Essex County herald. [volume] (Guildhall, Vt.) 1873-1964, 1886-03-05
VOL. XIV.
HEBE.


See, what beauty Half-shut eyes
Hide all buff, and without break
To the tails brown tuft that mostly lies
So quiet one thinks her scarce awake;
But pass too near, one step too free, s.s
You find her slumber DEVILS truce:
Up comes that paw-all plush, you see
Out four claws, fit for Satan's use.
Ware! Just sleeves breadth closer then.
And your last appearance ON any stage
Loll, II you like, by Daniels Den,
But clear and away from Hebe's cage
That's Hebe! listen to that purr
Rumbllng as from the ground below:
Strange, when the ring begins to stir,
The tleshings always vex her so.
You think twere rougher task by far
10 tame her mate with the sooty manei
A splendid bronze for showman's car,
And quite enough for bit and rein
But Hebe is-just like all her sex
Not good, then bad-be sure of that:
In either case 'twould sage perplex
10 make them out. both woman and cat.
A curious record, Hebe's. Reared
In Italy; age-that's hard to fix;
Trained from cub, until she feared
The lash, and learned her round of tricks;
Always traveler-one of two
A woman-tamer took in hand
whipped them, coaxed them-and so they
grew
To fawn or cover at her command.
None but Florina-that was her name
And this the story of Hebe here
Entered their cage; the brutes were tame
As Kittens though their mistress near.
A tall, proud wench as ever was seen,
Supple and handsome, full of grace;
The world would how to n pao1
That had Florina's form and face.
Her lover-for one she had, of course
Was Marco, acrobat circus-star,
The hghtest foot on running horse,
The surest leap from a swinging bar;
And she-so jealous he dared not touch
A woman's hand; and, truth to say,
he had no humor to tease her much
I'LL girl In spangles crossed their way.
Twas at Marseille3, the final scene:
This pretty rider joined the ring,
Ma'mselle Celeste or Victorine,
And captured him under Fiorina's wing.
They hid their meetings, but when, you sec,
Doubt holds the candle love will show.
And in loves division the one of three.
Whose share is lessened, needs must know
One night, then, after the throng outpoured
From the show, and the lions my Lady's
power
Had been made to feel, with lash that scored
And eye that cowed them, a snarling
(They were just in the mood for pleasantly
Of those holidays when saints were thrown
10 beast, and the Romans, entrance-free,
Clapped hands)-that night, as she stood
alone.
Florina, Queen of the Lions, called
Sir Marco toward ha, IubiIo ba,. banl
Still touched the spring of door that walled
- Her subjects safe within Lion-land.
de came there painting, hot from the ring,
So brave figure that one might know
Among all his tribe he must be king
II in some wild tract you met him so.
''Do you love me still," she asked, "as when
Doubt"
But nave a fancy-men are men,
And one whim drives another OUT
'What fancy2 Is this alls Have done:
You tire me-" Look you, Marco oh,
l should die if another woman won
Your love-but would kill you first, you
know"
Kill me2 and how-with jealous tongueT'
'IhusH quoth Florina, and slipped the
OF the cages door, and headlong flung
Sir Marco, ere he could breathe, the dolt!
Plump on the lion he bounced, and fell
Beyond and Hebe leapt for him there
No need for their lady's voice to tell
The work in hand for that ready pair.
They say one wouldn't have cared to see
The group commngled, man and beast,
Or to hear the shrieks and roars-all three
One red, the feasters and the feast!
Guns, pistols blaced till the lion sprawled,
Shot dead, but Hebe held to her prey
And drank his blood, while keepers bawled
And their hot irons made yon scars that
day.
But the woman! True, had forgot;
She never fiinched at the havoc made,
Nor gave one cry, but there on the spot
Drove to the heart her poniard- blade,
Straight, like a man, and fell, nor stirred
Again; so that fine pair were dead;
One lied, and the other kept her word
And death pays debts, when all is said
So they hustled Hebe out of France,
To Spain, or maybe to England first.
Then hitherward over seas, by chance,
She came as you see her, always athirst,
As if, like the tigresses that sink
In the village canes of Hindostan,
OF one rare draught she loves to think,
And ever to get it must plan and plan.
Edmund c. Stedman, in the Century,