  THE WOLF AT THE DOOR.There’s a haunting horror near us That nothing drives away: Fierce lamping eyes at nightfall, A crouching shade by day; There’s a whining at the threshold, There’s a scratching at the floor. To work! To work! In Heaven’s name! The wolf is at the door! The day was long, the night was short, The bed was hard and cold; Still weary are the little ones, Still weary are the old. We are weary in our cradles From our mother’s toil untold; We are born to hoarded weariness As some to hoarded gold. We will not rise! We will not work! Nothing the day can give Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep; Better to sleep than live! What power can stir these heavy limbs? What hope these dull hearts swell? What fear more cold, what pain more sharp, Than the life we know so well? Is nothing that we should fear; No human death would be worse to feel Than the life that holds us here. But this is a fear no heart can face— A fate no man can dare— To be run to earth and die by the teeth Of the gnawing monster there! The slow, relentless, padding step That never goes astray— The rustle in the underbrush— The shadow in the way— The straining flight—the long pursuit— The steady gain behind— Death-wearied man and tireless brute, And the struggle wild and blind! There’s a hot breath at the keyhole And a tearing as of teeth! Well do I know the bloodshot eyes And the dripping jaws beneath! There’s a whining at the threshold— There’s a scratching at the floor— To work! To work! In Heaven’s name! The wolf is at the door! THE LOST GAME.Came the big children to the little ones, And unto them full pleasantly did say, “Lo! we have spread for you a merry game, And ye shall all be winners at the same. Come now and play!” Great is the game they enter in,— Rouge et Noir on a giant scale,— Red with blood and black with sin, Where many must lose and few may win, And the players never fail! Said the strong children to the weaker ones, “See, ye are many, and we are but few! The mass of all the counters ye divide, But few remain to share upon our side. Play—as we do!” Strange is the game they enter in,— Rouge et Noir on a field of pain! And the silver white and the yellow gold Pile and pile in the victor’s hold, While the many play in vain! Said the weak children to the stronger ones, “See now, howe’er it fall, we lose our share! And play we well or ill we always lose; While ye gain always more than ye can use. Bethink ye—is it fair?” Rouge et Noir, and the bank is strong! Play they well or play they wide The gold is still on the banker’s side, And the game endureth long. Said the strong children, each aside to each, “The game is slow—our gains are all too small! Play we together now, ’gainst them apart; So shall these dull ones lose it from the start, And we shall gain it all!” Strange is the game that now they win,— Rouge et Noir with a new design! What can the many players do Whose wits are weak and counters few When the Power and the Gold combine? Said the weak children to the stronger ones, “We care not for the game! For play as we may our chance is small, And play as ye may ye have it all. The end’s the same!” Strange is the game the world doth play,— Rouge et Noir, with the counters gold, Red with blood and black with sin; Few and fewer are they that win As the ages pass untold. “Ye lose in laziness! ye lose in sleep! Play faster now and make the counters spin! Play well, as we, and ye in time shall win! Play fast! Play deep!” Strange is the game of Rouge et Noir,— Never a point have the little ones won. The winners are strong and flushed with gain, The losers are weak with want and pain, And still the game goes on. But those rich players grew so very few, So many grew the poor ones, that one day They rose up from that table, side by side, Calm, countless, terrible—they rose and cried In one great voice that shook the heavens wide, “We will not play!” Where is the game of Rouge et Noir? Where is the wealth of yesterday? What availeth the power ye tell, And the skill in the game ye play so well? If the players will not play? THE LOOKER-ON.The world was full of the battle, The whole world far and wide; Men and women and children Were fighting on either side. With a message of life and death, Black with smoke and red with blood, Weary and out of breath, Forced to linger a moment, And bind a stubborn wound, Cursing the hurt that kept me back From the fiery battle-ground. W An Associated Press despatch describe the utterance of a Banners’ Alliance meeting in Kansas as consisting mostly of “the old-time wail of distress.” Still Dives hath no peace. Broken his slumber, His feasts are troubled, and his pleasures fail; For still he hears from voices without number The same old wail. They gather yet in field and town and city,— The people, discontented, bitter, pale,— And murmur of oppression, pain, and pity,— The old-time wail. And weary Dives, jaded in his pleasures, Finding the endless clamor tiresome, stale— Would gladly give a part of his wide treasures To quiet that old wail. Old? Yes, as old as Egypt. Sounding lowly From naked millions, in the desert hid, Starving and bleeding while they builded, slowly, The Pharaohs’ pyramid. Raised ever and again the same dull cry; And even CÆsar’s eagle bent his pinions While it disturbed the sky. As old as the Dark Ages. The lean peasant, Numerous, patient, still as time went by Made his lord’s pastimes something less than pleasant With that unceasing cry. It grew in volume down the crowding ages; Unheeded still, and unappeased, it swelled. And now it pleads in vain, and now it rages— The answer still withheld. A century ago it shrieked and clamored Till trembled emperors and kings grew pale; At gates of palaces it roared and hammered,— The same old wail. It got no final answer, though its passion Altered the face of Europe, monarchs slew; But ere it sank to silence, in some fashion Others were wailing, too. And now in broad America we hear it,— From crowded street, from boundless hill and vale. Hear, Dives! Have ye not some cause to fear it,— This old-time wail? Like those past sufferers whose hearts did break. We are a wiser race, a braver, stronger— Let us not ask, but take! So Dives shall have no distress soever, No sound of anguished voice by land or sea; The old-time wail shall so be stilled forever, And Dives shall not be! FREE LAND IS NOT ENOUGH.Free land is not enough. In earliest days When man, the baby, from the earth’s bare breast Drew for himself his simple sustenance, Then freedom and his effort were enough. The world to which a man is born to-day Is a constructed, human, man-built world. As the first savage needed the free wood, We need the road, the ship, the bridge, the house, The government, society, and church,— These are the basis of our life to-day, As much necessities to modern man As was the forest to his ancestor. To say to the new-born, “Take here your land; In primal freedom settle where you will, And work your own salvation in the world,” Is but to put the last come upon earth To climb the race’s stairway in one life! Allied society owes to the young— The new men come to carry on the world— Account for all the past, the deeds, the keys, Full access to the riches of the earth. Why? That these new ones may not be compelled, Each for himself, to do our work again— But reach their manhood even with to-day, And gain to-morrow sooner. To go on— To start from where we are and go ahead— That is true progress, true humanity! WHO IS TO BLAME?Who was to blame in that old time Of the unnoticed groan, When prisoners without proof of crime Rotted in dungeons wet with slime, And died unknown? When torture was a common thing, When fire could speak, When the flayed wretch hung quivering, And rack-strained tendons, string by string, Snapped with a shriek? Is it the Headsman, following still The laws his masters give? Or just the People, by whose will Church, King, and Headsman live? The People, bowing slavish knee With tribute fruits of earth; The People, gathering to see The stake, the axe, the gallows-tree, In brutal mirth! The People, countenancing pain By willing presence there; The People—you might shriek in vain, Poor son of Abel or of Cain— The People did not care! And now, in this fair age we’re in, Who is to blame? When men go mad and women sin Because the life they struggle in Enforces shame! When torture is so deep, so wide— The kind we give— So long drawn out, so well supplied, That men die now by suicide, Rather than live! Is it the Rich Man, grinding still The faces of the poor? Or just the People, by whose will That system can endure? The People, bowing slavish knee With tribute fruits of earth; The People, who can bear to see In crime and death and poverty Fair ground for mirth! The People, countenancing pain By willing presence there; The People—you may shriek in vain— Protest, rebel, beseech, complain— The People do not care! Each man and woman feels the weight Of their own private share; But for the suffering of the state, That falls on all men soon or late, The People do not care! IF A MAN MAY NOT EAT NEITHER CAN HE WORK.How can he work? He never has been taught The free use of what faculties he had. Why should he work? Who ever yet has thought To give a love of working to the lad. Of all that makes us work; the proud, the free, Each saying to the world, “I give you back Part of the glory you have given me!” Why should he work? He has no honor high, Born of great trust and wealth and sense of power; Honor, that makes us yearn before we die To add our labor to the world’s rich dower. How can he work? He has no inner strength Urging him on to action, no desire To strain and wrestle, to achieve at length, Burning in all his veins,—a hidden fire. Why should he work? There is no debt behind That man’s nobility most longs to pay; No claim upon him,—only the one blind Brute instinct that his dinner lies that way. And that is not enough. Who may not eat Freely at life’s full table all his youth, Can never work in power and joy complete, In fulness, and in honor, and in truth. HIS OWN LABOR.Let every man be given what he earns! We cry, and call it justice. Let him have The product of his labor—and no more! And give him of the earth what he can make; As much of air and light as he can make, As much of ocean, and sweet wind and rain, And flowers, and grass, and fruit, as he can make. But no, we answer this is mockery: No man makes these things. But of human wealth Let every man be given what he makes, The product of his labor, and no more. Ah, well! So to the farmer let us give Corn, and still corn, and only corn at last. So to the grazier, meat; the fisher, fish; Cloth to the weaver; to the mason, walls; And let the writer sit and read his books— The product of his labor—and naught else! But no, we answer! Still you laugh at us. We mean not his own labor in that sense, But his share in the work of other men. As much of what they make as he can buy In fair exchange for labor of his own. So let it be. As much of life’s rich fruit— The product of the labor of the world— As he can equal with his own two hands, His own supply of energy and skill! As much of Shakespeare, Homer, Socrates, As much of Wagner, Beethoven, and Bach, As much of Franklin, Morse, and Edison, As much of Watt, and Stephenson and Bell, Columbus, Raleigh, and George Washington, Of all the learning of our patient years, Of all the peace and smoothness we have won, Of all the heaped up sciences and arts, And luxuries that man has ever made,— He is to have what his own toil can match! Or, passing even this, giving no thought To this our heritage, our vast bequest, Condemn him to no more of human help From living men than he can give to them! Toil of the soldiers on the western plains, Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea, Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field, The engine-driver, digger in the mine, And weary weaver in the roaring mill. Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil To fill the world with riches day by day, Shall he have naught of this but what one man Can give return for from his own supply? Brother—There is no payment in the world! We work and pour our labor at the feet Of those who are around us and to come. We live and take our living at the hands Of those who are around us and have been. No one is paid. No person can have more Than he can hold. And none can do beyond The power that’s in him. To each child that’s born As he can take and use to make him strong. And from each man, debtor to all the world, Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers, His whole life’s labor, proudly rendered up, Not as return—can moments pay an age? But as the simple duty of a man. Can he do less—receiving everything? AS FLEW THE CROSS.As flew the fiery cross from hand to hand, Kindling the scattered people to one flame, Out-blazing fiercely to a sudden war; As beacon fires flamed up from hill to hill, Crying afar to valleys hidden wide To tell their many dwellers of a fear That made them one—a danger shadowing all!— So flies to-day the torch of living fire, From mouth to mouth, from distant ear to ear; And all the people of all nations hear; The printed word, the living word that tells Of the great glory of the coming day,— The joy that makes us one forevermore! TO LABOR.Shall you complain who feed the world? Who clothe the world? Who house the world? Shall you complain who are the world, Of what the world may do? As from this hour You use your power, The world must follow you! The world’s life hangs on your right hand! Your strong right hand! Your skilled right hand! You hold the whole world in your hand. See to it what you do! Or dark or light, Or wrong or right, The world is made by you! Then rise as you never rose before! Nor hoped before! Nor dared before! And show as was never shown before, The power that lies in you! Stand all as one! See justice done! Believe, and Dare, and Do! HARDLY A PLEASURE.She had found it dull in her city; So had they, in a different mob. She travelled to look for amusement; They travelled to look for a job. She was loaded with fruit and candy, And her section piled with flowers, With magazine, novels, and papers To shorten the weary hours. Her friends came down in a body With farewells merry and sweet, And left her with laughter and kisses, On the broad plush-cushioned seat. She was bored before she started, And the journey was dull and far. “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” Said the girl in the palace car. Then they skulked out in the darkness And crawled in under the cars, To ride on the trucks as best they might, To hang by the chains and bars. None came to see their starting, And their friendliest look that day Was that of a green young brakeman, Who looked the other way. With the hunger that turns to pain— “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,” Said the three men under the train. She complained of the smoke and cinders, She complained of the noise and heat, She complained of the table service, She complained of the things to eat. She said it was so expensive, In spite of one’s utmost care; That feeing the porters and waiters Cost as much as a third-class fare. That the seats were dirty and stuffy, That the berths were worse by far. “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” Said the girl in the palace car. They hung on in desperate silence, For a word was a tell-tale shout; Their foul hats low on their bloodshot eyes, To keep the cinders out. The dirt beat hard on their faces, The noise beat hard on their ears, And a moment’s rest to a straining limb Meant the worst of human fears. While the stiffness turned to pain. “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,” Said the three men under the train. She stepped airily out in the morning, When the porter had brushed her awhile. She gave him a silver dollar; He gave her an ivory smile. She complained to her friends that morning Of a most distressing dream: “I thought I heard in the darkness A sort of a jolting scream! “I thought I felt in the darkness The great wheels joggle and swing; Travelling’s hardly a pleasure When you dream such a horrible thing!” They crept shuddering out in the morning, Red spots with the coal’s black stain. “Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!” Said the two men under the train. NATIONALISM.The nation is a unit. That which makes You an American of our to-day Requires the sum of all our citizens, Requires the product of our common toil, Requires the freedom of our common laws, The common heart of our humanity. Decrease our population, check our growth, Deprive us of our wealth, our liberty, Lower the nation’s conscience by a hair, And you are less than that you were before! You stand here in the world the man you are Because your country is America. Our liberty belongs to each of us; The nation guarantees it; in return We serve the nation, serving so ourselves. Our education is a common right; The state provides it, equally to all, Each taking what he can, and in return We serve the state, so serving best ourselves. Food, clothing, all necessities of life,— These are a right as much as liberty! The nation feeds its children. In return We serve the nation, serving still ourselves— Nay, not ourselves—ourself! We are but parts, The unit is the state,—America. THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING!When man, the hunter, winning in the race, Had conquered much, and, conquering, grown apace, Till out of victory he found defeat, And, having eaten all, had naught to eat,— Then might some Jeremiah sad have said, Seeing his hopeless case, “The King is dead!” But man is master most in power to change; He turned his forest to a cattle range; There was no foe to strive with—wherefore strive? No food to kill—he kept his food alive. Herding his dinner, see him sit and sing Serene, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” When man the shepherd, after years did pass, By nature’s increase grew, until the grass Failed to support the requisite supply Of cattle who must live lest he should die; Again a grieved observer might be led To pitifully say, “The King is dead!” But man, who turned his prey into a pet, To outwit hunger, was not baffled yet; He’d searched for grass so long he’d learned to praise it, And now that grass was short—why, he could raise it! Profuse, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” When man, the farmer, growing very great, Out of his children built the busy State, Those greedy children, to his loud alarm, Pinched all the profits off the old man’s farm, Killing the golden goose, and while he bled, Cried sage economists, “The King is dead!” But he, good sooth, was never more alive; He watched the pools and trusts around him strive, And when he’d learned the trick—it was not long— He organized himself—a million strong! Cornered the food supply! A Farmer’s Ring! Hurrah! “The King is dead! Long live the King!” “HOW MANY POOR!”“Whene’er I take my walks abroad, how many poor I see!” Said pious Watts, and thanked the Lord that not so poor was he. I see so many poor to-day I think I’ll walk no more, And then the poor in long array come knocking at my door. Yet even these we could endure if they were only well! But, O, this sick and crippled crew! The lame, the deaf, the blind! What can a Christian person do with these upon his mind! They keep diseases growing still like plants on greenhouse shelves, And they’re so generous they will not keep them to themselves; They propagate amazing crimes and vices scandalous, And then at most uncertain times they wreak the same on us! With charity we would prevent this poverty and woe, But find the more we’ve fondly spent, the more the poor do grow! We’ve tried by punishment full sore to mend the case they’re in; The more we punish them the more they sin, and sin, and sin! We make the punishment more kind, we give them wise reform, And they, with a contented mind, flock to our prisons warm! Explaining how the poor are there from a purely natural cause. ’Tis natural for low and high to struggle and to strive; ’Tis natural for the worse to die and the better to survive. We swallowed all this soothing stuff, and easily were led To think if we were stern enough, the poor would soon be dead. But, O! in vain we squeeze, and grind, and drive them to the wall— For all our deadly work we find it does not kill them all! The more we struggle they survive! increase and multiply! There seem to be more poor alive, in spite of all that die! Whene’er I take my walks abroad how many poor I see, And eke at home! How long, O Lord! How long must this thing be! THE DEAD LEVEL.There is a fear among us as we strive, As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel, That there will be no pleasure left alive When we in peace and joy at l
ast arrive At one dead level. And still the strangest part of this strange fear Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it. We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead; We wish that peace, but wish no other near it! Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses? Is your house dearer when its eye looks down On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown? Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is? Are you unhappy at some noble fÊte To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses? Is your State safer when each other State That borders it is full of want and hate? Peace must be peace to all before it blesses. Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in By ignorance that does not know its master? Is goodness easier when plenteous sin Surrounds it? And can you not win Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster? Unworthy even of a well-trained devil! Good things are good for all men,—that is clear; To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near To that much-dreaded level! THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.Our business system has its base On one small thought that’s out of place; The merest trifle—nothing much, of course. The truth is there—who says it’s not? Only—the trouble is—you’ve got The cart before the horse! You say unless a man shall work Right earnestly, and never shirk, He may not eat. Now look—the change is small, And yet the truth is plain to see— Unless man eats, and frequently, He cannot work at all! And which comes first! Why, that is plain, The man comes first. And, look again— A baby! with an appetite to fit! You have to feed him years and years, And train him up with toil and tears, Before he works a bit! And learn with these advancing years To give the oats before we ask for speed; Not set the hungry horse to run, And tell him when the race is done That he shall have his feed! THE AMŒBOID CELL.Said the Specialized Cell to the Amoeboid Cell, “Why don’t you develop like me? Just combine with the others, Unite with your brothers, And grow to a thing you can see,— An organized creature like me!” Said the Amoeboid Cell to the Specialized Cell, “But where would my liberty be? If I’m one with a class, I should lose in the mass All my Individualitee! And that is a horror to me!” Said the Specialized Cell to the Amoeboid Cell, “What good does it do you to-day? You’re amorphous and small, You’ve no organs at all, You can’t even get out of the way! You don’t half understand what I say!” “But I’m independent and free! I can float as I please In these populous seas, I’m not fastened to anybodee! I have personal freedom, you see! “And when I want organs and members and such, I project them,—an arm or a wing; I can change as I will, But you have to keep still— Just a part of the mass where you cling! You never can be but one thing!” Said the Specialized Cell to the Amoeboid Cell, “What you say is undoubtedly true, But I’d rather be part Of a thing with a heart Than the whole of a creature like you! A memberless morsel like you! “You say you’re immortal and separate and free, Yet you’ve died by the billion before; Just a speck in the slime At the birthday of time, And you never can be any more! As you are, you’ve no future in store! Yet you’re all just alike to the end! I am part of a whole— Of a thing with a soul— And the whole is the unit, my friend! But that you can scarce comprehend! “You are only yourself,—just a series of ones; You can only say ‘I’—never ‘we’; All of us are combined In a creature with mind, And we are the creature you see! And the creature feeds us—which is me! “And being combined in a body like that It can wisely provide us with food; And we vary and change In a limitless range; We are specialized now, for our good! And we each do our work—as we should! “What protection have you from the chances of Fate? What provision have you for the morrow? You get food when it drops, And you die when it stops! You can’t give or take, lend or borrow! You helpless free-agent of sorrow!” Died out by the billion again; But the Specialized Cell In the body felt well |
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