In the Aves of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and I have made the savage Bird-gods state their own case.
The Birds sing:
We would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and are baked in the pan,
Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and made war ere the making of Man!
For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the world like a barque without rudder or sail
Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, ’twas a flash from the bright feather’d Tonatiu’s [105] tail!
Then the Hawk [106a] with some dry wood flew up in the sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon,
And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they recked not of care that should come on them soon.
For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, [106b] and a-musing he fell at the close of the day;
Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. [106c]
And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without feathers (his game was a puzzle to all);
Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, lastly, he uttered a magical call:
Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped up, who but they, and embracing they fell,
And this was the baking of Man, and his making; but now he’s forsaking his Father, Pundjel!
Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to crown their desire who was found but the Wren?
To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for this has a name in the memory of men! [107a]
And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it through without falter or fail?
Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail,
While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl.[107b]
And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s mead? why ’tis told in the creed of the Sagamen strong,
’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from the blue, and gave mortals the brew that’s the fountain of song. [108a]
Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young brave overawes when in need of a squaw,
Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct you blame if he thus breaks the law?
For you still hold it wrong if a lubra [108b] belong to the self-same kobong [108c] that is Father of you,
To take her as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give her a wide berth; quite right of you, too.
For her father, you know, is your father, the Crow, and no blessing but woe from the wedding would spring.
Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. [108d]
Thus on Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done,
And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;
There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!
MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN.
A MORALITY.
“The Ancestor remote of Man,”
Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,”
A scanty sort of water-beast
That, ninety million years at least
Before Gorillas came to be,
Went swimming up and down the sea.
Their ancestors the pious praise,
And like to imitate their ways;
How, then, does our first parent live,
What lesson has his life to give?
Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,
Doth Life with one bright eye survey,
His consciousness has easy play.
He’s sensitive to grief and pain,
Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain,
And everything that fits the state
Of creatures we call vertebrate.
But age comes on; with sudden shock
He sticks his head against a rock!
His tail drops off, his eye drops in,
His brain’s absorbed into his skin;
He does not move, nor feel, nor know
The tidal water’s ebb and flow,
But still abides, unstirred, alone,
A sucker sticking to a stone.
And we, his children, truly we
In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.
And where we would we blithely go,
Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.
Then Age comes on! To Habit we
Affix ourselves and are not free;
Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock,
And we are bond-slaves of the clock;
Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law,
From these our heads we cannot draw:
Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,
And daily thicker grows our skin.
Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know
The wide world’s moving ebb and flow,
The clanging currents ring and shock,
But we are rooted to the rock.
And thus at ending of his span,
Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man
Revert to the Ascidian.
BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST.
“What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at before the tall blonde Aryan drove him into the corners of Europe?”—Brander Matthews.
I am an ancient Jest!
PalÆolithic man
In his arboreal nest
The sparks of fun would fan;
My outline did he plan,
And laughed like one possessed,
’Twas thus my course began,
I am a Merry Jest!
I am an early Jest!
Man delved, and built, and span;
Then wandered South and West
The peoples Aryan,
I journeyed in their van;
The Semites, too, confessed,—
From Beersheba to Dan,—
I am a Merry Jest!
I am an ancient Jest,
Through all the human clan,
Red, black, white, free, oppressed,
Hilarious I ran!
I’m found in Lucian,
In Poggio, and the rest,
I’m dear to Moll and Nan!
I am a Merry Jest!
Envoy.
Prince, you may storm and ban—
Joe Millers are a pest,
Suppress me if you can!
I am a Merry Jest!
