On a cold Texas morning in eighteen-eighty-one,
Through the woods of Hill County where the wild rivers run,
A search party wandered through brush thick and deep,
Looking for George Arnold, gone two days without sleep.
Sunday had passed, and his family had prayed,
But George stayed behind—though he never delayed.
He always joined church, every sermon and hymn,
Yet that morning he whispered, “I’ll stay home… no one follow me—not even him.”
When they returned from the chapel, the house felt wrong,
No footsteps, no struggle—just silence prolonged.
But a letter lay waiting with ink heavy and blurred,
Words trembling like secrets too painful for words.
“I must go to the woods… and you mustn’t pursue.”
“I love you, forgive me—there’s nothing to do.”
He spoke of a burden he wished wasn’t real,
Something dark, something dreadful, he could no longer conceal.
So now through the forest the officers tread,
Fearing the worst, perhaps finding him dead.
A clearing appeared with a towering tree,
And there at its roots lay the man they sought—George, finally free.
But what they saw stirred terror, not peace,
A sight so disturbing their breath seemed to cease.
George sat unclothed, with his garments nearby,
His skin torn and shredded, as though fighting to die.
A heavy chain shackled his ankle to bark,
Locked tight with a padlock cold, iron, and dark.
His body was covered in cuts long and deep,
But the marks were like bites—as if made in his sleep.
White stones on the dirt, arranged in a scatter,
But stones turned to teeth once they saw them up close—
His own teeth—each broken, yanked out in some maddened clatter,
Like he’d chewed through the trunk in a delirious throe.
The tree bore deep gouges from jaw and from nail,
Where he clawed and he chomped as his strength began to fail.
Fingernails torn, littered round in the leaves,
Agony etched in each wound he achieves.
Why would a man choose a death so unkind?
What nightmare possessed and tormented his mind?
The answer lay hidden in a bite small and grim—
A rabid dog had sunk its fangs into him.
Today, we have cures—one shot and you’re saved,
But back in those days, rabies only enslaved.
It twisted the body and shattered the mind,
A death fierce and violent, inescapably designed.
George felt the first symptoms—hallucinations, despair,
Rage burning his veins, shadows clawing the air.
He knew what awaited—madness, attacks…
An urge to bite, to harm, to lash back.
A father of seven, with faith strong and deep,
He could not end his life—his soul he would keep.
So instead, he walked into the forest alone,
Chained himself to that tree, flesh scraping to bone.
He suffered in silence, his torment untold,
Enduring the horror with courage untold.
He died not from weakness, but duty and love—
A martyr in pain, watched by heaven above.
So whisper his name when the moon through leaves weaves:
A man who fought demons no mortal believes.
George Arnold, who chose through unbearable strife
To save those he cherished—
by sacrificing his life.