Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HOW WE WENT OUT, by AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HOW WE WENT OUT, by                    
First Line: She wore five skirts, he wore two hats
Last Line: A yellow angel, but disguised.
Subject(s): Disasters; Dreams; San Francisco Earthquake And Fire (1906); Smoke; Nightmares


She wore five skirts, he wore two hats,
He led the dog, she carried cats;
A blanket, soldierwise, about
Each waist was coiled, they both were stout.
He had a bundle on his back
And dragged a trunk along the track.
She bore a hat box and a grip;
The squirming kittens made her trip,
Those catlings yowled beneath her weight;
He picked her up and swore at Fate.
In baleful glare of reddish light,
They knew not were it day or night—
They plodded towards the Golden Gate,
Then sat upon their trunk to wait.
Was this the end, or should they go
Still farther to the "Westward Ho!"
They found a waif fast strapped on skates
Crying by the Presidio gates;
He'd lost his pa and on his head,
Top-heavy, bore the family bed.
She cheered him with a mother squeeze,
And fed him of the bread and cheese,
With other pets around their knees.

The flames had reached a hotel dome!
A lady rich in mines of Nome
Rushed down the stairs to find the street,
Rolling her packs before her feet.
Her latest hat she had assumed
To save its owlet, newly plumed.
A skirt above her robe de nuit
Was all the dress that one could see;
Her Paris gowns of great expense
Were not just then in evidence
Save by a cuff or bit of lace
Exuding from a pillow case.
She dragged her bundles in this plight,
Half consciously she felt them light,—
One backward glance! A wretched wrack
Of nameless garments marked her track.
A rubber bag—the long-necked kind—
Was crawling like a worm behind.
A passer cried—or was it craze?—
"Madam, your hat is all ablaze."
She dashed it down upon the pave,
That bird must go her life to save.
One back despairing look she cast,
The sight will haunt her to the last,—
That owl's glass eyes in vengeful ire
Glared at her from a wreath of fire.

A forty-niner, camped in town,
Had watched the city burning down;
The dignity of one tiled hat
He'd reached through suffering, and that
To save, he'd make a sacrifice,
And so he wore it; awful price!
An outgrown baby cart he found,
And started prospecting new ground,
Unconsciously he took the word
Of time's old slogan, long unheard
Since he went broke upon the Trust;
"Pardner, we'll make Twin Peaks or bust."

A house by hotel-swelldom kept:
Italian virtuosos slept
Far up and dreamed of Italy,
Vendettas of dear Sicily,
Vesuvius and her latest tricks,—
When suddenly the rattling bricks
Made nightmare of the passing dream;
Vesuvius, still the latest theme,
Came first to mind, as down the stair
They rushed upon the facing square.
Cried one with vast dramatic air,
Arms waving wildly in despair,
"O thou, Vesuvius, my own!
A shake like this thou ne'er hast known!
Why did I leave my mountain thus?
Heart of my heart, Vesuvius!
Oh, give me my Vesuvius!"
This tragic artist wore the while
Pajamas of the latest style.
What man, think you, it was would do so?
His name? The rhyme demands Caruso?

In garments anything but fresh,
She rolled in amplitude of flesh
From one to other of her brood,
Asweat with love and packing food.
"Here, Jakey, come and lif dis pile;
Don't go yourself away a mile,
Stay wid your pa and help to pull
Dat trunk, for it is plenty full.

"Here, Bruder Abe, you're high and strong
To push your gran'pa's chair along.
Now go him slow or you make wrong.
Vere's Zolomons? Vot for you vait?
I tells you keep dat puggy straight.
Der papy! She is pack inside;
Now give your little sister ride.
Don't look aroun', but mind your feet.
How much times must I tole you so?
You mischief poy, now dare she go!
You spills mine papy in der street!"

"O God of Israel!" groaned the sire,
"Found Father Abram once a fire?
Had Yacob in der vilderniss
Pulled ever such a load like this?"
From puffy pores the sweat oozed out,
For he was greasy, short, and stout.

"You look just like those pack mules, Jim,
When we came down from Washbowl Rim:"
The grips were strapped all over him.
"All right, my girl, you can't say much
About appearances and such;
Give me another pack before
I wedge you through the big front door.
You are so trussed up with these things
You cannot spread your angel wings,
But you're an angel and dead game;
Let's hit the trail in search of fame."
"O! hush, you boy, it is a crime
To joke at such an awful time.
Our home! How can we let it go!
Here Eddy died—O Jim, you know——"
"Don't cry, old girl; if I break up
I might collapse that painted cup.
The mines at Washbowl still are rich;
Oh, luck, we'll get the diamond hitch."
Whence but from guardian angel's power
Come cheer and courage in such hour?
Giuseppe swore this was not Rome;
He sweat, he wept, and thought of home
On Tiber's bank, but quite forgot
That sometimes there the meals were not
As frequent as the classic shade.
Nor was the bundle he had made
At leaving Rome too great to bear.
Of goods to-day, if he'd been there,
How easy he'd have dragged his share.

He met the barber, old François:
They lauded, in their two patois,
The beauties of the old countrie,
But chose to burn and still be free.

"Now, Biddy, give yourself a hunch
And get the childer in a bunch,
The soldier orthers us to go."
Now Biddies argue well, you know,
And Paddy had a bad half hour
Explaining military power;
And not until appeared once more
A gun which seemed to fill the door,
Its dreaded threat would she obey;
"O Pat, begorra is the day
I left ould Ireland for you,
As granny said, i'faith 'tis thrue."

When she begun, it was a whirl,
She loaded down each boy and girl;
Hitched up to go-carts full of duds,
They pulled and frisked like Shetland studs.

She harnessed Pat to homemade fills,
And pushed behind to cross the hills.
"And is't to lave the dare ould place!"
She cried. "O Mary, full of grace!
Mother o'God, look down the day!
Pat, mind the childer,"—and away
Within the church's toppling door
One precious moment on the floor
She told her beads with Aves o'er.
That church, fire-doomed! Her prayer its last!
O faith God-blest for ages past!

An auto piled with silken puffs
And glittering Oriental stuffs
Drove down upon the sand, wave-damp,
Seeking in haste a midnight camp.

A group of Chinamen was near,
Each man an Oriental seer,
Calm in his fatalistic cheer.
With rice-bag parcels banked around,
They stood or squatted on the ground.
Quick spoke the leader of the crew,
"My boys! you like they helpee you?"
"Thanks, John, these ladies are so cold;"
The stranger said, and offered gold;
"Me helpee you, no likee pay;
Me alle same white man to-day."
Then with deft, long-fingered hands,
They improvised upon the sands
A tent of Persian prayer-cloths made
With priceless rugs for carpet laid;
A couch of fluffy pillows piled,
Those heads to doubtful rest beguiled.

When morning dawned, red-flushed but chill,
Pulses were slow and voices still;
Within the tent all cheer had died;
A squeaky treble piped outside,
"Madam, she likee bowl of rice?
I think she find him belly nice."
Fluffy and white each kernel stood,
A thing alone, a steaming food,
Cooked by this wrinkled Chinaman,
Cooked as Celestials only can.
The native dames were unsurprised,
The Eastern ladies recognized
A yellow angel, but disguised.





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