War Drums (Scharkie)/The Indian

by Louis Edward Scharkie

THE INDIAN.

One evening, as the sun was low,
 And wintry vapours chilled the air,
With struggling footsteps patient slow,
 A jaded Indian hawked his ware.

'Twas in the month of June. The time
 When frosts descend and nip the sprout,
And water-pipes are choked with rime,
 And ewers crack along the spout.

When nothing tempts to open sport,
 And houses close in shuttered bounds,
And maids, thro' doors scarce open caught,
 Peep, e'er their lovers' whistle sounds.

On such an eve, the Indian came,
 Bearing his load with patient tread.
His turbaned head, high reared o'er shame,
 Sustained the ware that bought his bread.

He reached my door, and bending to
 His bundled casket, slow unlocked;
Wiped a hot tear that trickled through
 His sunken lids, and gently knocked.

"God bless this house," was first he said;
 Then "you want anything to-day?
Buy something boss! I have no bread,
 And I have nought wherewith to pay."

His tender and appealing tone
 Smote my compassion, as a knife
Striking thro' skin and flesh, and bone,
 Trembles against the fount of life.

And more than that—his noble face
 Bore traces yet of better days,
For want had left a shrivelled grace
 That pedigree alone could raise.

Of slender form and stately height,
 And features cast in finest mould,
He might have been a prince or knight
 And charged in jousts a warrior bold.

But not so now.—The priceless pearl
 Of social blessedness was lost;
For him the storm, the dog, the churl,
 Had left him little save his cost.

Again he said "God bless this house;
 Please, boss, I'm weak and very poor.
Your countrymen are bad, heav'n knows,
 And insult me at every door."

"Buy something boss," in accents meek,
 He pleaded as he dropt his eye.
But his scant goods, and paltry eke,
 I deemed, just then, scarce worth to buy.

"Nothing to-day, sir," I replied,
 Harsh as a hollow-sounding note.
The words I uttered, e'er they died,
 Choked back with shame upon my throat.

"Kind Christ," he muttered 'neath his breath
 "The world is cruel in its greed.
Give me to die, for surely death
 Will satisfy my hungering need."

Essaying still his pleading quest,
 He asked again in modest fear,
(Heav'n knows, he seemed to need some rest,
 So tired he looked) "Can I sleep here?

"Last night, on yonder field I lay,
 Without a covering but the sky.
None gave me shelter lest I pay,
 And I had naught wherewith to buy.

"Please, boss, a shelter give. Refuse
 Me not the bail or barn will do.
Feel my stiff hands-last night's cold dews
 Have numbed my body thro' and thro' "

"No room, sir," I replied. "My shed
 Is full, and mangers too. Go seek."
The pallor o'er his brow that spread,
 Detained the words I strove to speak.

He caught his ware, and lightly said
 "Alright, boss" and then turned away.
Like clods that strike the coffin bed,
 His words do haunt me every day.

His benedictions are my bane
 'God bless this house' so softly said;
And I, for blessing gave him pain,—
 A loaf of stone for simple bread.

And since I've asked the reason why
 Was barred my mercy to his aid,
Since plenty crowned my barns, and I
 Sat smiling' mid the joys she made.

We pray 'good Lord! the heathen save
 In Afric's wilds, and dusky Ind.'
Heav'n knows! more shadows robe a grave
 Thro' such a deed wherein I sinned.

Sin! Ah! was it not sin and shame
 That I no simple shelter gave.—
'God bless this house' so softly came,
 And I have sent him to his grave.

He left me on that winter's eve,
 And passed adown the village lane.
God knows the pangs that made him grieve,
 And loaded him with woe and pain.

That night he laid him down and slept
 Beneath the bridge that spanned a creek—
One gelid tear (he must have wept)
 Was frozen calmly on his cheek.

Of men unheard, his last sad word,
 It might have been 'God bless my foe.'
Too frail a jewel to be blurred,
 God took him from his couch of snow.

Be his the bliss of quiet rest
 Beyond the bourn of want and need.
Be mine, remorse the bitterest,
 And canker of a Christless deed.