SC - Kindergarden through 3rd

[Sharon R. Saroff]

My last offer to show that the practice did in fact make it to this 
century....

The Sin Eater - By American Poet  Ruth Comfort Mitchell (1913)

                                I 
                       Hark ye! Hush ye! Margot's dead! 
                       Hush! Have done wi' your brawling tune! 
                       Danced she did, till the stars grew pale; 
                       Mother o' God, an' she's gone at noon! 
                       Sh-h . . . d'ye hear me? -- Margot's dead! 
                       Sickened an' drooped an' died in an hour! 
                       (Bring me th' milk an' th' meat an' bread.) 
                       Drooped, she did, like a wilted flower. 
                       Come an' look at her, how she lies, 
                       Little an' lone, and like she's scared . . . . 
                       (She lost her beads last Friday week, 
                       Tore her Book, an' she never cared.) . . . 
                       Eh, my lass, but it's winter, now -- 
                       You that ever was meant for June, 
                       Your laughing mouth an' your dancing feet -- 
                       An' now you're done, like an ended tune. 
                       Where's that woman? Ah, give it me quick, 
                       Food at her head an' her poor, still feet. . . . 
                       There's plenty, fool! D'ye think the wench 
                       Had so many sins for himself to eat? 
                       Take up your cloak an' hand me mine. . . . 
                       Are we fetchin' him? Eh, for sure! 
                       An' you'll come with me for all your quakes, 
                       Clear to his cave across the moor! 
                       -- Margot, dearie, don't look so scared, 
                       It's no long while till your peace begins! 
                       What if you tore your Book, poor lamb? 
                       I'm bringin' you one will eat your sins! 

                                II 
                       It's a blood-red sun that's sinkin'. . . . 
                       Ohooo, but the marshland's drear! 
                       Woman, for why will you be shrinkin'? 
                       I'm tellin' you there's nought to fear. 
                       What if the twilight's gloomish 
                       An' th' shadows creep an' crawl? 
                       Woman, woman, here'll be th' cave! 
                       Stand by me close till I call! 
                                "Sin Eater! Devil Cheater!" 
                                (Eh, it echoes hollowly!) 
                       "Margot's dead at Willow Farm! 
                       Shroud your face and follow me!" 

                                III 
                       One o' th' clock . . . two o' th' clock. . . . 
                       This night's a week in span! 
                       Still he crouches by her side. . . . 
                       Devil . . . ghost . . . or man? . . . 

                                IV 
                       Woman, never cock's crow sounded sweet before! 
                       Set the casement wide ajar, fasten back the door! 
                       Eh, but I be cold an' stiff, waiting for th' dawn; 
                       Fetch me flowers -- jessamine -- see, the food is 
gone. . . . 
                       Light enough to see her now. . . . Mary! How her face 
                       Shines on us like altar fires, now she's sure o' 
grace! 
                       Never mind your Book, my lamb, never mind your beads, 
                       There's th' Gleam before you now, follow where it 
leads. 

                                V 
                       Tearful peace and gentle grief 
                       Brood on Willow Farm: 
                       Margot, sleeping in her flowers, 
                       Smiles, secure from harm: 
                       In a cave across the moor, 
                       Dank and dark within, 
                       Moans the trafficker in souls, 
                       Freshly bowed with sin. 

                      
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