And say, “My child, why dost thou sit part?
Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt?
Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart.
God’s absolution can assuage all grief
And all remorse and woe beneath the sun,
Whatever thou hast said, or thought or done,
The holy church can give thy soul relief.”
He stood beside her, young and strong, and swayed
With pity for the sorrow in her eyes,
Which, as she raised them to his own, conveyed
Into his soul a sort of sad surprise.
She answered, “I will come;” and so at last,
Out of the summer evening’s crimson glow,
With heart reluctant and with footsteps slow,
Into the cool, great, empty church she passed.
“By my own fault, my own grievous fault,
I cannot say, for it is not,” she said,
Kneeling within the gray stone chapel’s vault,
And on the ledge her golden hair was spread.
“Love broke upon me in a dream; it came
Without beginning, for to me it seemed
That never otherwise than as I dreamed
Through all my life this thing had been the same.
“I only knew my heart, entire, complete,
Was given to my other self, my love;
That I through all the world would gladly move
So I might follow his adored feet.
I dreamed I had all earth, all time, all space,
And every blessing, human and divine;
But hated the possessions that were mine,
And only cared for his beloved face.”
“I never knew I loved him till that dream
Drew from my eyes the veil, and left me wise.
What I had thought was reverence grew to seem
Only my lifelong love in thin disguise.
And in my dream it looked so sinless, too,
So beautiful, harmonious, and right;
The vision faded with the morning light,
The love will last as long as I shall do.”
“Child, have you prayed against it?” “Have I prayed?
Have I not clogged my very soul with prayer;
Stopped up my ears with sound of praying; made
My very body faint with kneeling there
Before the sculptured Christ, and all for this,
That when my lips can pray no more, and sleep
Shuts my unwilling eyes, my love will leap
To dreamland’s bounds, to meet me with his kiss!
“Avoid him? Ay, in dewy garden walk
How often have I strayed, avoiding him,
And heard his voice mix with the common talk,
Yet never turned his way. My eyes grow dim
With weeping over what I lose by day
And find by night, yet never have to call
My own. O God! is there no help at all—
No hope, no chance, and no escapeful way?”
“And who is he to whom thy love is given?”
“What? Holy church demands to know his name?
No rest for me on earth, no hope of heaven
Unless I tell it? Ah, for very shame
I cannot—yet why not?—I will—I can!
I have grown mad with brooding on my curse.
Here! Take the name; no better and no worse
My case will be. Father, thou art the man!”
An icy shock shivered through all his frame—
An overwhelming, cold astonishment;
But on the instant the revulsion came,
His blood felt what her revelation meant.
“Lord Christ,” his soul cried, while his heart beat fast,
“Give strength in this, my hour of utmost need;”
And with the prayer strength came to him indeed,
And with calm voice he answered her at last:
“Child, go in peace! Wrestle and watch and pray,
And I will spend this night in prayer for thee,
That God will take thy strange great grief away.
Thou hast confessed thy sin. Absolvo te.”
Silence most absolute a little while,
Then passed the whisper of her trailing gown
Over the knee-worn stones, and soft died down
The dim, deserted, incense-memoried aisle.
All night he lay upon the chancel floor,
And coined his heart in tears and prayers, and new
Strange longings he had never known before,
Her very memory so thrilled him through.
He lay so tempest-tossed, ’twas still without,
And moaned: “Oh, God! I love her, love her so!
Oh, for one spark of heaven’s fire to show
Some way to cast this devils passion out!
“Christ, by Thy passion, by Thy death for men,
Oh, save me from myself, save her from me!”
And at the word the moon came out again
From her cloud-palace, and threw suddenly
A shadow from the great cross overhead
Upon the priest; and with it came a sense
Of strength renewed, of perfect confidence
In Him who on that cross for men hung dead.
But as the ghostly moon began to fade,
And moonlight glimmered into ghostlier dawn,
The shadow that the crucifix had made
With twilight mixed; and with it seemed withdrawn
The peace that with its shadowy shape began,
And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased
The wild devotion that had filled the priest—
And with full sunlight he sprang up—a man!
He strode straight down the church and passed along
The grave-set garden’s dewy grass-grown slope;
The woods about were musical with song,
The world was bright with youth, and love, and hope.
Soon would he see her—cry, “I am thine own,
As thou art mine, now, and forevermore!”
And at her worshipped feet would kneel before,
And she should kiss the lips that had not known
The kiss of love in any vanished year.
And as he dreamed of his secured delight,
A mourning band, and in their midst a bier,
Round the curved road came slowly into sight.
He hastened to pass on; a covering-fold
Veiled the dead, quiet face—and yet—and yet—
Did he not know that hand, so white and wet?
Did he not know those dripping curls of gold?
“We came to you to know what we should do,
Father, we found her body in the stream,
And how it happened, God knows!” One other knew—
Knew that of him had been her last wild dream—
Knew the full reason of that life-disdain—Knew
how the shame of hopeless love confessed
And unreturned had seemed to stain her breast,
Till only death should make her clean again.
They left her in the church where sunbeams bright
Gilded the wreathed oak and carven stone
With golden floods of consecrating light;
And here at last, together and alone,
The lovers met, and here upon her hair
He set his lips, and, dry-eyed, kissed her face,
And in the stillness of the holy place
He spoke in tones of bitter, blank despair:
“Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see!
Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling!
This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee,
Since for the right’s sake thou hast done this thing.
Oh, poor weak heart, forever laid to rest,
That could no longer strive against its face,
For thee high heaven will unbar its gate,
And thou shalt enter in and shalt be blessed.
“The chances were the same for us,” he said,
“Yet thou has won, and I have lost, the whole;
Thou would’s not live in sin, and thou art dead—
But I—against thee I have weighed my soul,
And, losing thee, have lost my soul as well.
I have cursed God, and trampled on His cross;
Earth has no measurement for all my loss,
But I shall learn to measure it in hell!”
* * * * *
Do It Now
If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing,
If you like him or you love him; tell him now;
Don’t withhold your approbation ’til the parson makes oration
And he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow.
For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it;
He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed;
If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,
For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,
The hearty, warm approval of a friend,
For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver,
And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.
If he earns your praise—bestow it; if you like him—let him know it;
Let the words of true encouragement be said;
Do not wait ’til life is over and he’s underneath the clover,
For he
cannot read
his tombstone
when he’s dead.
* * * * *
Vale Murdum Peride Vitam
_This farewell message in verse was left by Dr. Sommers of St. Louis, who
took his own life at the Physicians and Surgeons College._
By Dr. Osmund Sommers.
Good night old world, good bye to all your joys,
Your sorrows, pleasures, passions, pomp and noise.
I leave you now, for the eternal silence of the stars—
The deafness of unbounded space,
Where bars no longer hold the soul in durance vile,
Where naught can wound and nothing can defile,
Where the pure spirit shall despise the things
The sense on earth hath loved on wings.
Bathed in the ether of eternity,
How sweet to feel from every passion free!
And yet, it is an awful leap to take
Into the great unknown! Perchance to wake
To greater woes indeed than we have
And hoped to bury in the silent grave.
But still, the great majority is there!
Or tremble when the hour supreme has come.
The grave at least, gives rest from trouble here,
And may we hope for sweet oblivion there.
When Charon, come! I signal thee tonight!
Come, row me o’er the Styx! I’ve lost the fight.
* * * * *
If a thing is worth having, it’s worth fighting for.
On that principle the institution of marriage is founded.
_Knickerbocker Spice_
New York is so dull in comparison with the Hollywood film colony, with
its mad quest for joy at any cost, that we are rather ashamed to present
the more or less dull events of the month.
The once-so-gay film parties—alas—are very circumspect these days.
Although a recent one nearly resulted in newspaper headlines. It seems
that the affair was given in honor of a star on a visit from the coast.
Said star’s younger brother brought along a feminine friend who imbibed
the stuff that Mr. Volstead thought he had absolutely prohibited.
Probably it wasn’t _exactly_ the stuff, for the lady became violently
ill. With memories of the Arbuckle episode before them, the guests
hastily departed. The visitor recovered but the party was as ruined as
the heroine in the old-time melodrama.
* * * * *
Most of the screen players seem to be planning to go abroad. Nobody
can tell exactly when one’s letters or telegrams or something may be
unearthed after some quiet little informal murder in Hollywood. Here
we might add that the vogue for monogrammed nighties has completely
disappeared.
We can’t exactly blame anyone for going, not when we hear of the giddy,
carefree life on the other side—if you have the necessary wherewithall.
For instance, a chap just back from Paris told me the other day of the
Bal des Quatz Arts, the annual student art revel of the Latin Quarter.
Tickets are hard to get, for the real Quarter inhabitants decline to
let it develop into a sightseeing affair. However, a friend secured the
tickets and the two chaps invited a duo of pretty little models of the
studios. Everyone was supposed to go in Carthaginian costume—whatever
that is. The Americans secured attire claimed by the renters to be
strictly 100 per cent Carthaginian and then they went around after the
models. Mimi and Fleurette were waiting when they drew up in one of those
queer Paris taxis. And Mimi and Fleurette were attired in conventional
cloaks. Dainty dance slippers gleamed from beneath. The Americans had
been wondering what a feminine Carthaginian costume would be and they
were disappointed—momentarily.
Mimi and Fleurette expressed hunger on reaching the hall and the
Americans gallantly proferred a supper invitation. Imagine their surprise
when Mimi and Fleurette tossed aside their cloaks and revealed that their
costumes were simple golden belts. Nor were the feminine costumes of
other young women in and about the two models any more elaborate.
Later, at the ball itself, the Americans found reproductions of famous
statuary groups posed by living models, the elect of the studios. It goes
without saying that the statuary later came to life and danced with the
others all night.
The ball concluded with a beauty contest. And it was a real beauty
contest, for there were none of the advantages or camouflages provided
by the modiste. “Not even a beaded eyelash was permitted as a costume,”
my friend tells me. The festivities concluded when everyone went out
on the boulevard and plunged into a nearby fountain. After that the
Carthaginians retired to their studios and garrets. A pleasant time was
had by all.
Yes, Paris has its attractions. Ruby de Remer, the famous screen beauty,
has just returned from that piquant village with trunks and trunks of
black negligee, the latest vogue in France. You should have viewed those
gleaming black robes de nuit!
* * * * *
Another tale we hear is of a lavish and decorative nest belonging to a
well known manager and located beneath his theater in New York. The place
is beautifully furnished with treasures from the Continent and Asia.
Divans of fabulous value adorn the place. So do incense burners from
the Far East, tapestries that date back to the middle ages and jeweled
keepsakes that may have belonged to rajahs. Back of the place is a modern
kitchen, where suppers are prepared for the manager’s guests. It is
all very atmospheric— But words fail us. We leave you to draw your own
picture. Soft music, soft divans, soft viands....
* * * * *
Then there’s Erich von Stroheim’s million dollar movie, “Foolish Wives,”
for instance. This has been a picture after the censors’ own heart.
The hero is a degenerate Russian count who drinks perfume, lives with
two pretty adventuresses, ru-u-ins a serving maid, tries to capture an
American ambassador’s wife and is only prevented by a fire, and ends by
being killed when he climbs into the bedroom of a half-witted peasant
girl. The ambassador’s wife, by the way, leaps from a balcony to escape
the fire and has the first premature baby ever noted in the films. You
can imagine how the censors tackled this material.
The baby must have puzzled them. They apparently are found on the back
porch—or somewhere. The censors didn’t seem to know what to do about
it, for the premature child was shown at the film premiere. Later it
disappeared.
The producers themselves cut some 200,000 feet out of von Stroheim’s
original negative to get the story down to these ornate essentials. It
is said that someone has offered the producers $50,000 for the cut out
portions, with a view towards showing them in sections of Europe and
South America where the cinema flickers can’t be too strong for ’em.
* * * * *
The theatrical events have not been at all intriguing. The stage year,
which started with such a sprightly trend that police intervention not
only seemed likely but actually occurred, has petered out to a mild
termination. Even a reformer wouldn’t be horrified at anything among the
late events—at least not much.
Of course, there was Lillian Lorraine’s return, after we had read columns
and columns about her paralysis from an injured or broken spine. In “The
Blue Kitten” Lillian wears costumes that reveal her spinal column to be
in fine form to the last vertibrae.
* * * * *
A Problem in Figures
Some girls are naughty;
Others are naught.
* * * * *
I’m not the soda jerker in this drug store, madam, I’m the head bartender.
* * * * *
He—I dreamed I proposed to a beautiful girl.
Dizzy Blonde—What did I say.
* * * * *
John D.’s Art
“Have you an oil painting of John D. Rockefeller?”
“No, ma’am, no one has. He has never been done in oil.”
* * * * *
Ay, There’s the Rub
_It isn’t the can that annoys the dog,_
_It’s the fact that it’s tied to his tail._
_It isn’t the troubles that make life hard,_
_It’s the number of them that you fail._
_It isn’t the time you waste on her,_
_Nor the thriftless gold you spend,_
_But the cold and unrelenting kick_
_Dad hands you in the end._
* * * * *
“Waiter,” growled a customer, “I should like to know the meaning of this!
Yesterday I was served with a portion of pudding twice the size of this.”
“Indeed, sir!” replied the waiter. “Where did you sit?”
“By the window,” answered the customer.
“Oh, that explains it!” said the waiter. “We always give the people at
the window a large helping. It’s a good advertisement!”
* * * * *
College Humor
He (trying to make conversation)—“Have you many fast friends?”
She (Indignantly)—“Sir! I’m not that kind of a girl.”
* * * * *
Purple Cow’s Best One
Cleo—“When Bill danced with me last night he kept letting his hand slip
down my back.”
Patricia—“I hope you rebuked him.”
Cleo—“I did; I told him to keep it up.”
* * * * *
“Liza, what fo’ yo’ buy dat odder box of shoe blackin’?”
“Go on, nigga’, dat ain’t shoe blackin’; dat’s ma massage cream.”
* * * * *
Flamingo
(Dennison University.)
_There is a cat in our home,_
_And it is wondrous fat;_
_It don’t have any kittens ’cause_
_It ain’t that kind of cat._
* * * * *
That sure is horse meat they serve in that restaurant.
Why, how do you know?
Well, I ordered a steak and just as I took a bite some teamster on the
street hollered “Whoa” and that meat stuck right in my throat.
* * * * *
Was the dance a success?
Yes, roughly speaking.
* * * * *
Froth reports a successful banquet at a University of Pennsylvania
fraternity house. A couple of the alumni were revenue officers.
* * * * *
Manicure Story
“There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we may.”
* * * * *
Let Us Sing
Put away the tweezers till our eyebrows meet again.
* * * * *
“Fleeced again,” said the lamb, as he kicked at the high top boots.
* * * * *
_A demi-virgin_
_So I’m told_
_Is bold_
_And needs no urgin’._
_Aye, but mon,_
_Wouldn’t you_
_Love to_
_Love a demi-john?_
* * * * *
Stevie has a stiff job. He’s working at the morgue.
* * * * *
“I could live on limburger cheese alone.”
“You’d have to.”
* * * * *
The early bird catches the worm
Of that there is no question.
But if the worm should chance to turn
M’gosh, some indigestion!
* * * * *
Old maids always imagine there is a man in the house at night. But
married women know better.
* * * * *
Good Morning, Eve!
_So Eve looked over her shoulder at the Serpent and said, “I’d take your
Juicy Fruit if you weren’t so wrigley.”_
* * * * *
Our Monthly Motto
Love one woman at a time, all children, and some men.
* * * * *
_I ran into a girl with my Ford—made a hit—so I picked her up._
* * * * *
Pete and I had quite an argument the other day which we’ll let our
readers settle. He insisted that there were more women than men married
last year.
* * * * *
Another Soap Song
_A masher stopped a pretty girl;_
_Says she to him, “Oh, Shucks,_
_Wash your neck with Bon Ami,_
_That may improve your Lux.”_
* * * * *
Wife—Jakey! Jakey! dars a burgular under the bed.
Jakey—Sh-Sh-s-s-s, not a word; ve vill charge him for the night’s
lodging.
* * * * *
“Golightly” Morrill writes that the girls in Egypt have plenty of speed
but no control.
* * * * *
_When I got off the train at Miami the red cap was assuring—“Carry yo’
bag, Boss? Never bus’ a bottle yet.”_
* * * * *
Add Fairy Tales
“I was so lonesome, dear, while you were away that I went to bed every
night at nine o’clock.”
* * * * *
The Psychology Test
Puppet prints for the first time the results of the astounding
psychological tests recently made by Prof. Ivan Awful Line, for Puppet.
Anyone giving good reasons why these answers are correct will be awarded
the Helium Medal for irresponsibles, the Sacred Cross of the Pink
Polecats and the Ragged Ribbon of the Remingtons.
First Question. What would you do if you found yourself in an airtight
room containing a mad dog, a rattlesnake and a pair of sleigh-bells?
Answer. Invariably you would grasp the rattlesnake by the hind leg and
rattle him, thus scaring the dog. Now you have the dog rattled. Now
toll the bells for a period of 93 seconds, and at once determine what
the bells told. Then, at the psychological moment, sleigh the dogs with
bells—I. C. S.
Second Question. Supposing you had nothing to eat for three years.
Suddenly you come upon a grocery store. On the outside of the store is a
stand containing large, juicy, red apples. You steal one, and looking up,
see a policeman. What would you do?
Answer. Run into the store, jump on a scale, and get a weigh.
Third Question. An Indian with a club foot, unable to walk, is stranded
in the Sahara Desert sixty-two and three-thirds miles from a Child’s
Restaurant, with one pancake in his possession. How will he keep from
starving?
Answer. In the absence of a Child’s Restaurant, he can eat a man’s lunch
by the following means. First detach the Indian club from his foot, and
with it puncture a large hole in the pancake. He can now eat the pancake,
have the hole of it left, and have the Sahara for desert.
* * * * *
Pelican Stuff
Does she dance badly?
Yes, if the chaperones aren’t looking.
* * * * *
_“My supper’s cold!”_
_He swore with vim,_
_And then she made it_
_Hot for him._
* * * * *
My girl is so dumb she thinks an aspirin tablet is writing paper.
* * * * *
_Sun Dodger says you always can draw the Queens if you have got the
Jack._
* * * * *
Oh, That’s Fine
Lieutenant—Whoinell put these flowers on this table.
Sergeant—The Commanding officer, sir.
Lieutenant—Pretty flowers, aren’t they.
* * * * *
San Francisco dentist married a manicure girl and now they are fighting
tooth and nail.
* * * * *
Hang This On the Door Knob
_The Creator gave you two ears and only one tongue, so you could hear
twice as much as you say._
* * * * *
How Careless of Him
(From the Clearville Independent.)
FOUND: at my home on 1820 Hunt avenue, gentleman’s sterling cigarette
case. Owner may have same by calling again.
—John Snow.
* * * * *
Ikey’s Mental Race Track
Ikey, our Jewish farm hand, was telling us the other night how smart his
father was. He said his old man’s fortune was started as the outcome of a
train wreck in which both his father and mother were in.
“Vy, fadder had sich a qvick mind that ven he saw mudder vas not hurt in
the wreck he kicked her so hard in the face that he collected twenty-five
tousand dollars damages.”
* * * * *
When woman was made out of man’s rib someone pulled a bone.
* * * * *
My wife can make it so good now at home that she calls it “the beer that
makes Milwaukee jealous.”
* * * * *
I’ve got the Bakery Shop Blues because I kneed the dough.
* * * * *
The Punch Bowl
“Marion certainly must be a good girl.”
“Why so?”
“Her name came up in the barber shop last night and no one knew anything
about her.”
* * * * *
Resident—“Ah, a letter from my wife.”
Visitor—“But there’s no writing on the paper.”
Resident—“No, we’re not on speaking terms.”
* * * * *
Simple Arithmetic
Deacon Jones recently flivvered his eleven children to our village
photographer.
“How much you charge for a photograph?” he asked.
“Eighteen dollars a dozen,” replied the cameraman.
“Good-bye,” said Jones, as he hustled his youngsters outside, “I’ll be
back next year.”
* * * * *
A Chafing Dish
“Phat’s a chafing dish?” asked O’Brien of O’Toole.
“A chafing dish,” answered O’Toole to O’Brien, “is a fryin’ pan thot’s
got into society.”
* * * * *
The Bull Colossal
In rage the bull colossal rears
His giant form against the god,
Well, Taurus, well thou spurn’st the sod
In that huge plunge of million years.
* * * * *
It takes a diplomat to enter a barber shop and come out with no more than
he went in for.
* * * * *
I hate to play billiards with three balls as I dislike to make fun out of
any one’s business.
* * * * *
The great man waved aside all objections. “Let ’em in,” he cried,
pointing to a delegation from the barbers’ union. “I knew ’em when they
were little shavers.”
* * * * *
Animal Tales
I thought you told me that dog of yours at the house was a good rat dog.
He sure is, Sam, he sure is.
Well, how come, when I passed there this morning that the dog was
drinking milk out of a bowl with ten or eleven big rats drinking out of
it, too?
Are you sure that was my house?
Sure am.
Well, you sure it was my dog?
Positively.
Well, then, you see those are our rats, but let any strange rats come
around and he will take care of them all right.
* * * * *
When a fellow is allowed to muss a girl’s hair he considers it a net
gain. She considers it a net loss.
* * * * *
There was a grass widow quite proper;
Who formally married A. Hopper;
But he got a divorce;
As a matter of course,
The grass widow is now a grass-hopper.
* * * * *
Old Stuff
At twenty a kiss is an experiment, at forty a sentiment and after that—a
compliment.
* * * * *
“I believe in specialists, b’heck,” said Hep White. “When my heart is
bad I go to a heart specialist. When my lungs are bad I go to a lung
specialist,—”
“Them’s my sentiments, too,” interrupted Mrs. Wilkins. “Take my boy,
Jimmie. When his tonsils bothered I took him to a regular tonsorial
artist.”
* * * * *
Doggonit
A farmer friend of mine was standing in the road with a gun tucked under
his arm and an old dog at his side. He was directly in the path of a
motor car. The chauffeur sounded his horn, but the dog did not move—until
he was struck. After that he did not move.
The automobile stopped and one of the men got out and came forward. He
had once paid a farmer $10.00 for killing a calf that belonged to another
farmer. This time he was wary.
“Was that your dog?”
“Yes.”
“You own him?”
“Yes.”
“Looks as if we’d killed him.”
“Certainly looks so.”
“Very valuable dog?”
“Well, not so very.”
“Will $5.00 satisfy you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, here you are.” He handed a $5.00 bill to the man with the
gun, and said pleasantly, “I’m sorry to have broken up your hunt.”