Tag: John Hay

From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 9, 1914. By John Hay.

I don’t go much on religion,
    I never ain’t had no show;
But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
    On the handful o’ things I know.
I don’t pan out on the prophets
    And free-will, and that sort of thing—
But I b’lieve in God and the angels
    Ever since one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
    And my little Gabe come along—
No four-year-old in the county
    Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Pert and chipper and sassy,
    Always ready to swear and fight—
And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
    Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
    As I passed by Taggart’s store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
    And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started—
    I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
    Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!
    I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
    And searched for ’em far and near.
At last we struck hosses and wagon,
    Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
    No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hopes soured on me,
    Of my fellow critter’s aid—
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
    Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
By this, the torches was played out,
    And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
    That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
    Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled
    Thar, so warm and sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
    As pert as ever you see,
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
    And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.
    He could never have walked in that storm.
They jest scooped down and toted him
    To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
    And fetching him to his own,
Is a durned sight better business
    Than loafing around the throne.

From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 17, 1914. By John Hay.

The song of Kilvany. Fairest she
In all the land of Savatthe.
She had one child, as sweet and gay
And dear to her as the light of day.
She was so young, and he so fair,
The same bright eyes, and the same dark hair;
To see them by the blossoming way,
They seemed two children at their play.

There came a death-dart from the sky,
Kilvany saw her darling die.
The glimmering shade his eyes invades,
Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades;
His warm heart feels the icy chill,
The round limbs shudder, and are still;
And yet Kilvany held him fast
Long after life’s last pulse was past;
As if her kisses could restore
The smile gone out forevermore.

But when she saw her child was dead,
She scattered ashes on her head,
And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
And rushing wildly through the street,
She sobbing fell at Buddha’s feet.

“Master, all-helpful, help me now!
Here at thy feet I humbly bow;
Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!”
She groveled on the marble floor,
And kissed the dead child o’er and o’er.
And suddenly upon the air
There fell the answer to her prayer:
“Bring me tonight a lotus tied
With thread from a house where none have died.”

She rose, and laughed with thankful joy,
Sure that the god would save the boy.
She found a Lotus by the stream;
She plucked it from its noonday gleam.
And then from door to door she fared,
To ask what house by death was spared.
Her heart grew cold to see the eyes
Of all dilate in slow surprise;
“Kilvany, thou hast lost thy head;
Nothing can help a child that’s dead.

“There stands not by the Ganges’ side
A house where none have ever died.”
Thus, through the long and weary day,
From every door she bore away
Within her heart, and on her arm,
A heavier load, a deeper harm.
By gates of gold and ivory,
By wattled huts of poverty,
The same refrain heard poor Kilvany,
“The living are few, the dead are many.”

The evening came so still and fleet
And overtook her hurrying feet.
And, heartsick, by the sacred lane
She fell, and prayed the god again.
She sobbed and beat her bursting breast:
“Ah, thou have mocked me, Mightiest!
Lo I have wandered far and wide—
There stands no house where none hath died.”

And Buddha answered, in a tone
Soft as a flute at twilight blown,
But grand as heaven and strong as death
To him who hears with ears of faith:
“Child, thou art answered. Murmur not!
Bow, and accept the common lot!”
Kilvany heard with reverence meet,
And laid her child at Buddha’s feet.