(so by damn whaddaya know? brought out a brandnew little lamb this evenin just as old phoeb was rollin in for the night him lendin a soft goldreddish glow to the occasion the little ewe just a youngun too: her first — how is it they mother so sweet the first time? it’s the pain and fright in it I guess — but damn! I knew that! known it for ages just forgot it I guess forgettin ever damn thing forgettin all the old songs too I am/mind wearying down with all this cussed pasturechoppin that’s it! we just ain’t made for it arc we Rameses? gcttin old you are Morris by damn if you ain’t I well of course I still got a little jism left in my jumpers I ain’t givin it up yet I can tell ye but I’m sure as hell on the peterin off side of the old lifearc yes yes time it wastes all things and ain’t it so!/sure is pretty here tonight must be a million stars up there! you know I set to countin them once well hell I was young and had silly ideas I thought they was always the same number of em up there can you imagine? — just didn’t know just didn’t know nothin/hcy! listen at them crickets! why I ain’t heard crickets like that since I was a boy! got the idea somewhercs they’d extincted the little buggers but I guess they don’t give up that easy I guess nothin does and leastly you and me eh Rameses?/well you know old wether we just shouldn’ta come back here I feel disaster in my bones I do but it seems like it don’t really matter somehow — no: when you figger they’da got us one place as another you might just as well go out grubbin the green herbs as gaggin on garbage in the alleys don’t you reckon?/and hey! just smell that spring old eunuch! just listen at them bawdy crickets I makes a body wanna pipe one of the old songs!)
Her hairs was black as silver snails
Her teeth was white as gold
The copse were green as nightingales
The runlet fresh as mold
The runlet fresh as mold
Her ears they twinkled merrily
Her eyes hearked all I said
How lovely life, sang I, would be
If only we was dead
If only we was dead
She quite agreed and plunged her knife
Into my bleeding breast
Sweet maid, you’ve given me new life
Pray, let me have the rest
Pray, let me have the rest
Once her I laid, twice her I laid
I laid her three times o’er
So though she died a virgin maid
We buried her a whore
We buried her a whore
Now if my tune obscure should seem
The meaning overlong
Consider less than life a dream
And more than death a song
And more than death a song
Dawn broke at 5:55. Beside the water, alongside a grove of poplar and beech, lay the shepherd with his flock, facing the eastern sky. At precisely 6:00 a.m., Dr. Doris Peloris and her staff emerged from their concealments, advanced from different directions upon the shepherd. He started up, then discovered the thickening crowds of eager-eyed tourists welling up behind the doctor and her team: he offered no resistance.
“You have been herding sheep,” the doctor said.
“That figures, lady. I’m a shepherd.”
The doctor’s aide snorted: “Fruitless syllogism of eclogic!”
Dr. Peloris smiled. “My black bag, Nan.”
“Now, look here, ma’am, I don’t mean no—”
“Any,” corrected Dr. Peloris. She drew a stethoscope and other equipment from her black bag. “Remove your clothes.”
“My—?”
“Let’s not be impertinent! This is no less difficult for me than it is for you. I refer to those rank fulsome skins you’re wearing, how do you call them? gaskins, buskins — I don’t care, but get them off!”
Morris glared edgily at his captors, at the pressing crowd. Dr. Peloris pulled a pair of scissors from her bag. Morris grumbled, removed his jerkin and breeches.
There were low whistles and the doctor’s aide gasped audibly.
“What is it, Nan?”
“The… the legs, doctor! the fur—!”
Dr. Peloris smiled, hooked the stethoscope in her ears. “I thought you knew,” she said.
While the doctor conducted her examination, her staff methodically exterminated the sheep with hypodermic injections. The beasts died quickly and, it seemed, with a certain satisfaction. Morris, nude, had grown impassive. Only the death of his lead ram seemed to affect him. A single tear formed, slid down his tawny cheek. The doctor’s aide noted it in her examination record.
The examination itself did not take long: eyes, ears, nose, throat, heart, lungs, arterial pressure, routine check for hernia and piles, palpation of the prostate, various vital measurements. X-rays, blood samples, and encephalograms were taken, analyzed on the spot. “Now, a sample of your semen, please,” said the doctor turning her back, replacing the stethoscope in her black bag.
Morris, barbarian and cold-eyed, did not move. “Nan!” said the doctor, nodding back over her shoulder toward the captive.
Her aide slipped a rubber glove on over her left hand, squeezed some oil into it. Morris made one last desperate lunge, but Boris and another grabbed him, held him rigid. The crowd of tourists bulged closer. Nan approached him, executed three or four expert movements. Morris’ bronzed and bearded face flushed yet darker, his eyes widened and lost focus, his mouth seemed to grow full of thick teeth. Nan handed the test tube to the doctor. Dr. Peloris made a hasty smear, peered into the field microscope. “2-A!” she exclaimed with a soft appreciative whistle. “Not bad for a man of his age!”
Morris now lay limp in the arms of the two men. His checks sagged indifferently. Defiance was over. Victory was ours!
Dr. Peloris turned toward Morris, smiled gently. “There is still a place for you in our world,” she said. “You are more than healthy enough to warrant an attempted rehabilitation. I am in a position to recommend you. Perhaps a job at one of our mutton factories to begin with. Would you be interested?”
Morris stared numbly at the doctor. He closed his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, sullenly, he shook his head. “Put him in chains,” the doctor ordered. She closed up her black bag, strode away, to the cheers of the gathered throng.
This, then, concludes our report. Dr. Doris Peloris has received highest State honors, yet it is of course recognized by all citizens that she cannot be rewarded enough. May history grant her that which is beyond our humble means! Though he remains in chains, Morris’ story may not be ended. He has been turned over to the urbanologists and a famous urbaniatrist has taken a personal interest in his case. They admit that Morris is a challenge serious beyond precedent to their young sciences, but reintegration does not seem entirely beyond possibility. We may well, in concert, wish that such might be the case!
(Doris Peloris the chorus and Morris sonorous canorous Horace scores Boris — should be able to make somethin outa that by juniper then there’s bore us and whore us and up the old torus no not so good not so good losin the old touch I am by damn/ahh! Rameses! why’d they go and do that to ye for? it’s the motherin insane are free!)
THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
1
A pine forest in the midafternoon. Two children follow an old man, dropping breadcrumbs, singing nursery tunes. Dense earthy greens seep into the darkening distance, flecked and streaked with filtered sunlight. Spots of red, violet, pale blue, gold, burnt orange. The girl carries a basket for gathering flowers. The boy is occupied with the crumbs. Their song tells of God’s care for little ones.
2
Poverty and resignation weigh on the old man. His cloth jacket is patched and threadbare, sunbleached white over the shoulders, worn through on the elbows. His feet do not lift, but shuffle through the dust. White hair. Parched skin. Secret forces o£ despair and guilt seem to pull him earthward.