For no man in his proper mind Would be so cruelly inclined As to kill ladies who were kind.

_Ruth_.

[_Stepping forward with_ DAVID.]

Story and comment alike are bad; These little fellows are raving mad With thinking what they should do, Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had Given her heart--and her head--to a lad Like the man with the Beard of Blue.

Each little jacket Is now a packet Of murderous thoughts and fancies; Oh, the gentle trade By which fiends are made With the ready aid Of these b.l.o.o.d.y old romances!

And the little girl takes the woman's turn, And thinks that the old curmudgeon Who owned the castle, and rolled in gold Over fields and gardens manifold, And kept in his house a family tomb, With his bowling course and his billiard-room, Where he could preserve his precious dead, Who took the kiss of the bridal bed From one who straightway took their head, And threw it away with the pair of gloves In which he wedded his hapless loves, Had some excuse for his dudgeon.

_David_.

We learn by contrast to admire The beauty that enchains us; And know the object of desire By that which pains us.

The roses blushing at the door, The lapse of leafy June, The singing birds, the sunny sh.o.r.e, The summer moon;--

All these entrance the eye or ear By innate grace and charm; But o'er them, reaching through the year, Hangs Winter's arm.

To give to memory the sign, The index of our bliss, And show by contrast how divine The Summer is.

From chilling blasts and stormy skies, Bare hills and icy streams, Touched into fairest life arise Our summer dreams.

And virtue never seems so fair As when we lift our gaze From the red eyes and b.l.o.o.d.y hair That vice displays.

We are too low,--our eyes too dark Love's height to estimate, Save as we note the sunken mark Of brutal Hate.

So this ensanguined tale shall move Aright each little dreamer, And Blue Beard teach them how to love The sweet Fatima.

They hate his crimes, and it is well; They pity those who died; Their sense of justice when he fell Was satisfied.

No fierce revenges are the fruit Of their just indignation; They sit in judgment on the brute, And condemnation;

And turn to her, his rescued wife, Her deeds so kind and human, And love the beauty of her life, And bless the woman.

_Ruth_.

That is the way I supposed you would twist it; And now that the boys are disposed of, And the moral so handsomely closed off, What do you say of the girl? That she missed

When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of Judas, Who with this notion essay to delude us: That when he relented, And fiercely repented, He was hardly so bad As he commonly had The fortune to be represented?

_David_.

The n.o.blest pity in the earth Is that bestowed on sin.

The Great Salvation had its birth That ruth within.

The girl is nearest G.o.d, in fact; The boy gives crime its due; She blames the author of the act, And pities too.

Thus, from this strange excess of wrong Her tender heart has caught The n.o.blest truth, the sweetest song, The Saviour taught.

So, more than measured homily, Of sage, or priest, or preacher, Is this wild tale of cruelty Love's gentle teacher.

It tells of sin, its deep remorse, Its fitting recompense, And vindicates the tardy course Of Providence.

These boyish bosoms are on fire With chivalric possession, And burn with just and manly ire Against oppression.

The glory and the grace of life, And Love's surpa.s.sing sweetness, Rise from the monster to the wife In high completeness;

And thence look down with mercy's eye On sin's accurst abuses, And seek to wrest from charity Some fair excuses.

_Ruth_.

These greedy mouths are watering For the fruit within the basket; And, although they will not ask it, Their jack-knives all are burning And their eager hands are yearning For the peeling and the quartering.

So let us have done with our talk; For they are too tired to say their prayers, And the time is come they should walk From the story below to the story upstairs.

THE THIRD MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY.--_The Kitchen_.

PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE, _and_ PATIENCE,

THE QUESTION ILl.u.s.tRATED BY THE DENOUEMENT.

_John_.

Since the old gentleman retired to bed, Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth, Have wasted thirty minutes underground In explorations. One would think the house Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace Still hold their chamber and their conference, And pour into each other's greedy ears Their stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum, Would lull to slumber any storm but this.

The children are play-tired and gone to bed; And one may know by looking round the room Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, Who have no gift of speech, especially On themes which we and none may understand, Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, And wondered if the parted family Would ever meet again.

_Ruth_.

John, do you see The apples and the cider on the hearth?

If I remember rightly, you discuss Such themes as these with noticeable zest And pleasant tokens of intelligence; Rather preferring scanty company To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, And help yourself.

_John_.

Aye! That I will, and give Your welcome invitation currency, In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves!

_David_.

[_Looking out from the window_.]

The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls!

The atmosphere is plunging like the sea Against the woods, and pouring on the night The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on In lines as level as the window-bars.

What curious visions, in a night like this, Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees And zigzag fences! I was almost sure I saw a man staggering along the road A moment since; but instantly the shape Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call-- A human voice? There's a conspiracy Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks, Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul Who needs a.s.sistance. There he stands again, And with unsteady essay strives to breast The tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry?

Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid.

None but a dying and despairing man Ever gave utterance to a cry like that.

Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me!