Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor, And an acre of land around each door And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, To her tenantry she granted. So all of them had enough to eat, And their love for her was so complete They would kiss the dust from her little feet, Or do anything she wanted. _Samuel_. Capital! Capital! Wasn't it good! I should like to have been her brother; If I had been one, you may guess there would Have been little work for the other. I'd have run him right through the heart, just so; And cut off his head at a single blow, And killed him so quickly he'd never know What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe? _Joseph_. You are very brave with your bragging tongue; But if you had been there, you'd have sung A very different tune Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid Of a little boy with a penknife blade, Or a tiny pewter spoon! _Samuel_. It makes no difference what you say (Pretty little boy, afraid to play!) But it served him rightly any way, And gave him just his due. And wasn't it good that his little wife Should live in his castle the rest of her life, And have all his money, too? _Rebekah_. I'm thinking of the ladies who Were lying in the Chamber Blue, With all their small necks cut in two. I see them lying, half a score, In a long row upon the floor, Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. I know the sweet Fatima would Have put their heads on if she could; And made them live--she was so good; And washed their faces at the sink; But Blue Beard was not sane, I think: I wonder if he did not drink! For no man in his proper mind Would be so cruelly inclined As to kill ladies who were kind. _Ruth_. [_Stepping forward with_ DAVID.] Story and comment alike are bad; These little fellows are raving mad With thinking what they should do, Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had Given her heart--and her head--to a lad Like the man with the Beard of Blue. Each little jacket Is now a packet Of murderous thoughts and fancies; Oh, the gentle trade By which fiends are made With the ready aid Of these bloody old romances! And the little girl takes the woman's turn, And thinks that the old curmudgeon Who owned the castle, and rolled in gold Over fields and gardens manifold, And kept in his house a family tomb, With his bowling course and his billiard-room, Where he could preserve his precious dead, Who took the kiss of the bridal bed From one who straightway took their head, And threw it away with the pair of gloves In which he wedded his hapless loves, Had some excuse for his dudgeon. _David_. We learn by contrast to admire The beauty that enchains us; And know the object of desire By that which pains us.