Part 5

The Town Marshal

The Prohibitionists made me Town Marshal When the saloons were voted out, Because when I was a drinking man, Before I joined the church, I killed a Swede At the saw-mill near Maple Grove. And they wanted a terrible man, Grim, righteous, strong, courageous, And a hater of saloons and drinkers, To keep law and order in the village. And they presented me with a loaded cane With which I struck Jack McGuire Before he drew the gun with which he killed me. The Prohibitionists spent their money in vain To hang him, for in a dream I appeared to one of the twelve jurymen And told him the whole secret story. Fourteen years were enough for killing me.

Jack McGuire

They would have lynched me Had I not been secretly hurried away To the jail at Peoria. And yet I was going peacefully home, Carrying my jug, a little drunk, When Logan, the marshal, halted me Called me a drunken hound and shook me And, when I cursed him for it, struck me With that Prohibition loaded cane— All this before I shot him. They would have hanged me except for this: My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank, And the judge was a friend of Rhodes And wanted him to escape, And Kinsey offered to quit on Rhodes For fourteen years for me. And the bargain was made. I served my time And learned to read and write.

Jacob Goodpasture

When Fort Sumter fell and the war came I cried out in bitterness of soul: “O glorious republic now no more!” When they buried my soldier son To the call of trumpets and the sound of drums My heart broke beneath the weight Of eighty years, and I cried: “Oh, son who died in a cause unjust! In the strife of Freedom slain!” And I crept here under the grass. And now from the battlements of time, behold: Thrice thirty million souls being bound together In the love of larger truth, Rapt in the expectation of the birth Of a new Beauty, Sprung from Brotherhood and Wisdom. I with eyes of spirit see the Transfiguration Before you see it. But ye infinite brood of golden eagles nesting ever higher, Wheeling ever higher, the sun-light wooing Of lofty places of Thought, Forgive the blindness of the departed owl.

Dorcas Gustine

I was not beloved of the villagers, But all because I spoke my mind, And met those who transgressed against me With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing Nor secret griefs nor grudges. That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised, Who hid the wolf under his cloak, Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly. It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth And fight him openly, even in the street, Amid dust and howls of pain. The tongue may be an unruly member— But silence poisons the soul. Berate me who will—I am content.

Nicholas Bindle

Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens, When my estate was probated and everyone knew How small a fortune I left?— You who hounded me in life, To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor, To the village!—me who had already given much. And think you not I did not know That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church, Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes, Who broke and all but ruined me, Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?

Harold Arnett

I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick, Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, Weak from the noon-day heat. A church bell sounded mournfully far away, I heard the cry of a baby, And the coughing of John Yarnell, Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying, Then the violent voice of my wife: “Watch out, the potatoes are burning!” I smelled them . . . then there was irresistible disgust. I pulled the trigger . . . blackness . . . light . . . Unspeakable regret . . . fumbling for the world again. Too late! Thus I came here, With lungs for breathing . . . one cannot breathe here with lungs, Though one must breathe Of what use is it To rid one’s self of the world, When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?

Margaret Fuller Slack

I would have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep—set eyes— Gray, too, and far-searching. But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write. It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby’s things, And died from lock—jaw, an ironical death. Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life.

George Trimble

Do you remember when I stood on the steps Of the Court House and talked free-silver, And the single-tax of Henry George? Then do you remember that, when the Peerless Leader Lost the first battle, I began to talk prohibition, And became active in the church? That was due to my wife, Who pictured to me my destruction If I did not prove my morality to the people. Well, she ruined me: For the radicals grew suspicious of me, And the conservatives were never sure of me— And here I lie, unwept of all.

Dr. Siegfried Iseman

I said when they handed me my diploma, I said to myself I will be good And wise and brave and helpful to others; I said I will carry the Christian creed Into the practice of medicine! Somehow the world and the other doctors Know what’s in your heart as soon as you make This high-souled resolution. And the way of it is they starve you out. And no one comes to you but the poor. And you find too late that being a doctor Is just a way of making a living. And when you are poor and have to carry The Christian creed and wife and children All on your back, it is too much! That’s why I made the Elixir of Youth, Which landed me in the jail at Peoria Branded a swindler and a crook By the upright Federal Judge!

“Ace” Shaw

I never saw any difference Between playing cards for money And selling real estate, Practicing law, banking, or anything else. For everything is chance. Nevertheless Seest thou a man diligent in business? He shall stand before Kings!

Lois Spears

Here lies the body of Lois Spears, Born Lois Fluke, daughter of Willard Fluke, Wife of Cyrus Spears, Mother of Myrtle and Virgil Spears, Children with clear eyes and sound limbs— (I was born blind) I was the happiest of women As wife, mother and housekeeper. Caring for my loved ones, And making my home A place of order and bounteous hospitality: For I went about the rooms, And about the garden With an instinct as sure as sight, As though there were eyes in my finger tips— Glory to God in the highest.

Justice Arnett

It is true, fellow citizens, That my old docket lying there for years On a shelf above my head and over The seat of justice, I say it is true That docket had an iron rim Which gashed my baldness when it fell— (Somehow I think it was shaken loose By the heave of the air all over town When the gasoline tank at the canning works Blew up and burned Butch Weldy)— But let us argue points in order, And reason the whole case carefully: First I concede my head was cut, But second the frightful thing was this: The leaves of the docket shot and showered Around me like a deck of cards In the hands of a sleight of hand performer. And up to the end I saw those leaves Till I said at last, “Those are not leaves, Why, can’t you see they are days and days And the days and days of seventy years? And why do you torture me with leaves And the little entries on them?

Willard Fluke

My wife lost her health, And dwindled until she weighed scarce ninety pounds. Then that woman, whom the men Styled Cleopatra, came along. And we—we married ones All broke our vows, myself among the rest. Years passed and one by one Death claimed them all in some hideous form And I was borne along by dreams Of God’s particular grace for me, And I began to write, write, write, reams on reams Of the second coming of Christ. Then Christ came to me and said, “Go into the church and stand before the congregation And confess your sin.” But just as I stood up and began to speak I saw my little girl, who was sitting in the front seat— My little girl who was born blind! After that, all is blackness.

Aner Clute

Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it. Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton). But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people— “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is.