And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard, Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn-- God pity the woman who falls before them!
They closed the door for evermore On the contrite heart which repented sore, And she stood alone, in the outer night, To feed her baby as best she might.
So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, The gown off her back, the shawl off her head, Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself.
And so it came that Margery's name Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame, And Margery's face grew familiar in The market-place where they trade in sin.
What use to dwell on this premature Hell?
Suffice it to say that the child did well, Till one night that Margery prowled the town, Sickness was stalking, and struck her down.
Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last, Of all she had to be pawned or sold, To keep her darling from hunger and cold.
So the baby pined, till Margery, blind With hunger of fever, in body and mind, At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand, Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand.
Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw, And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw: Not a sparrow falls, they say--Oh well!
God was not looking when Margery fell.
With irons girt, in her felon's shirt, Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt, A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray, With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay.
See-saw! Margery Daw!
What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law!
It makes all smooth--for she's out of her head, And her brat is provided for. It's dead.
WILLIAM H. WOODS
William Hervey Woods, poet, was born near Greensburg, Kentucky, November 17, 1852, the son of a clergyman. He was educated at Hampden-Sidney College, in Virginia, after which he studied for the church at Union Theological Seminary, Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Woods was ordained to the ministry of the Southern Presbyterian church in 1878; and since 1887 he has been pastor of the Franklin Square church at Baltimore. For the past several years he has contributed poems to _Scribner's_, _Harper's_, _The Century_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Youth's Companion_, _The Independent_, and several other periodicals.
This verse was collected and published in a pleasing little volume of some hundred and fifty pages under the title of _The Anteroom and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911). As is true of the purely literary labors of most clergymen, a few of the poems are somewhat marred by the homiletical tone--they simply must point a moral, even though that moral does not adorn the tale. Several of the poems reveal the author's love for his birthplace, Kentucky; and, taken as a whole, the book is one of which any of our singers might be proud.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (January 16, 1912); _Scribner's Magazine_ (July; August, 1912).
SYCAMORES[9]
[From _The Anteroom and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911)]
They love no crowded forest dark, They climb no mountains high, But ranged along the pleasant vale Where shining waters lie, Their brown coats curling open show A silvery undergleam, Like the white limbs of laughing boys Half ready for the stream.
What if they yield no harvests sweet, Nor massive timbers sound, And all their summer leafage casts But scanty shade around; Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance, Their young leaves laugh in tune, And there's no lad in all the land Knows better when 'tis June.
They come from groves of Arcady, Or some lost Land of Mirth, That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed May not possess the earth, And though they neither toil nor spin, Nor fruitful duties pay, They also serve, mayhap, who help The world keep holiday.
FOOTNOTE:
[9] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.
ANDREW W. KELLEY
Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preeminent of life on a country newspaper, was born in the state of New York about 1852. When twenty years of age he left Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873 he settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder of his life. He was associate editor of Opie Read's paper, _The Patriot_, for some time, but when that sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post until a kindly death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York girl, all things were ready for the celebration of the ceremony, when the bride-to-be suddenly changed her mind, and poor _Parmenas Mix_ was thus started in the drunkard's path. He planned to go East for several years prior to his death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he sat in his room and dreamed his life away. Kelley died at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried in the potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition was wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place of his grave can only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote many poems, nearly all of which celebrated some phase of life on a country newspaper, but his masterpiece is _The Old Scissors' Soliloquy_, which was originally published in _Scribner's Monthly_--now _The Century Magazine_--for April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac Department," illustrated with a single tail-piece sketch of editorial scissors "lying at rest"
upon newspaper clippings, with "a whopping big rat in the paste." Many of his other poems were also published in _Scribner's_. _The New Doctor_, _Accepted and Will Appeal_, and _He Came to Pay_, done in the manner of Bret Harte's _The Aged Stranger_, are exceedingly clever. A slender collection of his poems could be easily made, and should be.
Opie Read wrote a tender tribute to the memory of his former friend, in which his merits were thus summed up: "The country has surely produced greater poets than 'Parmenas Mix,' but I doubt if we shall ever know a truer lover of Nature's divine impulses. He lightened the heart and made it tender, surely a noble mission; he talked to the lowly, he flashed the diamond of his genius into many a dark recess. He preached the gospel of good will; he sang a beautiful song."
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892); _Poetry of American Wit and Humor_, by R. L.
Paget (Boston, 1899).
THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY
[From _Scribner's Monthly_, April, 1876]
I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,-- The place is deserted and still,-- To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, To my left are the ink and the quill-- Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint, And refuses to write with a pen; He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben.
I love the old fellow--together for years We have managed the _Farmer's Gazette_, And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears And can crowd the compositors yet.
But my duties are rather too heavy, I think, And I oftentimes envy the quill As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink While I'm slashing away with a will.
But when I was new,--I remember it well, Though a score of long years have gone by,-- The heaviest share of the editing fell On the quill, and I think with a sigh Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two From a neighboring editor's leader, Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew In behalf of the general reader.
I am being paid off for my merriment then, For my master is wrinkled and gray, And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen Except when he wishes to say: "We are needing some money to run this machine, And subscribers will please to remit;"
Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green, And so knotty it couldn't be split."
He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter), And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find Head or tale to the most of his matter.
The compositors plague him whenever they see The result of a luckless endeavor, But the darling old rascal just lays it to me, And I make no remonstrance whatever.
Yes, I shoulder the blame--very little I care For the jolly compositor's jest, For I think of a head with the silvery hair That will soon, very soon be at rest.
He has labored full long for the true and the good 'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us-- His only emolument raiment and food, And--a pass, now and then, to the circus.
Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright Of a lass with the freshness of clover Who used me to clip from her tresses one night A memorial lock for her lover.
That dear little lock is still glossy and brown, But the lass is much older and fatter, And the youth--he's an editor here in the town-- I'm employed on the staff of the latter.
I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night-- The place is deserted and still-- The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight Through the trees on the brow of the hill.
Clouds hurry along in undignified haste And the wind rushes by with a wail-- Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste-- How I'd like to shut down on his tail!
LATE NEWS
[From _Scribner's Monthly_, December, 1876]
In the sanctum I was sitting, Engaged in thought befitting A gentleman of letters--dunning letters, by the way-- When a seedy sort of fellow, Middle-aged and rather mellow, Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?"
Then I smiled on him serenely-- On the stranger dressed so meanly-- And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate; And that the troops in Flanders, Both privates and commanders, Had been dealing very freely in profanity of late.
Then the stranger, quite demurely, Said, "That's interesting, surely; Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear; Though excuse me, sir, for stating That the facts you've been narrating Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!"