Part 3

Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the crush of it, Out of the bedlam and out of the rush of it, Out of the sham of it, out of the heat of it, Out of the withering, scornful conceit of it. Come on! Let’s go Where the clean breezes blow, Out where the splendors Are all that they seem; Let’s merely walk awhile, Ponder and talk awhile, Giving our souls The full sweep of a dream.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_The Faun_

I will go out to grass with that old King, For I am weary of clothes and cooks. I long to paddle with the throats of brooks, To lie down with the clover Tickling me all over, And watch the boughs above me sway and swing. Come, I will pluck off custom’s livery, Nor longer be a lackey to old Time. Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb The wild trees for my food, and run Through dale and upland as a fox runs free, Laugh for cool joy and sleep i’ the warm sun,-- And men will call me mad, like that old King.

For I am woodland-nurtur’d, and have made Dryads my bedfellows, And I have played With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools. And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes Out to the forest and the crack of twigs, The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter Of brooks that chuckle o’er old mossy jests And say them over to themselves, the nests Of squirrels, and the holes the chipmunk digs, Where through the branches the slant rays Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground, And th’ wind comes with blown vesture rustling after, And through the woven lattice of crisp sound A bird’s song lightens like a maiden’s face.

Oh, goodly damp smell of the ground! Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees! Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound! Oh, life that’s a-thrill and a-bound With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide’s rapture of ease! Was there ever a weary heart in the world? A lag in the body’s urge, or a flag of the spirit’s wing? Did a man’s heart ever break For a lost hope’s sake? For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things. Ay, this old oak, gray-grown and knurled, Solemn and sturdy and big, Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest, As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest.

_Richard Hovey_

_The Call of the Wild_[1]

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert’s little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the wild--it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? Then hearken to the Wild--it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, grovelled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? “Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders? (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things-- Then listen to the Wild,--it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, They have soaked you in convention through and through; They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching-- But can’t you hear the Wild?--it’s calling you. Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know. There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us, And the Wild is calling, calling ... let us go.

_Robert W. Service_

[1] From “The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses” by Robert W. Service. Copyright by Barse & Hopkins, Newark, N. J.

_A City Voice_

Outside here in the city the burning pavements lie, There’s heat and grime and blown black dust to help the day go by, There’s the groaning of the city like a goaded, beaten beast;-- I know a place where God’s great trees go up to meet His sky-- Like an army green with banners, and a happy wind released, Goes swinging like a merry child among the branches high.

Outside here in the city there’s a poison in the air--The fevered, heavy hand o’ heat that smites and may not spare; There’s little comfort in the night--there’s torment in the day;-- I know a place where cool and deep the quiet lake lies bare, All day about its shaded brink the wild birds dart and play, And willows dip their finger-tips like dainty ladies there.

Oh, the heart of me is hungering for my own, own place! I’m tortured with the slaying heat, the dizzy headrace. Oh, for the soft, cold touch of grass about my tired feet, The breath of pine and cedar blown against my weary face, The lip-lap of the water like a little song and sweet, And God’s green trees and God’s blue skies above me for a space.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_Fishing_

A day to dream Along a stream, The song of birds Instead of words, And pictures rare Flung everywhere.

Instead of smoke To blind and choke, An atmosphere That’s sweet and clear, The trees instead Of chimneys red.

A patch of sky To rest the eye; Instead of noise, A thousand joys; Instead of greed, A kindlier creed.

A day to dream Along the stream, To think and plan, Restores a man, And this he knows Who fishing goes.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_Camping Song_

Has your dinner lost its savor? Has your greeting lost its cheer? Is your daily stunt a burden? Is your laughter half a sneer? There’s a medicine to cure you, There’s a way to lift your load, With a horse and a saddle and a mile of open road.

Is your eyeball growing bilious? Is your temper getting short? Is this life a blind delusion, Or a grim, unlovely sport? There’s a world of health and beauty, There’s a help that cannot fail, In a day behind the burros On a dusty mountain trail.

Come out, old man, we’re going To a land that’s free and large, Where the rainless skies are resting On a snowy mountain marge. When we camp in God’s own country, You will find yourself again, With a fire and a blanket and the stars upon the plain!

_Bliss Carman_

_The Green Inn_

The roof is high and arched and blue, The floor is spread with pine; On my four walls the sunlight falls In golden flecks and fine; And swift and fleet on noiseless feet The Four Winds bring me wine.

Here none may mock an empty purse Or ragged coat and poor, But Silence waits within the gates, And Peace beside the door; The weary guest is welcomest, The richest pays no score.

* * * * *

Oh, you who in the House of Strife Quarrel and game and sin, Come out and see what cheer may be For starveling souls and thin Who come at last from drought and fast To sit in God’s Green Inn.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_Wanderlust_

The highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all, And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call; Only the call of the long white road to the far horizon’s wall.

The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night of June, And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon; Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon!

The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze fierce and bold, And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told; Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old.

_Isabel Ecclestone Mackay_

_Song_[2]

Something calls and whispers, along the city street, Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine. The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine.

Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea.

Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled.

_Georgiana Goddard King_

[2] From “The Way of Perfect Love.”

_In City Streets_

Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!

London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting ’Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water’s wine, poured out for all unstinting-- God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!

Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells.

_Ada Smith_

“_Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books_”

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you’ll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain’s head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings, He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

_William Wordsworth_

_Road Song_

It’s home for me and a snug roof-tree When frosts hold the earth in thrall, But it’s hey, I say, for the broad highway, When the young year’s voices call. ’Tis then I would be rolling off, A-bowling off, a-strolling off-- An errant leaf bound whitherward The wind of fancy wills; ’Tis then I would be going off, A-whirling off, a-blowing off Along the road that leads away Beyond the purple hills.

’Twas hearth and home when the sky’s gray dome Hung low and the north wind skirled; Now it’s hey for the reel of the out-bound keel, And it’s ho for the great round world. ’Tis now I would be roving off A-shoving off, a-moving off To where the far horizon shows Mysterious and dim; It’s time that I was shipping off A-rising and a-dipping off To strange and unknown ports that lie Below the round world’s rim.

Oh, some were made for peaceful shade Of their vine and their own fig tree, But marked of fate with the gipsy trait, It’s the open road for me. And so I would be pushing on, A-trekking on, a-mushing on, And leave the old well-trodden trails Long merry miles behind. ’Tis joyful I’d go swinging off, A-whooping and a-singing off, As goal-less as a vagrant crow A-winging down the wind.

_James Stuart Montgomery_

_Walking at Night_

My face is wet with the rain But my heart is warm to the core, For I follow at will again The road that I loved of yore; And the dim trees beat the dark, And the swelling ditches moan, But my heart is a singing, soaring lark For I travel the road alone. Alone in the living night Away from the babble of tongues; Alone with the old delight Of the night wind in my lungs; And the wet air on my cheeks And the warm blood in my veins, Alone with the joy he knows who seeks The thresh of the young spring rains, With the smell of the pelted earth, The tearful drip of the trees, Making him dream of the sound of mirth That comes with the clearing breeze. ’Tis a rare and wondrous sight To tramp the wet awhile And watch the slow delight Of the sun’s first pallid smile, And hear the meadows breathe again And see the far woods turn green, Drunk with the glory of wind and rain And the sun’s warm smile between! I have made me a vagrant song, For my heart is warm to the core, And I’m glad, oh, glad that the night is long For I travel the road once more. And the dim trees beat the dark And the swelling ditches moan, With the joy of the singing, soaring lark I travel the road, alone!

_Amory Hare_

_Road Song_

Give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, And the winds of heaven to winnow me through, and a brother tramp to greet, With an Inn at the end of day for rest, and the world may keep its bays-- For these are the gifts of the wayside gods, and the gifts that I would praise.

Come from the murk of your city streets to the tent of all the world, When your final word on Art is said, and your flag of Faith is furled, When your heart no longer gives a throb at the first faint breath of Spring-- Ah, turn your feet to the ribbon-road with a chorus all may sing!

* * * * *

Then give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, And a dog to tell my secrets to, and a brother tramp to meet-- And the years may take their toll of me till I come to the weary West, And I lodge for good in the world’s own Inn, a wayworn, waiting guest!

_W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_

_A Song of the Open Road_

The old Earth-Mother calls us, And we hearken unto her cry, For we dare not question her bidding Lest we sicken and droop and die. The spirit of change is burning As a fever in heart and brain. In the ranks of the Free Companions We must take to the road again.

We have lain in the tents of the dwellers; We have ta’en of their drink and food; We, that were weary, have slumbered, Have slumbered and found rest good. We have kissed the lips of their maidens, From their kin we have chosen our brides; But the summons has come from the Mother, And no one who hears it abides.

We do the will of the Mother, We bow to the Word she sends, Though we know not whither we journey, Nor the goal where the journey ends. On the quest of the Strange Adventure We sally, hand-in-hand, As the men of the days nomadic When the hunter was lord in the land.

The winds a-sweep through the forests Shall brace our souls for the march, The balm of the dews descending Shall chasten the heats that parch. Through vista of brakes entangled The stars shall guide, in the night, By day the sun shall quicken The pulse of our life’s delight.

Ho! for the zest of travel, The wayfarer’s romance, The joy of the unexpected, The hope of the noble chance. We have girded our feet with sandals, We carry the pilgrim’s load. In the ranks of the Free Companions We take to the open road.

_Louis J. McQuilland_

_A Maine Trail_

Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, The trail, a-teasing by, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Trim barns and farm-house shy, Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, Through pastures bare and wild, Oh come, let’s fare to the heart-o’-the-wood With the faith of a little child.

Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, By bouldered brook to the hidden spring Where breath of ferns blows sweet And swift birds break the silence as Their shadows cross your feet.

Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse To garner the woodland glee, To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sun-spun ecstasy; ’Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, ’Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens!--how the Lord Himself loves green! Such sun!--how He loves the gold!

Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss Is spread for Dryads’ sleep; And list ten thousand thousand spruce Lift up their voice to God--We can a little understand, Born of the self-same sod.

Oh, come, the welcoming trees lead on, Their guests are we to-day; Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, Gay mushrooms mark the way; The silence is a courtesy, The well-bred calm of kings; Come haste! the hour sets its face Unto great Happenings.

_Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_

_The Spell of the Pool_

There’s a crystal-arrowed riffle at the turning of the river, There’s a waterfall where nature teaches school, There’s a bank of swaying alder with each budding twig aquiver-- And there’s magic in the murmur of the pool!

Can’t you see the cold, blue water as it eddies, sparkles, flashes In the willow-shadowed reaches of the stream, And the ever-widening ripples where the trout, in falling, splashes As the osprey drops his quarry with a scream?

_L. Burton Crane, Jr._

_The Lake_

There is a lake--but I forget its name, That flickers in my memory like flame!

Guarded by Dolomites whose magic glow Of red primeval merges into snow.

A lake so beautiful, God gave it birth By melting one vast emerald on earth!

A lake so strange, that, did its waters part, Undine would be enshrined within its heart.

And as with lovely sound the air may fill, Though chords are hushed and all the strings be still,

So will this lake--but I forget its name-- Flicker within my memory like flame!

_Eleanour Norton_

_The Great Outdoors_

O great outdoors, without floors, Or walls, or roofs, or bounds, Grant this day that I may stray Amidst thy plains and mounds, Let me be among the free That climb thy purple hills; Let me breathe the scents that wreathe Thy violet bordered rills: Let thy sun, till day be done, Shine from out thy great blue sky; Let thy starlight and the still night Soothe my rest when down I lie; Let the shadows cool the meadows, And the night sounds whisper low, In the stillness of thy valleys Where the waters lap and flow.

_Maud Russell_

_Come, Spur Away!_

Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war-- ’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

* * * * *

Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they’ll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I’m sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

_Thomas Randolph_

_Hunting Song_

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) We’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt’s up, and away!

_Richard Hovey_

_The Call_

Have you heard the calling, calling, of the Distance, Through the purple reaches where the mountains wait; With Dreamland round their shoulders, where the sunset fire smoulders-- Oh, the guarding Distance calls us from their gate.

In the morning it entices with the sunrise, In the evening it is urging through the gold; We must heed the sweet insistence, for this mystic blue-veiled Distance Hides our wished-for land of Dreams within its hold.

We will cinch the saddle tighter, tie the strings of wide sombrero, While the mists about the top are gray and dim; With the eager trail uptrending, and the morning sky low bending-- Oh, the evening star will we see o’er the rim.

When the wind blows thin and keen about the summit, And the camp-fire sparkles warm upon the brim, On a couch of pine boughs fragrant, who would scorn to be a vagrant, And follow when the Distance calls to him?

_Cora D. Fenton_

_The King’s Highway_

“El Camino Real”

All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, You and I together, on the King’s Highway, The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me.