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148 | Uncollected and Other Poems Administrator of man’s highest power, His noblest art, his first prerogative, And the most blessed joy in life—to give! Give the mind truth, like water to a flower; So gives the teacher. Praise and tribute bring— The teacher is the leader and the king! (In This Our World, II, 108) The San Francisco Hen The San Francisco house-mama A happy dame is she, When feeding to her gathered young The fragrant fricassee, The amber broth for invalids Rich broilers for the men, With boiled, and roast, And hash on toast, Of the San Francisco hen. But walk the wholesale market streets Ye housewives kind and wise, And on the poultry set for sale Fix your discerning eyes; In crowded cages huddled down Unwatered and unfed In fear and pain, In sun and rain, They scream till they are dead. They live in filth and agony, They die in shrieking fear— Come down, ye guardians of the home, And see and smell and hear! Let not your hearts be troubled By the tortures you behold, But judge if meat Is good to eat Defiled before it’s sold. The meekest housewife may assume An interest in the health Of those about her board who earn— Who are the country’s wealth; And meat like this means vile disease Among the sons of men— Not to dilate U NC OL L E C T E D A N D O T H E R P OE M S | 149 On the ghastly fate Of the San Francisco hen. (Impress, 26 January 1895, 5) In Re “Andromaniacs”19 Parkhurst says that woman is superior, Man, her son, confessedly inferior; That Scripture prove her excellence interior— “God’s favorite sex” is she; Pray forgive the scientific quierier Who asks how that can be. He says ’tis not in the body or the mind of her, But an element constituent in all that you can find of her, Not to see it is obdurate and blind of her; Stupid as can be; She is queen because of it—truly, more than kind of her! Queen of man is she. She is best, because of femininity. Man, poor wretch, has only masculinity. Here stands forth this servant of the Trinity To show which God prefers— The crowns and palms and prizes of infinity Undoubtedly are hers. Still poor man may rule the world and fight in it, Teach and preach and hold his little light in it, Toil and plan that living may be bright in it, All for the sake of love; She has only to keep from any right in it, To hold her place above. (Impress, 2 February 1895, 4) My Cyclamen A little dull brown bulb from somewhere, And out of its heart, For days and months together, With never a thought for time or weather, The white buds start. Great green lovely leaves surround it, Shaped like a heart, Large green leaves with purple under, And when they fall—the living wonder!— Fair new ones start. ...

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