Part 2

A handy bunch of men are round the stove At Yancey’s--hunters back from Jackson’s Hole, And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.

And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there, Can tell a hunting yarn or two--beside, He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”

But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag; He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said: “I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag, For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.

“That man won’t slosh around in politics And waste his time a-killing little game; He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks, And when he picks a head he hits the same.”

Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport, And free to back his knowledge up with lead; And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort To run the State, because he “picks a head.”

[1] Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of game-hunters and Indian-fighters.

Roosevelt’s _The Wilderness Hunter_.

UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING

(1899)

Take up the White Man’s burden! Have done with childish days. R. K.

Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling, For showing us the way To buckle down to business And end our “childish day.” We know we’re young and frisky And haven’t too much sense-- At least, not in the measure We’ll have a few years hence.

Now, this same “White Man’s burden” You’re asking us to tote Is not so unfamiliar As you’re inclined to note. We freed three million negroes, Their babies and their wives; It cost a billion dollars And near a million lives!

And while we were a-fighting In all those “thankless years” We did not get much helping-- Well, not from English “peers.” And so--with best intentions-- We’re not exactly wild To free the Filipino, “Half devil and half child.”

Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling; Though not disposed to groan About the “White Man’s burden,” We’ve troubles of our own; Enough to keep us busy When English friends inquire, “Why don’t you use your talons? _There are chestnuts in the fire!_”

A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE

In this time of joy and cheer When we greet the buoyant year, Now, old friends, we cherish you, Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view-- Kindly fancy, happy thought, Visions from the fairies caught, Rhyme and story, song and play, Fantasy for holiday-- All the treasures of your mind Spent to make the world more kind.

While we grope in dark and fog, Flounder onward through the bog, You, serene upon the height, Gambol in the cheery light-- Toss your laughter from the steep, Bringing hope to those who weep. What fair visions brightly gleam Through cloud-rifts! Your dearest dream Clothed in beauty on the peak, Waiting for the Muse to speak.

Here’s our wish at New Year’s time, Faint-expressed in halting rhyme: For the men who dream and write Make the future clear and bright; Thaw the cynic from their heart-- Love and faith are highest Art. Let them picture with their pen Not our _manners_ but our _men_. Bless them all at New Year’s tide! May their skill and fame abide! And all women--charming, bright-- Grant that they may never write!

TO CHLOE

FOR A MENDED GLOVE

Fair Chloe looked upon the old torn glove, Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers, And lo! the rent was closed--as if for love Sweet healing follows where her touch but lingers.

If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes, And all the hearts despairingly defended, Were healed so soon--we’d straightway realize That love and life are good as new when mended.

TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR

Sweet Elf, you’ll pipe a merry tune, Make days and months all gladness; The clear, bright note you sound in June Will cheer December’s sadness.

You’ll never pout on rainy days, Nor when it’s cold will shiver, But sit serene and sing your lays. May Old Time bless the giver!

CAPRICE

Love laughed awhile, And ridiculed my daring To rashly crave a smile From her, heart-whole, uncaring. Oh, how Love laughed!

Love angry grew And spoiled her pretty features; I was--she vowed it true-- The most despised of creatures. Oh, how Love frowned!

Love dropped a tear, Her anger with it falling; I felt her blue eyes clear, My heart and hopes enthralling. Oh, how Love cried!

Her tears Love dried, And then she looked up sweetly; No more her glance defied-- I pressed my suit discreetly. Love kissed me then!

RETROSPECT

At evening, when the breeze dies down, And regal Nature doffs her crown, When brown-limbed pines, like minarets, Fringe all the hills, and tired day frets To rest awhile--ah, then, I know, Into a shadowed room you go, And softly touch the organ keys; While pale stars blink amid the trees You sing a peaceful vesper hymn That rises from your full heart’s brim; Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears-- You wander through remembered years; From gay to grave your fancies fly, And end the journey with the cry: _My heart played truant from my will! I loved him then--I love him still._

IN THE CROWD

A pair of brown eyes--no matter where, In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare-- Call up the image of your face to me. All others vanish, only you I see; Above the din of trade your voice I hear, And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear, That fades into a smile away: Thus are you with me everywhere and every day.

REMEMBRANCE

No, not despair of ever quite forgetting The happy romance of those dreamy years, The painful weariness of vain regretting Through all life’s varied way of love and tear Not this the gladness of my heart represses, With shadow tinges still each sunny thought The fancy that with poignant touch distresses Is that by thee I am perhaps forgot!

OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER

Embrasured guns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping, Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf; Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keeping Above the mimic battle of the surf.

And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended-- Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes; The wiles by which your heart was well defended Embrasured there look love on summer skies.

OVER THE FERRY

ONOMATOPOETIC

Clang! Ting-a-ling! Then a scream of the whistle. Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob! Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant; And the swift paddles fling, Like the down of a thistle, White foam from their blades, while the waters defiant Groan under their merciless tread; and the throb Of the heart grows exultingly faster; Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her-- Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder-- The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harder While nearing the wharves of the City of Vanity To roll from its shoulders the load of humanity. And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing, The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailing And tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie, Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie. And what he will say she is anticipating-- Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating; And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing. There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing! While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing. But the song of the wheels is, “I love him--I love him!” Then the pilot above Signals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!” And the slowing wheels sing, “Oh, my love--love--love!” Clang!

BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER

And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae, And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray; The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown, Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the light And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown. Along the lane the quail are running in fright At sound of guns on the upland--the cautious dogs Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men Watch for the whir of wings; the hickory logs Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough; In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels cough And chatter and screech--chasing each other from limb To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees. And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him Glows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze. Down in the valley the ancient village rests, Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street; High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crests Are carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet, Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth; For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad, And sometimes rich in the wealth of truth That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad. For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl Except for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine, Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearl She seeks is love, and only love is the wine That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day That love and his lady are proof against all surprise-- So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.

* * * * *

Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there; Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees; Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care-- The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze. Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill-- Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled; Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill, Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead. Years has he wandered over the land and sea; Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved; Always that vision haunted his fancy free-- The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved. Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep, Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom; Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deep Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.

WITH FLOWERS

ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER

Far from its native moorland Or crest of “wine-red” hill, At sight or scent of heather The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. Though crushed its purple blossoms, Its tender stems turned brown, It brings romantic Highlands Into prosaic town. The clans are on the border, The chiefs are in the fray; We’re keen upon their footsteps With Walter Scott to-day. Peat smoke from lowland cottage Floats curling up, and turns Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones And melodies of Burns. And last our fancy lingers With fond regret and vain Where sleeps our Tusitala Beneath the tropic rain-- Far from the purple heather Or gleaming rowan bough, Alone on mountain summit, “Our hearts remember how.”

St. Andrew’s Day.

THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS

TO A FAIR WOMAN

I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife; The sky above and all around is blue, And from this haven now I come to you.

Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright That other flowers do not live so bright? That in dark forests and by noisy streams The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?

While we are merry in this fireside glow My humble cousin shivers in the snow; And yet a cricket whispered once to me That _I_ the captive was--my cousin, free!

Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true; I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees, With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.

The dream is over--I have lived my day Nourished in sun with other violets gay; And now I’m borne afar to Paradise, To find my haven in your gentle eyes.

If I may touch your lips I’ll die content Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent In woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade, Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!

Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass; What! _You too captive in a house of glass?_

A SONG

WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY

_What the Rose thought:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! But I am a rose that must bloom for a day; My life is like color and perfume in May; To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair, And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair. Oh, to be one-and-twenty!

_What She sang, exultingly:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! To feel that the glorious days of my youth Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth-- That all joyful things in my bright future gleam, And I am to _live_ them and find out my dream. Oh, to be one-and-twenty!

_What He wrote, sadly:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! To dream that the great world is still all my own, And cherish again the ideals that have flown; To follow them, hiding with cunning and art, And find them all sleeping within her warm heart, Her heart that is one-and-twenty!

WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID

Here are roses, red and white, Each to speak what I would write; For, when in your quiet room You may smell their sweet perfume, I shall whisper through these flowers Fancy’s thoughts for evening hours. Then, when in the crowded street You and I may chance to meet, I’ll discover in your eyes What you’ve half expressed in sighs; For if in your dusky hair One red rose you deign to wear I shall say, “I know that she Wears it for her love of me.” But if on your gentle breast One white rose may dare to rest, Then in rapture I’ll declare, “That’s my heart a-resting there.” But if neither red nor white May your hair or gown bedight, Still with confidence I’ll say, “That is lovely woman’s way-- What of life is largest part Hides she deepest in her heart!”

DIANA’S VALENTINE

WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

_Good Saint Valentine, I pray, While around this town you stray, You will keep your eyes alert For a maid who loves to flirt._

If among the hurrying crowd-- Beauties fair and beauties proud-- You should see one like a queen, Eyes of blue, with golden sheen In her hair that’s flecked with brown, And a grace about her gown, _That’s Diana!_

Catch her eye As she’s gayly tripping by; Say you know a sorry wight, Slow of speech and slow to write, Who would tell her through these flowers That her eyes are bright as stars In the blue; that her speech Haunts his mem’ry (out of reach Like their perfume faint but fine); That her laugh is like rare wine. As you leave her touch her lips; Say that men are like old ships, Easy towed, but hard to steer; Then just whisper in her ear, “Lovers change, but friends are true Like these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”

_This, Saint Valentine, I pray, On the morning of that day When you keep your eyes alert For all maids who love to flirt._

ARCADY, February fourteenth.

WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES

If I were not a speechless flower I’d like to talk with you an hour And whisper many pretty things That thinking of your birthday brings.

(For flowers can dream of happiness While you their velvet petals press!) But I can’t talk--I know a man Who often vainly thinks he can,

And what he wanted me to do Was simply to look fair to you And wish you joy--and then surprise The gentle look in your dear eyes.

WRITTEN IN BOOKS

IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK

Dear old worldling gone astray, You would rather sing than pray; While you wore the preacher’s gown How you longed for London Town! When your head ached, then, alack! You, repentant, gave up sack; Old and worn you ruthlessly Bade farewell to poesy; Full, you never cared for food, Sated, you were always good. Julia’s beauties you rehearse, Sing her charms in wanton verse, But to make poor Julia thine Not one pleasure you’d resign. Flattering, you tried to please; Generous, you loved your ease! Dear old Herrick, you’re a Man Built upon the human plan; To the world your fame belongs For the beauty of your songs-- Glorious poet--not a saint-- Lyric splendor without taint!

IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS”

The Sonnets--bound by Rivière And newly illustrated! As though the words that Shakespeare wrote By outward dress are rated!

The soul--the fine, immortal part That lives without the binding, Is something from the poet’s heart; ’Tis here--and worth the finding.

IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE”

In this book a woman wrote her heart-- Etching there the image of a Man. Faithful woman! But the years depart, And love is dust, and life a broken span!

IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS

Here is a forest tangle-- Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees, All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle, With creaking branches swaying in the breeze. But if you care to listen, Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird, Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten, And over all the sweetest music ever heard.

IN “THE KING’S LYRICS”

Behold “The Lyrics of the King”! As though a crown on those who sing Could make their music sweeter! To-day we’ll choose the better part-- The gentle music of the heart That masters rhyme and metre.

THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race! Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face. He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles, Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles-- Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud. Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud; But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin-- To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin. The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death-- Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath! Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race! Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!

From _Overheard in Arcady_.

IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING

“Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said-- “Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!” “Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes; This is the World, and not Paradise. Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!”

From _Overheard in Arcady_.

FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S

AFTER KIPLING

He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint, And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!

IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE”

The foolish story of a man and maid Who loved each other but were dire afraid To follow where their true hearts surely led And, risking all things, bravely to be wed.

What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart? The universal solvent is the heart!

A CHRISTMAS GREETING

Good luck, good cheer, throughout the year! A bright fire on the hearthstone burning; A gleam of rose at evening’s close When, wearied, you are homeward turning! By ingle-nook a soothing book-- A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle; A bit of rhyme at Christmas-time To wish you fortune at your wassail!

IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS”

(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING)

In all your Calendar of Sports Why, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel? Were you, then, never out of sorts Until you felt the vibrant steel Skim over miles of level track? For youth, with all its hope and cheer, When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back-- And it is Summer all the year!

IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES”

The City’s roar is rising from the street; The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife; They plod and push, and elbow as they meet, And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”

For us the fireside hearth is all aglow, And those we love make up the life we know.

IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY”

The year is old, the way is far; I catch your image like a star That’s mirrored in a crystal brook; For love of you I send a book!

A VALENTINE

Though all the streams are white with frost And all the fields with snow, Though earth its greenery has lost, And biting gales do blow-- Still I’ll recall the summer hours, The blue skies and the vine-- The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers To greet my Valentine!

IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!”

(BY CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS AND S. D. S., JR.)

“Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!” The nimble game has broken cover And skims the valley to and fro; By cooling brooks it seems to hover, Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!” The huntsmen cry from brake to loch; The chase grows ardent--“View Hallo!” From quiet shelter echoes, _Droch_.

THE BOOK SPEAKS

TO EUGENE FIELD

I’m keeping jolly comp’ny In a room that’s full of books; I’m cheek by jowl with Horace And a lot of ancient crooks. But the boys I like to play with, When the boss takes off his coat, Are the wild and woolly heroes From Casey’s tabble-dote. And when the lamp is lighted And cosey hours ensue, I talk with All-Aloney And the little Boy in Blue. But when the man that owns the books Throws one kind glance at _me_ I sing just like the Dinkey In the Amfelula Tree.

IN HERFORD’S VERSES

To weep with those who weep is human; We give our praises to the man of grit, And honor with our trust the true man; Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!

IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS

You may turn these pages over, Looking for the priceless pearl; You may search from back to cover For the finest Gibson girl. You can save yourself the trouble-- It’s no earthly use to look: The charming girl who takes the medal Is a-holding of the book.

IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS

A maker of smooth verse and facile rhymes, And lover of quaint legends from old times; A joyous singer in New England bleak-- Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.

IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE--A PLAY”

TO J. M.