Free A Grain of Mustard Seed by May Sarton Page B

is easy—every boy can dare—
    But harder to keep justice from that joy,
    And bury feeling, your self-inflicted wound.
    And yet you burned. And yet you burned so deep,
    Mastering fire, controlling fire with wit,
    That eulogies seem pale beside your breath,
    And we are fools, since you would not, to weep.
    We mourn ourselves, that is the truth of it,
    Hit by the savage rock that is your death.
    Whatever end we hoped with you alive,
    To be those few, and happy, growing old,
    To talk of battles shared, of false and true,
    That light is gone. We shall have to survive
    As remnants in a world turned grim and cold
    Where once we laughed at Hell itself with you.

The Ballad of Ruby *
    Her mother dressed the child in white,
    White ribbons plaited in her hair,
    And sent her off to school to fight
    Though it was very cruel there.
    “Ruby, we have to show our pride.
    Walk slow, and just be dignified.”
    So Ruby walked to school each day
    While the white mothers screamed “Black scum!”
    Never got dirty out at play
    For she spent recess in her room,
    And felt the hatred seeping in.
    “What is it, mother? What have I done?”
    But still her mother had to trust
    That that white dress so clean and neat
    Would show the truth because it must,
    Her Ruby was so bright and sweet.
    And every day the crowd grew bigger
    And threw stones at the “dirty nigger.”
    Then Ruby shook her ribboned head,
    Refused to eat a chocolate cookie,
    Had nightmares every night in bed,
    Broke her brown crayons—“They are mucky!
    “Ugly is black. Ugly is last.”
    (Ruby at six was learning fast).
    And when the teacher let them draw,
    Ruby made all black people lame,
    White people tall, strong, without flaw.
    Her drawing did not need a name.
    “It is plain black and white, you see.
    And black is ugly. Black is me.”
    “We’ll poison you” became the taunt.
    “You’ll learn to keep away from white!”
    And so a new fear came to haunt
    The child who had no appetite,
    Locked into blackness like some sin.
    “Why mother? Is it only my skin?”
    But still she walked to school with glory,
    And ran the gauntlet, dignified…
    Did she grow up to tell a different story?—
    “White folks are black, all dirty down inside.
    What makes them like they are, ugly within?
    Is it only the color of their skin?”
    * The story of Ruby is told by Robert Coles in Children of Crisis, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1967.

The Ballad of Johnny
    ( A News Item )
    For safety on the expedition
    A name-tag on each child was hung,
    A necklace-name, his very own,
    So he could not get lost for long.
    Johnny jumped up and down for joy
    To have a name forever true.
    “I’m Johnny,” cried the little boy.
    “Johnny is going to the zoo!”
    “Johnny,” he whispered in the subway.
    His whole face was suffused with bliss.
    This was the best, the greatest day.
    Boldly he gave his name a kiss.
    But soon forgot it at the zoo
    And let the name-tag swing out free,
    For could that elephant be true?
    And there was so much there to see…
    Look, Johnny, at the monkey swinging
    High in the air on his trapeze!
    He heard the gibbon’s sharp shrill singing
    And begged to hold the monkey, please.
    Then saw a goat and ran off fast
    To hug the dear fantastic thing,
    An animal to stroke at last,
    A living toy for all his loving.
    The soft lips nibbled at his sweater
    And Johnny laughed with joy to feel
    Such new-found friendliness and, better,
    To know this animal was real.
    His face was breathing in fur coat,
    He did not notice anything
    As gentle lips and greedy throat
    Swallowed the name-tag and the string.
    But when he found that they were gone
    And he had lost his name for good,
    Dreadful it was to be alone,
    And Johnny screamed his terror loud.
    The friendly goat was strange and wild,
    And the cold eyes’ indifferent stare
    Could give no comfort to the child
    Who had become No one, Nowhere.
    “I’ve lost my name. I’m going to die,”
    He shouted when his teacher came
    And found him too afraid