Read Ebook: The Fraud of Feminism by Bax Ernest Belfort

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Ebook has 201 lines and 19688 words, and 5 pages

When, reckless of time and of trouble, I watch till the water fowl comes, Or, picking my steps in the stubble, I steal where the prairie hen drums; When shooting the wolf in the brushes, Or spearing the pike in the stream, Or potting the crane in the rushes-- Ambition seems only a dream.

When darkness envelops creation, And shadows lie deep on the plain, I sit in my rude habitation And ponder my childhood again; Then voices come out of the distance, Far voices from over the sea, They call from the depths of existence-- I know they are calling to me!

The voices of song and of motion, The voices of laughter and light, They're calling from over the ocean-- Oh, God! could I answer to-night! The voices of friend and of lover, The voices I knew in the past-- I turn to my pallet to smother The thoughts that have found me at last!

VAIN SUITORS

You may tell in fondest phrases How Venetian glory raises Sunlit domes and basking marbles as her streets flow to the sea; Sing of Florence or Geneva Or the Bay of Naples; weave a Web of sentiment--but leave a Little sentiment for me.

San Francisco's golden fulgor, Catalina's horticulture, Every symphony of gladness, every gaiety there be; Every land and every nation Somewhere claim your admiration: From your meed of approbation Save your fealty to me.

Cloudless skies and peerless weather Link my hearts and homes together And the crisp, pure air of Winter vitalizes blood and brain; Prairie breezes softly blowing, Wheat fields' rustle--cattle lowing-- Broader visions coming--growing-- Woo, O lands, ye woo in vain!

GOD'S SIGNALMAN

Well, no, I'm not superstitious,--at least, I don't call it that,-- But when someone spins a creepy yarn I don't deny it flat, For a man who spends a lifetime with the throttle in his hand Is bound to have adventures that he cannot understand; I sometimes think our knowledge here is but a sorry show,-- We're only on the borderland of what there is to know.

I used to think a man could know all things that could be known; That he should not acknowledge any power above his own; That, however strange the circumstance, there always is a cause That is in complete obedience to some of Nature's laws; But I couldn't shake conviction off, no matter how I tried, And I've changed my way of thinking since the night that Willie died.

Yes, Willie was my little son--my greatest earthly joy-- And wife and I just kind o' seemed to dote upon the boy; When I was out on duty she would hover round the lad, And treasure up his sayings to repeat them to his dad; And every night, at lighting time, I knew that, without fail, His baby lips were praying for the man out on the rail. . . .

Ah, well, for three short years we knew what such a treasure is, And we grew ever more attached to those sweet ways of his; When one day, swinging through the gate, I saw, with blanching face, My wife as pale as ashes, and a doctor in the place. . . . I tried to go in steady, but my knees were knocking hard, And the light went out of heaven as I staggered up the yard.

'Twas a little before midnight when a ring came at the bell, And the call-boy said, "Excuse me, sir, but I was sent to tell That Ninety-six is waiting, and there's no one else about; They're expecting you to take her. If you don't she can't go out." I left the answer to my wife. With lips as white as snow, She whispered, "Do your duty," and I said, "All right, I'll go."

My fireman knew my trouble, and in rough-and-ready way He let me know his heart was feeling things he couldn't say; The night was dark and moonless, but the bright stars overhead Seemed to whisper to each other, "His little boy is dead." The very locomotive seemed to read my thoughts aright, And the monster sobbed in sympathy as we bulleted the night.

We'd been running fast and steady till a little after two; All the passengers were fast asleep, except, perhaps, a few Who sat a-swapping stories in the smoker, when a sight Met my eyes that fairly froze my blood in terror and affright-- For there, before me, standing in the halo of the light Was a little child outlined against the blackness of the night!

Oh, I could not be mistaken, I would know him anywhere, With his father's mouth and forehead, and his mother's eyes and hair, And little arms outstretched to me that seemed to coax and say, "Come, Daddy, come and kiss me, for I'm going far away." I flung the brake and throttle, and amid the hissing steam The vision grew, and waned away, and vanished as a dream!

My fireman was beside me: "Your nerve is going, Jack; Let's leave the engine here and take a walk along the track. The exercise will do you good." I followed as he led, Until we reached the gorge about a hundred yards ahead: The night wind cooled my temples as we walked the bridge upon, Till we sudden stopped with a sudden gasp-- --THE CENTRE SPAN WAS GONE!

You may call it hallucination, as some of the others do, But I know that the Master took my boy that night at half-past two; And the prayers of a hundred passengers had been offered up in vain Had his spirit, clad in his baby dress, not stood before my train. . . . I know I cried in my window-seat, and was otherwise ill-behaved But the life that I lost was more to me than all the lives he saved.

GOING HOME

The village lights grew dim behind, the snow lay vast and white And silent as an icy shroud spread out upon the night; A wan moon struggled with the clouds and through the misty haze The trails that branched to left and right were tangled as a maze; The settler's horses plodded in the soft, uncertain snow; And, stealing cautiously behind, a Thing moved to and fro.

The trail was little travelled, and the pale, sad, sickly light Was hindrance, rather than a help, to read the road aright; A dozen miles lay stretched between the settler and his shack: He thought of many things that night--not once of turning back. Above the crunching of the snow he heard the rising wind, But never looked--and never saw--the Thing that stole behind.

The trail was lost; the horses took their way across the plain; The settler strove to hold the course, but strove, alas, in vain; The fickle wind seemed scarce to stay a moment at a place-- Now howling in a real attack, now snapping at his face; And nearing, leering, peering, in the ghastly, ghostly light, The Thing came softly after as it followed in the night.

A light! a light! a welcome light gleamed friendly from afar: Oh, can it be--it cannot be--'tis surely not a star? Nay, nay, it is more warm and near, a happy farmer's home That beckons to the wanderer, "You need no longer roam." With eager hope they hastened on, and plied across the plain; As often as the horses fell they rose to plunge again.

The hours moved on, the miles moved on, they followed as a dream The waning light, the dying light, of that deceitful gleam, And when at last it seemed the place must almost be in sight, The light went out! Oh, perfidy! Oh, murderous, mocking light! 'Twas well the ears grew deaf before the howling of the wind, Nor heard the ghoulish chuckle of the gloating Thing behind.

The room was warm and cosy, and the light was soft and low, Her presence seemed to radiate a tender, girlish glow, And when she placed her hand in his, the soft, caressing palm Was cure for every trouble, and for every pain a balm: And she whispered, "Sweet, my sweetheart, I'll be faithful, I'll be true; In the springtime, in the springtime, I will cross the sea to you." . . .

A little bed was fashioned in the fitful firelight glow; A little boy was murmuring a prayer of long ago; And mother-hands upon his head, that fondled in his hair, And sense of quiet comfort and respite from every care; And a pillow white and downy, and a bed so soft and deep, And tired lips were lisping, "Now I lay me down to sleep." . . .

Again the scene was changed: A flood of mellow, amber light, That filled the soul with ecstasy of infinite delight; While crystal-cadenced music tinkled through the yellow glow, The lullabies of childhood and the songs of long ago; The sea of God on every hand in silent silver lay: An atom fell: its circles spread through all eternity.

The Thing was gone; its work was done; a lump of lifeless clay Sat crouching, crouching, crouching in the dawning of the day; The frozen eyeballs stared upon a wilderness of snow, And peered into the future, to the Place no man may know. A she-wolf prowled about the spot, and sniffed below the sleigh, And howled a melancholy howl, and slunk in fear away.

JUST BE GLAD

Feelin' kind of all run down? Mighty bad: Sick and tired o' life in town? Don't be sad: What you're needing isn't rest: Square your shoulders, raise your chest; Pack your turkey; go out West-- Just be glad!

Gone astray in No-Man's-Land? Silly lad! Ought to have your carcass tanned With a gad: Should ha' kept the narrow track: Never mind, you can't go back; Things may not be quite so black-- Just be glad!

Gone and blown in all your cash On a fad? Livin' now on soup and hash? Writin' Dad? Don't you do it. Here's a tip; Keep a good stiff upper lip; Needn't fall because you slip-- Just be glad!

Friends refuse to help you out? Don't get mad! You would be a lazy lout If they had. Do not envy place or pelf; Praise the Lord, you've got your health; Dig in! Be a man yourself-- Just be glad!

All the world may say or do, Good or bad, Isn't anything to you-- Just be glad! Though you work at book or trade, Though you work with pen or spade, Hump yourself--you'll make the grade-- Just be glad!

THE CANADIAN ROCKIES

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes," Of old the Psalmist sung, And we who clutch the worldly prize, With Earth's distractions wrung, Still turn our fevered fancy's gaze Where snowy summits greet the day, Where Nature guards her mysteries, And Time becomes Eternity

Where, changeless in eternal change, The Rockies clip the clouds, And glacial lakes and granite range Sleep, in their snowy shrouds; Where silence hushes discontent, And petty fears are lost in space, The Builder of the firmament Still meets His people, face to face!

O barren cares that bitter life, O hopes unwisely dear, O fruitless fallacy and strife, O social, sham veneer!-- I to the hills will lift mine eyes, Where mantling cloud or cornice clings, To catch a glimpse of paradise, And turn again--to little things!

A PRAIRIE HEROINE

They were running out the try-lines, they were staking out the grade; Through the hills they had to measure, through the sloughs they had to wade; They were piercing unknown regions, they were crossing nameless streams, With the prairie for a pillow and the sky above their dreams, They were mapping unborn cities in the age-long pregnant clay: When they came upon a little mound across the right-of-way.

There were violets growing on it, and a buttercup or two, That whispered of affection ever old and ever new, And a little ring of whitewashed stones, bright in the summer sun, But of marble slab or granite pile or pillar there was none; And across the sleeping prairie lay a little, low-built shack, With a garden patch before it and a wheat field at its back.

"Well, boys, we'd better see him, and he hadn't ought to kick, For we'll give him time to move it if he does it pretty quick." But scarcely had the foreman spoke when straight across the farm They saw the settler coming with a rifle on his arm; Some would ha' hiked for cover but they had no place to run, But most of them decided they would stay and see the fun.

The farmer was the first to speak: "I hate to interfere, And mighty glad I am to see the railway comin' near, But before you drive your pickets across this piece of land You ought to hear the story, or you will not understand: It's the story of a girl who was as true as she was brave, And all that now remains of her is in that little grave.

"I didn't want to bring her when I hit the trail out West, I knew I shouldn't do it, and I did my level best To coax her not to come out for a year or two at least, But to stay and take it easy with her friends down in the East; But while I coaxed and argued I was feelin' mighty glum, And right down in my heart I kep' a-hopin' she would come.

"Well, by rail and boat and saddle we got out here at last, A-livin' in the future, and forgettin' of the past; We built ourselves a little home, and in our work and care It seemed to me she always took what was the lion's share; God knows just what she suffered, but she hid it with a smile, And made out that she thought I was the only thing worth while.

"She stood it through the summer and the warm, brown days of fall, And of all the voices calling her she would not hear the call; But when the winter settled with its cold, white pall of snow She seemed to whiten with it, but she thought I didn't know; She tried to keep her spirits up and laugh my fears away, But I saw her growing thin and ever weaker day by day.

"At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I said, 'I think you'd better try and spend a day or two in bed While I go for a doctor. It's only sixty miles.' She gave a little wistful look, half hidden in her smiles, And said, 'Perhaps you'd better, though I think I'll be all right When the spring comes.' . . . Well, I started out that night.

"I made the trip on horseback, by the guiding Polar star And a dozen times the distance never seemed one half so far. But the doctor had gone out of town,--just where, no one could say, And a lump rose in my chest that fairly took my breath away. But I daren't stay there thinking, and my search for him was vain, So I bought some wine and brandy and I started home again.

"Forgetful of my horse, I spent the whole night on the road, Till early in the morning he collapsed beneath his load; I saw the brute was done for, and although it made me cry, I hacked into his jug'lar vein and left him there to die; And then I shouldered the supplies and staggered on alone, And thinking of my wife's distress I quite forgot my own.

"She must ha' watched all night for me, for in the morning grey She saw me stagger in the snow and fall beside the way And God knows how she did it--she was only skin and bone-- But she came out here and found me and dragged me home alone, And she took the precious liquor that had cost us all so dear, And poured it down this worthless hulk that's standin' blatin' here. . . .

"I guess you know what happened--I lived, she passed away; I robed her in her wedding-dress and laid her in the clay; And every spring I plant the flowers that grow upon her grave, For I hold the spot as sacred as the Arimathaen's cave; And when the winter snows have come, and all is white and still, I spread a blanket on the mound to keep out frost and chill.

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