Or cricket bristle;
With finer points than rose-leaf prickles,
Or drifting thistle;
You feed yourself till the blood trickles
Through flesh and gristle.
When a man knows he is your diet
A solemn thrill
Shows in great eyes and spirit quiet
For fears that kill;
He is a maelstrom running riot,
At the center still.
Well, Robert Burns: You saw a louse
On a lady crawling.
But one can keep to his own house
Without forestalling
This demon on his death carouse
Breeding and sprawling.
But, Robert Burns, this does not tent
Our pride or tease us;
It is not heaven’s message sent
That virtue frees us.
It shows us hard or penitent
As Nature sees us!
CATO BRADEN
I went to Winston Prairie to attend
The funeral of Cato Braden. He
Had died at fifty-one and I had known him
Since he was twenty-four, but for fifteen
Years or more I had not seen him, nor
Exchanged with him more than a telegraphic
Note about some trivial thing. Indeed
I had not been in Winston Prairie during
These fifteen years.
But on the train I thought
Of Cato Braden, brought back all the days
Through which I knew him, from the very first
When he returned to Winston Prairie from
De Pauw, or was it Valparaiso? Yet
’Twas called a university I remember.
And when I knew him first he kept at hand
De Senectute, also Anthon’s Homer,
And lexicons in Latin and in Greek,
Both unabridged. Sometimes he let me read
The orations he had won the prizes with.
And sometimes he would tell me what it meant
To study at a university.
And what they did and what the boys were like.
This Cato Braden was a happy soul
At twenty-four, of a full noble brow,
A gentle smiling mouth, an honest eye,
A tall and handsome figure, altogether
A man conspicuous for form, a bearing
Of grace and courtliness, engaging ways;
He might be called most lovable, he had
The gift of friendship, was not envious,
Could scarcely be enraged, was not offended
By little things and often not by great.
He had in short a nature fit to work
With great capacity; had he combined
An intellect but half his nature’s worth
He might have won the race. But many thought
He promised much, his father most of all
Because he had these virtues, and in truth
Before his leaves unfolded with the spring
His mind seemed apt, perhaps seemed measured full
Of quality, the prizes he had won
At Valparaiso pointed to the fruit
He would produce at last.
So on the train
I thought of Cato Braden. Then I thought
Of when he came from school with his degree,
And for that summer when he walked the square,
Was whispered of as “Cato Braden, look.”
The first thing Winston Prairie knew it saw
His name conjoined with that of Jerry Ott’s--
It was Ott and Braden, editors and owners,
The Winston Prairie Eagle. Jerry Ott
Was sixty-nine and wheezy from the fight
For Jefferson Democracy, free trade.
Besides the capital that Cato Braden
Brought through his father to the enterprise
Meant bitter war on enemies of truth.
And Cato Braden’s father had some wealth
Made from the making of a vermifuge
And a preposterous compound which he called
Pesodorne; and I have always thought
That Cato Braden’s father garrisoned
His factory for making patent nostrums
By buying for his son this interest,
And place of power in journalism; for
The father’s strong devotion to the church
Did not protect him ’gainst the casual sneers
Of Winston Prairie’s paper called the Lance,
Which used to print such things as this, to instance:
“There’s Braden’s Vermifuge, well, Doctor Braden,
Try your own vermifuge, let’s see it work.”
Well, anyway I know that Cato Braden
Intended to pursue a legal course,
And practice the profession in a city.
I know his father bought for him this place
With Jerry Ott as editor of the Eagle.
I know he went to work. I know he changed
The paper’s motto from “Hew to the line,”
To _Principia non homines_. I know
He used to sing “Over the Garden Wall,”
While writing editorials and smoked
A number of cheroots. I know he had
A locked drawer where he kept a secret bottle
From which he’d take a drink at noon or night.
I know he was on terms of friendship with
The milliner and dressmaker in a month
After he came from Valparaiso. Yes,
I know he advocated a gymnasium,
And dancing hall for Winston Prairie, and
He opened up a fight to get a park
Where concerts might be given. Cato Braden
Had these ideas at least. About this park
A word remains to say.
Fernando Winston,
Who founded Winston Prairie and surveyed
The original town, laid out a square along
The river for a pleasure ground; in time,
Some fifty years or more, it was forgotten.
And when this Cato Braden came to town
And started as a journalist ’twas used
In part by Winston Prairie’s creamery;
In part ’twas used for gardening by the pastor
Of Winston Prairie’s strongest church. But Cato
Had searched the records, found them straight, began
To agitate the park. And it was this,
Together with _Principia non homines_,
Free trade, the dressmaker and milliner,
Perhaps the bottle in the drawer, whose secret
Leaked out at once, that clove the people of
The town into two groups of friends and foes.
He had but just begun his editorship
When I left Winston Prairie; after that
Knew little of it, saw him but at times,
Long separated, saw him not at all
For fifteen years before his death, and now
Because I was his friend was on the train
His funeral to attend.
I drove to Oakland
With Dr. Green and William Smoot the grocer.
’Twas hot without a breeze, the town was still.
The church bell tolled until we reached the grave,
It was the church whose pastor used the square
For gardening. And on the way I asked
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one.
“Why, whisky,” answered William Smoot, the grocer,
“And women,” for he had bad luck they say.
“How is that, Doc, you know?”
And Dr. Green
After a silence said: “It isn’t true.
“He was as sound, so far as that’s concerned
“As any of us.”
Then I asked again
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one.
And Dr. Green said laughing, “Well, you know
“They die at thirty-one and forty-one,
“And sixty-one of what killed Cato Braden,
“That’s Bright’s Disease.”
“And whisky brings that on--”
I ventured to assert.
“Sometimes” replied
The man of medicine, “But other things
“Produce it. There’s a man’s diathesis;
“There’s worry, over-work, sometimes disease
“Suffered in childhood, leaving an effect
“Like soil, all fertilized for such seed as this.
“He should have drunk no whisky, yet he drank
“Not half so much as Winston Prairie thought.
“But you can see if whisky caused this thing
“All whisky drinkers would be sure to have it,
“Or die of it if not killed by a train.”
We left the carriage, having reached the place
Where Cato Braden’s grave was dug, and stood
Together in a company of fifty
And heard the pastor pray for heaven’s lessons
From Cato Braden’s life. And after that
We separated, made the horses trot
To reach our different destinations. I
Looked up Will Boyden for a little talk
Before my train left for the city.
Will
Was in his office with his sleeves rolled up,
Cob-pipe in mouth, typing a legal paper,
A narratio in slander, so he said.
He smiled from ear to ear and dropped his work.
“You’re here for Cato’s funeral,” he said,
And added, “It’s a shame he had to die,
Damned if it isn’t.”
Then I asked again
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one,
And Will said: “Winston Prairie, Illinois,
Killed Cato Braden.”
“Tell me what you mean?”
Then Will refreshed his pipe and talked to me:
“I’m fifty-two and good for twenty years
I have no stronger frame than Cato Braden,
But then I got a formula for life
As time went on, and it was one that suited
My nature, and I thrived as you can see.
I have the power to draw the nutriment
Out of this soil, and I get strength thereby
Wherewith to overcome the things that kill.
I work, but then I play, I hunt and fish,
I read and sometimes take a little trip.
I don’t drink whisky, not because I fear it,
But I hate putting in myself such fire--
Beer and light wines are pleasant, more like food
Than stimulants. Well, Cato Braden started
When ‘Over the Garden Wall’ was all the rage,
‘All Coons Look Alike to Me’ was my
Key-note for starting. You know what I mean:
Between my day and his there’s just the difference
That lies between waltz time and syncopation;
Between the magic lantern and the movie,
The rattan phaeton and Ford machine.
These new things came along before he died,
But he had made his life for the old things,
Could not adjust himself, De Senectute
And Valparaiso had not taught him how
To reach out in the world from Winston Prairie
And get the new things for his life. But if
They taught him how he lost the secret here.
For after all a place like Winston Prairie
Will kill your spirit just as surely as
The Island where they cooped up great Napoleon.
In the first place what is a man to do
With life in any place? That is the problem.
And what could Cato Braden do with life
In Winston Prairie? First he was as fitted
To be a journalist as I, and if
Endowed to be a journalist, just think
Of editing The Eagle. But you see
His father was at war then with the Lance
Over that vermifuge and pesodorne.
And under guise of starting him in life
Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish
Purpose of defending vermifuge.
And Cato did it too, and put away
From year to year his dream of studying
The law and practicing in a city.
During which time the poisons of this town
Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him.
He married Mary Comfort, as you know.
And Mary is--well, what I call a brood-mare,
Although they had no children. What I mean
She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve,
A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife
Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw,
And never an eye to help him see the things
That lay around him, which he stumbled over.
And marriage to my mind means this to man:
He drains his body out to be a father,
And drains his spirit out to be a husband,
Unless the woman helps him see or feel
More than he sees or feels for self. Well then
The years went on. And every day at eight
He could be seen toward his office bent.
At half past ten just as the morning train
Was whistling for the crossing he would go
To get the mail. Returning he would walk
Along Main Street, slapping the folded News
Against his leg. He scanned it in his office.
At twelve o’clock he went to dinner, then
As whisky made him eat, he over-ate
And took a nap till two o’clock. At three
One might discover him at solitaire--
He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough
To keep the boys in copy. Then at four
He might be sitting at the livery stable,
Or sometimes might be found in that back room
Of Little’s restaurant, where a keg of beer
Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps
He might be seen down there on Locust street,
Waiting to enter where the milliner lived.
So passed his life away from twenty-four
To fifty-one. It’s simple enough to ask
Why not write for the Eagle, make it better,
Give ideas to the people, help the town,
Refresh the mind, read, study history,
De Senectute? Fancy Teddy Roosevelt,
Who’s labored for this land with restless gifts,
Tied down in Winston Prairie--well, you can’t,
He’d break the ties, and that’s the point, you see.
For Cato couldn’t break them, had to stay,
Incapable to extract the good that’s here,
Susceptible to all the bad that’s here;
He was a nose half active
Who enters in a room where gas escapes,
Sits in the room unconscious of the gas
Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest
And dies unknowing. So I say it’s true
That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden
And killed him in the end.
You must go see,
Before you leave, our park called Willard Park,
Named after Emma Willard, that devout
Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so.
She left enough to build a granite coping,
Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone
Whereon to carve the words, ‘The gracious gift
Of Emma Willard.’ Well, this Cato Braden
First talked this park, was first to tell the truth
About this plot of ground. And more than that
When Cato Braden came here he had dreams:
He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing
Would help this town; that games were needed here;
That Americans seemed ignorant of the art
Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise
To play; that they were wise to work and pray,
Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said
The little town was cursed by just these things,
And many human souls destroyed by them.
These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere,
But knew them when he found them, that’s his credit.
What though he was a drunk man whom you ask
What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural
Sounds inarticulate? Or better still
What though he was a sick man who in vain
Attempts to make his household orders clear?
For it was true that Cato Braden spoke
About these things at first, then gave them up.
For no one seemed responsive to his plans.
And some there were who sneered, and others said
He’d better help the church, and leave alone
The questions which make bitterness and strife,
Which was their way of speaking of the square
Which Cato tried to make into a park.
They say a lung will turn to stone or steel
When men work in the filings and the dust.
At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned
His soul to dust.
You see old Jerry Ott
Had left a son his interest in the Eagle,
And Cato Braden died right at his table
While playing solitaire. This son came in
And found him dead, a card clutched in his hand.
The card was, strange enough, the deuce of clubs!
This son was glad that Cato Braden died
For now he runs the Eagle by himself.
This Cato Braden had three strains of thought.
I never met him lately but he talked
Some one of them, at times all three of them.
One was the American town must be improved,
So better to conserve the souls and bodies
Of boys and girls. And even when the movie,
And other things of this day came along
He still maintained they did not meet the case.
He never said what thing was requisite.
But in a general way I think he meant
A stronger, and more truthful and more natural
Outlook and attitude would save a town
From dust, and mold and death. For once he said:
“This winter I shall read Grote’s History.”
He never read it. But I think he meant
He would find out the secret of the Greeks.
And then he’d say the young, the middle aged
The old made separate spheres of feeling, thought;
And that a town should not be ruled by one,
Should not be governed as all folks were old,
Or young, or middle aged, but each should have
The town for his according to his age,
And thought and vital power, within his sphere
And period of life; these separate spheres
Should move untroubled by the others, move
Free, independent of the other spheres.
I talked with Cato Braden for the last
A week ago last night. He said to me:
I wake these mornings lately with the thought
Another chance will come to me, that death
Will bring another chance. And then he said:
This is the way of it. When you are young
You say in five years I shall take a trip,
See New York City, go abroad perhaps.
When five years pass you do not take the trip.
Then you say in a year I’ll take the trip.
And so it goes, while you say in a year,
Next year, next year, until at last you say
No, never now! Well, now you’d think a man
Would weep when he stands up against the wall,
And knows he cannot climb the wall. But no,
Something still whispers you will do it yet.
And then you know it must be after death,
In life again, the chance will come to you.
For you know well it is not in this life.
Then Cato Braden said: Not in this life
Shall I read Grote, I could not understand it
After these years in Winston Prairie--still
I have a feeling I shall know about it
Somewhere, somehow.
You’d better catch your train.
It’s good to see you. Up there in the city
Think sometimes of the American village and
What may be done for conservation of
The souls of men and women in the village.”
WINSTON PRAIRIE
“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie?
If you had come to me I could have told you
About the circuit judge, the state’s attorney,
The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer,
The assessors and collectors who belong
To what we call a court-house ring. You know
They run the county, re-elect themselves,
Play with the local bosses, stand in league
With sellers of cement, and brick and lumber,
And with the papers given the public printing,
And with the sharks who buy in property
For taxes sold, and with the intriguing thieves
Who make improvements, levy the assessments
For side-walk, sewers.”
So my friend to me.
“Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them,
I did not buy these lots. But apropos
Of what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter.
I write and write for statements of my taxes,
And cannot get them. Then I take the train,
And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie.
And I stand before a window asking for them.
Your property was sold, I am informed.
So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yard
To look at Cato Braden’s grave, and then
Catch the next train for home. A week or so
Elapses and I get a letter--hum!
Winston Prairie--office of the controller;
Your property was sold for special numbered
Two thousand and eighty-six, when you reply
Please mention sale 1019.--Damn these thieves!
So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,--
The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are those
Who break it, and who use it to despoil you--
Well, let me tell you.
In this very June
I went to Winston Prairie on this errand,
And after I had written several times
To get a statement. I arrived at noon--
And yet the court-house offices were closed,
The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all.
I met a janitor who said: All closed
Till half past one. That meant I’d miss my train
Back to Chicago, and would have to stay
In Winston Prairie until six o’clock.
I sat down in the hall-way with a curse.
But in a minute there were hideous yells,
Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten,
Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see,
And found a door behind which I could hear
Intolerable tears, the scratching of weak hands
Against the door and wall. What is the matter?
I hallooed through the door. O, go to hell
A woman said, you know what is the matter.
I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can.
Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherent
Blubbering of words. At last I saw a finger
Stuck through the broken plaster by the door,
And leaning down I said: look through at me.
And then I stooped and looking through the crack
Saw a gray eye, which looked as it might be
Of Slavic birth. But who can read an eye
Shown singly through a crack? So while I talked
To get the story of these girls in prison,
(For where they were was called the calaboose,
Built in the court-house) some one back of me
Said: They’ll be quiet in due time, the cooler
Cools people off. I turned and saw a man
Who seemed to be a judge, and was a judge,
As I discovered later. Well, I said,
I cannot bear to see a human being
In such distress and terror--what’s their ages?
One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge,
But they are bad ones, so I made the fine
Enough to hold them thirty days. I asked
What did they do? They were soliciting,
The judge replied, and here in Winston Prairie
The law is law and we enforce the law.
We do not do as you do in Chicago.
I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop,
And was about to say: You are a fool.
You are what some would have America,
You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul.
You are a figure in the court-house ring,
Whereof the tax shark is a figure too.
But then I thought these girls might prove to be
Worth while some time. But even if they live
Street walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets,
Devour no widows’ houses, do less harm
Than court-house rings and judges in the rings.
So this is what I said: May I enquire
What are your Honor’s hours for holding court?
And he replied: Court has adjourned till two.
I hold till six o’clock, we do not loaf
As judges in Chicago do, good-day!
Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes,
With interest, penalties and all the costs.
At two o’clock I stood before the bar
And to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor,
I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt,
Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jail
Under your Honor’s sentence. I have seen
The state’s attorney, who is satisfied
To let them go, if all the costs are paid.
I went to see him on a matter of taxes,
And this came up. The state’s attorney rose
And said: Your Honor, they are very young,
And though they have been caught before at this,
And warned that Winston Prairie is no place
For them to ply their trade, I am inclined
To think they will not break our laws again.
I thought I saw his honor’s eye light up
As if it caught a wireless, so he said:
“The court is satisfied.” I paid the costs
And took Christine and Garda to Chicago.
But at the station, as I said good bye,
Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that I
Will let you pay those costs, I am not cheap.
I may be bad, but I am square, she said.
And I have money in my room, come on
To Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you back
For me and Garda.
No, I said, go on.
Try to be good, but if you can’t be good,
Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie.
I turned and disappeared among the crowds.
WILL BOYDEN LECTURES
The Sunday after Cato Braden died
Will Boyden lectured in the Masons’ Hall
Upon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”
At first he pointed out that Jesus knew
No history except that of the Jews.
And if he’d heard of Athens never spoke
A word about it, never read a line
Of Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,
Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a word
Concerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.
And then he dropped this point with the remark
That one could know one’s people’s history
And that alone, and still be great, perhaps.
But still he thought it was unfortunate
That Jesus gave the Hebrews such a lift
So that to-day they rule the Occident
Where Athens should have ruled, if only Time
Had given her the right dramatic touch
To catch the populace.
He then declared
That Jesus was a poet, but he said:
“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,
And never a word of oceans, nor of mountains
Save Olivet or Zion, so you see
His limitations as to imagery.
Then have you noted how his sombre soul
Picked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,
And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,
Wherewith to make interpretations, yes
He spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.
And yet you people call me pessimist
Because I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,
And have not shrunk from charging Winston Prairie
With Cato Braden’s death. The difference
Between the Man of Galilee and me
Is this: He wanted to fulfill the law
Of Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,
Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,
A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.
And I, if I could have my way, would make
Of Winston Prairie Athens.”
Then he said
“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.
The first one is concerning hogs--you start:
Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and find
How certain hogs had cast in them the devils
Of fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ran
Down in the sea to kill themselves for being
Made perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogs
And let me try my hand at exorcising
The Winston Prairie devils which destroyed
Poor Cato Braden.
“My next thought is found
In Matthew chapter nine; and it is this;
When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting,
And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd,
His soul was stirred--that is a way with genius,
Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles,
Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine.
But think of this: If you would lead and save
The multitude, assuming that can be,
Shall you accomplish it by rules and laws
Applied externally, which is the way
Ecclesiastic powers pursue and find
Divine authority in Jesus for it?
Or shall you teach the way of opening up
The soul of man to sun-light, letting in
The Power which is around us, in the which
We live and move, and so give chance for growth
To what is in us? For your shepherd drives.
No, Jesus hit it better when he spoke
Of leaven than of shepherds.
“So if one
Find leaven and would give it, let there be
A few to watch the final hour with him,
When he would be delivered from the cup,
But knows it cannot be, that to refuse
The cup is to deny the inexorable law.