turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs; But, no! no such thing,--they can't find The Ring![Pg 56] The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse! The day was gone, the night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,-- His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "That's Him! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower he limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the Ring, in the nest of the little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution![Pg 57] When these words were heard, the poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: He grew slick and fat; in addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about with a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the order of sanctity died: 34 When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow! JAFFAR Leigh Hunt Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day,[Pg 58] Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath; All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief (For his great heart wanted a great relief), Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. "Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he, "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears, Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!" "Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!" [Pg 59] JIM BLUDSOE[7] John Hay Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks, 35 The night of the Prairie Belle? He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never flunked, and he never lied-- I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire; A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip', And her day came at last[Pg 60]-- The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed, And so came a-tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned and made For that willer-bank on the right. Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell, And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone In the smoke of Prairie Belle. He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim Longside of some pious gentleman That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing, And went fer it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men. FOOTNOTE: [7] By permission of Mrs. Hay. [Pg 61] KING ROBERT OF SICILY[8] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 36 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Appareled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat, And heard the priests chant the Magnificat, And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes De sede et exultavit humiles;" And slowly lifting up his kingly head, He to the learned clerk beside him said, "What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet, "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne!" And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep. When he awoke it was already night; The church was empty, and there was no light, Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, Lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around, But saw no living thing and heard no sound. He groped toward the door, but it was locked;[Pg 62] He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. At length the sexton hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout, And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?" Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, "Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" The frightened sexton muttering with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond or worse!" Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, But leaped into the blackness of the night, And vanished like a spectre from his sight. Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, 37 His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed, Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, Until at last he reached the banquet room, Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.[Pg 63] There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring, King Robert's self in feature, form and height, But all transfigured with angelic light. It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recognize. A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?" To which King Robert answered with a sneer, "I am the King, and come to claim my own From an imposter, who usurps my throne!" And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang
