Shapes of Clay - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 170

THE SAINT AND THE MONK.

Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed The tools and terrors of his awful trade; The key, the frown as pitiless as night, That slays intending trespassers at sight, And, at his side in easy reach, the curled Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced No others were about) a soul advanced— A fat, orbicular and jolly soul With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl— A monk so prepossessing that the saint Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, Forgot his frown and all his questions too, Forgoing even the customary "Who?"— Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please— Who's in there?" By insensible degrees The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, As growing snores annihilate a dream. The frown began to blacken on his brow, His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; "I'm rather—well, particular. I've strained A point in coming here at all; 'tis said That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead At last) and all her followers are here. As company, they'd be—confess it—rather queer." The saint replied, his rising anger past: "What can I do?—the law is hard-and-fast, Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown— An oral order issued from the Throne. By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar— I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are."1895.