Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back,
Useless in all ways, in a wretched state.
“We’re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack.
Poor equine nature!
I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground,
Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears,
The mice escaping from her aimless bound.
Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!”
Poor feline nature!
Then did I glory in my noble race,
Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong,
Rejoicing that we held a higher place
And need not add to theirs our mournful song,—
Poor human nature!
OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE.
Said I to my friend from the East,—
A tenderfoot he,—
As I showed him the greatest and least
Of our hills by the sea,
“How do you like our climate?”
And I smiled in my glee.
I showed him the blue of the hills,
And the blue of the sky,
And the blue of the beautiful bay
Where the ferry-boats ply;
And “How do you like our climate?”
Securely asked I.
Then the wind blew over the sand,
And the fog came down,
And the papers and dust were on hand
All over the town.
“How do you like our climate?”
I cried with a frown.
On the corner we stood as we met
Awaiting a car;
Beneath us a vent-hole was set,
As our street corners are—
And street corners in our San Francisco
Are perceptible far.
He meant to have answered, of course,
I could see that he tried;
But he had not the strength of a horse,
And before he replied
The climate rose up from that corner in force,
And he died!
SAN FRANCISCO, 1895.
CRITICISM.
The Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray,
Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west;
To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display,
“’Tis n’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday!
I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away,
“The sunsets can’t be always at their best!”
ANOTHER CREED.
Another creed! We’re all so pleased!
A gentle, tentative new creed. We’re eased
Of all those things we could not quite believe,
But would not give the lie to. Now perceive
How charmingly this suits us! Science even
Has naught against our modern views of Heaven;
And yet the most emotional of women
May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in.
Here’s something now so loose and large of fit
That all the churches may come under it,
And we may see upon the earth once more
A church united,—as we had before!
Before so much of precious blood was poured
That each in his own way might serve the Lord!
All wide divergence in sweet union sunk,
Like branches growing up into a trunk!
And in our intellectual delight
In this sweet formula that sets us right;
And controversial exercises gay
With those who still prefer a differing way;
And our glad effort to make known this wonder
And get all others to unite thereunder,—
We, joying in this newest, best of creeds,
Continue still to do our usual deeds!
THE LITTLE LION.
It was a little lion lay—
In wait he lay—he lay in wait.
Came those who said, “Pray come my way;
We joy to see a lion play,
And laud his, gait!”
The little lion mildly came—
In wait for prey—for prey in wait.
The people all adored his name,
And those who led him saw the same
With hearts elate.
The little lion grew that day,—
In glee he went—he went in glee.
Said he, “I love to seek my prey,
But also love to see the way
My prey seek me!”
A MISFIT.
O Lord, take me out of this!
I do not fit!
My body does not suit my mind,
My brain is weak in the knees and blind,
My clothes are not what I want to find—
Not one bit!
My house is not the house I like—
Not one bit!
My church is built so loose and thin
That ten fall out where one falls in;
My creed is buttoned with a pin—
It does not fit!
The school I went to wasn’t right—
Not one bit!
The education given me
Was meant for the community,
And my poor head works differently—
It does not fit!
I try to move and find I can’t—
Not one bit!
Things that were given me to stay
Are mostly lost and blown away,
And what I have to use to-day—
It does not fit!
What I was taught I cannot do—
Not one bit!
And what I do I was not taught
And what I find I have not sought;
I never say the thing I ought—
It does not fit!
I have not meant to be like this—
Not one bit!
But in the puzzle and the strife
I fail my friend and pain my wife;
Oh, how it hurts to have a life
That does not fit!
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.
On New Year’s Day he plans a cruise
To Heaven straight—no time to lose!
Vowing to live so virtuously
That each besetting sin shall flee—
Good resolutions wide he strews
On New Year’s Day.
A while he minds his p’s and q’s,
And all temptations doth refuse,
Recalling his resolves so free
On New Year’s Day.
But in the long year that ensues,
They fade away by threes and twos—
The place we do not wish to see
Is paved with all he meant to be,
When he next year his life reviews—
On New Year’s Day.
OUR EAST.
Our East, long looking backward over sea,
In loving study of what used to be,
Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn
England has had for us since we were born.
You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment hard
The West was just New England’s back yard!
That all the West was made for, last and least,
Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East!
A place to travel in, for rest and health,
A place to struggle in and get the wealth,
The only normal end of which, of course,
Is to return to its historic source!
Our Western acres, curving to the sun,
The Western strength whereby our work is done,
All Western progress, they attribute fair
To Eastern Capital invested there!
New England never liked old England’s scorn.
Do they think theirs more easy to be borne?
Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child,
Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild?
In union still our sovereignty has stood,
A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood.
We stand together. Patience, mighty West!
Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest!
UNMENTIONABLE.
There is a thing of which I fain would speak,
Yet shun the deed;
Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek
Of those who read.
And yet it is as common in our sight
As dust or grass;
Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light,
Of those who pass.
We say no word, but the big placard rests
Frequent in view,
To sicken those who do not with requests
Of those who do.
“Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say.
They read with scorn.
“Gentlemen must not”—they defile the way
Of those who warn.
On boat and car the careful lady lifts
Her dress aside;
If careless—think, fair traveller, of the gifts
Of those who ride!
On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair,
Where man’s at home,
This loathsomeness is added to the care
Of those who come.
As some foul slug his trail of slime displays
On leaf and stalk,
These street-beasts make a horror in the ways
Of those who walk.
We cannot ask reform of those who do—
They can’t or won’t.
We can express the scorn, intense and true,
Of those who don’t.
AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA.
Aren’t you tired of protection from the weather?
Of defences, guards, and shields?
Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether
This year the farm land yields?
Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness,
The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold?
Of waiting on the weather man with shyness
To see if the last plans hold?
Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing,
Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,—
Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing
At Providence and undertakers’ bills?
Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting,
The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie;
The dubiety of any sort of outing;
The chip upon the shoulder of the sky?
Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses,
Like a child abused who ducks before your frown,
Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses—
O come and live and take your elbow down!
Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences;
This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end;
Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses!
This weather is your friend!
A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven,
A peace that wins your frightened soul at length;
A place where rest as well as work is given,—
Rest is the food of strength.
RESOLVE.
To keep my health!
To do my work!
To live!
To see to it I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!
To wait in weakness, and to walk in power;
But always fronting onward to the light,
Always and always facing toward the right.
Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray—
On, with what strength I have!
Back to the way!
WOMAN.
SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING.
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power;
She obeyeth but the pleading
Of her heart, and the high leading
Of her soul, unto this hour.
Slow advancing, halting, creeping,
Comes the Woman to the hour!—
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power.
TO MAN.
In dark and early ages, through the primal forests faring,
Ere the soul came shining into prehistoric night,
Two-fold man was equal; they were comrades dear and daring,
Living wild and free together in unreasoning delight.
Ere the soul was born and consciousness came slowly,
Ere the soul was born, to man and woman too,
Ere he found the Tree of Knowledge, that awful tree and holy,
Ere he knew he felt, and knew he knew.
Then said he to Pain, “I am wise now, and I know you!
No more will I suffer while power and wisdom last!”
Then said he to Pleasure, “I am strong, and I will show you
That the will of man can seize you; aye, and hold you fast!”
Food he ate for pleasure, and wine he drank for gladness,
And woman? Ah, the woman! the crown of all delight!—
His now—he knew it! He was strong to madness
In that early dawning after prehistoric night.
His—his forever! That glory sweet and tender!
Ah, but he would love her! And she should love but him!
He would work and struggle for her, he would shelter and defend her;
She should never leave him, never, till their eyes in death were dim.
Close, close he bound her, that she should leave him never;
Weak still he kept her, lest she be strong to flee;
And the fainting flame of passion he kept alive forever
With all the arts and forces of earth and sky and sea.
And, ah, the long journey! The slow and awful ages
They have labored up together, blind and crippled, all astray!
Through what a mighty volume, with a million shameful pages,
From the freedom of the forest to the prisons of to-day!
Food he ate for pleasure, and it slew him with diseases!
Wine he drank for gladness, and it led the way to crime!
And woman? He will hold her—he will have her when he pleases—
And he never once hath seen her since the prehistoric time!
Gone the friend and comrade of the day when life was younger,
She who rests and comforts, she who helps and saves;
Still he seeks her vainly, with a never-dying hunger;
Alone beneath his tyrants, alone above his slaves!
Toiler, bent and weary with the load of thine own making!
Thou who art sad and lonely, though lonely all in vain!
Who hast sought to conquer Pleasure and have her for the taking,
And found that Pleasure only was another name for Pain,—
Nature hath reclaimed thee, forgiving dispossession!
God hath not forgotten, though man doth still forget!
The woman-soul is rising, in despite of thy transgression;
Loose her now—and trust her! She will love thee yet!
Love thee? She will love thee as only freedom knoweth;
Love thee? She will love thee while Love itself doth live!
Fear not the heart of woman! No bitterness it showeth!
The ages of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive!
WOMEN OF TO-DAY.
You women of to-day who fear so much
The women of the future, showing how
The dangers of her course are such and such—
What are you now?
Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth!
Great names! you cry, full scope to rule and please!
Boom for wise age and energetic youth!—
But are you these?
Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore,
Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease?
No, you keep servants only! What is more,
You don’t keep these!
Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they
Who hold of love the everlasting keys,
Keeping their husbands’ hearts! Alas the day!
You don’t keep these!
And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry
From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees!
Why, half the children born—as children die!
You don’t keep these!
And still the wailing babies come and go,
And homes are waste, and husbands’ hearts fly far,
There is no hope until you dare to know
The thing you are!
TO THE YOUNG WIFE.
Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife?
Are you content and satisfied to live
On what your loving husband loves to give,
And give to him your life?
Are you content with work,—to toil alone,
To clean things dirty and to soil things clean;
To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen,—
Queen of a cook-stove throne?
Are you content to reign in that small space—
A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land—
With other queens abundant on each hand,
Each fastened in her place?
Are you content to rear your children so?
Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed,
Are you so sure your way is always best?
That you can always know?
Have you forgotten how you used to long
In days of ardent girlhood, to be great,
To help the groaning world, to serve the state,
To be so wise—so strong?
And are you quite convinced this is the way,
The only way a woman’s duty lies—
Knowing all women so have shut their eyes?
Seeing the world to-day?
Have you no dream of life in fuller store?
Of growing to be more than that you are?
Doing the things you now do better far,
Yet doing others—more?
Losing no love, but finding as you grew
That as you entered upon nobler life
You so became a richer, sweeter wife,
A wiser mother too?
What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne,
Your paltry queenship in that narrow place,
Your antique labors, your restricted space,
Your working all alone!
Be not deceived! ’Tis not your wifely bond
That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power,
But selfish, slavish service hour by hour—
A life with no beyond!
FALSE PLAY.
“Do you love me?” asked the mother of her child,
And the baby answered, “No!”
Great Love listened and sadly smiled;
He knew the love in the heart of the child—
That you could not wake it so.
“Do not love me?” the foolish mother cried,
And the baby answered, “No!”
He knew the worth of the trick she tried—
Great Love listened, and grieving, sighed
That the mother scorned him so.
“Oh, poor mama!” and she played her part
Till the baby’s strength gave way:
He knew it was false in his inmost heart,
But he could not bear that her tears should start,
So he joined in the lying play.
“Then love mama!” and the soft lips crept
To the kiss that his love should show,—
The mouth to speak while the spirit slept!
Great Love listened, and blushed, and wept
That they blasphemed him so.
MOTHERHOOD.
Motherhood: First mere laying of an egg,
With blind foreseeing of the wisest place,
And blind provision of the proper food
For unseen larva to grow fat upon
After the instinct-guided mother died,—
Posthumous motherhood, no love, no joy.
Motherhood: Brooding patient o’er the nest,
With gentle stirring of an unknown love;
Defending eggs unhatched, feeding the young
For days of callow feebleness, and then
Driving the fledglings from the nest to fly.
Motherhood: When the kitten and the cub
Cried out alive, and first the mother knew
The fumbling of furry little paws,
The pressure of the hungry little mouths
Against the more than ready mother-breast,—
The love that comes of giving and of care.
Motherhood: Nursing with her heart-warm milk,
Fighting to death all danger to her young,
Hunting for food for little ones half-weaned,
Teaching them how to hunt and fight in turn,—
Then loving not till the new litter came.
Motherhood: When the little savage grew
Tall at his mother’s side, and learned to feel
Some mother even in his father’s heart,
Love coming to new babies while the first
Still needed mother’s care, and therefore love,—
Love lasting longer because childhood did.
Motherhood: Semi-civilized, intense,
Fierce with brute passion, narrow with the range
Of slavish lives to meanest service bowed;
Devoted—to the sacrifice of life;
Jealous beyond belief, and ignorant
Even of what should keep the child alive.
Love spreading with the spread of human needs,
The child’s new, changing, ever-growing wants,
Yet seeking like brute mothers of the past
To give all things to her own child herself.
Loving to the exclusion of all else;
To the child’s service bending a whole life;
Yet stunting the young creature day by day
With lack of Justice, Liberty, and Peace.
Motherhood: Civilized. There stands at last,
Facing the heavens with as calm a smile,
The highest fruit of the long work of God;
The highest type of this, the highest race;
She from whose groping instinct grew all love—
All love—in which is all the life of man.
Motherhood: Seeing with her clear, kind eyes,
Luminous, tender eyes, wherein the smile
Is like the smile of sunlight on the sea,
That the new children of the newer day
Need more than any single heart can give,
More than is known to any single mind,
More than is found in any single house,
And need it from the day they see the light.
Then, measuring her love by what they need,
Gives, from the heart of modern motherhood.
Gives first, as tree to bear God’s highest fruit,
A clean, strong body, perfect and full grown,
Fair for the purpose of its womanhood,
Not for light fancy of a lower mind;
Gives a clear mind, athletic, beautiful,
Dispassionate, unswerving from the truth;
Gives a great heart that throbs with human love,
As she would wish her son to love the world.
Then, when the child comes, lovely as a star,
She, in the peace of primal motherhood,
Nurses her baby with unceasing joy,
With milk of human kindness, human health,
Bright human beauty, and immortal love.
And then? Ah! here is the New Motherhood—
The motherhood of the fair new-made world—
O glorious New Mother of New Men!
Her child, with other children from its birth,
In the unstinted freedom of warm air,
Under the wisest eyes, the tenderest thought,
Surrounded by all beauty and all peace,
Led, playing, through the gardens of the world,
With the crowned heads of science and great love
Mapping safe paths for those small, rosy feet,—
Taught human love by feeling human love,
Taught justice by the laws that rule his days,
Taught wisdom by the way in which he lives,
Taught to love all mankind and serve them fair
By seeing, from his birth, all children served
With the same righteous, all-embracing care.
O Mother! Noble Mother, yet to come!
How shall thy child point to the bright career
Of her of whom he boasts to be the son—
Not for assiduous service spent on him,
But for the wisdom which has set him forth
A clear-brained, pure-souled, noble-hearted man,
With health and strength and beauty his by birth;
And, more, for the wide record of her life,
Great work, well done, that makes him praise her name
And long to make as great a one his own!
And how shall all the children of the world,
Feeling all mothers love them, loving all,
Rise up and call her blessed!
This shall be.
SIX HOURS A DAY.
Six hours a day the woman spends on food!
Six mortal hours a day....
With fire and water toiling, heat and cold;
Struggling with laws she does not understand
Of chemistry and physics, and the weight
Of poverty and ignorance besides.
Toiling for those she loves, the added strain
Of tense emotion on her humble skill,
The sensitiveness born of love and fear,
Making it harder to do even work.
Toiling without release, no hope ahead
Of taking up another business soon,
Of varying the task she finds too hard—
This, her career, so closely interknit
With holier demands as deep as life
That to refuse to cook is held the same
As to refuse her wife and motherhood.
Six mortal hours a day to handle food,—
Prepare it, serve it, clean it all away,—
With allied labors of the stove and tub,
The pan, the dishcloth, and the scrubbing-brush.
Developing forever in her brain
The power to do this work in which she lives;
While the slow finger of Heredity
Writes on the forehead of each living man,
Strive as he may, “His mother was a cook!”
AN OLD PROVERB.
“As much pity to see a woman weep as to see a goose go barefoot.”
No escape, little creature! The earth hath no place
For the woman who seeketh to fly from her race.
Poor, ignorant, timid, too helpless to roam,
The woman must bear what befalls her, at home.
Bear bravely, bear dumbly—it is but the same
That all others endure who live under the name.
No escape, little creature!
No escape under heaven! Can man treat you worse
After God has laid on you his infinite curse?
The heaviest burden of sorrow you win
Cannot weigh with the load of original sin;
No shame be too black for the cowering face
Of her who brought shame to the whole human race!
No escape under heaven!
Yet you feel, being human. You shrink from the pain
That each child, born a woman, must suffer again.
From the strongest of bonds heart can feel, man can shape,
You cannot rebel, or appeal, or escape.
You must bear and endure. If the heart cannot sleep,
And the pain groweth bitter,—too bitter,—then weep!
For you feel, being human.
And she wept, being woman. The numberless years
Have counted her burdens and counted her tears;
The maid wept forsaken, the mother forlorn
For the child that was dead, and the child that was born.
Wept for joy—as a miracle!—wept in her pain!
Wept aloud, wept in secret, wept ever in vain!
Still she weeps, being woman.
REASSURANCE.
Can you imagine nothing better, brother,
Than that which you have always had before?
Have you been so content with “wife and mother,”
You dare hope nothing more?
Have you forever prized her, praised her, sung her,
The happy queen of a most happy reign?
Never dishonored her, despised her, flung her
Derision and disdain?
Go ask the literature of all the ages!
Books that were written before women read!
Pagan and Christian, satirists and sages,—
Read what the world has said!
There was no power on earth to bid you slacken
The generous hand that painted her disgrace!
There was no shame on earth too black to blacken
That much praised woman-face!
Eve and Pandora!—always you begin it—
The ancients called her Sin and Shame and Death!
“There is no evil without woman in it,”
The modern proverb saith!
She has been yours in uttermost possession,—
Your slave, your mother, your well-chosen bride,—
And you have owned, in million-fold confession,
You were not satisfied.
Peace, then! Fear not the coming woman, brother!
Owning herself, she giveth all the more!
She shall be better woman, wife, and mother
Than man hath known before!
MOTHER TO CHILD.
How best can I serve thee, my child! My child!
Flesh of my flesh and dear heart of my heart!
Once thou wast within me—I held thee—I fed thee—
By the force of my loving and longing I led thee—
Now we are apart!
I may blind thee with kisses and crush with embracing,
Thy warm mouth in my neck and our arms interlacing;
But here in my body my soul lives alone,
And thou answerest me from a house of thine own,—
That house which I builded!
Which we builded together, thy father and I;
In which thou must live, O my darling, and die!
Not one stone can I alter, one atom relay,—
Not to save or defend thee or help thee to stay—
That gift is completed!
How best can I serve thee? O child, if they knew
How my heart aches with loving! How deep and how true,
How brave and enduring, how patient, how strong,
How longing for good and how fearful of wrong,
Is the love of thy mother!
Could I crown thee with riches! Surround, overflow thee
With fame and with power till the whole world should know thee;
With wisdom and genius to hold the world still,
To bring laughter and tears, joy and pain, at thy will,
Still—_thou_ mightst not be happy!
Such have lived—and in sorrow. The greater the mind,
The wider and deeper the grief it can find.
The richer, the gladder, the more thou canst feel
The keen stings that a lifetime is sure to reveal.
O my child! Must thou suffer?
Is there no way my life can save thine from a pain?
Is the love of a mother no possible gain?
No labor of Hercules—search for the Grail—
No way for this wonderful love to avail?
God in Heaven—O teach me!
My prayer has been answered. The pain thou must bear
Is the pain of the world’s life which thy life must share.
Thou art one with the world—though I love thee the best;
And to save thee from pain I must save all the rest—
Well—with God’s help I’ll do it!