Voices for the Speechless Part 15

Those weighty questions in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s revolving, Whose deeper meaning science never learns, Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, The speechless senate silently adjourns.

He knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys, Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt; Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies Forth to waste powder--as _he_ says, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction, Well pleased to discount your predestined luck; The float that figures in your sly transaction Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him!

Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes; Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him; One cannot always miss him if he tries!

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget?

Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow Its one long column scores thy creature's debt?

Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, A world grows dark with thee in blinding death; One little gasp,--thy universe has perished, Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

_From "My Aviary," by_ O. W. HOLMES.

THE SANDPIPER.

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach, I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,-- One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.

He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye.

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not G.o.d's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, a.s.sembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Ca.s.sandra-like, prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightway To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; The skeleton that waited at their feast, Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Rose the Preceptor,...

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong.

"Plato, antic.i.p.ating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

THEIR SONGS.

"The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain!

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought?

Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!

Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!

"Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old melodious madrigals of love!

And when you think of this, remember too 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

THEIR SERVICE TO MAN.

"Think of your woods and orchards without birds!

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

"What! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the gra.s.shopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvest keep a hundred harms.

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

THE CLAIMS OF GENTLENESS AND REVERENCE.

"How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, Is still a gleam of G.o.d's omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The selfsame light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach?"

The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

THE RESULT OF THEIR DESTRUCTION.

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the pa.s.sers-by, Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them off with just a little cry; They were the terror of each favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk.