Spoon River Anthology E-Book

Edgar Lee Masters

• Herausgeber: REA Multimedia
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Spoon River Anthology (1915) is a collection of short free verse poems by Edgar Lee Masters. The poems collectively narrate the epitaphs of the residents of Spoon River, a fictional small town named after the Spoon River, which ran near Masters's home town of Lewistown, Illinois. The aim of the poems is to demystify rural and small town American life. The collection includes 212 separate characters, in all providing 244 accounts of their lives, losses, and manners of death. Many of the poems contain cross-references that create a candid tapestry of the community.

Leseprobe

Edgar Lee Masters

Spoon River Anthology

ISBN: 9788874175697

This ebook was created with StreetLib Writehttps://writeapp.io

Table of Contents

Copyright

The Hill

Hod Putt

Ollie McGee

Fletcher McGee

Robert Fulton Tanner

Cassius Hueffer

Serepta Mason

Amanda Barker

Constance Hately

Chase Henry

Harry Carey Goodhue

Judge Somers

Kinsey Keene

Benjamin Pantier

Mrs. Benjamin Pantier

Reuben Pantier

Emily Sparks

Trainor, the Druggist

Daisy Fraser

Benjamin Fraser

Minerva Jones

“Indignation” Jones

“Butch” Weldy

Doctor Meyers

Mrs. Meyers

Knowlt Hoheimer

Lydia Puckett

Frank Drummer

Hare Drummer

Conrad Siever

Doc Hill

Andy The Night-Watch

Sarah Brown

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Flossie Cabanis

Julia Miller

Johnnie Sayre

Charlie French

Zenas Witt

Theodore the Poet

The Town Marshal

Jack McGuire

Jacob Goodpasture

Dorcas Gustine

Nicholas Bindle

Harold Arnett

Margaret Fuller Slack

George Trimble

Dr. Siegfried Iseman

“Ace” Shaw

Lois Spears

Justice Arnett

Willard Fluke

Aner Clute

Lucius Atherton

Homer Clapp

Deacon Taylor

Sam Hookey

Cooney Potter

Fiddler Jones

Nellie Clark

Louise Smith

Herbert Marshall

George Gray

Hon. Henry Bennett

Griffy the Cooper

Sersmith the Dentist

A. D. Blood

Robert Southey Burke

Dora Williams

Mrs. Williams

William and Emily

The Circuit Judge

Blind Jack

John Horace Burleson

Nancy Knapp

Barry Holden

State’s Attorney Fallas

Wendell P. Bloyd

Francis Turner

Franklin Jones

John M. Church

Russian Sonia

Isa Nutter

Barney Hainsfeather

Petit, the Poet

Pauline Barrett

Mrs. Charles Bliss

Mrs. George Reece

Rev. Lemuel Wiley

Thomas Ross, Jr.

Rev. Abner Peet

Jefferson Howard

Judge Selah Lively

Albert Schirding

Jonas Keene

Eugenia Todd

Yee Bow

Washington McNeely

Paul McNeely

Mary McNeely

Daniel M’Cumber

Georgine Sand Miner

Thomas Rhodes

Ida Chicken

Penniwit, the Artist

Jim Brown

Robert Davidson

Elsa Wertman

Hamilton Greene

Ernest Hyde

Roger Heston

Amos Sibley

Mrs. Sibley

Adam Weirauch

Ezra Bartlett

Amelia Garrick

John Hancock Otis

Anthony Findlay

John Cabanis

The Unknown

Alexander Throckmorton

Jonathan Swift Somers (Author of the Spooniad)

Widow McFarlane

Carl Hamblin

Editor Whedon

Eugene Carman

Clarence Fawcett

W. Lloyd Garrison Standard

Professor Newcomer

Ralph Rhodes

Mickey M’Grew

Rosie Roberts

Oscar Hummel

Josiah Tompkins

Roscoe Purkapile

Mrs. Purkapile

Mrs. Kessler

Harmon Whitney

Bert Kessler

Lambert Hutchins

Lillian Stewart

Hortense Robbins

Batterton Dobyns

Jacob Godbey

Walter Simmons

Tom Beatty

Roy Butler

Searcy Foote

Edmund Pollard

Thomas Trevelyan

Percival Sharp

Hiram Scates

Peleg Poague

Jeduthan Hawley

Abel Melveny

Oaks Tutt

Elliott Hawkins

Voltaire Johnson

English Thornton

Enoch Dunlap

Ida Frickey

Seth Compton

Felix Schmidt

Schrœder The Fisherman

Richard Bone

Silas Dement

Dillard Sissman

Jonathan Houghton

E. C. Culbertson

Shack Dye

Hildrup Tubbs

Henry Tripp

Granville Calhoun

Henry C. Calhoun

Alfred Moir

Perry Zoll

Dippold the Optician

Magrady Graham

Archibald Higbie

Tom Merritt

Mrs. Merritt

Elmer Karr

Elizabeth Childers

Edith Conant

Charles Webster

Father Malloy

Ami Green

Calvin Campbell

Henry Layton

Harlan Sewall

Ippolit Konovaloff

Henry Phipps

Harry Wilmans

John Wasson

Many Soldiers

Godwin James

Lyman King

Caroline Branson

Anne Rutledge

Hamlet Micure

Mabel Osborne

William H. Herndon

Rebecca Wasson

Rutherford McDowell

Hannah Armstrong

Lucinda Matlock

Davis Matlock

Herman Altman

Jennie M’Grew

Columbus Cheney

Wallace Ferguson

Marie Bateson

Tennessee Claflin Shope

Plymouth Rock Joe

Imanuel Ehrenhardt

Samuel Gardner

Dow Kritt

William Jones

William Goode

J. Milton Miles

Faith Matheny

Scholfield Hurley

Willie Metcalf

Willie Pennington

The Village Atheist

John Ballard

Julian Scott

Alfonso Churchill

Zilpha Marsh

James Garber

Lydia Humphrey

Le Roy Goldman

Gustav Richter

Arlo Will

Captain Orlando Killion

Jeremy Carlisle

Joseph Dixon

Judson Stoddard

Russell Kincaid

Aaron Hatfield

Isaiah Beethoven

Elijah Browning

Webster Ford

The Spooniad

Epilogue

Copyright

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The Hill

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all are sleeping on the hill. One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire; One after life in far-away London and Paris Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. They brought them dead sons from the war, And daughters whom life had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where is Old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove, Of what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield.

Hod Putt

Here I lie close to the grave Of Old Bill Piersol, Who grew rich trading with the Indians, and who Afterwards took the Bankrupt Law And emerged from it richer than ever Myself grown tired of toil and poverty And beholding how Old Bill and others grew in wealth Robbed a traveler one Night near Proctor’s Grove, Killing him unwittingly while doing so, For which I was tried and hanged. That was my way of going into bankruptcy. Now we who took the bankrupt law in our respective ways Sleep peacefully side by side.

Ollie McGee

Have you seen walking through the village A man with downcast eyes and haggard face? That is my husband who, by secret cruelty Never to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty; Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth, And with broken pride and shameful humility, I sank into the grave. But what think you gnaws at my husband’s heart? The face of what I was, the face of what he made me! These are driving him to the place where I lie. In death, therefore, I am avenged.

Fletcher McGee

She took my strength by minutes, She took my life by hours, She drained me like a fevered moon That saps the spinning world. The days went by like shadows, The minutes wheeled like stars. She took the pity from my heart, And made it into smiles. She was a hunk of sculptor’s clay, My secret thoughts were fingers: They flew behind her pensive brow And lined it deep with pain. They set the lips, and sagged the cheeks, And drooped the eye with sorrow. My soul had entered in the clay, Fighting like seven devils. It was not mine, it was not hers; She held it, but its struggles Modeled a face she hated, And a face I feared to see. I beat the windows, shook the bolts. I hid me in a corner And then she died and haunted me, And hunted me for life.

Robert Fulton Tanner

If a man could bite the giant hand That catches and destroys him, As I was bitten by a rat While demonstrating my patent trap, In my hardware store that day. But a man can never avenge himself On the monstrous ogre Life. You enter the room—that’s being born; And then you must live—work out your soul, Aha! the bait that you crave is in view: A woman with money you want to marry, Prestige, place, or power in the world. But there’s work to do and things to conquer— Oh, yes! the wires that screen the bait. At last you get in—but you hear a step: The ogre, Life, comes into the room, (He was waiting and heard the clang of the spring) To watch you nibble the wondrous cheese, And stare with his burning eyes at you, And scowl and laugh, and mock and curse you, Running up and down in the trap, Until your misery bores him.

Cassius Hueffer

They have chiseled on my stone the words: “His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him That nature might stand up and say to all the world, This was a man.” Those who knew me smile As they read this empty rhetoric. My epitaph should have been: “Life was not gentle to him, And the elements so mixed in him That he made warfare on life In the which he was slain.” While I lived I could not cope with slanderous tongues, Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph Graven by a fool!

Serepta Mason

My life’s blossom might have bloomed on all sides Save for a bitter wind which stunted my petals On the side of me which you in the village could see. From the dust I lift a voice of protest: My flowering side you never saw! Ye living ones, ye are fools indeed Who do not know the ways of the wind And the unseen forces That govern the processes of life.

Amanda Barker

Henry got me with child, Knowing that I could not bring forth life Without losing my own. In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust. Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived That Henry loved me with a husband’s love But I proclaim from the dust That he slew me to gratify his hatred.

Constance Hately

You praise my self-sacrifice, Spoon River, In rearing Irene and Mary, Orphans of my older sister! And you censure Irene and Mary For their contempt for me! But praise not my self-sacrifice. And censure not their contempt; I reared them, I cared for them, true enough!— But I poisoned my benefactions With constant reminders of their dependence.

Chase Henry

In life I was the town drunkard; When I died the priest denied me burial In holy ground. The which redounded to my good fortune. For the Protestants bought this lot, And buried my body here, Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas, And of his wife Priscilla. Take note, ye prudent and pious souls, Of the cross—currents in life Which bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame

Harry Carey Goodhue

You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River, When Chase Henry voted against the saloons To revenge himself for being shut off. But none of you was keen enough To follow my steps, or trace me home As Chase’s spiritual brother. Do you remember when I fought The bank and the courthouse ring, For pocketing the interest on public funds? And when I fought our leading citizens For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes? And when I fought the water works For stealing streets and raising rates? And when I fought the business men Who fought me in these fights? Then do you remember: That staggering up from the wreck of defeat, And the wreck of a ruined career, I slipped from my cloak my last ideal, Hidden from all eyes until then, Like the cherished jawbone of an ass, And smote the bank and the water works, And the business men with prohibition, And made Spoon River pay the cost Of the fights that I had lost.

Judge Somers

How does it happen, tell me, That I who was most erudite of lawyers, Who knew Blackstone and Coke Almost by heart, who made the greatest speech The court-house ever heard, and wrote A brief that won the praise of Justice Breese How does it happen, tell me, That I lie here unmarked, forgotten, While Chase Henry, the town drunkard, Has a marble block, topped by an urn Wherein Nature, in a mood ironical, Has sown a flowering weed?

Kinsey Keene

Your attention, Thomas Rhodes, president of the bank; Coolbaugh Whedon, editor of the Argus; Rev. Peet, pastor of the leading church; A. D. Blood, several times Mayor of Spoon River; And finally all of you, members of the Social Purity Club— Your attention to Cambronne’s dying words, Standing with the heroic remnant Of Napoleon’s guard on Mount Saint Jean At the battle field of Waterloo, When Maitland, the Englishman, called to them: “Surrender, brave Frenchmen!”— There at close of day with the battle hopelessly lost, And hordes of men no longer the army Of the great Napoleon Streamed from the field like ragged strips Of thunder clouds in the storm. Well, what Cambronne said to Maitland Ere the English fire made smooth the brow of the hill Against the sinking light of day Say I to you, and all of you, And to you, O world. And I charge you to carve it Upon my stone.

Benjamin Pantier

Together in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law, And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend. Down the gray road, friends, children, men and women, Passing one by one out of life, left me till I was alone With Nig for partner, bed-fellow; comrade in drink. In the morning of life I knew aspiration and saw glory, The she, who survives me, snared my soul With a snare which bled me to death, Till I, once strong of will, lay broken, indifferent, Living with Nig in a room back of a dingy office. Under my Jaw-bone is snuggled the bony nose of Nig Our story is lost in silence. Go by, mad world!

Mrs. Benjamin Pantier

I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions, And the rhythm of Wordsworth’s “Ode” runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” And then, suppose; You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it while you think of it Every time you see him? That’s why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office.

Reuben Pantier