Spoon River Anthology

teeth, the hog-eyed one
Rushed with his giant arms on Bengal Mike
And grabbed him by the throat. Then rose to heaven
The frightened cries of boys, and yells of men
Forth rushing to the street. And Bengal Mike
Moved this way and now that, drew in his head
As if his neck to shorten, and bent down
To break the death grip of the hog-eyed one;
’Twixt guttural wrath and fast-expiring strength
Striking his fists against the invulnerable chest
Of hog-eyed Allen. Then, when some came in
To part them, others stayed them, and the fight
Spread among dozens; many valiant souls
Went down from clubs and bricks.

But tell me, Muse,
What god or goddess rescued Bengal Mike?
With one last, mighty struggle did he grasp
The murderous hands and turning kick his foe.
Then, as if struck by lightning, vanished all
The strength from hog-eyed Allen, at his side
Sank limp those giant arms and o’er his face
Dread pallor and the sweat of anguish spread.
And those great knees, invincible but late,
Shook to his weight. And quickly as the lion
Leaps on its wounded prey, did Bengal Mike
Smite with a rock the temple of his foe,
And down he sank and darkness o’er his eyes
Passed like a cloud.

As when the woodman fells
Some giant oak upon a summer’s day
And all the songsters of the forest shrill,
And one great hawk that has his nestling young
Amid the topmost branches croaks, as crash
The leafy branches through the tangled boughs
Of brother oaks, so fell the hog-eyed one
Amid the lamentations of the friends
Of A. D. Blood.

Just then, four lusty men
Bore the town marshal, on whose iron face
The purple pall of death already lay,
To Trainor’s drug store, shot by Jack McGuire.
And cries went up of “Lynch him!” and the sound
Of running feet from every side was heard
Bent on the

Epilogue

The graveyard of Spoon River. Two voices are heard behind a screen decorated with diabolical and angelic figures in various allegorical relations. A faint light shows dimly through the screen as if it were woven of leaves, branches and shadows.

First Voice	A game of checkers?
Second Voice	Well, I don’t mind.
First Voice	I move the Will.
Second Voice	You’re playing it blind.
First Voice	Then here’s the Soul.
Second Voice	Checked by the Will.
First Voice	Eternal Good!
Second Voice	And Eternal Ill.
First Voice	I haste for the King row.
Second Voice	Save your breath.
First Voice	I was moving Life.
Second Voice	You’re checked by Death.
First Voice	Very good, here’s Moses.
Second Voice	And here’s the Jew.
First Voice	My next move is Jesus.
Second Voice	St. Paul for you!
First Voice	Yes, but St. Peter⁠—
Second Voice	You might have foreseen⁠—
First Voice	You’re in the King row⁠—
Second Voice	With Constantine!
First Voice	I’ll go back to Athens.
Second Voice	Well, here’s the Persian.
First Voice	All right, the Bible.
Second Voice	Pray now, what version?
First Voice	I take up Buddha.
Second Voice	It never will work.
First Voice	From the corner Mahomet.
Second Voice	I move the Turk.
First Voice	The game is tangled; where are we now?
Second Voice	You’re dreaming worlds. I’m in the King row. Move as you will, if I can’t wreck you I’ll thwart you, harry you, rout you, check you.
First Voice	I’m tired. I’ll send for my Son to play. I think he can beat you finally⁠—
Second Voice	Eh?
First Voice	I must preside at the stars’ convention.
Second Voice	Very well, my lord, but I beg to mention I’ll give this game my direct attention.
First Voice	A game indeed! But Truth is my quest.
Second Voice	Beaten, you walk away with a jest. I strike the table, I scatter the checkers.
	A rattle of a falling table and checkers flying over a floor.
	Aha! You armies and iron deckers, Races and states in a cataclysm⁠— Now for a day of atheism!
	The screen vanishes and Beelzebub steps forward carrying a trumpet, which he blows faintly. Immediately Loki and Yogarindra start up from the shadows of night.
Beelzebub	Good evening, Loki!
Loki	The same to you!
Beelzebub	And Yogarindra!
Yogarindra	My greetings, too.
Loki	Whence came you, comrade?
Beelzebub	From yonder screen.
Yogarindra	And what were you doing?
Beelzebub	Stirring His spleen.
Loki	How did you do it?
Beelzebub	I made it rough In a game of checkers.
Loki	Good enough!
Yogarindra	I thought I heard the sounds of a battle.
Beelzebub	No doubt! I made the checkers rattle, Turning the table over and strewing The bits of wood like an army pursuing.
Yogarindra	I have a game! Let us make a man.
Loki	My net is waiting him, if you can.
Yogarindra	And here’s my mirror to fool him with⁠—
Beelzebub	Mystery, falsehood, creed and myth.
Loki	But no one can mold him, friend, but you.
Beelzebub	Then to the sport without more ado.
Yogarindra	Hurry the work ere it grow to day.
Beelzebub	I set me to it. Where is the clay?
	He scrapes the earth with his hands and begins to model.
	Out of the dust, Out of the slime, A little rust, And a little lime. Muscle and gristle, Mucin, stone Brayed with a pestle, Fat and bone. Out of the marshes, Out of the vaults, Matter crushes Gas and salts. What is this you call a mind, Flitting, drifting, pale and blind, Soul of the swamp that rides the wind? Jack-o’-lantern, here you are! Dream of heaven, pine for a star, Chase your brothers to and fro, Back to the swamp at last you’ll go. Hilloo! Hilloo!
The Valley	Hilloo! Hilloo!
	Beelzebub in scraping up the earth turns out a skull.
Beelzebub	Old one, old one. Now ere I break you Crush you and make you Clay for my use. Let me observe you: You were a bold one Flat at the dome of you, Heavy the base of you, False to the home of you, Strong was the face of you, Strange to all fears. Yet did the hair of you Hide what you were. Now to re-nerve you⁠—
	He crushes the skull between his hands and mixes it with the clay.
	Now you are dust, Limestone and rust. I mold and I stir And make you again.
The Valley	Again? Again?
	In the same manner Beelzebub has fashioned several figures, standing them against the trees.
Loki	Now for the breath of life. As I remember You have done right to mold your creatures first, And stand them up.
Beelzebub	From gravitation I make the will.
Yogarindra	Out of sensation Comes his ill. Out of my mirror Springs his error. Who was so cruel To make him the