III
To speak truthfully, our prune-and-prism community received a shock. Sam Hod, proprietor of the Telegraph, undoubtedly wanted to administer a shock. Anyhow, he not only printed what the precocious rhymster had composed but called attention to its moral excellence in his editorial column that night.
“THE PAGANS
“We bought two slaves on the Block of Life,
Out-crying the bidders all;
Two slaves as rare as the maids of Punt,
White-limbed as the girls of Gaul.
The Pagan bought for the right to own,
With gold that he could not miss
While I bought mine for the right to love
And swapped for her flesh a kiss.
“We pushed our slaves from the auction hall
And drove them along Life’s street;
We jested over their bodies pink,
The pad of their naked feet.
Ahmed chained his to a black floor ring
As butt for his brutal fun,
While I chained mine to a kitchen range
And work that was never done.
“The Pagan’s slave was a high-strung lass
And fought with a courage rare;
But broke at last ‘neath her master’s whip
And pain from her tortured hair.
Now my slave, too, was a high-strung lass,
And so—for my right was clear—I
broke her back with a thankless drudge
And a baby every year.
“The Pagan swore that his slave should die
By slash ‘cross her milk-white throat,
Her body sewed in a sack by night
Be dropped in his harem moat.
I likewise ordered my slave should die
But I did the thing with art:
I ground my spleen to a rapier point
And stabbed till I found her heart.
“The Pagan slept when his slave was dead,
For he had much gold to spare;
Next day he went to the market place
And bought with a better care.
But when my slave had been killed with words
I placed at her head a stone:
‘Here sleeps the one that I loved most dear
While I go my way—alone!’
“We bought two slaves on the Block of Life,
The Pagan and I one day;
But he killed his with a short, curved sword,
A damned, paganistic way.
My slave died too, but a Christian’s death,
And God tells me all is well;
So while white heaven’s ahead for me,
The Pagan must writhe in hell.
“—Nathaniel Forge.
“Paris, Vt., Sept. 25, 1906.”
It should not be difficult to understand where Nathan derived material or satire for this poem. Neither should its reception be difficult to grasp in a prudish New England community.
“That boy’s mind is becoming positively foul!” cried Mrs. Caleb Gridley when she had found the paper that night and then dropped it as though it were hot. “The very idea of putting such a thing in type! What’s Mr. Hod thinking of? Moral excellence, indeed! I thank the Lord that pure-minded little Bernice-Theresa is out of town and away from it all. Her sweet morals are safeguarded from any such youthful depravity as that Forge boy is showing.”
Old Caleb secured the paper and read the verses in silence.
“Oh, I dunno,” he answered after a time. Then he sat staring into space.
Many husbands in Paris sat staring into space after reading Nat’s poem that night. A few, however, did not get the chance to stare into space.
“Cost me twenty-five dollars!” growled Artemus Harrington in the Smoke Shoppe Cigar Store later that evening. “My wife says it was the best thing she’d ever read and it would do a heap o’ men around town good to read it, too. One thing led to another and we ended up in a fight. She made me ‘fork over,’ and she sashayed home to her mother’s.”
Cora Whipple, Nathan’s former teacher, declared it was bizarre, but nevertheless Literature. She said it ought to be printed in all the best magazines. Her prim old-maid sister called it the height of obscenity and gave the Telegraph’s editor a piece of her mind over the ‘phone, ringing off before Sam had the chance to reply. The poem set the town by the ears, so to speak.
“You sure can pick out which hubbies love their wives and which women ain’t happily married by the way that poetry sets on their stummicks!” observed Uncle Joe Fodder. “B’dam whether I think the kid writ it himself or whether he’s got some old person coachin’ him. But believe me, if Sam goes on printin’ the likes of that poem he’s sure goin’ to swell his subscription list. And not because folks want to see the report o’ the tax commissioners, either.”
It was old Doctor Dodd who caused the direct reaction on Nathan, however. The poem—particularly the last two lines—perturbed the old minister grievously. And he “took it up in prayer meeting” that evening.
Johnathan had read the verses shortly after supper while waiting for the drone of the weekly church bell. Nathan had luckily returned downtown before the carrier boy tossed a Telegraph on the Forge veranda.
The father sat stupefied for a moment, after bringing the front legs of his chair to the floor with a clump. Then as the “coat” fitted him perfectly, he proceeded to put it on. He left the house without speaking and wandered through the neighborhood, hands clasped behind his back, lips set tightly.
Reaching the church, hoping to receive comfort and consolation from the service in this latest parental “trial”, Doctor Dodd “opened up” on it. And the father’s blood ran icy cold.
The minister’s subject was “Train up a child in the way he shall go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Every person in that vestry knew to whom and what the pastor was referring. Every face was turned toward the ashen mask that was Johnathan’s countenance before that discourse ended.
The father stared stonily ahead until the minister had finished. Then he arose and “testified.” It was deathly quiet in the prayer-meeting room as Johnathan concluded that “testimony.”
Everybody present felt “so sorry” for poor Brother and Sister Forge.