Miscellaneous
MISCELLANEOUS
In Passing
By Ruth
(Contemporary Poet.)
Too long have I listened to the voices of men;
They said they would teach me wisdom—
And I am not wise:
And now when I listen for the voice of God—
I cannot hear it.
A Contrast
By Laura Simmons
Across the gloom a shadow flits; I glimpse a sodden face
Wherein the years of sin and care, and toil have left their trace.
A wanton laugh;—I mark no more, for yonder in the glow
One waiteth me—my love! my star! with welcoming, I know.
Tender and fine is she, withal so stately sweet and fair
My grateful heart thrills thanks to heaven to see her standing there.
If this be woman, pure, benign—man’s blessed beacon light—
Then—Christ! What that poor outcast soul that passed me in the night?
Mary and Magdalene
By Virginia Cleaver Beacon
(In “The Coming Nation.”)
Little sister of the street,
Do not hurry by!
There’s a problem we must meet
Together, you and I.
While your head with shame is bowed,
While you shun the day,
Right forbids that I be proud,
Who might have gone your way.
Did you find the road too hard,
Feet untaught must tread?
Was the honest pathway barred,—
To this the other led?
In a world where all is sold
You have sold yourself;
Poor the price the world has doled,
You win not even pelf.
Little sister of the street,
This old wrong must cease!
You and I as women meet
To give the world release.
Dare We Judge?
By Paulina Brandreth
(In “The Survey.”)
What do we know of life,
We, who are housed and fed,
What do we know of strife
Who are so gently led?
Have we dwelt in the slime
Of Poverty’s abode
Have we walked with the crime
Engendered by its load?
Oh, have we ever known
Days of eternal care?
When Hope is turned to stone
And broken by Despair?
Or have we ever raced
And won, and lost again?
And then with failure faced
The cruelty of men?
We have not lived these things,
Our bread and wine is sweet;
We do not know what causes bring
The woman to the street.
Yet, she who wounds her soul
Is better far than we,
Who do our lives control
In self-complacency.
Aye, better far than we,
Who ignorantly dwell,
Lulled with tranquility
Above the wreck of hell.
What do we know of life,
We, who are housed and fed,
Who, sheltered from all strife,
On thornless pathways tread?
Two Storks
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(America’s foremost woman Sociologist. Author of numerous books, and
editor, owner and publisher of “The Forerunner,” a magazine of advanced
thought on the woman question. The following is from “The Forerunner.”)
Two storks were nesting.
He was a young stork—and narrow minded. Before he married he had
consorted mainly with striplings of his own kind, and had given no
thought to the ladies, either maid or matron.
After he married his attention was concentrated on his all-satisfying
wife, upon that triumph of art, labor and love—their nest, and upon
those special creations—their children. Deeply was he moved by the
marvelous instincts and processes of motherhood. Love, reverence, intense
admiration, rose in his heart for her of the well-built nest; her of the
gleaming treasure of smooth eggs; her of the patient brooding breast, the
warming wings, the downy, wide-mouthed group of little ones.
Assiduously he labored to help her build the nest, to help her feed
the young; proud of his impassioned activity in her and their behalf;
devoutly he performed his share of the brooding, while she hunted in her
turn. When he was a-wing he thought continually of her as one with the
brood—his brood. When he was on the nest he thought all the more of her,
who sat there so long, so lovingly, to such noble ends.
The happy days flew by, fair spring—sweet summer—gentle autumn. The young
ones grew larger and larger; it was more and more work to keep their
lengthening, widening beaks shut in contentment. Both parents flew far
afield to feed them.
Then the days grew shorter, the sky grayer, the wind colder; there was
large hunting and small success. In his dreams he began to see sunshine,
broad, burning sunshine, day after day; skies of limitless blue; dark,
deep, yet full of fire; stretches of bright water, shallow, warm—fringed
with tall reeds and rushes, teeming with fat frogs.
They were in her dreams, too, but he did not know that.
He stretched his wings and flew farther every day; but his wings were
not satisfied. In his dreams came a sense of vast heights and boundless
spaces of the earth streaming away beneath him; black water and white
land; gray water and brown land, blue water and green land, all flowing
backward from day to day, while the cold lessened and the warmth grew.
He felt the empty sparkling nights, stars far above, quivering, burning;
stars far below quivering more in the dark water; and felt his great
wings wide, strong, all-sufficient, carrying him on and on!
This was in her dreams, too, but he did not know that.
“It is time to go,” he cried one day. “They are coming! It is upon us!
Yes,—I must go! Goodbye, my wife! Goodbye, my children!” For the passion
of wings was upon him.
She, too, was stirred to the heart. “Yes, it is time to go!” she cried.
“I am ready! Come!”
He was shocked, grieved, astonished. “Why, my dear!” he said, “How
preposterous! You cannot go on the great flight! Your wings are for
brooding tender little ones! Your body is for the wonder of the gleaming
treasure.—Not for days’ and nights’ ceaseless soaring! You cannot go!”
She did not heed him. She spread her wide wings and swept and circled far
and high above,—as, in truth, she had been doing for many days, though he
had not noticed it.
She dropped to the ridge pole beside him, where he was still muttering
objections. “Is it not glorious?” she cried. “Come! They are nearly
ready!”
“You unnatural mother!” he burst forth. “You have forgotten the order of
nature! You have forgotten your children! Your lovely, precious, tender,
helpless little ones!” And he wept, for his highest ideals were shattered.
But the precious little ones stood there on the ridge pole and flapped
their strong young wings in high derision. They were as big as he was,
nearly; for as a matter of fact, he was but a young stork himself.
Then the air was beaten white with a thousand wings; it was like snow and
silver and sea-foam; there was a flash, a whirlwind, a hurricane of wild
joy and then the army of the sky spread wide in due array and streamed
southward.
Full of remembered joy and more joyous hope, finding the sunlight better
than her dreams, she swept away to the far summerland; and her children,
mad with the happiness of the first flight, swept beside her.
“But you are a mother!” he panted, as he caught up with them.
“Yes,” she cried, joyously, “but I was a stork before I was a mother! and
afterward!—and all the time!”
And the storks were flying.
The Doomed Men’s Message
By Mary Carolyn Davies
(In “The Survey.”)
Three doomed men in the death house write
A word like a torch from their night to my night.
Three doomed men in Sing Sing wait
Through the fading black of the night, a fate
That I made for them, I—
I said “You must die.”
They will die at dawn. But before they go
They write me a word, that I, too, may know.
They sit and write, the three doomed men,
(They three never will write again—)
Three doomed men in Sing Sing write
A word like a torch from their night to my night.
And this is the word: “Are you justified?
We would give our lives for the men who died—
Who died—by our hand. But it would not aid.
And out of two wrongs can a right be made?”
It is thus they plead, the three doomed men—
They three never will plead again.
They must die at dawn. As a brave man faces
The death he fears, they will take their places.
They will smile, perhaps, they will maybe jest.
They will be dust then. Perhaps that’s best;
But even so, what good am I
To say to three other men, “You must die?”
Three doomed men in the death house pray
Forgiveness. And I, do I ever pray?
Three doomed men confess their sin
And die as they watch a day begin.
Jealousy—anger through drink—and they
Go to their death at the break of day!
Jealousy, anger through drink—and I
A free man, walk down the street. Why, why?
Did I scorn them? Well, we are brothers now,
I and the three, or will be soon.
When day blots out this fading moon,
I shall have killed, no matter how,
Then, murderers all, take heed of me!
They killed but one.
When my deed is done,
My hands will be stained with the blood of three!
They sit and write, the three doomed men,
They three never will write again—
But I still shall hear, with fear and dread,
What the three doomed men in Sing Sing said.
Road Song
By Irene P. McKeehan
(In “The Century Magazine.”)
I have lived in the garden with Adam,
And eaten the fruit of the tree;
I have hidden, ashamed, from the face of God,
For I dreamed that He could not see.
The flaming sword of the Angel of Wrath
Has driven me over the earth;
I am marked with the mark of the murderer Cain;
I have travailed at death and at birth.
With patriarch, priest and prophet, I seek for a promised land,
Lead me, brother; follow, me, brother; brother, oh, take my hand!
I am moving onward, and ever on, O brother, I may not stand!
I have made my children the slaves of trade,
And scarred their backs with the rod;
For a bag of gold, with a sword of steel
I have broken the laws of God.
But whenever a cause demands my life,
I have laid it down with a will;
For honor and love and a heart-wrung cry
I can play the hero still.
My feet are firm on the steep, straight way, though I doubt if
I understand;
Whether you lead or follow me brother, let us go hand in hand!
And stay not behind, dear brother of mine, on the road to the
Promised Land.
Dress Reform
By Amelia Bloomer
(Editor of “The Lily.” An advocate in the ’50s, of dress reform.
Introduced the bifurcated skirt which popular acclaim at once called “The
Bloomer.” A woman personally modest, who suffered because of the sneers
and attacks at her efforts to have women dress sensibly. From “Life and
Work of Susan B. Anthony.”)
I feel that if all of us were less slaves to fashion we would be nobler
women, for both our bodies and minds are now rendered weak and useless
from the unhealthy and barbarous style of dress adopted, and from the
time and thought in making it attractive. A change is demanded and if I
have been the means of calling the attention of the public to it and of
leading only a few to disregard old customs and for once to think and act
for themselves, I shall not trouble myself about the false imputations
that may be cast upon me.
Giving Up Her Name
By Mrs. Alec Tweedie
(See page 126)
Another handicap that falls to the lot of woman is in her loss of
individuality and family through giving up her own name in marriage.
Purse and the Soul
By Meta L. Stern
(See page 250)
(In “The Comrade.”)
The soul doth sow and the purse doth reap
The purse doth feed while the soul doth weep—
Oh, such is the world’s strange way.
Power and honor the purse doth bring—
Worship of trader and priest and king
While souls are as cheap as clay.
O, such is the bitter way of life;
A way of unending toil and strife—
Our heritage but a curse.
So must it be till the knell we toll
Of senseless greed that gives to the soul
Less honor than to the purse.
I Heard the Spirit Singing
By June E. Downy
(In “The Independent.”)
I heard the spirits singing in the ancient caves of work;
“You are playing, man-child, playing, where the evil demons lurk.
Yet I would not have you falter, or count the awful cost,
Lest your heart grow old within you, and your zest for sport be lost.
“So toss the ball of empire, with its fatal coat of fire;
And dig for gilded nuggets, with the pangs of hot desire;
And blow your filmy bubbles in the bright face of the sun,
Tho’ you know they will tarnish, vanish, ere your playing day is done.
“Go, spin your humming-top of thought, or brood with sullen lip,
As you scrawl upon the canvas, or load the merchant ship;
Come, tell some old, old story, or rehearse some ancient creed,
Or with many a lisp of wonder, draw the music from the reed.
“Let your playful hand in cunning devise a giant eye;
And in long hours of frolic, guess the secrets of the sky;
Or peer with curious longing in the busy under-bourne,
Where microscopic beings are playing in their turn.
“And raise Love’s swaying ladder to the dizzy heights of woe;
And walk o’er desert places where the thorns and thistles grow,
When the man-child gropes and stumbles and holds his quivering breath,
As he meets within the shadows his last playfellow, “Death.”
I heard the Spirit singing: “Laughter is the strongest prayer,
And the zest of faith is measured by the mirth that toys with care;
And he who plays the hardest and dares to sing aloud,
Beyond the shadows’ caverns may some day work with God.”
The Difference
By Olive Schreiner
(From “Woman and Labor.”)
To the male, the giving of life is a laugh; to the female, blood,
anguish and sometimes death. Here we touch one of the few yet important
differences between man and woman as such.
The Unfair Status
By Matilda Jocelyn Gage
(From “Woman, Church and State.”)
Under French law, woman is a perpetual minor under the guardianship of
her own, or that of her husband’s family. Only in the case of the birth
of an illegitimate child is she treated as a responsible being, and then
only that discomfort and punishment may fall upon her.
Custom
By Sarah Sellers
(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)
I was dreaming
And I saw the children,
The babies from heaven;
The mothers of the future
Who will nurse us and rear us.
Who will teach us, and guide us;
Straight from heaven, I saw them,
Beautiful to look on;
And I heard a voice:
“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”
The chains were golden,
And fine as a baby’s hair,
And the beautiful children
Were wound in them.
I was dreaming;
And I saw the maidens,
Strong and straight,
With the beauty of youth in their faces,
With the promise of years before them;
And I heard a voice:
“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”
And the new chains were brought,
Beautiful and golden;
And the maidens did not know
They were chains.
I was dreaming,
And the mothers stood before me,
With their children around them;
And a voice said:
“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”
And the mothers were bound
With chains not golden,
And the links held them
With the strength of years.
The mothers knew they were chained;
And they looked at their children.
A Thanksgiving
By Theodosia Garrison
(One of America’s leading contemporary poets.)
For the friendship of women, Lord, that hath been since the world had
breath,
Since a woman stood at a woman’s side to comfort through birth and
death,
You have made as a bond of mirth and tears to last forever and aye,—
For the friendship of true woman, Lord, take you my thanks today.
Many the joys I have welcomed, many the joys that have passed,
But this is the good unfailing, and this is the peace that shall last;
From love that dies and love that lies, and love that must cling and
sting,
Back to the arms of our sisters we turn, for our comforting.
For the friendship of true women, Lord, that has been and shall ever be,
Since a woman stood at a woman’s side at the cross of Calvary;
For the tears we weep and the trust we keep, and the self-same prayers
we pray—
For the friendship of true women, Lord, take you my thanks today.
Women Run in Molds
By Frances Power Cobb
(From “Woman’s Work and Woman’s Culture,” a compilation of essays
published in 1869, in London.)
Of all the theories current concerning women, none is more curious than
the theory that it is needful to make a theory about them. That a woman
is a Domestic, a Social, or a Political creature; that she is a Goddess,
or a Doll; the “Angel in the House,” or a Drudge, with a suckling of
fools and a chronicaling of small beer for her sole privileges that she
has, at all events, a “Mission,” or a “Sphere,” or a “Kingdom,” of some
sort or other, if we could but agree on what it is,—all this is taken
for granted. But, as nobody ever yet sat down and constructed analogous
hypotheses about the other half of the human race, we are driven to
conclude, both that a woman is a more mysterious creature than a man,
and also that it is the general impression that she is made of some more
plastic material, which can be advantageously manipulated to fit our
theory about her nature and office, whenever we have come to a conclusion
as to what that nature and office may be. “Let us fix our own Ideal in
the first place,” seems to be the popular notion, and then the real Woman
in accordance thereto will appear in due course of time. We have nothing
to do but to make round holes and women will grow round to fill them;
or square holes, and they will become square. Men grow like trees, and
the most we can do is to lop or clip them, but women run in molds, like
candles, and we can make them long-threes, or short-sixes, whichever we
please.
A Sheaf of Quotations
By Mme. Necker
Woman’s tongue is her sword which she never lets rust.
By Marguerite de Valois
A woman of honor should never suspect another of things she would not do
herself.
By Mme. de Sonza
It is vanity that renders the youth of women culpable and their old age
ridiculous.
By Mdlle. de Lespinasse
A woman would be in despair if Nature had formed her as fashion makes her
appear.
Mme. Fee
Do not take women from the bedside of those who suffer; it is their post
of honor.
By Eugenie de Guerin
A mother’s tenderness and caresses are the milk of the heart.
By Margaret Deland
The best things of our nature fashion themselves in silence.
By Edith Wharton
Life’s just a perpetual piecing together.
By Agnes H. Downing
(In “The Progressive Woman.”)
The woman is censured with the idea of protecting morality. And the
man is let go; why? Nobody knows why. Because he is a man and no one
ever thought of punishing a man for a little thing like that.... Would
you avoid tragedies? Then advocate sex-equality. We will always have
individual and social tragedy so long as the woman is stoned and the man
goes free.