| THE FEMALE OF THE SPIECIES 1911 When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside; but the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail, For the feamale of the species is more deadly than the male. When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it as he can; but his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengence of the squaws. 'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when the hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale - The female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise- Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger! Doubt and Pity often perplex Him in dealing with an issue- to the scandal of the Sex! But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engained for the same; And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, the feamale of the species must be deadlier than the male. She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity- must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions-not in these her honour dwells. She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else. she can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great And the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate! And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron) , her equiptment is the same. she is wedded to convictions-in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!- He will meet no suave dicussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spuse and child. Unprovoked and awful changes-even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons-even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw, and the victom writhes in anguish-like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it comes that man the coward, when he gathers to confer With her fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his errin hands To some God of Abstract Justice-which no woman understands. And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern-shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male... -Rudyard Kipling- |
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| WELCOME a few of my favorite poems enjoy your stay... XX |
| SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She Waks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face- Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that check, and o'er that brow, So soft, so clam, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. -LORD BYRON- |
| SAID THE ROSE I am weary of the Garden, Said the Rose; For the winter winds are sighing, All my playmates round me dying, And my leaves will soon be lying 'Neath the snows. . . But I hear my mistress coming, Said the Rose; She will take me to her chamber, Where the honeysuckles clamber, And I'll bloom there all December Spite the snows. . . Sweeter fell her lily finger Than the bee! Ah, how feebly I resisted, Smoothered my thorns, and e'en assisted As all blushing I was twisted Off my tree. . . And she fixed me in her bosom Like a star; And I flashed there all the morning, Jasmin, honeysuckle scorning, Parasites forever fawning That they are. . . And when evening came she set me In a vase All of rare and radiant metal, And I felt her red lips settle On my leaves till each proud petal Touched her face. . . And I shone about her slumbers Like a light; And, I said, instead of weeping, In the garden vigil keeping, Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping Every night. . . But when morning with its sunbeams Softly shone, In the mirror where she braided Her brown hair I saw how jaded, Old and colorless and faded, I had grown. . . Not a drop of dew was on me, Never one; from my leaves no odors started, All my perfume had departed, I lay pale and broken-hearted In the sun. . . Still I said, her smile is better Than the rain. . . Though my fragrance may fosake me, To her bosom she will take me, And with crimson kesses make me Young again. . . She took me . . . gazed a second . . . Half a sigh . . . Then, alas, can hearts so harden? Without ever asking pardon, Threw me back into the garden, There to die. . . How the jealous gartden gloried In my fall! How the honeysuckle chid me, How the sneering jasmins bid me Light the long gray grass that hid me Like a pall. . . ThereI lay beneath her window In a swoon, Till the earthworm O'er me trailing Woke me just at twilight's failing, as the whip-poor-will was wailing To the moon. . . But I hear the storm-winds stirring In their lair; And I know they soon will lift me In their giant arms and sift me Into ashes as they drift me Through the air. . . So I pray them in their mercy Just to take From my heart of hearts, or near it, The last living leaf, and bear it To her feet, and bid her wear it For my sake. . . -GEORGE B. MILES- |
"Storms Bring out the Eagles But when the little birds take cover" When the "storms of life" Gather darkly ahead, I think of these wonderful words I once read. And I say to myself As "threatening clouds" hover Don'r "fold up your wings" And "run for cover." But like the eagle, "Spread wide your wings" And "soar far above" the troubles life brings. For the eagle knows That the highter he flies, The more tranquil and brighter become the skies. And there is notyhin in life God ever askes us to bear that we can't soar above "On the wings of prayer." And in looking back over the "storm you passed through" you'll find you gained strength and new courage, too. For in facing "life's storms" With an eagle's wings, You can fly far above Earth's small,petty things. ~Helen Steiner Rice ~ |
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| I Love You |
| The Rose Seed When we plant a rose seed in the earth, we notice that it is small, but do not criticise it as "rootless or stemless" We treat it as a seed, giving it the water and nourishment required of a seed. When it first shoots up out of the earth we dont' condemn it as immature and underdeveloped, nor do we criticize the buds for not being open when they appear. We stand in wonder at the process taking place and give the plant the care it needs at each stage of its development. The rose is a rose from the time it is a seed to the time it dies. Within it , at all times, it contains its whole potentioal. It seems to be constantly in the process of change, yet at each state, at each moment, it is perfectly all right as it is... Galoway; Inner Tennis |
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