Although tradition holds the devil was masculine, there is at least one
person in the world who would dispute tradition and stamp the evil one a
woman. You may not agree with him, but then again you may, so here’s the
poem:
As the story is told, in the ages of old,
The devil, a spirit, was free,
To wander at will, mid the good and the ill,
So the devil a roaming went he.
In a garden he met an old man and his pet,
And straightway enamored was he
With Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit,
For the devil a serpent could be.
Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt—
A cunning young vixen was she—
Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms,
Till the devil he chuckled in glee.
For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhance
If only a female were he;
So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes,
And the devil a woman is she!
* * * * *
“_Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,_
_Holy angels guard thy bed,_”
were the soft sweet words I heard as I passed by a little cottage home.
Glancing in the open doorway, I saw a young mother rocking her baby to
sleep. It recalled the voice of my mother who sings to me across the
years of babyhood, youth and manhood.
In memory’s light I see the old cradle. It was a homely thing. The sides
sloped, it was just wide enough for a baby’s arms to reach across, high
enough for the little sister to look over, and the brother to learn to
walk by. It was shaped like a kind of Noah’s Ark, but in it we children
rocked and rode safely over all the storms of early years.
It had a wooden canopy at the head. As we looked up, it must have seemed
like the edge of the world, or a dark background on which to paint awful
childish fancies. Sometimes a loud man or an ugly woman looked over it
into our faces, spoke, and we were frightened and cried, but mother came
and smiled the tears away.
The rockers were curved and turned over at the end, and were worn smooth
and gray. Weary with work, mother sat by our side, placed her tired foot
on the rocker, and to the time beat of a loving heart, rocked us to sleep
as she knitted, sewed, mended, thought or prayed.
For many years the old cradle was going most of the time. Again and again
a big baby was taken out of the cradle and a small one put in. She sang
as only the mother can, whose child is born of pain and baptized with
tears.
It was a lullaby sweet and low, like hum of bees in summertime; a song
in a nursery, and not in a concert hall; a song not for the many but for
just one pair of little ears which heard and loved and understood. It was
rock, and sing, for nap by day and long sleep by night; rock and sing
when well and glad or sick and sad. One day the cradle was stilled, the
little brother, Gordon, was sound asleep, his long lashes cast shadows
on the upturned cheek, and the little fingers had changed a red rose for
a white lily. His cradle had rocked him nearer to the tomb for “birth is
nothing but our death begun.”
Dear cradle of childhood, that rested so many tired bodies and soothed
so many hearts. Today the old cradle is in the dark garret and the tired
mother rests in the dark grave. The hands that laid the pillow and spread
the cover have stopped their work; the foot that rocked it has finished
its journey; the face that hovered above it is gone and the song she sang
is silent.
Baby boys and girls are men and women now, but they can never forget the
old cradle. How often when body, mind and heart ache we toss and cry
during the long night hours, and wish that mother could hug, kiss and put
us in the old cradle again and rock and sing us to sleep.
* * * * *
We note with amusement that certain of the sanctimonious sect still are
passing “resolutions” about the Dempsey-Carpentier fistic embroglio,
deploring the same as a “disgrace to our civilization.” These are the
same “birds” who would have us scrap our navy and reduce the army to a
squad of boy scouts with Easter lilies in their hands.
A “prize fight” is no more brutal than any other manifestation of power;
no more “disgraceful” in what we call civilization than any other
application of force. Force rules the universe; nothing can resist it. It
would take physical force to maintain any law against prize fighting just
as it takes physical force to keep the bathing beauties from discarding
their two-ounce outfits as too burdensome to wear.
Prize fighting is a “disgrace to civilization” only because it is
mercenary, venal, sordid; yet we loan our money on mortgages and sell
our goods at a profit with never a thought of disagreeable civilization.
The fighter sells his ability to clout another prize fighter on the chin
before the other bambino of the bulging biceps bangs him on his own
proboscis.
The power of the state is behind all human law and activity—the threat
of physical enforcement keeps Pedro, Jr., out of Neighbor Jones’ alfalfa
patch. Society is protected by force and sometimes with arms. Our
civilization is merely armed resistance to “barbarism” and the brutality
is always under the thin pretense of “culture” and “refinement.”
We have no desire to see America a nation of male toe dancers. Let there
be “prize fighting” if it is to help save the country from the bigotry of
the organized minority. If we don’t look out we’ll soon be as unprotected
as a toke point oyster on the half shell—and it will be the folk who are
raving about prize fighting that will do it.
* * * * *
My hip is often my castle.
* * * * *