Part 20 (1/2)
The man and woman who sat beside the shelter Were old and bent, Their faces thin and white.
They clasped their hands And looked into each other's face.
And then they turned and looked Upon the children.
A coal dropped into the picture, And the fitful fire died Into deepening shadows._
Next day the pall-bearers Bore two bodies away And lowered a single coffin Into a grave Beneath the snow-laden cedar.
A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLAND
A little maiden blue-jay, Fresh from her April morning bath, Sat on the limb of a weeping willow, Preening her s.h.i.+ning feathers And dreaming of a song To which she had listened On the afternoon of the preceding day.
A wild joy was in her heart And yet it took all the suns.h.i.+ne and song From a hundred other throats To withstand the gloom That seemed hovering just above her.
She was conscious of the threatening cloud, But her heart beat furiously And hope thrilled her bird-being With an unwonted light.
And yet she knew, When she dared to think at all, That it was a hopeless hope That flooded her soul with love-- A hope that must ere long Change to a black despair.
She lifted her crested head And looked toward the old beech tree Where her blue-jay lover now sat In melancholy gloom.
Why not raise her voice And gladden his heart?
He had been true and faithful For many weeks, And his suit would long since Have won another's love.
Why had she thrilled At the alien voice of another throat?
She had been a foolish maiden To have entertained so wild a thought.
But hark! Again the song!
On the topmost spire Of yonder Gothic poplar Sits a cardinal fop, In a coat of matchless red, And a beak of s.h.i.+ning ivory.
He lifts his sumach plume Into the glinting sunlight And sends a Cupid shaft From his beaded eye Into the trembling breast Of little maiden blue-jay.
Poor little mademoiselle!
Once more the notes Come whistling and glittering Like a shower of pearls Through the suns.h.i.+ne: ”Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay-- Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle, My little gazelle, and I love her well.
Fresh and sweet from her morning spray She sits on the willow and her crest is gay-- Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well.”
Down from his commanding height Flashed the cardinal flame And perched on another limb Of the weeping willow.
And then he strutted and pranced And capered and danced And shot his fiery glances Toward the modest little maiden Whose heart was now fluttering Beyond all control. Master blue-jay Over on the beech bough Saw the terrible tragedy That would follow in the wake of betrayal And was desperate to save this Psyche To whom he had often poured out his soul In amorous vows, Swearing by all the G.o.ds in birdland That there was none other beside her.
But like many another lover Of larger experience and better advantage, He forgot that the very way To lose his loved one Was to berate his rival, And lifting his reed To the upper register of a clarinet, He almost screamed:
”He's a liar, he is, by the G.o.d of all birds, A master of villainous art-- A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words, This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer, A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer-- He'll crush thy innocent heart.”
Poor little maiden blue-jay Heard his screams of anger and despair But heeded not the warning.
She only fluttered over To where the cardinal sat And threw herself under his protecting arm, Declaring her perfect faith In his undying love.
The red prince lifted His burning plume triumphantly Into the sunlight, And shot a contemptuous glance Toward the old beech tree.
Master Blue-Jay unable Longer to control himself, Darted like a lance of blue steel At the red coat.
But the high churchman was a skilled fencer, And stepped aside just in time To send his antagonist With terrible momentum Into the thorn tree Beyond the willow, Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered, Pinioned through his body By a sword-like thorn That projected from the trunk of the spiny tree.
It was a sight to touch the heart Of the most abandoned denizen of birdland.