Part 5

They primped their feathers in the sun, An' sung their sweetest notes; An' music jest come on the run From all their purty throats!

But still that bird was silent In summer time an' fall; He jest set still and listened, An' he wouldn't sing at all!

But one night when them songsters Was tired out an' still, An' the wind sighed down the valley An' went creepin' up the hill;

When the stars was all a-tremble In the dreamin' fields o' blue, An' the daisy in the darkness-- Felt the fallin' o' the dew,--

There come a sound o' melody No mortal ever heard, An' all the birds seemed singin' From the throat o' one sweet bird!

Then the other birds went Mayin' In a land too fur to call; For there warn't no use in stayin' When one bird could sing for all!

FRANK L. STANTON

THE MESSENGER

Bee! tell me whence do you come? Ten fields away, twenty perhaps, Have heard your hum.

If you are from the north, you may Have passed my mother's roof of straw Upon your way.

If you came from the south you should Have seen another cottage just Inside the wood.

And should you go back that way, please Carry a message to the house Among the trees.

Say--I will wait her at the rock Beside the stream, this very night At eight o'clock.

And ask your queen when you get home To send my queen the present of A honey-comb.

JAMES STEPHENS

FIREFLIES

Fireflies, Fireflies, little glinting creatures, Making night lovely with a rain of gold, Born of the moonbeams, children all unearthly, Ah how you vanish from a look too bold!

Fireflies, Fireflies, lovely as our dreams are, Sewn with such fancies from the years gone by, Wayward, elusive, as the playful zephyrs, Hiding mid grasses, gleaming in the sky.

Fireflies, Fireflies, like unto the silent Brown nuns who gather for the dead to pray, As theirs your mission; holy, too, your tapers, Souls of dead flowers lighting on their way.

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

JULY MIDNIGHT

Fireflies flicker in the tops of trees, Flicker in the lower branches, Skim along the ground. Over the moon-white lilies Is a flashing and ceasing of small, lemon-green stars. As you lean against me, Moon-white, The air all about you Is slit, and pricked, and pointed with sparkles of lemon-green flame Starting out of a background of great vague trees.

AMY LOWELL

THE CRICKET IN THE PATH

She passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and so white, Her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's upturned, And it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her head with the light Of an aureole burned.

But where she had trodden unseeing, I found on the path A cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet strong To valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermath Of its yesterday song.

And I whispered, "Alas, Little Brother, why must it befall That the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us to die? Poor imp of the greensward, God trumpets me clear in thy call; Thou art braver than I.

"The Bright Ones of Heaven have trodden me down as they passed; I crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing. I know not the reason, nor question henceforth. To the last, While I live, I will sing."

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR

REST AT NOON

Now with a re-created mind Back to the world my way I find;

Fed by the hills one little hour, By meadow-slope and beechen-bower,

Cedar serene, benignant larch, Hoar mountains and the azure arch

Where dazzling vapors make vast sport In God's profound and spacious court.

The universe played with me. Earth Harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth;

The clouds built castles for my pleasure, And airy legions without measure

Flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky To thrill my heart once and to die.

I have held converse with large things; For cherubim with cooling wings

Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view, Called through the arras of the blue

And clapped their hands: "These veils uproll! And see the comrades of your soul!"

The very flowers that ringed my bed Their little "God-be-with-you" said,

And every insect, bird and bee Brought cool cups from eternity.

HERMANN HAGEDORN

ORDER

It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush: The petals are spread for a sunning; The little gold fly is scrubbing his face; The spider is nervously running To fasten a thread; the night-going moth Is folding his velvet perfection; And presently over the clover will come The bee on a tour of inspection.

PAUL SCOTT MOWRER

THE NIGHT-MOTH

My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,-- You gleam as a dream, by my window's light, My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.

From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night.

MARION COUTHOUY SMITH

THE BUTTERFLY

O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? _Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray-- He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day._

Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! I will go back now to the world of men. Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.

EDWIN MARKHAM

THE SECRET

O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune?

"I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!"

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH

THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY

THE GARDEN

_Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart. A goodly place it is and primly spaced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom. Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved. Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the lustrous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets. A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

OLD HOMES

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.

Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

MADISON CAWEIN

A PURITAN LADY'S GARDEN

This fairy pleasance in the brake-- This maze run wild of flower and vine-- Our fathers planted for the sake Of eyes that longed for English gardens Amid the virgin wastes of pine.

Here, by the broken, moldering wall, Where still the tiger-lilies ride, Once grew the crown imperial, The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret, Prince's-feather, and mourning bride.

Beyond their pale, a humbler throng, Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine; The mountain fringe ran all along The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, And overhung the eglantine.

And Sunday flowers were here as well-- Adam-and-Eve within their hood, The stately Canterbury bell, And, oft in churches breathing fragrance, The sweet and pungent southernwood.

When ships for England cleared the bay, If long beside these reefs of foam She stood, and watched them sail away, It was her garden first enticed her To turn, and call this country "home."

SARAH N. CLEGHORN

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

Among the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize, For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies.

The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close, For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.

So bright and lovely is the dear old place, It seems as though the country's very heart Were centered here, and that its antique grace Must ever hold it from the world apart. Immured it lies among the meadows deep, Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep.

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge They love to wander from their meadow home, To take what little pleasure here they may Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday.

The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, And up the arbor's lattices are rolled The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires; The tall carnation's breast of faded gold Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek.

The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes, With golden stars the coreopsis flames, And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms, Dear for the very fragrance of their names,-- Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks, Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks,

Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines.

* * * * *

A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, A calm asylum from the busy world, Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurled Round half the globe; no noise of party feud Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude.

But summer after summer comes and goes And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair; May brings the tulip, golden June the rose, And August winds shake down the mellow pear. Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,-- But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years.

* * * * *

Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain In violet-days when spring opes her green heart; And sweet the apple trees along the lane Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart; And sweet the brimming dew that overfills The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils.

But sweeter far, in this old garden-close To loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers, To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. Old gardens and old poets,--happy he Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company!

JOHN RUSSELL HAYES

A COLONIAL GARDEN

Down this pathway, through the shade, Lightly tripped the dainty maid, In her eyes the smile of June, On her lips some old sweet tune. Through yon ragged rows of box, By that awkward clump of phlox, To her favorite pansy bed Like a ray of light, she sped. Satin slippers trim and neat Gleamed upon her slender feet; Round her ankles, deftly tied, Ribbons crossed from side to side, Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair, Breathed their fragrance on the air; There her fluttering azure gown Shook the poppy's petals down. Here a rose, with fond caress, Stooped to touch a truant tress From her fillet struggling free, Scorning its captivity. There a bed of rue was set With an edge of mignonette, And the spicy bergamot Meshed the frail forget-me-not. Honeysuckles, hollyhocks, Bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks, Marigolds and blue-eyed grass Curtsied when the maid did pass. Now the braggart weeds have spread Through the paths she loved to tread, And the creeping moss has grown O'er yon shattered dial-stone. Still beside the ruined walks Some old flowers, on sturdy stalks, Dream of her whose happy eyes Roam the fields of paradise.

JAMES B. KENYON

IN MY MOTHER'S GARDEN

There were many flowers in my mother's garden, Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I, Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring, Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky;

Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders, White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold, Clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented, Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old.

In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places, Nooks between the lilacs--oh, a pleasant place to play! Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it, Though the long years lie between and I am far away;

When the world is hard now, when the city's clanging Tires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere, I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing, I can be a child still and hide my heart from care.

Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight, Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold-- Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness, Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old!

MARGARET WIDDEMER

TO THE SWEETWILLIAM

I search the poet's honied lines, And not in vain, for columbines; And not in vain for other flowers That sanctify the many bowers Unsanctified by human souls. See where the larkspur lifts among The thousand blossoms finely sung, Still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls! Charity, eglantine, and rue And love-in-a-mist are all in view, With coloured cousins; but where are you, Sweetwilliam?

The lily and the rose have books Devoted to their lovely looks, And wit has fallen in vital showers Through England's most miraculous hours To keep them fresh a thousand years. The immortal library can show The violet's well-thumbed folio Stained tenderly by girls in tears. The shelf where Genius stands in view Has brier and daffodil and rue And love-lies-bleeding; but not you, Sweetwilliam.

Thus, if I seek the classic line For marybuds, 'tis, Shakespeare, thine! And ever is the primrose born 'Neath Goldsmith's overhanging thorn. In Herrick's breastknot I can see The apple-blossom, fresh and fair As when he plucked and put it there, Heedless of Time's anthology. So flower by flower comes into view Kept fadeless by the Olympian dew For startled eyes; and yet not you, Sweetwilliam.

* * * * *

Though gods of song have let you be, Bloom in my little book for me. Unwont to stoop or lean, you show An undefeated heart, and grow As pluckily as cedars. Heat And cold, and winds that make Tumbledown sallies, cannot shake Your resolution to be sweet. Then take this song, be it born to die Ere yet the unwedded butterfly Has glimpsed a darling in the sky, Sweetwilliam!

NORMAN GALE

ROSE-GERANIUM

A pungent spray of rose-geranium-- A breath of the old life.

It brings up the little five-room cottage where I was born, And where I grew through a smiling childhood. The white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair, His eyes far off, crooning "The Sweet By and By," Marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor, While the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks.

And there is my grandmother's kneeling figure, Turning over the rich black earth with her trowel; And the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says: "Didn't the pansies do finely this year, Clem? And the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs, And the row of flaming salvia.... Those roses ... they're Maréchal Niels ... my favorites. And little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium-- Just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girl Her grandmother grew them in her yard!"

CLEMENT WOOD

FOUR O'CLOCKS

It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.

Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart-- Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.

Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.

And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!

JULIA C. R. DORR

ASKING FOR ROSES

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; "I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is." "Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy, "But one we must ask if we want any roses."

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

"Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?" 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. "Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

"A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses."

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

ROBERT FROST

THE OLD BROCADE

In a black oak chest all carven, We found it laid, Still faintly sweet of Lavender, An old brocade. With that perfume came a vision, A garden fair, Enclosed by great yew hedges; A Lady there, Is culling fresh blown lavender, And singing goes Up and down the alleys green-- A human rose. The sun glints on her auburn hair And brightens, too, The silver buckles that adorn Each little shoe. Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves Are cobweb lace; Her gown, it is our old brocade, Worn with a grace. Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, And see the sheen Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, Their leaves soft green, On a ground of palest shell pink, In garlands laid; But long dead the Rose who wore it-- The old brocade.

M. G. BRERETON

STAIRWAYS AND GARDENS

Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill me Always with vague suggestions of delight. Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and grace Seem part of their environment; they fill all space With memories of things veiled from my sight In some far place.

Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning; It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door; Of birds at dawn--of sultry afternoons. Gardens. I seem to see low branches screening A vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floor Where sunlight swoons.

Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing, Then curves and vanishes in space above. Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend. Stairways; and some one at the bottom standing Expectantly with lifted looks of love. Then steps descend.

Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song-- With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk-- With dawn and dusk--with youth, romance, and mystery, And times that were and times that are to be. Stairways and Gardens.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

OLD MOTHERS

I love old mothers--mothers with white hair, And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet With murmured blessings over sleeping babes. There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons; A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes That far outreaches all philosophy. Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, While all the echoes of forgotten songs Seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech. Old mothers!--as they pace with slow-timed step, Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength; Sweet mothers!--as they pass, one sees again Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.

CHARLES ROSS

PASTURES AND HILLSIDES

SONG FROM "APRIL"

_I know Where the wind flowers blow! I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather honey for their queen!_

_I would be A wild flower, Blue sky over me, For an hour ... an hour! So the wild bees Should seek and discover me, And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me! Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!_