Recitations for the Social Circle Part 8

I will wed no maiden of high degree With the tips of her fingers henna-stained And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained, But a child of nature wild and free."

Then the slave bent low and said: "O Sire, A woman lingers beside the gate; Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire And she mourns as one disconsolate; And when we bid her to cease and go, Each eye grows bright, like an evening star, And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe, For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'"

"Bid her to enter," the master said, And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled.

The hasty word on his lip way stayed As he thought of his youth, in the land afar, And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid, In the desert places of Khandakar.

The woman entered and swift unwound The veil that mantled her face around, And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed, In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid.

The indolent lord of Ispahan Started back on the silk divan, For in form and feature, in very truth, It seemed the love of his early youth.

The almond eyes and the midnight hair, The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin-- Time had not touched them; they still were fair, And the pa.s.sion of yore grew strong within.

Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, Which only dishonor can fail to heed; The solemn pact of the races nine, To help each other in time of need.

But her eyes beheld no answering sign, Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, And the trembling maiden could not divine The will of the lord of Ispahan.

With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, The voice of the woman her lips forsook; And thus her tale of despair began In the lordly palace of Ispahan:

"On a stallion black as the midnight skies, From a desert I come, where my lover lies At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan That struck him down, are in Ispahan With slaves to sell, in the open street; And only because my steed was fleet Am I now free; but here I bide, For this morning the hard-rid stallion died.

Out of your opulence, one swift steed Only a drop from the sea will be; A grain of sand on the sh.o.r.e, to my need; But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me.

My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide, And the pain of longing all peace denies, To the heart that strains to my lover's side."

"You shall mourn no more, but sit with me And rejoice in a scene of revelry; For the pleasures of life are the rights of man,"

Said the indolent lord of Ispahan.

The curtains parted and noiseless feet Of dusky slaves stole over the floor.

Their strong arms laden with burden sweet Of fruits and flowers a goodly store.

Luscious peaches and apricots, Plucked from the sunniest garden spots; Syrian apples and cordials rare; Succulent grapes that filled the air With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, From beakers of wine from Astrakhan; Cooling salvers of colored ice; Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; Smoking viands, on plates of gold, And carven vessels of price untold, Kindling the appet.i.te afresh For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh.

The musical notes of the mellow flute, From a source remote, rose higher and higher, With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre.

Then a whirlwind of color filled the air-- A misty vapor of filmy lace, With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, In a mazy whirl of infinite grace; And the l.u.s.trous glow of tresses blent With the shimmer of pearls, from the Orient.

The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, A swelling burst of sensuous sound, Sank lower to swell and sink again, Then died in silence most profound.

The panting beauties with cheeks aglow, Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor, Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, Or tinted sea-sh.e.l.ls along the sh.o.r.e.

But the lord of the palace turned and cried; "Heavy and languid these maidens are."

And he said, to the Bedouin at his side: "Teach them the dances of Khandakar."

Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, And she said: "You will pity my need most dire?

You will give me steed to fly afar, To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?"

"Half that I own shall be yours," he said, "If the love of my youth that was under ban Comes back to me like a soul from the dead Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan."

She sprang to the floor with an agile bound.

The music broke in a swirl of sound, Her hair from its fillet became unbound.

And the dancing-girls that stood apart, Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart, At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace Of the dancing-girl from the desert race.

Not one of them half so fair to see; Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist Of twirling body and bending knee, Of supple ankle and curving wrist.

The wilder the music, the wilder she; It seemed like the song of a bird set free To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist And live on its own mad ecstasy.

Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan, Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan.

But the thoughts of the master were drifting far To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar; To the time when another had danced as well, And listened with tenderness in her eyes, To the burning words his lips might tell, With kisses freighting her soft replies.

And he had thought that her smile would bless His roving life, in the land afar, And cheer him in hours of loneliness, In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar.

But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, And the flattered woman had turned and fled From the pleading voice of a stricken man; Then out of the desert the lover sped, To become a great lord of Ispahan.

And now this child, with the subtle grace Of the mother that bore her, had come to him With the desert's breath upon her face, Rousing within him a purpose grim.

"By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be The light and the joy of my life to me!

As your mother was, you are to-day.

Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span; You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay As the wife of the lord of Ispahan."

That night, when the dusky shadows crept Across the tiles of the banquet-room, They found the form of a man who slept On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom.

The window screens were wide to the air, And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where A frightened fugitive might pa.s.s through.

And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, Wakened not at the prancing tread Of the milk-white steed and made no sign, As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled.

And the indolent lord of Ispahan Seemed resting still, on the silk divan; But his heart was beating with love no more, In his eyes no light of pa.s.sion gleamed; His listless fingers touched the floor, Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep; For the end had come to life's brief span; And his jewelled dagger was handle deep, In the heart of the lord of Ispahan.

HORNETS.

BY BILL NYE.

Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory, with a red place all around it.

Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud.

When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to sc.r.a.pe them off, because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct toward a hornet.

I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is forever new.

SINCE SHE WENT HOME.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

Since she went home-- The evening shadows linger longer here, The winter days fill so much of the year, And even summer winds are chill and drear, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The robin's note has touched a minor strain, The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- How still the empty room her presence blessed; Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The long, long days have crept away like years, The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, Since she went home.

THE CHILDREN WE KEEP.

The children kept coming, one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three, And the big brown house was alive with fun From the bas.e.m.e.nt floor to the old roof-tree.

Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care; Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in its dew, They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, "I'm tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."

She cradled him close in her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lighted his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"

Stole softly away into paradise Ere "the river" had reached her slender feet.

While the father's eyes on the grave are bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies; "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent, Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."