, and oft housewifely hearts made glad
With home-returning spoons or other such:
Wherefore we thought it not presuming much
To use his office for inquiry now,
Difficulty unseen, or I avow
I had not put the old man to such cost.
He welcomed Ma and me, ask'd what we'd lost,
Knowing, it seem'd, even before we spoke
The purport of our coming; made a joke
Of our anxiety; said all was right,
And he would turn informer that same night;
Kept us to dinner; made us stay to tea;
No one was present there except us three;
And after lights brought in began his mystery.
Knowing, it seem'd, even before we spoke
The purport of our coming; made a joke
Of our anxiety; said all was right,
And he would turn informer that same night;
Kept us to dinner; made us stay to tea;
No one was present there except us three;
And after lights brought in began his mystery.
And first he took a thread that from the shears
Of Atropos was stolen, and round his ears
Bound it 'gainst hearing more than for his good;
And then of the True Cross a splint of wood
He screw'd upon the handle of a flail
From Boaz' threshing-floor,— he said a nail
Would loosen all the charm; three equal hairs
Of a blue hippopotamus, with cares
Abundant got what time conjunctive Mars
Kiss'd Venus (there's an influence in stars
Rightly discern'd, and at lunàtic full
A luminousness unseen when days are dull),
These tied he; and a caterpillar's cocoon
Unwound in water'd whiskey with a spoon
And built of it with care and cunning sleight
The form by children a cat's-cradle hight.
All these on a turn-table he display'd
In fitting order; then in the dark convey'd
A short stump of slate pencil, which he laid
Reverently in the cradle. Right below
There was a drawer, a slate in it, you know.
Then he began to conjure. I relate
Only the truth. Upon the drawer-hid slate
(We all examined it) no sort of sign
Of drawing or of lettering, not a line
Or scratch appear'd as Uncle placed it there.
He bow'd his head as if in earnest prayer
The while we two held hands and shut our eyes.
Then the drawer open'd to our great surprize
All of itself and, as on its own feat, rose
The slate and walk'd upon the table; There
Who look'd at it might see a line, all red,—
SEEK THE THREE CATS! — No more!
Slate scratch'd his head,
And said — “The Three Cats, who the deuce are they?”
But the deuce help'd not: he must have a trey.
He rang the bell; a tray was brought; he laid
The slate upon it; then, as much afraid,
Stood trembling, knee and elbow, he did shake,
And rose his hair. Ma said — For deary sake,
Don't go no further, Eben dear! He look'd:
“I raise my Ebenezer here or cook'd
Shall be my goose.” Stiff silence follow'd that.
Methought I heard the mewing of a Cat.
Then categorically voices came:—
“Who are you? Not to you! By nether flame!
“I shan't mind you. Your flames be d---d!—
“You shall
“Answer me! No, we shan't.” — An interval,
And on the tray my Uncle sat him down
Mewing cat-like, and swore, and with a frown
Tore handfuls of his beard, it was quite grey.
“By gosh and Cokys wounds I'll have my way.”
Loudly he raged, and stamp'd; and then I saw
Come from the dimness a great grey cat's paw,
A claw, and tear my Uncle's barèd arm.
I saw the blood run down and trickle warm;
It fell into and fill'd the tray. Then he—
“Only a maid can in this mirror see,
One made of mixèd blood. Mule Hattie! you are She.”
Obedient, I look'd down: but looking so,
All whirl'd around, upside downside did go.
The level floor on which the tray was put
Stood wall-like. Then in fear my eyes I shut.
“Look forth and see and hear and understand!”
Such is my Uncle's brief and stern command.
I tear mine eyes from blindness, from my ears
Drive out their deafness, cast away my fears,
And with my understanding firmly based
Look in the magic glass before me placed.
Of Atropos was stolen, and round his ears
Bound it 'gainst hearing more than for his good;
And then of the True Cross a splint of wood
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From Boaz' threshing-floor,— he said a nail
Would loosen all the charm; three equal hairs
Of a blue hippopotamus, with cares
Abundant got what time conjunctive Mars
Kiss'd Venus (there's an influence in stars
Rightly discern'd, and at lunàtic full
A luminousness unseen when days are dull),
These tied he; and a caterpillar's cocoon
Unwound in water'd whiskey with a spoon
And built of it with care and cunning sleight
The form by children a cat's-cradle hight.
All these on a turn-table he display'd
In fitting order; then in the dark convey'd
A short stump of slate pencil, which he laid
Reverently in the cradle. Right below
There was a drawer, a slate in it, you know.
Then he began to conjure. I relate
Only the truth. Upon the drawer-hid slate
(We all examined it) no sort of sign
Of drawing or of lettering, not a line
Or scratch appear'd as Uncle placed it there.
He bow'd his head as if in earnest prayer
The while we two held hands and shut our eyes.
Then the drawer open'd to our great surprize
All of itself and, as on its own feat, rose
The slate and walk'd upon the table; There
Who look'd at it might see a line, all red,—
SEEK THE THREE CATS! — No more!
Slate scratch'd his head,
And said — “The Three Cats, who the deuce are they?”
72
He rang the bell; a tray was brought; he laid
The slate upon it; then, as much afraid,
Stood trembling, knee and elbow, he did shake,
And rose his hair. Ma said — For deary sake,
Don't go no further, Eben dear! He look'd:
“I raise my Ebenezer here or cook'd
Shall be my goose.” Stiff silence follow'd that.
Methought I heard the mewing of a Cat.
Then categorically voices came:—
“Who are you? Not to you! By nether flame!
“I shan't mind you. Your flames be d---d!—
“You shall
“Answer me! No, we shan't.” — An interval,
And on the tray my Uncle sat him down
Mewing cat-like, and swore, and with a frown
Tore handfuls of his beard, it was quite grey.
“By gosh and Cokys wounds I'll have my way.”
Loudly he raged, and stamp'd; and then I saw
Come from the dimness a great grey cat's paw,
A claw, and tear my Uncle's barèd arm.
I saw the blood run down and trickle warm;
It fell into and fill'd the tray. Then he—
“Only a maid can in this mirror see,
One made of mixèd blood. Mule Hattie! you are She.”
Obedient, I look'd down: but looking so,
All whirl'd around, upside downside did go.
73
Stood wall-like. Then in fear my eyes I shut.
“Look forth and see and hear and understand!”
Such is my Uncle's brief and stern command.
I tear mine eyes from blindness, from my ears
Drive out their deafness, cast away my fears,
And with my understanding firmly based
Look in the magic glass before me placed.
What see I there? Three forms of mighty make.
One with her tail twined round her like a snake,
And crouching with her nose upon the fender,
I knew at once, the Cat o' the Witch of Endor:
Grey, awful, with the shadow of a crown
Across her snow-white whiskers dimly thrown.
The second was a swift-limb'd delicate thing
The poet, Shelley, might have loved to sing,
A pard-like spirit, soft, ethereal, slim:
Methought at first that Cat belong'd to him,
But poet intuition may not err,—
I knew the Witch of Atlas honour'd her.
The third, more homely, with a travel'd air,
And black and white, or particolour'd hair,
I had not noticed but for Uncle, cried he—
“You'll need that one for all she learnt o' Friday.”
He said no more; it was enough, I knew so
I had to do with the Cat of Robinson Crusoe.
One with her tail twined round her like a snake,
And crouching with her nose upon the fender,
I knew at once, the Cat o' the Witch of Endor:
Grey, awful, with the shadow of a crown
Across her snow-white whiskers dimly thrown.
The second was a swift-limb'd delicate thing
The poet, Shelley, might have loved to sing,
A pard-like spirit, soft, ethereal, slim:
Methought at first that Cat belong'd to him,
But poet intuition may not err,—
I knew the Witch of Atlas honour'd her.
The third, more homely, with a travel'd air,
And black and white, or particolour'd hair,
I had not noticed but for Uncle, cried he—
“You'll need that one for all she learnt o' Friday.”
He said no more; it was enough, I knew so
I had to do with the Cat of Robinson Crusoe.
While pass'd such thoughts and introduction gave,
I saw the Three preluding for a stave,
And pacing with a flourish of broomsticks round
A cauldron by three legs held off the ground.
I saw, and listen'd for their voices' sound.
I saw the Three preluding for a stave,
And pacing with a flourish of broomsticks round
A cauldron by three legs held off the ground.
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But first from each issued a gentle mew,
As saying— To our old misses and our new
We are sure servants, catechumens true,
Awaiting but the question.
As saying— To our old misses and our new
We are sure servants, catechumens true,
Awaiting but the question.
That they knew.
And Uncle told me not a word to speak:
'Twould break the charm or leave it all too weak
To answer. Then again a mew, a squeal
In concert, and forthwith on toe and heel
The Cats spun round and round the magic pot
(A fire was underneath to keep it hot),
Each in her offering flinging
And, so obliging, singing
Of what was what.
Cat of Endor
And Uncle told me not a word to speak:
'Twould break the charm or leave it all too weak
To answer. Then again a mew, a squeal
In concert, and forthwith on toe and heel
The Cats spun round and round the magic pot
(A fire was underneath to keep it hot),
Each in her offering flinging
And, so obliging, singing
Of what was what.
Neck of slain sheep, chop by chop
In the steaming cauldron flop;
Sprinkle well with fresh spring peas;
Drop in then by twos and threes
Delicatest sorts of beans;
Add the smallest hearts of greens,
Cauliflowers, and turnips two,—
Not too big of each will do;
New potatoes without stint;
Early carrots; just a hint
Of lettuce: let us bury these
In fresh lots of tender peas!—
All
—Double, double, don't spare trouble!
Let the gravy boil and bubble!
75
Serve the mixture hot and good!
Cat of Atlas
Throw in raisins by the pound;
Wheat-flour, very finely ground;
Citron-slices, candied o'er;
Currants an abundant store;
Add of brandy just a gill;
Almonds, nutmeg, as you will!
All
— Hubble, bubble, boil and bubble!
Don't spare toil, but make it double!
Stir, keep stirring as you would
If the stirring did you good!
Cat of Crusoe
Drop in sugar, sugar — mind!
Rubb'd on juicy lemon-rind;
Melt it with a little rum;
Pour in tea to overcome
Spirit influence; then add
Brandy enough to make you glad;
Next of lemon slices slim,—
They are just right if they swim;
Fill with rum up to the brim!
All
— Let it not quite boil or bubble;
Spare not care, and double trouble;
Stir it as a stirrer should:
Have it hot, and strong as good!
Cat of Atlas
And now our He-Cat call!
Grand Master of our rites, approach!
76
And the steps fall.
He-Cat appears.
H.C.
— How now, my dears!
My little kittenish frisky frolicsome Cats!
What is't ye do?
All
— A deed without a name
I do; and I; and I the same.
H.C.
— And that's?
C. of E.
— I make a stew.
C. of A.
— I broth.
H.C.
— And you?
C. of C.
— I brew.
H.C.
— The name! the name!
C. of E.
— Hotch-Potch my stew.
C. of A.
— Plum-Broth I do.
C. of C.
— Rum-Punch.
H C.
— Well, through
With the incantation though it nought avails!
But let me think, first looking at my nails:—
It must, it must be so. — Tie your three tails
Together; part knot suddenly; and sing,
Dancing about the great Pan in a ring,
To the Egyptian Sphynx,
True Cat, if ever one!—
My task is done.
Kiss me and let me go!
Good! good! good!— so
Each minx,
Good-b'ye! farewell, fair Three!
My spirit Pussy see
Sits on a cat-tail leaf, and mews for me!
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Are join'd and sunder'd; nimbly, toe and heel,
The Cats spin round the charmed pot.
And the fire never sinks,
But ever grows more hot
As thus they make appeal
To the Great Sphynx.
O Cat most fair!
Listen where thou art squatting
Amid the yellow hot Egyptian sands
On twisted braids of palm-leaf matting,
The wet ends of thy Nile-steep'd dropping hair
Licking for mere coolness' sake!
Goddess and no mistake!
Listen where thou art squatting
Amid the yellow hot Egyptian sands
On twisted braids of palm-leaf matting,
The wet ends of thy Nile-steep'd dropping hair
Licking for mere coolness' sake!
Goddess and no mistake!
Hear our demand!
Listen and reply to us!
In the name of gouty Œdipus,
Whom thou wouldst have gobbled down
Had he not thy secret known;
By all thy conundrum'd ghosts,
Thy unguessts, the riddle-lost;
By great Memnon's morning song
Murmuring thy ears among,
And Isis' yet remember'd hymn;
By the desert lion grim,
In safe covert of thy breasts
Seeking shelter when the crests
Of the Simoom him affright;
By thy shadow in moonlight
Reaching o'er uncounted miles;
By those Cleopatric smiles;
By thy necromantic wiles;
By thy lips oracular;
By all subtleties, which are
Cat-like; by thy woman face,
And bosom full of goddess grace;
By thy never uncoil'd tail;—
Let our prayers with thee prevail!
Lift, lift thy enigmatic head,
With hoar centuries' dust bespread;
Listen and give quick reply!
Lay thy ruinous kisses by;
And thy most headlong rebuss waive
Till thou our question answer'd have
Of this Cat's grave!
Listen and reply to us!
In the name of gouty Œdipus,
Whom thou wouldst have gobbled down
Had he not thy secret known;
By all thy conundrum'd ghosts,
Thy unguessts, the riddle-lost;
By great Memnon's morning song
Murmuring thy ears among,
And Isis' yet remember'd hymn;
By the desert lion grim,
In safe covert of thy breasts
Seeking shelter when the crests
Of the Simoom him affright;
By thy shadow in moonlight
Reaching o'er uncounted miles;
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By thy necromantic wiles;
By thy lips oracular;
By all subtleties, which are
Cat-like; by thy woman face,
And bosom full of goddess grace;
By thy never uncoil'd tail;—
Let our prayers with thee prevail!
Lift, lift thy enigmatic head,
With hoar centuries' dust bespread;
Listen and give quick reply!
Lay thy ruinous kisses by;
And thy most headlong rebuss waive
Till thou our question answer'd have
Of this Cat's grave!
Singing the Cats spun with swift wheel
Around the pot, more swift than winks
Or looks of lynx,
Repeating their appeal.
I listen'd, most afear'd.
What next? methinks.
What wonder next appear'd?
Around the pot, more swift than winks
Or looks of lynx,
Repeating their appeal.
I listen'd, most afear'd.
What next? methinks.
What wonder next appear'd?
Uprose the Sphynx
On her hind legs tremendous; laid one paw
Upon her stony lips, as in deep thought,
Then hollowly brought
This answer forth, from that capacious maw
Which ne'er before
Since Lord Osiris built her in the sand
Obey'd command.
On her hind legs tremendous; laid one paw
Upon her stony lips, as in deep thought,
Then hollowly brought
This answer forth, from that capacious maw
Which ne'er before
Since Lord Osiris built her in the sand
Obey'd command.
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Where o'er
A cat-like fruit white purple flowerets wave
Look for his grave!
A cat-like fruit white purple flowerets wave
Look for his grave!
I heard, I saw no more,
Nor knew till Uncle bow'd us to the door.
Not wiser, but some sadder for our trip,
We went our ways; still hidden in my brain
Those Sphynx words did remain,
And to my recollection slowly came again.
I waited the event.
Nor knew till Uncle bow'd us to the door.
Not wiser, but some sadder for our trip,
We went our ways; still hidden in my brain
Those Sphynx words did remain,
And to my recollection slowly came again.
I waited the event.
Months pass'd. The icy grip
Of Winter was relax'd; and icier grief
Sprang also to relief.
Spring came and went;
And punkin vines 'gan run
Across our lot, and also, one by one,
Increase of punkin self to bask it in the sun.
I was a-reading Darwin's Loves of Plants,
Mother beside me, in my Father's pants
Setting a patch. Our punkin patch is green.
I thought of the later D, what did he mean
By his developments. Am I a dunce?
Were cats and serpents vegetables once?
I know some plants are climbers, others crawl.
Does that the animal destiny forestall?
A sort of archetypal hint of what
May be this Punkin's or that Squash's lot:
Good-sized developing their legs become
Real Cats; the smaller, or the stay-at-home,
Can not be more than Serpents or at most
Go Caterpillar-like. And so I lost,
As older thinkers do, myself in dreams
Of supermundane cosmocomical schemes,
Till looking off, by what but pure good luck?
One of our punkins my attention struck.
It was so like a couchant cat,— indeed
Like Robyn, just of the same motley breed,
With a long stalky tail, but wanting legs.
Headless and round as beer or whiskey kegs.
Alas, his bier! his spirit! Could it be
He had gone back to punkinninity,
Reverse development? If forward flies
The grower to accord with novelties,
Might he not also, ceasing thus to yearn
Far forward, take an undeveloping turn?
Why not? My Robyn, underneath the snow,
Used not his legs, and therefore let them go;
Could not keep head against the weight of ice,
So the head waited not. It was not nice
To find him lost so: but I knew he thought
Some punkins of himself. That solace raught;
And I examined further, as recurr'd
The oracle, the Sphynx' mysterious word—
“Look for his grave . . white . . purple” so they were!
A plant — arcanic powers! the plant is there
And waving over that same punkin's growth.
Graceful and tall — I'll take my Bible oath,
Hairy — if I have two eyes in my head,
Ash-colour'd — sure in memory of the Dead,
Long tapering leaves, a very wealth of bloom
Purple and white! It is my Robyn's tomb!
O'er his dear dust doth the white banner wave.
“Keels rosy and wings red” my Botany gave,
And “T Virginiana.” It is he,
My virgin love, my Robyn, F. F.V.
T is Tephrosia — Truly winter froze—
Froze your hot heart, my dear! My taile must have its close.
Look, Ma! She look'd; then with her fingers groped
About the punkin's root — and, as I hoped,
One little bone she uply rummagèd.
“The last joint of his pretty taile!” she said.
I saw — the rest was there. Then knew I he was dead.
Of Winter was relax'd; and icier grief
Sprang also to relief.
Spring came and went;
And punkin vines 'gan run
Across our lot, and also, one by one,
Increase of punkin self to bask it in the sun.
I was a-reading Darwin's Loves of Plants,
Mother beside me, in my Father's pants
Setting a patch. Our punkin patch is green.
I thought of the later D, what did he mean
By his developments. Am I a dunce?
Were cats and serpents vegetables once?
I know some plants are climbers, others crawl.
Does that the animal destiny forestall?
A sort of archetypal hint of what
May be this Punkin's or that Squash's lot:
Good-sized developing their legs become
Real Cats; the smaller, or the stay-at-home,
Can not be more than Serpents or at most
Go Caterpillar-like. And so I lost,
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Of supermundane cosmocomical schemes,
Till looking off, by what but pure good luck?
One of our punkins my attention struck.
It was so like a couchant cat,— indeed
Like Robyn, just of the same motley breed,
With a long stalky tail, but wanting legs.
Headless and round as beer or whiskey kegs.
Alas, his bier! his spirit! Could it be
He had gone back to punkinninity,
Reverse development? If forward flies
The grower to accord with novelties,
Might he not also, ceasing thus to yearn
Far forward, take an undeveloping turn?
Why not? My Robyn, underneath the snow,
Used not his legs, and therefore let them go;
Could not keep head against the weight of ice,
So the head waited not. It was not nice
To find him lost so: but I knew he thought
Some punkins of himself. That solace raught;
And I examined further, as recurr'd
The oracle, the Sphynx' mysterious word—
“Look for his grave . . white . . purple” so they were!
A plant — arcanic powers! the plant is there
And waving over that same punkin's growth.
Graceful and tall — I'll take my Bible oath,
Hairy — if I have two eyes in my head,
Ash-colour'd — sure in memory of the Dead,
Long tapering leaves, a very wealth of bloom
Purple and white! It is my Robyn's tomb!
O'er his dear dust doth the white banner wave.
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And “T Virginiana.” It is he,
My virgin love, my Robyn, F. F.V.
T is Tephrosia — Truly winter froze—
Froze your hot heart, my dear! My taile must have its close.
Look, Ma! She look'd; then with her fingers groped
About the punkin's root — and, as I hoped,
One little bone she uply rummagèd.
“The last joint of his pretty taile!” she said.
I saw — the rest was there. Then knew I he was dead.
Ebenezer: no pun upon my Uncle's name: the name, from the Hebrew, signifying Stone of Help, a conjuring place. 1 Samuel, 7, 12. See likewise Smith's Dictionary.
Tephrosia Virginiana, Gr. tephros, ash-coloured, vulgarly Goat's Rue or Cat-gut: the reason why Robyn's bowels yearned for it as his place of burial. Obnoxious to serpents, says Aristotle.
The bone Luz, Os Coccygis Robinii, which according to the Rabbins is the only bone to withstand dissolution. On this comes the body at its final resurrection.
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CATASTASIS
At Catalani's song the angels glodeEarthward to listen: so at Robyn's Feast
My Muse, that somewhat catadoxly rode,
Had power lent back to effort had increased
The high cat-asterism. Rob's abode
Were now Catabibazon, at the least.
Catastasis is the climax preceding the conclusion. Catalani, in religion S. Cecilia. Catadoxly, passing the experiences of other poets or those of my own youth. Cat-asterism, the Catalogue of Stars. Catabibazon, the place of most starry honour in the south node of the Great Dragon his taile.
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THE SQUASH
HOW THE SQUASH BECAME A CAT
Wehave a beautiful cat in our possession, so far as one can be said to possess a cat (since the days of witchcraft the title to possession is not quite so clear), a he-cat of the striped or striated kind, striped like a very squash. We were lying the other day on our back in our orchard, staring up into a streaked-apple tree. and thinking, as the apples fell, of little Isaac Newton and the curious upcomes after falls. From Newton's apple tree our thoughts fell off to Darwin, meanwhile Rob lying on our lap, purring out his heart's content, and probably thinking in his feline fashion. Near us was a fence dividing our lot from neighbour Smith's, and, even as we looked, over this fence a wild squash was climbing. How often we had tried to keep it on our own side. Noticing it again, we were puzzled by the strange likeness between the squash (striped too) and Rob, particularly as regarded Rob. It struck me then that both were climbers. Often we had watched them in sunshine and in moonlight, and day or night Rob was just as difficult as the squash to keep on the home side of the fence. Darwin in our thoughts, the question arose — Why this? What is the cause of the
94
Is it not too the universal tale,
The pancattantrums of all-changing Love?
When crimson-clad Cophetua from his throne
Wooeth the Nut-brown Maid, 'tis burly Rob
And homely Jennie in a new disguise.
Call it also, to point some moral here,
The Glory on the lap of Evening Calm,
The bright serenity of a well-spent life.
So every thing aye meaneth some thing else.
Eheu, Jehu! As the Wise Cat observed
To the Philologist — “Man everywhere
And at all times is man.” Here ends my taile.
If any ask — Why this or that forget?
Let it to a Cat's short memory be set!
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L'ENVOI
Go, little book!Who on you look,
Who read you fair,
Will own the young
With thewes unstrung
Not vainly sung
Nor need despair.
This did I write
For Self's delight;
Who list may read:
I have no greed
For pay or praise.
My little Book,
Done all alone,
Fame shall thee own
Past many days.
Go thou thy ways,
Unheeding fleas—
Skip-critics: these
Make no heart ache.
Art for art's sake
Is all my geste:
Some high behest
Let others take!
For me Art is enough,
According to the canon
96
And who shall lay a ban on
Me? My will's my pleasure:
I admit no moral master;
And so I keep the measure,
Slower in time or faster,
My feet clear from disaster,
I care not whom I offend.
God send my readers good digestion!
That's not the question:
I have not been ordain'd
As preacher; in no wise
Am given to sermonize;
My text trots self-explain'd.
Enough if with some art
I play the Jester's part,
With cap and bells to please
Lord Idlesse, and dry peas
All pleasantly perverse
To rattle in his ear.
Yet do I not rehearse,
In strains his soul to move,
Fierce War and faithful Love;
And Truth not too severe
But fashionably dress'd,
Pale Grief and pleasing Fear,
And other tyrants, Robyn! of the breast?
What matters whom I choose
For hero? Must my Muse
Tread heels of Alexander,
Of Walker, of Pizarro,
Napoleon, or Suwarow,
97
Or French heroic gander,
Or common or uncommon?
Why is not Philip Sparrow
As good as Philip's Son?
And what has Homer done
That he may sport his mice,
Frogs and such vermin nice,
And I not own a Cat?
By Helicon, and that
Is a fair poet's oath,
Your frogs and mice are, both,
No fitter for bards' words
Than is my Cat: my sherds
Of rhyme, lame verse at best,
And other faults confess'd,
Of catachresic sort
Et cetera. Though short
To wear the Homeric weed,
Mere catagraphs indeed
And catalectic they,
As modest Frenchmen say;
Albeit catenate,
Which is but fair to state;
Yet, by Apollo's shell,
Of tortoise too, so well
By that mercurial child
Fashion'd when he defiled
Sol wroth for loss of beef,
By him of poets chief,
And by the Muses nine,
I swear these mews of mine
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While Cats are light o' love,
Or Caterpillars move
Cat-like toward their prey,
While every dog his day
Must have, and cats delight
In vows of Catti knight,
So long as at the fire
Cats toast their tailes, till ire
Of cat and dog down dwindles,
So long shall my poor spindle's
Yarn provoke applause.
Ay! and by Cokys jaws
And his nine-jointed taile,
Eyes, heart, by Rob's each wail
And permanent purring note,
By his one motley coat,
Yea! by its every hair,
Black, white, red, gold, I swear
These wakes of him shall live
A nine-fold life, nor sieve
Of Fame refuse them through.
And reasons are there too
Why even a Critic's gall
Should spare my song. I'm small
And young, a little girl;
And now first tempt the whirl-
Pool of professional ink.
In truth, upon the brink
I did a little loiter
With modest maiden's coy
Tergiversating dread.
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“Tis a true Muse invites,
And while the maggot bites
Adventure!” Was I wrong?
Came else uncall'd my Song.
Well, words I wrote are writ:
Poor caterings, I admit:
As such do I present 'em.
ADDITAMENTUM
GO, LITTLE BOOK! from Author's solitude:
I cast thee on the market: go thy ways!
And if (so Southey) not too vainly good,
The world may own thee after many days.
When Holland's read, and Miller kinder view'd,
Poor Hattie Brown may hold her hat for praise.
Would L. C. M. pronounce my verses fine,
I'd own I think a many worse than mine.
I cast thee on the market: go thy ways!
And if (so Southey) not too vainly good,
The world may own thee after many days.
When Holland's read, and Miller kinder view'd,
Poor Hattie Brown may hold her hat for praise.
Would L. C. M. pronounce my verses fine,
I'd own I think a many worse than mine.
Or, borrowing good words of Mr. Thos, Watson:
“My littel Booke! goe hie thee hence awaie,
Whose price (God knowes) will countervayle no part
Of pains I tooke to make thee what thou art:
And yet I joie thy birth.”
Whose price (God knowes) will countervayle no part
Of pains I tooke to make thee what thou art:
And yet I joie thy birth.”
And of Master Hawes in his Pastime of Pleasure:
“Go, little Book! I pray good hap thee save
From miss-metring by wrong impressìon;
And who that ever list thee for to have,
That he perceive well thine intentìon.”
From miss-metring by wrong impressìon;
And who that ever list thee for to have,
That he perceive well thine intentìon.”
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As likewise the worthiest Mr. Geoffrey Chaucer:
“And for there is so great diversitie
In Englishe and in wryting of our tongue,
So pray I God that none miswryteth thee,
Ne thee mismetre for default of tongue;
And redde wherso thou be, or ellès sung,
That thou be understood God I beseeche.”
In Englishe and in wryting of our tongue,
So pray I God that none miswryteth thee,
Ne thee mismetre for default of tongue;
And redde wherso thou be, or ellès sung,
That thou be understood God I beseeche.”
Thus have I fingered the basket, beheld the holy barley (is it but hurly-burly?), fed on the drumhead, and drunken of the liquor of satisfaction. O Orpheus, thou wildcat charmer! have I not at this thy feast said Konz omtoz and it is finished!
Finis coronat
(Is my work one to groan at?)
O Puss!
(Is my work one to groan at?)
O Puss!
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