Thou wilt sin with the rest; and thy mother must stem
The world’s sin. Thou wilt weep; and thy mother must dry
The tears of the world lest her darling should cry.
I will do it—God helping!
And I stand not alone. I will gather a band
Of all loving mothers from land unto land.
Our children are part of the world! do ye hear?
They are one with the world—we must hold them all dear!
Love all for the child’s sake!
For the sake of my child I must hasten to save
All the children on earth from the jail and the grave.
For so, and so only, I lighten the share
Of the pain of the world that my darling must bear—
Even so, and so only!
SERVICES.
She was dead. Forth went the word,
And every creature heard.
To the last hamlet in the farthest lands,
To people countless as the sands
Of primal seas.
And with the word so sent
Her life’s full record went,—
Of what fair line, how gifted, how endowed,
How educated; and then, told aloud,
The splendid tale of what her life had done;
And all the people heard and felt as one;
Exulting all together in their dead,
And the grand story of the life she led.
But in the city where her body lay
Great services were held on that fair day:
People by thousands; music to the sky;
Flowers of a garnered season; winding by,
Processions, glorious in rich array,
All massing in the temple where she lay.
Then, when the music rested, rose and stood
Those who could speak of her and count the good,
The measureless great good her life had spread,
That all might hear the praises of their dead.
And those who loved her sent from the world’s end
Their tribute to the memory of their friend;
While teachers to their children whispered low,
“See that you have as many when you go!”
Then was recited how her life had part
In building up this science and that art,
Inventing here, administering there,
Helping to organize, create, prepare,
With fullest figures to expatiate
On her unmeasured value to the state.
And the child, listening, grew in noble pride,
And planned for greater praises when he died.
Then the Poet spoke of those long ripening years;
And tenderer music brought the grateful tears;
And then, lest grief upon their heartstrings hang,
Her children stood around the bier and sang:
In the name of the mother that bore us—
Bore us strong—bore us free—
We will strive in the labors before us,
Even as she! Even as she!
In the name of her wisdom and beauty,
Of her life full of light,
We will live in our national duty,
We will help on the right:
We will love as her heart loved before us,
Warm and wide—strong and high!
In the name of the mother that bore us,
We will live! We will die!
IN MOTHER-TIME.
When woman looks at woman with the glory in her eyes,
When eternity lies open like a scroll,
When immortal life is being felt,—the life that never dies,—
And the triumph of it ringeth
And the sweetness of it singeth
In the soul,
Then we come to California, the Garden of the Lord,
Through all its leagues of endless blossoming;
And we sing, we sing together, to the whole world’s deep accord—
And we feel each other praying
Over what the flowers are saying
As we sing.
We were waiting, we were growing, glad of heart and strong of soul,
Like the peace and power of all these virgin lands;
Through the years of holy maidenhood with motherhood for goal—
And soon we shall be holding
Fruit of all life’s glad unfolding
In our hands.
White-robed mothers, flower-crowned mothers, in the splendor of their
youth,
In the grandeur of maturity and power;
Feeling life has passed the telling in its joyousness and truth,
Feeling life will soon be giving
Them the golden key of living
In one hour.
We come to California for the sunshine and the flowers;
Our motherhood has brought us here as one;
For the fruit of all the ages should share the shining hours,
With the blossoms ever-springing
And the golden globes low swinging,
In the sun.
SHE WHO IS TO COME.
A woman—in so far as she beholdeth
Her one Beloved’s face;
A mother—with a great heart that enfoldeth
The children of the Race;
A body, free and strong, with that high beauty
That comes of perfect use, is built thereof;
A mind where Reason ruleth over Duty,
And Justice reigns with Love;
A self-poised, royal soul, brave, wise, and tender,
No longer blind and dumb;
A Human Being, of an unknown splendor,
Is she who is to come!
GIRLS OF TO-DAY.
Girls of to-day! Give ear!
Never since time began
Has come to the race of man
A year, a day, an hour,
So full of promise and power
As the time that now is here!
Never in all the lands
Was there a power so great,
To move the wheels of state,
To lift up body and mind,
To waken the deaf and blind,
As the power that is in your hands!
Here at the gates of gold
You stand in the pride of youth,
Strong in courage and truth,
Stirred by a force kept back
Through centuries long and black,
Armed with a power threefold!
First: You are makers of men!
Then Be the things you preach!
Let your own greatness teach!
When mothers like this you see
Men will be strong and free—
Then, and not till then!
Second: Since Adam fell,
Have you not heard it said
That men by women are led?
True is the saying—true!
See to it what you do!
See that you lead them well!
Third: You have work of your own!
Maid and mother and wife,
Look in the face of life!
There are duties you owe the race!
Outside your dwelling-place
There is work for you alone!
Maid and mother and wife,
See your own work be done!
Be worthy a noble son!
Help man in the upward way!
Truly, a girl to-day
Is the strongest thing in life!
“WE, AS WOMEN.”
There’s a cry in the air about us—
We hear it before, behind—
Of the way in which “We, as women,”
Are going to lift mankind!
With our white frocks starched and ruffled,
And our soft hair brushed and curled—
Hats off! for “we, as women,”
Are coming to help the world!
Fair sisters, listen one moment—
And perhaps you’ll pause for ten:
The business of women as women
Is only with men as men!
What we do, “we, as women,”
We have done all through our life;
The work that is ours as women
Is the work of mother and wife!
But to elevate public opinion,
And to lift up erring man,
Is the work of the Human Being;
Let us do it—if we can.
But wait, warm-hearted sisters—
Not quite so fast, so far.
Tell me how we are going to lift a thing
Any higher than we are!
We are going to “purify politics”
And to “elevate the press.”
We enter the foul paths of the world
To sweeten and cleanse and bless.
To hear the high things we are going to do,
And the horrors of man we tell,
One would think “we, as women,” were angels,
And our brothers were fiends of hell.
We, that were born of one mother,
And reared in the selfsame place,—
In the school and the church together,—
We, of one blood, one race!
Now then, all forward together!
But remember, every one,
That it is not by feminine innocence
The work of the world is done.
The world needs strength and courage,
And wisdom to help and feed—
When “we, as women,” bring these to man,
We shall lift the world indeed!
IF MOTHER KNEW.
If mother knew the way I felt,—
And I’m sure a mother should,—
She wouldn’t make it quite so hard
For a person to be good!
I want to do the way she says;
I try to all day long;
And then she just skips all the right,
And pounces on the wrong!
A dozen times I do a thing,
And one time I forget;
And then she looks at me and asks
If I can’t remember yet?
She’ll tell me to do something,
And I’ll really start to go;
But she’ll keep right on telling it
As if I didn’t know.
Till it seems as if I couldn’t—
It makes me kind of wild;
And then she says she never saw
Such a disobliging child.
I go to bed all sorry,
And say my prayers, and cry,
And mean next day to be so good
I just can’t wait to try.
And I get up next morning,
And mean to do just right;
But mother’s sure to scold me
About something, before night.
I wonder if she really thinks
A child could go so far,
As to be perfect all the time
As the grown up people are!
If she only knew I tried to,—
And I’m sure a mother should,—
She wouldn’t make it quite so hard
For a person to be good!
THE ANTI-SUFFRAGISTS.
Fashionable women in luxurious homes,
With men to feed them, clothe them, pay their bills,
Bow, doff the hat, and fetch the handkerchief;
Hostess or guest, and always so supplied
With graceful deference and courtesy;
Surrounded by their servants, horses, dogs,—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
Successful women who have won their way
Alone, with strength of their unaided arm,
Or helped by friends, or softly climbing up
By the sweet aid of “woman’s influence;”
Successful any way, and caring naught
For any other woman’s unsuccess,—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
Religious women of the feebler sort,—
Not the religion of a righteous world,
A free, enlightened, upward-reaching world,
But the religion that considers life
As something to back out of!—whose ideal
Is to renounce, submit, and sacrifice,
Counting on being patted on the head
And given a high chair when they get to heaven,—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
Ignorant women—college-bred sometimes,
But ignorant of life’s realities
And principles of righteous government,
And how the privileges they enjoy
Were won with blood and tears by those before—
Those they condemn, whose ways they now oppose;
Saying, “Why not let well enough alone?
Our world is very pleasant as it is,”—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
And selfish women,—pigs in petticoats,—
Rich, poor, wise, unwise, top or bottom round,
But all sublimely innocent of thought,
And guiltless of ambition, save the one
Deep, voiceless aspiration—to be fed!
These have no use for rights or duties more.
Duties to-day are more than they can meet,
And law insures their right to clothes and food,—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
And, more’s the pity, some good women, too;
Good conscientious women, with ideas;
Who think—or think they think—that woman’s cause
Is best advanced by letting it alone;
That she somehow is not a human thing,
And not to be helped on by human means,
Just added to humanity—an “L”—
A wing, a branch, an extra, not mankind,—
These tell us they have all the rights they want.
And out of these has come a monstrous thing,
A strange, down-sucking whirlpool of disgrace,
Women uniting against womanhood,
And using that great name to hide their sin!
Vain are their words as that old king’s command
Who set his will against the rising tide.
But who shall measure the historic shame
Of these poor traitors—traitors are they all—
To great Democracy and Womanhood!
WOMEN DO NOT WANT IT.
When the woman suffrage argument first stood upon its legs,
They answered it with cabbages, they answered it with eggs,
They answered it with ridicule, they answered it with scorn,
They thought it a monstrosity that should not have been born.
When the woman suffrage argument grew vigorous and wise,
And was not to be silenced by these apposite replies,
They turned their opposition into reasoning severe
Upon the limitations of our God-appointed sphere.
We were told of disabilities,—a long array of these,
Till one would think that womanhood was merely a disease;
And “the maternal sacrifice” was added to the plan
Of the various sacrifices we have always made—to man.
Religionists and scientists, in amity and bliss,
However else they disagreed, could all agree on this,
And the gist of all their discourse, when you got down to it,
Was—we could not have the ballot because we were not fit!
They would not hear to reason, they would not fairly yield,
They would not own their arguments were beaten in the field;
But time passed on, and someway, we need not ask them how,
Whatever ails those arguments—we do not hear them now!
You may talk of woman suffrage now with an educated man,
And he agrees with all you say, as sweetly as he can;
’Twould be better for us all, of course, if womanhood was free;
But “the women do not want it”—and so it must not be!
’Tis such a tender thoughtfulness! So exquisite a care!
Not to pile on our fair shoulders what we do not wish to bear!
But, oh, most generous brother! Let us look a little more—
Have we women always wanted what you gave to us before?
Did we ask for veils and harems in the Oriental races?
Did we beseech to be “unclean,” shut out of sacred places?
Did we beg for scolding bridles and ducking stools to come?
And clamor for the beating stick no thicker than your thumb?
Did we seek to be forbidden from all the trades that pay?
Did we claim the lower wages for a man’s full work to-day?
Have we petitioned for the laws wherein our shame is shown:
That not a woman’s child—nor her own body—is her own?
What women want has never been a strongly acting cause
When woman has been wronged by man in churches, customs, laws;
Why should he find this preference so largely in his way
When he himself admits the right of what we ask to-day?
WEDDED BLISS.
“O come and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen;
“I love to soar, but then
I want my mate to rest
Forever in the nest!”
Said the Hen, “I cannot fly,
I have no wish to try,
But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.
“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;
“My love for you is deep!
I slay, a Lion should,
But you are mild and good!”
Said the Sheep, “I do no ill—
Could not, had I the will—
But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.
“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;
“You are not wise, but I am.
I know sea and stream as well;
You know nothing but your shell.”
Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,
But my love is all devotion,
And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.
THE HOLY STOVE.
O the soap-vat is a common thing!
The pickle-tub is low!
The loom and wheel have lost their grace
In falling from the dwelling-place
To mills where all may go!
The bread-tray needeth not your love;
The wash-tub wide doth roam;
Even the oven free may rove;
But bow ye down to the Holy Stove,
The Altar of the Home!
Before it bend the worshippers,
And wreaths of parsley twine;
Above it still the incense curls,
And a passing train of hired girls
Do service at the shrine.
We toil to keep the altar crowned
With dishes new and nice,
And Art and Love, and Time and Truth,
We offer up, with Health and Youth,
In daily sacrifice.
Speak not to us of a fairer faith,
Of a lifetime free from pain.
Our fathers always worshipped here,
Our mothers served this altar drear,
And still we serve amain.
Our earliest dreams around it cling,
Bright hopes that childhood sees,
And memory leaves a vista wide
Where Mother’s Doughnuts rank beside
The thought of Mother’s Knees.
The wood-box hath no sanctity;
No glamour gilds the coal;
But the Cook-Stove is a sacred thing
To which a reverent faith we bring
And serve with heart and soul.
The Home’s a temple all divine,
By the Poker and the Hod!
The Holy Stove is the altar fine,
The wife the priestess at the shrine—
Now who can be the god?
THE MOTHER’S CHARGE.
She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye,
“I know,” she said, “that I am going to die.
Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear.
Let me make plain to you your duty here;
My duty once—I never failed to try—
But for some reason I am going to die.”
She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild,
Poured these instructions on the gasping child:
“Begin at once—don’t iron sitting down—
Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown—
Monday, unless it rains—it always pays
To get fall sewing done on the right days—
A carpet-sweeper and a little broom—
Save dishes—wash the summer dining-room
With soda—keep the children out of doors—
The starch is out—beeswax on all the floors—
If girls are treated like your friends they stay—
They stay, and treat you like their friends—the way
To make home happy is to keep a jar—
And save the prettiest pieces for the star
In the middle—blue’s too dark—all silk is best—
And don’t forget the corners—when they’re dressed
Put them on ice—and always wash the chest
Three times a day, the windows every week—
We need more flour—the bedroom ceilings leak—
It’s better than onion—keep the boys at home—
Gardening is good—a load, three loads of loam—
They bloom in spring—and smile, smile always, dear—
Be brave, keep on—I hope I’ve made it clear.”
She died, as all her mothers died before.
Her daughter died in turn, and made one more.
A BROOD MARE.
It is a significant fact that the phenomenal
improvement in horses during recent years is
accompanied by the growing conviction that good
points and a good record are as desirable in the
dam as in the sire, if not more so.
I had a quarrel yesterday,
A violent dispute,
With a man who tried to sell to me
A strange amorphous brute;
A creature disproportionate,
A beast to make you stare,
An undeveloped, overgrown,
Outrageous-looking mare.
Her fore legs they were weak and thin,
Her hind legs weak and fat;
She was heavy in the quarters,
With a narrow chest and flat;
And she had managed to combine—
I’m sure I don’t know how—
The barrel of a greyhound
With the belly of a cow.
She seemed exceeding feeble,
And he owned with manner bland
That she walked a little, easily,
But wasn’t fit to stand.
I tried to mount the animal
To test her on the track;
But he cried in real anxiety,
“Get off! You’ll strain her back!”
And then I sought to harness her,
But he explained at length
That any draught or carriage work
Was quite beyond her strength.
“No use to carry or to pull!
No use upon the course!”
Said I, “How can you have the face
To call that thing a horse?”
Said he, indignantly, “I don’t!
I’m dealing on the square;
I never said it was a horse,
I told you ’twas a mare!
“A mare was never meant to race,
To carry, or to pull;
She is meant for breeding only, so
Her place in life is full.”
Said I, “Do you pretend to breed
From such a beast as that?
A mass of shapeless skin and bone,
Or shapeless skin and fat?”
Said he, “Her sire was thoroughbred,
As fine as walked the earth,
And all her colts receive from him
The marks of noble birth;
“And then I mate her carefully
With horses fine and fit;
Mares do not need to have themselves
The points which they transmit!”
Said I, “Do you pretend to say
You can raise colts as fair
From that fat cripple as you can
From an able-bodied mare?”
Quoth he, “I solemnly assert,
Just as I said before,
A mare that’s good for breeding
Can be good for nothing more!”
Cried I, “One thing is certain proof;
One thing I want to see;
Trot out the noble colts you raise
From your anomaly.”
He looked a little dashed at this,
And the poor mare hung her head.
“Fact is,” said he, “she’s had but one,
And that one—well, it’s dead!”
FEMININE VANITY.
Feminine Vanity! O ye Gods! Hear to this man!
As if silk and velvet and feathers and fur
And jewels and gold had been just for her,
Since the world began!
Where is his memory? Let him look back—all of the way!
Let him study the history of his race
From the first he-savage that painted his face
To the dude of to-day!
Vanity! Oh! Are the twists and curls,
The intricate patterns in red, black, and blue,
The wearisome tortures of rich tattoo,
Just made for girls?
Is it only the squaw who files the teeth,
And dangles the lip, and bores the ear,
And wears bracelet and necklet and anklet as queer
As the bones beneath?
Look at the soldier, the noble, the king!
Egypt or Greece or Rome discloses
The purples and perfumes and gems and roses
On a masculine thing!
Look at the men of our own dark ages!
Heroes too, in their cloth of gold,
With jewels as thick as the cloth could hold,
On the knights and pages!
We wear false hair? Our man looks big!
But it’s not so long, let me beg to state,
Since every gentleman shaved his pate
And wore a wig.
French heels? Sharp toes? See our feet defaced?
But there was a day when the soldier free
Tied the toe of his shoe to the manly knee—
Yes, and even his waist!
We pad and stuff? Our man looks bolder.
Don’t speak of the time when a bran-filled bunch
Made an English gentleman look like Punch—
But feel of his shoulder!
Feminine Vanity! O ye Gods! Hear to these men!
Vanity’s wide as the world is wide!
Look at the peacock in his pride—
Is it a hen?
THE MODEST MAID.
I am a modest San Francisco maid,
Fresh, fair, and young,
Such as the painters gladly have displayed,
The poets sung.
Modest?—Oh, modest as a bud unblown,
A thought unspoken;
Hidden and cherished, unbeheld, unknown,
In peace unbroken.
Far from the holy shades of this my home,
The coarse world raves,
And the New Woman cries to heaven’s dome
For what she craves.
Loud, vulgar, public, screaming from the stage,
Her skirt divided,
Riding cross-saddled on the dying age,
Justly derided.
I blush for her, I blush for our sweet sex
By her disgraced.
My sphere is home. My soul I do not vex
With zeal misplaced.
Come then to me with happy heart, O man!
I wait your visit.
To guide your footsteps I do all I can,
Am most explicit.
As veined flower-petals teach the passing bee
The way to honey,
So printer’s ink displayed instructeth thee
Where lies my money.
Go see! In type and cut across the page,
Before the nation,
There you may read about my eyes, my age,
My education,
My fluffy golden hair, my tiny feet,
My pet ambition,
My well-developed figure, and my sweet,
Retiring disposition.
All, all is there, and now I coyly wait.
Pray don’t delay.
My address does the Blue Book plainly state,
And mamma’s “day.”
SAN FRANCISCO, 1895.
UNSEXED.
It was a wild rebellious drone
That loudly did complain;
He wished he was a worker bee
With all his might and main.
“I want to work,” the drone declared.
Quoth they, “The thing you mean
Is that you scorn to be a drone
And long to be a queen.
“You long to lay unnumbered eggs,
And rule the waiting throng;
You long to lead our summer flight,
And this is rankly wrong.”
Cried he, “My life is pitiful!
I only eat and wed,
And in my marriage is the end—
Thereafter I am dead.
“I would I were the busy bee
That flits from flower to flower;
I long to share in work and care
And feel the worker’s power.”
Quoth they, “The life you dare to spurn
Is set before you here
As your one great, prescribed, ordained,
Divinely ordered sphere!
“Without your, services as drone,
We should not be alive;
Your modest task, when well fulfilled,
Preserves the busy hive.
“Why underrate your blessed power?
Why leave your rightful throne
To choose a field of life that’s made
For working bees alone?”
Cried he, “But it is not enough,
My momentary task!
Let me do that and more beside:
To work is all I ask!”
Then fiercely rose the workers all,
For sorely were they vexed;
“O wretch!” they cried, “should this betide,
You would become _unsexed_!”
And yet he had not sighed for eggs,
Nor yet for royal mien;
He longed to be a worker bee,
But not to be a queen.
FEMALES.
The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.
The mother hen doth scratch for her chicks,
And scratch for herself beside;
The mother cow doth nurse her calf,
Yet fares as well as her other half
In the pasture free and wide.
The female bird doth soar in air;
The female fish doth swim;
The fleet-foot mare upon the course
Doth hold her own with the flying horse—
Yea, and she beateth him!
One female in the world we find
Telling a different tale.
It is the female of our race,
Who holds a parasitic place
Dependent on the male.
Not so, saith she, ye slander me!
No parasite am I!
I earn my living as a wife;
My children take my very life.
Why should I share in human strife.
To plant and build and buy?
The human race holds highest place
In all the world so wide,
Yet these inferior females wive,
And raise their little ones alive,
And feed themselves beside.
The race is higher than the sex,
Though sex be fair and good;
A Human Creature is your state,
And to be human is more great
Than even womanhood!
The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.
A MOTHER’S SOLILOQUY.
You soft, pink, moving thing!
Young limbs that crave
Motion as free as zephyr-lifted wave;
Uneasy with the push of unlearned powers!
Exploring slowly through half-conscious hours;
With what rich new surprise and joy you feel
Your own will move yourself from head to heel!
So, let me swaddle you in bandage tight,
Dress you in wide, confining folds of white,
Cover you warmly, hold you close, and so
A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show!
Mysterious little frame!
Each organ new
And learning swiftly what it has to do!