Illustration: The Bastinado

CANTO I

The wicked Whipper is a freak,
Also, a most malignant sneak.
He always shows his presence when
We let him kick his fellow men.
He'd rather beat a child than eat.
He loves to whip the girl so sweet,
Whipping th' soles of her dainty feet.

The grim Sultana said, "Pray why,
Dear Daughter, must I lash my clown
With bastinado? Do not cry,
But tell me why thou art awry
          With crease upon thy silken gown?
          Alas, thou must be tickled down
          Under each foot ere we leave town.
You are a perfect little cheat,
          We'll have to sting your naughty feet.
          Ring for the slave, suppress that cough,
Please take thy shoes and stockings off."

The little girl with timid voice
Said, "Mother, make the slave rejoice.
He loves to flagellate thy pet.
Of late I've been so good, and yet,
My silken gown—this ragged hole—
It's time to flagellate my sole.
Nay, dearest Mother, do not cough.
I'll take my shoes and stockings off."

The grim Sultana made a sign.
          The little maiden, breathing hard,
Weeps,—poor, gentle, clinging vine.
          Stern fate has caught her off her guard.
Her little feet—they tremble so
From dainty heel to pretty toe.

I hear the tinkling of lutes
Accompanied by magic flutes,
Seventeen maidens in spotless white
Enter the hall (classical sight),
Waving palms. Their presence there
Is just to see all things go fair.

The grim Sultana bites one nail,
The girlie girl grows deadly pale;
The walking cavalcade appears,
Led by a man with monstrous ears.
This is the mighty Whipping Turk,
Priding himself upon his work;
He thinks it is superb to beat
His fellow creatures on their feet,
When victim groans, when victim squirms,
Like agitated angle worms.

Upon the floor there is a rug
Where naughty sinners lie out snug,
Face downward, waiting the event
When Mother orders chastisement.

The little girlie, kneeling down,
Smooths out the creases from her gown.
Holding her breath with nervous shrug,
She flings herself upon the rug
Face down. She lifts her slippered feet—
Such pretty slippers, very neat.
She raises both her feet on high,
Holding them steady. Hear her sigh.

The Whipper brings the wooden frame,
Now we appreciate his fame.
He moves the wooden frame up close,
Close to the dainty limbs—jocose?
You bet. He locks each ankle tight,
Upon the frame—most hapless plight!
The slippered feet remain upright.

The maiden hides her pretty face
With both her hands. She says her grace,
Then shudders with a nervous cough.
They take her shoes and stockings off.

Indeed, it is a lovely sight.
Her naked feet are pink and white.
The bare soles blushing like a rose
From dainty heel to pretty toes.

The girlie closes both her eyes,
Utters a prayer—Oh, how she sighs,
Awaiting the first smarting sting
Upon her pink, bare feet—poor thing!
Poor wounded bird with broken wing.

The wicked Whipper whirls the whip
With spiteful crack, with vicious clip
He whips the naked feet—Oh, my!
Poor little girlie, hear her cry.

The wicked Whipper—see him whirl
The cruel whip, lashing the girl,
Whipping away with stern conceit,
Whipping the soles of her naked feet.

Whipping and whipping th' poor little girl,
Whipping and whipping th' cute pearly pearl.
Whipping away with stern conceit,
Whipping the soles of her naked feet.

The girl is writhing on the floor,
Screaming with pain. Look, see her claw
The air. Her hair is all awry,
Poor little creature, hear her cry.

Pity the little naked feet,
Pity each pink, bare sole so sweet,
Bleeding away with crimson flow
From dainty heel to pretty toe.

Hold off thy hand, malignant brute,
Pity the little feet so cute,
Pity the dimpled baby soles
All bleeding. Hark! The timbrel tolls.

The grim Sultana waves one hand,
The slave obeys the high command,
Throwing away the rawhide whip
From whence now flows th' crimson drip.

We now unlock the iron link
Just as the girl is on the brink
Of fainting dead away. Woe! woe!
Those bleeding feet, that crimson flow
From dainty heel to pretty toe.

The little girlie creeps upon
Her knees. She vainly tries to don
Her slippers, but she can't; oh, no,
They hurt each dainty, pretty toe,
Starting afresh the crimson flow,
Over the naked foot. Woe! woe!

CANTO II

The wicked Whipper, all alert,
Because his feelings have been hurt
Down to the very deepest core,
Opens and shuts his dragon claw.

He is so very measly,
With feelings injured easily,
Possessing no benignity,
And yet a man of dignity.

The wicked Whipper darkly scowls,
Stamping about, the lout—he howls
Extending both his ugly jowls.

He gobbles down a brace of drinks
          And then he sharpens up his dirk
He hisses out, "The lazy minx,
          Making me do her dirty work,
I, the official Whipping Turk.

"She is so useless, so inert,
The nasty, little, lazy squirt.
She made me do her work. 'Twas I
Removed her slippers, I, poor guy
—Her stockings also, think of that!
The worthless, silly little rat.

"She thinks she is so cute, so smug,
While flopping there upon that rug
Face down. She lifted up her feet,
Her slippered feet, so trim, so neat.

"She had the impudence to cough.
I took her shoes and stockings off.
She should have done that work herself,
She is a saucy little elf.
I'm not her handy maid. She's punk,
One nasty, little, lazy skunk,
Humiliating me with work
Unfit for any noble Turk."

The Whipper shook his head with glee
          Remarking, "I'm a cunning fox.
She didn't get the best of me,
          Not much, I thrashed her like an ox.
Oh, yes, I made the job complete.
Look at her little naked feet.
What think you of the crimson flow
From dainty heel to pretty toe?

CANTO III

The harem now is quiet. See
The grim Sultana on one knee
Arranging the fair daughter there
Upon the cushion. What a pair,
United so in love. The slave
Brings water in a bowl. They lave
The bleeding feet, and very soon
The pain has left. The silver moon
Shines on the loving pair, who now
Converse. The Mother speaks of how
Displeased she is, saying, "My dear,
Why do you act so very queer
Each time the Whipper whips my dear?"
The Mother says, "All is not right,
The mighty Whipper feels the slight
You put upon him out of spite.

"Deliberately you flopped upon
The floor with shoes and stockings on,
Quite a premeditated sin,
I saw the mighty Whipper grin
With rage. I'll set him right with you
And then he may forgive me, too.

"Do take thy Mother's warning, love,
As if inspired from above
And never our talk rehash.
Be sure you reverence the lash.
Ever respect the Whipper, tho'
He blister thee from heel to toe.

"The Bastinado with a cane,
Causing the most exquisite pain,
Is quite essential, curing sin.
When Mother calls the Whipper in
To lash my pet, my heart is sore,
So do not grieve me any more,
But lovingly submit and do
Remember what I say to you.

"Before you come of age, dear girl,
I'll often have to whip my Pearl.
The stinging lash thy soul may save.
Next time the Whipper calls, be brave.
I'll tell you how you must behave.

"Dear girlie, when you hear him cough,
Please take your shoes and stockings off,
          Lie down with face upon the rug,
Lift up your little, pink, bare feet,
There—keep them steady, keep those neat
          Pink, naked soles together. Hug
The carpet close. Bury your face
Deep in the pillow. Keep in place
          Your bare feet, keep them very still
          Until the Whipper doth fulfill
His cruel will. You bet he'll win
Fresh laurels with your tender skin.
          So when you hear the Whipper cough,
          Please take your shoes and stockings off."

The little girl said, "Mother mine,
Forever may thy wisdom shine.
You know I am a clinging vine.

Next time the Whipper calls on me
I'll be as humble as can be,
And when his highness deigns to cough,
I'll take my shoes and stockings off."

Daughter and Mother now enmbrace,
With radiance upon each face.
They both are in a state of grace.

ENTR'ACTE

The wicked Whipper sits alone,
Biting his nails, picking his bone,
Chewing the rag in his proper zone,
Waiting a call on the telephone.

The Wicked whipper is a quack,
The lash is hanging on the rack,
Just like a pipe without a bowl.
The Whipper has a lousy soul.

The Whipper thinks he's quite a mash.
His heart is made of Oak and Ash
Quite ossified. He's feeling rash,
Longing once more to swing the lash.

The wicked Whipper's wife now sang
This pretty song. Its cadence rang
Throughout the hall. Her voice was clear.
This is the song, it's rather queer.

"Fatima, rising from the rack,
Suddenly steps upon a tack.
She screams aloud, exclaiming, 'Hell,
What is the cause of all this smell?
Is it the bacon on the stove?'
The nanny goats all in a drove
Are hurrying along this way.
I hope they have not come to stay.
They are obnoxious to the nose.
They don't remind me of the rose.
Soft soap is hard upon the face—
You'll never find it in this place.
There is a fish cake in the pan,
From whence the sizzling ham-fat ran.
But now the fish is burning up
Because the fat ate by the pup
Has travelled into other ways.
Where will I find another craze?
It can't be done, and, therefore, I
Will have to bid you all good-bye.
I'll go to Uncle Abe and hock
Myself, and then jump off the dock.
The snow fell thick at Valley Forge;
What do you think of truthful George?"

The Whipper did not like this song,
Therefore he grabbed a leather thong;
He hit his wife upon the head,
And sent her sprawling on the bed.
Saying, "Your voice disturbs my tripe."
And then he lit his faithful pipe.

CANTO IV

Almost a year has passed away.
The girlie has been good (they say).
The Mother has a doubt, and so
She now unties the riddle bow.

She gets up in the night and steals
Along the hall. Some rotten deals
She fears are on the way that night
To rob her of her heart's delight.

'Twas midnight in the harem dark.
All gloomy. Creeping footsteps—hark,
'Tis the Sultana roaming through
The marble halls. Those voices, two
Voices. She slips into a niche.
She is a curious old witch.

Across the hall a figure slight,
Shrinking against the lattice, quite
Hidden from every eye but one,
Is having just a little fun.

It is my friend, the little girl,
Giving away her mother's pearl
Quite in two senses (you will see)
She is a buzzing busy bee.

She whispers through the lattice grate
Holding a quiet tête-a-tête,
With a poor boy who twangs the harp,
But by profession peddles carp.

The moonlight shines beyond a cloud,
The little girlie whispers loud
Dispatching news to mother's ears.
The girl, her reputation queers.

The girl is passing through the grate,
The little golden box of state.
It is her dearest mother's ouch,
That put her mother in a grouch.

The ouch is full of jewels rare,
The little girl is very fair
Now, lighted by the moonlight there,
Which casts a halo round her hair.

She whispers to the fisher boy,
"This box, it is my mother's joy,
It's all I have to give to you."
It's full of gems of every hue.

The boy outside the lattice grate
Through which they hold the tête-a-tête
Gobbles the ouch (poor, useless clay)
Kisses her hand, then runs away.

The girlie gazes through the grate,
Then turns to go to bed, too late—
Her head doth swim, her heart doth burn,
She sees the brave Sultana stern.

The brave Sultana grabs her by
The neck and says, "You living lie,"
The little girl sobs out one sigh.
The mother drags her daughter through

The marble hall. She'll get her due
(The daughter). She's condemned to stew
Locked in her room—and then at two
O'clock to-morrow, she will get
The bastinado, yes, you bet.

Early the next day, Mother speaks
Unto that king of all the freaks,
The wicked Whipper, telling him
The news. He's boiling to the brim
With holy joy, fanatic vim.

The wicked Whipper hurries home,
How he did dance, how he did foam.
With joy he gathers all his whips,
Looking them over, smacking his lips.

He soons picks out the bamboo switch,
The yellow switch. How he doth itch.
To whip my little girlie witch.

Seventeen jealous maidens, green,
Whisper softly back of a screen.
They snicker, sneer, they leer, they jeer.
They never shed one single tear.

The bastinado they revere—
They hate my little girlie dear.
She has a swetheart, they have none.
Therefore they think it lots of fun
          To see her get her whipping. They
Are spiteful snakes ready to coil,
          Eager to bite, itching to slay,
Poking the caldron, seeing it boil.
They'd swim through scalding linseed oil
          To drag my little girl away,
          Her skin to flay, making her pay
          The price. Poor maiden gone astray.

CANTO V

I hear the barking of a pup,
I fear a storm is coming up,
Around my neck I feel a noose,
The thunderstorm is breaking loose.

The clock will soon be striking two,
All of the household take the cue.
They throng the Gothic marble hall,
All pushing, trying to forestall
Each other in the rush for seats.
This is one of the A-one treats.

There has not been a whipping since
The girlie suffered so. I wince
And trust the wicked Whipper queer
Will now be easy with my dear.

The roll of drums, the trumpet strain,
The Whipper marches through the lane
Of staunch admirers. They rain
Flowers upon this son of Cain.

The wicked Whipper, with a screech,
Making a most unholy speech,
Flourished a switch about his head.
These are the very words he said—
"Wait 'till I tackle that young kid,
That saucy little katydid.

"I'll lash her with my smallest whip—
One that can sting, one that can rip,
Scorching the flesh like flaming coal,
Whipping her bare feet on each sole.
I'll cut a bleeding crimson flow
From dainty heel to pretty toe."

The clear note of the timbrel rolls
Denoting tinkling on the soles.
The Whipper enters with his switch,
Standing within the Gothic niche.

Soft footsteps are approaching there,
There where the timbrel tinkled blare
Is wafted through the perfumed air.
The Girlie enters, dressed with care.
Hopelessly downcast, sweet and fair.
Where can she hope for mercy, where?

Everything goes without a hitch,
She looks so sweet, my baby witch,
She kneels before the Gothic niche,
And then she takes off every stitch,
Except the satin slippers, rich
And stockings made of silk from Kych.

The Whipper has the whip in hand,
The girl awaits the dread command,
The whipper grins, with hacking cough
She takes her shoes and stockings off.

She flops face down upon the floor,
Lifting her feet just as of yore,
Breathing a prayer and waiting for
The whipping from the dragon claw.

The small bare feet are all aglow
With rosy flush, they tremble so
From dainty heel to pretty toe.

The girl is waiting for the flash,
That whizzing sound, that awful slash
Succeeded by the stinging lash.

There is a silence through the hall,
Mysterious, it strikes thru all,
Like breezes from the desert heath
Or snaps from the hellbender's teeth.

The spell is broken by a shout
By everyone all round about.
The girl all trembling arose,
Bewildered by the cries of those
Assembled in the marble hall.
There is a look of fear on all.

The wicked Whipper is a sight.
His mouth is flaming red and white.
He's in a fit, a spectacle
Severe, most epileptical.

The Whipper raises up the whip
On high, and then he lets it slip
Out of his hand. He burst his gall.
He has a fit (no doubt at all).

His eyes are concentrated straight
Upon the little girl, all hate;
His eye-balls crackle worse and worse,
He hisses out this fearful curse.

"You miserable little minx,
Descended from the cursed sphinx,
May holy Allah, God of Strife,
Grant me the strength, I'll have your life."

As quick as thought this wicked Turk
The Whipper, draws his pointed dirk—
And stabs the darling little girl
Straight through the heart, poor little pearl!

We grab the Whipper by the neck,
He bites and scratches, tries to peck,
Dig our eyes, tearing the hair,—
But what of my little girl so fair?

There on the marble floor she lay,
Lifeless, pink and pretty, yea
More beautiful than words can tell,
Poor little girlie baby belle.

I feel a concentrated shock,
The marble hall begins to rock,
I am bewildered in a maze,
The harem trembles all ablaze.

The lightning and the thunder roar,
Ripping the heavens more and more.
The storm grows fiercer, thunders drown—
That crash—the house is falling down.

In shorter time than we can think,
The thunderbolt, straight from the brink,
Of yonder cloud—that awful crack—
The harem is in ruins black.

The storm blows over, all is still,
No living creature ever will
Disturb the harem any more;
No one is living, all is o'er.

The moon is smiling from above
On the remains of all I love;
There on the pile of broken stone
The little darling is alone.

The little white bare body lay
Far from the outer world away,
There on the ruined pile of rock,
The moonbeam lights the scene. A flock
          Of white doves linger there. They seem
To guard the place made sacred by
The little girlie dear. No cry
          Of living thing disturbs my dream.

NOTE—The tragedy happened at a Persaian colony on the Isle of Pines. The poor girl was a dear little friend of mine. I was powerless to mitigate the sentence. I sat close to the poor child during the punishment and held her hand while she received the whipping—forty stinging lashes on the soles of the little bare feet. Soon after the child perished in the fearful earthquake which engulfed the Isle of Pines. None were saved. All were lost.—THE AUTHOR.

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