_Hen._ See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose?
What do I know of it but that 'tis fair?
And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews And goes to some sweet country of the sky, So cloud-like dost thou move before my love, From beauty coming that I may not see, To beauty going that I can but dream.
O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand, This miracle of warm, unmelting snow, This lily bit of thee that in my clasp Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote-- Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown!
Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare The darkest shadow of defeat that broods O'er sceptres and unfriended kings.
_Gla._ Why talk Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry, For if you love me you will stay with me.
_Hen._ Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top Review the sunny graces of the world, Plucking the smilingest to dearer love, Until the heart becomes the root and spring Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet As these bright children of the wedded sun And dewy earth!
_Gla._ I knew you'd stay, my brother!
You'll live with me!
_Hen._ But there's a world not this, O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch, Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood, Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop That rims the forehead of a king,--a world Where trampling armies and sedition's march Cut off the flowers of descanting love Ere they may sing their perfect word to man, And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies, Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths--
_Gla._ O, do not tell me, do not think of it!
_Hen._ I must. There is my world, and there my life Must grow to gracious end, if so it can.
If thou wouldst come, my living periapt, With virtue's gentle legend overwrit, I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek, Pure lily cloister of a praying rose, E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia?
_Gla._ Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me.
Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah, The whispering winds do never counsel false, And senatorial trees droop not their state To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be Your minister, the seasons your envoys And high ambassadors, bearing from His court The mortal olive of immortal love.
_Hen._ To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia, To bind me here; and if you love me true, You will not ask me where I go or stay, But that your feet may stay or go with mine.
Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips That all their life have ripened for this kiss.
[_Kisses her_]
O ruby purities! I would not give Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran Stored with the honey of a thousand suns Through the slow measure of as many years!
_Gla._ Do brothers talk like that?
_Hen._ I think not, sweet
_Gla._ But you will be my brother?
_Hen._ We shall see.
_Gla._ And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear All that you love in me is born of these Wild innocences that I live among, And far from here, all such sweet value lost, I'll be as others are in your mad world, Or wither mortally, even as the sprig A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough.
Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be Dear playmates ever, never growing old,-- Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us To come at will.
_Hen._ No, Glaia. Even now I must be gone. I came for this----to say I'd come again, and bid you watch for me.
A tear? O, love! One moment, then away!
[_Exeunt. Curtain_]
FOOTNOTE:
[65] Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
HARRY L. MARRINER
Harry Lee Marriner, newspaper poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 24, 1871, the son of a schoolman. He was educated by his father and in the public schools of his native city. He engaged in a dozen different businesses before he suddenly discovered that he could write, which discovery caused him to accept a position on the now defunct _Chicago Dispatch_, from which he went to _The Evening Post_, of Louisville, remaining with that paper for several years. In 1902 Mr. Marriner went to Texas and became assistant city editor of the _Dallas News_; and he has since filled practically all the editorial positions, being at the present time Sunday editor of both the _Dallas News_ and the _Galveston News_, which are under the same management.
In 1907 Mr. Marriner originated a feature consisting of a daily human interest poem, printed on the front page of his two papers. For some time he concealed his identity under the title of "The News Staff Poet," but in 1909 he discarded his cloak and came out into the sunlight of reality in order that his hundreds of admirers throughout the Southwest might be content. Mr. Marriner's "poetry" is rather homely verse based upon the everyday things and thoughts and experiences of everyday people. This verse has had a wonderful vogue in Texas and Oklahoma, and the surrounding States. Dealing with dogs and "kids," with sore toes and sentiment, with joys and griefs, dolls and ball gowns, country stores and city life, street cars and prairie schooners, mint-fringed creeks and bucking bronchos, it is a medley of everything human. The cream of his verse has been brought together in three charming little books: _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, 1909); _Joyous Days_ (Dallas, 1910); and _Mirthful Knights in Modern Days_ (Dallas, 1911). Mr. Marriner has written the lyrics for two musical comedies; and he has had short-stories in the periodicals.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriner to the Author; _The Dallas News_ (December 2, 1911).
WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR[66]
[From _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, 1909)]
How doth the mind of man go back to when he was a boy; When feet were full of tan and dust, and life was full of joy; But many a man looks back in fear, for in a time-worn chair, He sees himself draped in a sheet, while Mother cuts his hair.
The scissors drag, and sniffles rise when ears lop in the way, And on the porch rain locks of hair like tufts of prairie hay, 'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely hid, Looks on himself and views with pain the job that Mother did.
The mule may shed in summertime the felt that Nature grew, The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, too; But neither bears that patchwork look, that war map of despair, That zigzags on the small boy's head when Mother cuts his hair.
SIR GUMSHOO[67]
[From _Mirthful Knights in Modern Days_ (Dallas, 1911)]
Sir Gumshoo, known as Wot d'Ell, a noble Knight from Spain, Was one who was so strong a Pro he'd water on the brain.
He would not drink a dram at all, or even sniff at it, And just the sight of lager beer would throw him in a fit.
It chanced one day Sir Gumshoo rode upon a noble quest-- His lady had acquired a cold that settled on her chest, And to the rural districts he repaired, for it was plain He must secure some goosegrease that she might get well again.
He found a rude, bucolic rube who had goosegrease to sell; Sir Gumshoo bought about a quart, and all was going well When he who rendered geese to grease made him a stealthy sign And led him to a bottle filled with elderberry wine.
The Knight declined; he was a Pro, which fact he did explain; The farmer, sore disgusted, took his goosegrease back again, Whereat the Knight in anguish sore gave up himself for lost And took a fierce and fiery drink with all his fingers crossed.
That night he rode as rides a pig upon a circus steed; He clutched his charger 'round the neck, for he was stewed indeed, And, bowing to his lady fair, as bows the wind-tossed pine, He handed her part of a quart of elderberry wine.
FOOTNOTES:
[66] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.
[67] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.
LUCIEN V. RULE