Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre. Voltairine De Cleyre

denied. Ye seized the earth,

       Though it was none of yours, and said: "Hereon

       Shall none rest, walk or work, till first to me

       Ye render tribute!" Every art of man,

       Born to make light of the burdens of the world,

       Ye also seized, and made a tenfold curse

       To crush the man beneath the thing he made.

       Houses, machines, and lands—all, all are yours;

       And us you do not need. When we ask work

       Ye shake your heads. Homes?—Ye evict us. Bread?—

       "Here, officer, this fellow's begging. Jail's

       The place for him!" After the stripes, what next?—

       Poison!—I took it!—Now you say 'twas sin

       To take this life which troubled you so much.

       Sin to escape insult, starvation, brands

       Of felony, inflicted for the crime

       Of asking food! Ye hypocrites! Within

       Your secret hearts the sin is that I failed! Because I failed ye judge me to the stripes, And the hard toil denied when I was free. So be it. But beware!—A prison cell's An evil bed to grow morality! Black swamps breed black miasms; sickly soils Yield poison fruit; snakes warmed to life will sting. This time I was content to go alone; Perchance the next I shall not be so kind.

      Philadelphia, September, 1894.

A NOVEL OF COLOR

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      (The following is a true and particular account of what happened on the night of December 11, 1895; but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save the Chipmunks and the Elephant, who, however, will no doubt recognize themselves.)

      Chapter I.

      Chipmunks three sat on a tree,

       And they were as green as green could be;

       They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late,

       And chirruped and chirruped, and ate and ate;

       "'Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts,

       And a gnawing hunger in their guts;

       But they should be wise like you and me,

       And color themselves to suit the tree.

       Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

       Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three!"

      An elephant white in sorry plight,

       Hungry and dirty and sad bedight,

       Straggled one day on the nutting ground;

       "Lo," chattered the chipmunks, "our chance is found!

       Behold the beast's color; were he as we,

       Green and sleek and nut-full were he!

       But the beast is big, and the beast is white,

       And his skin full of emptiness serves him right!

       Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

       Let us 'sit on him, sit on him,' chipmunks three."

      Chapter II.

      Three chipmunks green right gay were seen

       To leap on the beast his brows between;

       They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin,

       And sat and sat and sat on him!

       Not a single available spot of hide

       Where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride,

       But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked,

       Till aught but an elephant must have flunked.

       "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

       What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three!"

      Chapter III.

      Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-f-f-f-f-f!!!

      Chapter IV.

      "What was it blew? Ah whew, ah whew!"

       Three green chipmunks have all turned blue!

       The elephant smiles a peaceful smile,

       And lifts off a tree-trunk sans haste or guile.

       "Seize him, seize him! He's stealing our tree!

       We're undone, undone," shriek the chipmunks three.

       The elephant calmly upraised his trunk,

       And said, "Did I hear a green chipmunk?"

      "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah choo!"

       "Chippy, you're blue!" "So're you!" "So're you!"

      Philadelphia, December, 1895.

GERMINAL

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      (The last word of Angiolillo.)

      Germinal!—The Field of Mars is plowing,

       And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath

       Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing

       Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death.

      Germinal!—The Dragon's teeth are sowing,

       And stern and white the sower flings the seed

       He shall not gather, though full swift the growing;

       Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed.

      Germinal!—The Helmet Heads are springing

       Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files;

       With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing.

      Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles.

      London, October, 1897.

"LIGHT UPON WALDHEIM"

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      (The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman, dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom.)

      Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray;

       A bitter wind is driving from the north;

       The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say:

       "What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"

      Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes,

       Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch?

       May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies,

       Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?

      May we not linger till the day is broad?

       Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn—

       None but poor wretches that make no moan to God:

       What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?

      "Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these,

       Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow

       Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!"

       Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!