Part 14

Silas Dement

It was moon-light, and the earth sparkled With new-fallen frost. It was midnight and not a soul abroad. Out of the chimney of the court-house A gray-hound of smoke leapt and chased The northwest wind. I carried a ladder to the landing of the stairs And leaned it against the frame of the trap-door In the ceiling of the portico, And I crawled under the roof and amid the rafters And flung among the seasoned timbers A lighted handful of oil-soaked waste. Then I came down and slunk away. In a little while the fire-bell rang— Clang! Clang! Clang! And the Spoon River ladder company Came with a dozen buckets and began to pour water On the glorious bon-fire, growing hotter Higher and brighter, till the walls fell in And the limestone columns where Lincoln stood Crashed like trees when the woodman fells them. When I came back from Joliet There was a new court house with a dome. For I was punished like all who destroy The past for the sake of the future.

Dillard Sissman

The buzzards wheel slowly In wide circles, in a sky Faintly hazed as from dust from the road. And a wind sweeps through the pasture where I lie Beating the grass into long waves. My kite is above the wind, Though now and then it wobbles, Like a man shaking his shoulders; And the tail streams out momentarily, Then sinks to rest. And the buzzards wheel and wheel, Sweeping the zenith with wide circles Above my kite. And the hills sleep. And a farm house, white as snow, Peeps from green trees—far away. And I watch my kite, For the thin moon will kindle herself ere long, Then she will swing like a pendulum dial To the tail of my kite. A spurt of flame like a water-dragon Dazzles my eyes— I am shaken as a banner!

Jonathan Houghton

There is the caw of a crow, And the hesitant song of a thrush. There is the tinkle of a cowbell far away, And the voice of a plowman on Shipley’s hill. The forest beyond the orchard is still With midsummer stillness; And along the road a wagon chuckles, Loaded with corn, going to Atterbury. And an old man sits under a tree asleep, And an old woman crosses the road, Coming from the orchard with a bucket of blackberries. And a boy lies in the grass Near the feet of the old man, And looks up at the sailing clouds, And longs, and longs, and longs For what, he knows not: For manhood, for life, for the unknown world! Then thirty years passed, And the boy returned worn out by life And found the orchard vanished, And the forest gone, And the house made over, And the roadway filled with dust from automobiles— And himself desiring The Hill!

E. C. Culbertson

Is it true, Spoon River, That in the hall—way of the New Court House There is a tablet of bronze Containing the embossed faces Of Editor Whedon and Thomas Rhodes? And is it true that my successful labors In the County Board, without which Not one stone would have been placed on another, And the contributions out of my own pocket To build the temple, are but memories among the people, Gradually fading away, and soon to descend With them to this oblivion where I lie? In truth, I can so believe. For it is a law of the Kingdom of Heaven That whoso enters the vineyard at the eleventh hour Shall receive a full day’s pay. And it is a law of the Kingdom of this World That those who first oppose a good work Seize it and make it their own, When the corner—stone is laid, And memorial tablets are erected.

Shack Dye

The white men played all sorts of jokes on me. They took big fish off my hook And put little ones on, while I was away Getting a stringer, and made me believe I hadn’t seen aright the fish I had caught. When Burr Robbins circus came to town They got the ring master to let a tame leopard Into the ring, and made me believe I was whipping a wild beast like Samson When I, for an offer of fifty dollars, Dragged him out to his cage. One time I entered my blacksmith shop And shook as I saw some horse-shoes crawling Across the floor, as if alive— Walter Simmons had put a magnet Under the barrel of water. Yet everyone of you, you white men, Was fooled about fish and about leopards too, And you didn’t know any more than the horse-shoes did What moved you about Spoon River.

Hildrup Tubbs

I made two fights for the people. First I left my party, bearing the gonfalon Of independence, for reform, and was defeated. Next I used my rebel strength To capture the standard of my old party— And I captured it, but I was defeated. Discredited and discarded, misanthropical, I turned to the solace of gold And I used my remnant of power To fasten myself like a saprophyte Upon the putrescent carcass Of Thomas Rhodes, bankrupt bank, As assignee of the fund. Everyone now turned from me. My hair grew white, My purple lusts grew gray, Tobacco and whisky lost their savor And for years Death ignored me As he does a hog.

Henry Tripp

The bank broke and I lost my savings. I was sick of the tiresome game in Spoon River And I made up my mind to run away And leave my place in life and my family; But just as the midnight train pulled in, Quick off the steps jumped Cully Green And Martin Vise, and began to fight To settle their ancient rivalry, Striking each other with fists that sounded Like the blows of knotted clubs. Now it seemed to me that Cully was winning, When his bloody face broke into a grin Of sickly cowardice, leaning on Martin And whining out “We’re good friends, Mart, You know that I’m your friend.” But a terrible punch from Martin knocked him Around and around and into a heap. And then they arrested me as a witness, And I lost my train and staid in Spoon River To wage my battle of life to the end. Oh, Cully Green, you were my savior— You, so ashamed and drooped for years, Loitering listless about the streets, And tying rags round your festering soul, Who failed to fight it out.

Granville Calhoun

I wanted to be County Judge One more term, so as to round out a service Of thirty years. But my friends left me and joined my enemies, And they elected a new man. Then a spirit of revenge seized me, And I infected my four sons with it, And I brooded upon retaliation, Until the great physician, Nature, Smote me through with paralysis To give my soul and body a rest. Did my sons get power and money? Did they serve the people or yoke them, To till and harvest fields of self? For how could they ever forget My face at my bed-room window, Sitting helpless amid my golden cages Of singing canaries, Looking at the old court-house?

Henry C. Calhoun

I reached the highest place in Spoon River, But through what bitterness of spirit! The face of my father, sitting speechless, Child-like, watching his canaries, And looking at the court-house window Of the county judge’s room, And his admonitions to me to seek My own in life, and punish Spoon River To avenge the wrong the people did him, Filled me with furious energy To seek for wealth and seek for power. But what did he do but send me along The path that leads to the grove of the Furies? I followed the path and I tell you this: On the way to the grove you’ll pass the Fates, Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving. Stop for a moment, and if you see The thread of revenge leap out of the shuttle Then quickly snatch from Atropos The shears and cut it, lest your sons And the children of them and their children Wear the envenomed robe.

Alfred Moir

Why was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones? Why, with all of my errant steps Did I miss the fate of Willard Fluke? And why, though I stood at Burchard’s bar, As a sort of decoy for the house to the boys To buy the drinks, did the curse of drink Fall on me like rain that runs off, Leaving the soul of me dry and clean? And why did I never kill a man Like Jack McGuire? But instead I mounted a little in life, And I owe it all to a book I read. But why did I go to Mason City, Where I chanced to see the book in a window, With its garish cover luring my eye? And why did my soul respond to the book, As I read it over and over?

Perry Zoll

My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association, For this modest boulder, And its little tablet of bronze. Twice I tried to join your honored body, And was rejected And when my little brochure On the intelligence of plants Began to attract attention You almost voted me in. After that I grew beyond the need of you And your recognition. Yet I do not reject your memorial stone Seeing that I should, in so doing, Deprive you of honor to yourselves.

Dippold the Optician

What do you see now? Globes of red, yellow, purple. Just a moment! And now? My father and mother and sisters. Yes! And now? Knights at arms, beautiful women, kind faces. Try this. A field of grain—a city. Very good! And now? A young woman with angels bending over her. A heavier lens! And now? Many women with bright eyes and open lips. Try this. Just a goblet on a table. Oh I see! Try this lens! Just an open space—I see nothing in particular. Well, now! Pine trees, a lake, a summer sky. That’s better. And now? A book. Read a page for me. I can’t. My eyes are carried beyond the page. Try this lens. Depths of air. Excellent! And now! Light, just light making everything below it a toy world. Very well, we’ll make the glasses accordingly.

Magrady Graham

Tell me, was Altgeld elected Governor? For when the returns began to come in And Cleveland was sweeping the East It was too much for you, poor old heart, Who had striven for democracy In the long, long years of defeat. And like a watch that is worn I felt you growing slower until you stopped. Tell me, was Altgeld elected, And what did he do? Did they bring his head on a platter to a dancer, Or did he triumph for the people? For when I saw him And took his hand, The child-like blueness of his eyes Moved me to tears, And there was an air of eternity about him, Like the cold, clear light that rests at dawn On the hills!

Archibald Higbie

I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you, I was ashamed of you. I despised you As the place of my nativity. And there in Rome, among the artists, Speaking Italian, speaking French, I seemed to myself at times to be free Of every trace of my origin. I seemed to be reaching the heights of art And to breathe the air that the masters breathed And to see the world with their eyes. But still they’d pass my work and say: “What are you driving at, my friend? Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.” There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River And I burned with shame and held my peace. And what could I do, all covered over And weighted down with western soil Except aspire, and pray for another Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River Rooted out of my soul?