Part 11

In the days that are gone when a statue was wanted In park or museum where statues must be, A chivalrous male would come forward undaunted And say: "If you must have one, make it of me. Bad though they be, yet I'll agree If you must make them, why make them of me."

But chivalry's dead, as I always expected Since women would not let things stay as they were; So now, I suppose, when a statue's erected Men will say brutally: "Make it of her." She may prefer things as they were When they start making the statues of her.

Male Philosophy

Men are very brave, you know, That was settled long ago; Ask, however, if you doubt it, Any man you meet about it; He will say, I think, like me, Men are brave as they can be.

Women think they're brave, you say? Do they really? Well, they may, But such biased attestation Is not worth consideration, For a legal judgment shelves What they say about themselves.

From a Man's Point of View

Women love self-sacrifice Suffering and good advice; If they don't love these sincerely Then they're not true women really. Oh, it shocks me so to note Women pleading for the vote! Saying publicly it would Educate and do them good. Such a selfish reason trips Oddly from a woman's lips. But it must not be supposed I am in the least opposed. If they want it let them try it. For I think we'll profit by it.

Glory

I went to see old Susan Gray, Whose soldier sons had marched away, And this is what she had to say:

"It isn't war I hate at all-- 'Tis likely men must fight-- But, oh, these flags and uniforms, It's them that isn't right! If war must come, and come it does To take our boys from play, It isn't right to make it seem So beautiful and gay."

I left old Susan with a sigh; A famous band was marching by To make men glad they had to die.

Dependence

(An Englishwoman whose income has stopped owing to her two sons having joined the English army, was taken care of last night at the Florence Crittenden Mission.--Press Clipping.)

The young men said to their mother, "Hear us, O dearest and best! Time cannot cool or smother The love of you in our breast; Here is your place and no other-- Come home and rest."

And the mother's heart was grateful For the love of her cherished ones, And her labor, bitter and hateful, She left at the word of her sons, Till she heard far off the fateful Voices of guns.

Their love did more enslave her; They did not understand That none could guard or save her When war was on the land, But herself, and God, who gave her Heart and mind and hand.

Playthings

Last year the shops were crowded With soldier suits and guns-- The presents that at Christmas time We give our little sons; And many a glittering trumpet And many a sword and drum; But as they're made in Germany This year they will not come.

Perhaps another season We shall not give our boys Such very warlike playthings, Such military toys; Perhaps another season We shall not think it sweet To watch their game of soldier men, Who dream not of defeat.

Militants

Hippolta, Penthesilea, Maria Teresa and Joan, Agustina and Boadicea And some militant girls of our own-- It would take a brave man and a dull one To say to these ladies: "Of course We adore you while meek, Timid, clinging and weak, But a woman can never use force."

A Lady's Choice

Her old love in tears and silence had been building her a palace Ringed by moats and flanked with towers, he had set it on a hill "Here," he said, "will come no whisper of the world's alarms and malice, In these granite walls imprisoned, I will keep you safe from ill."

As he spoke along the highway there came riding by a stranger, For an instant on her features, he a fleeting glance bestowed, Then he said: "My heart is fickle and the world is full of danger," And he offered her his stirrup and he pointed down the road.

The Ballad of Lost Causes

(About 465 years after Villon.)

Tell me in what spot remote Do the antis dwell to-day, Those who did not want to vote, Feared their sex's prompt decay? Where are those who used to say: "Home alone is woman's sphere; Only those should vote who slay"? Where the snows of yester-year?

Where are those who used to quote Nietzsche's words in dread array? Where the ancient crones who wrote: "Women rule through Beauty's sway"? And those lovers, where are they, Who could hold no woman dear If she had the ballot? Nay! Where the snows of yester-year?