“The Pagan slept when his slave was dead, For he had much gold to spare; Next day he went to the market place And bought with a better care. But when my slave had been killed with words I placed at her head a stone: ‘Here sleeps the one that I loved most dear While I go my way—alone!’ “We bought two slaves on the Block of Life, The Pagan and I one day; But he killed his with a short, curved sword, A damned, paganistic way. My slave died too, but a Christian’s death, And God tells me all is well; So while white heaven’s ahead for me, The Pagan must writhe in hell. “—NATHANIEL FORGE. “Paris, Vt., Sept. 25, 1906.” It should not be difficult to understand where Nathan derived material or satire for this poem. Neither should its reception be difficult to grasp in a prudish New England community. “That boy’s mind is becoming positively foul!” cried Mrs. Caleb Gridley when she had found the paper that night and then dropped it as though it were hot. “The very idea of putting such a thing in type! What’s Mr. Hod thinking of? Moral excellence, indeed! I thank the Lord that pure-minded little Bernice-Theresa is out of town and away from it all. Her sweet morals are safeguarded from any such youthful depravity as that Forge boy is showing.” Old Caleb secured the paper and read the verses in silence. “Oh, I dunno,” he answered after a time. Then he sat staring into space. Many husbands in Paris sat staring into space after reading Nat’s poem that night. A few, however, did not get the chance to stare into space. “Cost me twenty-five dollars!” growled Artemus Harrington in the Smoke Shoppe Cigar Store later that evening. “My wife says it was the best thing she’d ever read and it would do a heap o’ men around town good to read it, too. One thing led to another and we ended up in a fight. She made me ‘fork over,’ and she sashayed home to her mother’s.” Cora Whipple, Nathan’s former teacher, declared it was bizarre, but nevertheless Literature. She said it ought to be printed in all the best magazines. Her prim old-maid sister called it the height of obscenity and gave the _Telegraph’s_ editor a piece of her mind over the ‘phone, ringing off before Sam had the chance to reply. The poem set the town by the ears, so to speak. “You sure can pick out which hubbies love their wives and which women ain’t happily married by the way that poetry sets on their stummicks!” observed Uncle Joe Fodder. “B’dam whether I think the kid writ it himself or whether he’s got some old person coachin’ him. But believe me, if Sam goes on printin’ the likes of that poem he’s sure goin’ to swell his subscription list. And not because folks want to see the report o’ the tax commissioners, either.”