Part 2
Nature loves neither silences nor noise, She has her silence and she has her sound. Yet all the melody that she employs But serves to make her silence more profound.
The sweeping desert, yellow, bare and mute, Seems deader for a wheeling vulture’s scream. The single quaver of a lonely lute But makes the night seem nearer to a dream.
The sea is silent far from shores unseen, Save where a ripple tumbles to abyss; As whitened water makes the green more green, The day is calmer for the bubble’s hiss.
From such as these I learn the forest’s charm-- ’Tis not its silence, silent though it be; It is its sound unpoisoned with alarm, Its whisper like the whisper of the sea.
Shouting nor silence, neither enters here-- Only the melody of far-off things. A drifting cloud makes skies more fair appear, The wood is stiller for the whir of wings.
RAIN
Rainin’, is it? So it is-- An’ I knew it would. When a man has rheumatiz In this old left stem of his He can tell as good When it’s go’n’ to leak As your fancy weatherman Down here in Chicago can, If he thinks a week. An’ I guess it’s jest because Rheumatiz an’ Nature’s laws Sort of work together-- Lots of moisture in the air, Rheumatiz a-plenty there, Both mean stormy weather.
This left stem of mine can smell Water miles away; This old stem of mine can tell Fifty furlongs from a well Where it ought to lay. An’ I’ll tell you why: This old stem an’ me has tramped, Waded, swum an’ drove an’ camped, Never gittin’ dry, Forty Winters, forty Springs; Do you wonder thet she sings When she smells the water? If you fellahs really knew All that laig an’ me went through Guess you’d think she oughter.
You ain’t never had the luck Swampin’ in the snow; None of you ain’t never stuck To your boot-tops in the muck When it’s ten below. There ain’t none of you Ever drove the Chippeway In the early days of May When a norther blew, When the river water froze In your boots an’ in your clo’es-- Freezin’, thawin’, freezin’. If this stem of mine finds out When there’s water ’round about, Surely there’s a reason.
An’, besides, there’s quite a line Of such signs of rain; There is many another sign ’Ceptin’ this old stem of mine Thet is just as plain. There is bunions yet-- Fer a corn er bunion is ’Most as good as rheumatiz Prophesyin’ wet. When you see a cat eat grass, When you see the small-mouth bass Sendin’ up a bubble, When you hear a rain-crow caw-- It is simply Nature’s law Indicatin’ trouble.
Rainin’, is it? So it seems; It’s a nasty night. Yonder how the street lamp gleams!-- Like the light you see in dreams, Soft an’ far an’ white, Like the light you see When you let life’s half-hitch slip, When you kind of lose your grip On the things thet be. An’ I sometimes think the shore Thet we all are headin’ for Looks so far an’ ghostly ’Cause we’re lookin’ (like to-night We are lookin’ at the light) Through a fog-bank mostly.
How the asphalt pavements shine!-- Almost lookin’ clean. Ev’ry lamp post makes a line Like the shadow of a pine On a snowy scene. In the gutter nigh Little ripples curl an’ comb, Little dirty rivers foam, In an hour to die. They are like the stream of life, Full of work an’ play an’ strife, Proud with splash an’ splutter. Each believes himself a flood-- Most of us is only mud Runnin’ down a gutter.
Rainin’? Sure enough it is, But it ain’t the goods; Doesn’t git right down to biz Like the whirling raindrops whiz Up there in the woods. It’s a city shower, Like the other kinds of stuff In the city, mostly bluff, Lastin’ fer an hour. Up there, when it rains, it rains, Fillin’ rivers, floodin’ plains, Down the mountains washin’. Up there when a rain we git, When we’re really through with it, Things are jest a-sloshin’.
Fer a rainstorm in the brush Is the wettest thing, Ground beneath you soft as mush An’ around you all a hush, Not a bird to sing-- Jest the drippin’ slow Of the raindrops on the leaves, Spillin’ from a billion eaves On the earth below; Jest a blanket in the mire, Jest a smudgy kind of fire, Weak an’ slow an’ smoky; Breakfast--pancakes simply lead; Dinner--wet an’ soggy bread; Supper--biscuits soaky.
Rainin’, is it? So it is. Glad I’m high an’ dry. When a man has rheumatiz In this old left stem of his Keep inside, say I. Now, this city stuff Ain’t like woods rain near as wet, Ain’t like woods rain is, an’ yet It is wet enough. Course the woods rain is the best, It is dampest, healthiest, Better altogether; But I guess I’ll stay inside Tryin’ to be satisfied With this city weather.
DOWN GRADE
Yes, boy, I know--you do not think; You only hear the glasses clink And feel the bogus joy of drink.
Life looks all Summer through a glass; The whisky road is green with grass-- But life and Summer both will pass.
It’s easy now to drink or not, To drink a little or a lot; But after all your drinking, what?
May it not happen ere the grave The thing you laugh at you will crave?-- The master will become the slave?
God! I have seen them: Boys like you, The frolickers of fighting crew, Who never thought and never knew,
Who took the road that dips and gleams, That runs ahead of singing streams (Yet somehow never downward seems),
With this same foolish passion played, The same old merry journey made, Who took the road of easy grade--
Till night came on, till sank the sun, Till shadows gathered one by one Around the path, and day was done.
’Twas then they turned; but now the hill Was high behind them, and the rill Within the valley dark and still--
Around, the level of the plain; Above, a rocky path of pain To climb, if they would rise again.
I am no preacher called to preach; I am no teacher fit to teach You younger men of better speech.
Yet I have walked the merry road Where laughing rivers downward flowed, And climbed again with all the load,
With all the load a man acquires Who follows after his desires Until he finds his lusts are liars,
Until he finds, as find he will, The peace, the joy, his age to fill He left behind him on the hill.
My preaching is not perfect, Jack; Yet truth, at least, it does not lack-- For I have been there, boy, and back.
UNKNOWN
We deck the grave of him who came back home again to sleep; But what of him unknown to fame for whom the lonely weep? Yea, what of him in unknown grave unmarked by stone or tomb; Shall over him no standard wave, no Springtime roses bloom?
Weep not, dear heart, for him who lies beneath the Georgia pine; He sleeps beneath more tender skies than are these skies of thine, And blossoms tremble o’er his head as gentle and as fair-- The flowers above the unknown dead his God has planted there.
And when the breeze, the southern breeze, the pine above him swings Of his beloved northern trees a melody it sings-- Yea, like the roar of waves that sweep upon an unseen shore, He hears the sighing, in his sleep, of cedars by his door.
THE IRISH
Fer forty-odd year I have followed the timber From the crooked St. Croix to the rollin’ Cloquet, An’ there ain’t any camp thet you yaps kin remember Thet I haven’t seen in my lumberin’ day. I’ve skidded with roundheads who’d only come over, With hunyacks I’ve swamped it fer many a mile; But the time thet I felt I was livin’ in clover Was bunkin’ with lads from the Emerald Isle.
Fer who was the boys thet was catty an’ frisky, The first on a jam with a peavey in hand? Who done the most work an’ who drunk the most whisky An’ set us a pace on the water an’ land? When the timber piled high at the bend in the river Then who was the fellahs to break it in style? Who laughed at the things thet made other men shiver? The happy-go-luckies from Emerald Isle.
When it come to a scrap they was quick on the trigger; To call them a name was to go to the mat. They worshiped a woman an’ hated a nigger An’ fought fer a friend at the drop of the hat. They fought, when they fought, with the fists thet God give ’em-- No knife er no gun is an Irishman’s style. There never was yet any walkin’ boss driv ’em, Not even a boss from the Emerald Isle.
A dago was first this America grabbin’, Who sailed out of Spain with a schooner er two. It may be Columbus who set in the cabin-- I’ll bet it was Irish thet made up the crew. Fer fallin’ the timber, er cussin’ the cattle, Er breakin’ a rollway, er drivin’ a spile, Er ridin’ quick water, er winnin’ a battle, Is fun fer the boys from the Emerald Isle.
I am old, an’ the times an’ the people are changin’-- The top-loader now has a derrick to help; The college perfessors the forests are rangin’; The lumberjack now is a different whelp. The woods of the North they shall pass into story, A story we tell with a tear an’ a smile-- But the men who will fill all its pages with glory Will be mostly the lads from the Emerald Isle!
THE PATH
It winds its way along the shaded hill, Disdaining distance, seeking only ease. It turns aside to linger by a rill, It climbs a slope to rest beneath the trees Or breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.
Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown-- The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed; The path is made for them who walk alone, Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed, To follow blindly where the path may lead.
No stern surveyor made it thus and so, Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends. It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow, It rises joyously where ivy bends And meets in fond embraces with its friends.
Through brooding branches and embroidered leaves The sunshine filters in a golden rain, Transforms the tufted weeds to shining sheaves, The tangled grass to waving harvest grain, The marshy muskeg to a purple plain.
This is a path of velvet from the loom Of droning Summer. Never human hand Wove such a pattern, bright with rose abloom Along its border. Never artist planned This brilliant carpet flung across the land.
Now princes leave their castles, kings their thrones, And unattended walk these sylvan aisles. They pause to muse beside this heap of stones More beautiful than all the granite piles Reared with slow labor on their ample miles.
Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood, More dear you are than all the haunts of men; For never mortal in your presence stood And listened to the whisper of the glen But songs forgotten sang to him again.
Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears, The faint reëcho of her cradle croon That sends him groping down the ended years To find again some long-discarded boon, To find again some long-departed June.
Then, by the magic of the shade and sun, Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod, This world shall seem to be that other one Where feet walk never, yet where souls have trod-- And he shall hold communion with his God.
THE MYSTERY
Heard a rustle in the brush Only yesternight; Heard a rustle in the hush, Somethin’ out of sight-- Jest a footfall on the ground, Shakin’ of a tree; But we argued all around What the thing could be.
Jack, the stable-boy, he said Likely ’twas a colt-- Farmer’s colt thet got its head, Broke its halter holt. Bill, the cookhouse flunkey, swore ’Twas a bear er cub Huntin’ round the cookhouse door Fer a snack of grub.
Pete, who likes to hunt when Fall Comes around each year, Said it wasn’t that at all-- Thet it was a deer. Frank, who drives the two-ox pair, Said they made him laff, Said their colt er deer er bear Simply was a caff.
So they set an’ argufied What the thing could be; Ev’ry fellah took a side, Had a theory. Jack he chinned it with the chaps, Bill with all the boys; Mac, who’s deef, he said perhaps There wasn’t any noise.
What the rustle was about, No one ever knew; But one fact I figgered out From that gabby crew: People look with diff’rent eyes, Hear with diff’rent ears; That what closest to them lies Ev’rything appears.
Ev’ry nation is the best To the man from there, Ev’ry state beats all the rest When their sons compare. Do you wonder at the lot Of religious creeds?-- Each a special God has got Fer his special needs.
Harps an’ music fer the gay, Huntin’ fer the red; Atheists expect to stay Permanently dead; Streets of sapphire fer the Jew; Fer the weary, rest-- Each, accordin’ to his view, Thinks his heaven best.
An’ I’m puzzled, I admit, Puzzled at the maze-- Heaven, you kin figger it Forty-seven ways: Heaven with a street of gold; With a jasper gate; Heaven where the very old Still must sit an’ wait.
If there are so many there, There beyond the blue, Heavens round an’ heavens square, Gentile, Injun, Jew-- All thet I can do is trust, Since they can’t agree, When I lay me “dust to dust” There’ll be one fer me.
THE PLAYGROUND
The city street, the city street, Lies heavy on the town-- An awful avenue of heat, Whose rays of yellow Summer beat Upon the stones of brown, Where little children’s weary feet Creep slowly up and down.
The houses rise, the houses rise, Beside the thoroughfare; Their windows look with bloodshot eyes O’er huddled roofs to smoky skies, And find no promise there; And childhood’s voice of laughter dies In pestilential air.
The city great, the city great-- It is so big a thing! From city gate to city gate, From somber dawn to even late, It throbs with marketing; It has no moment it may wait To hear the children sing.
The little ones, the little ones, The buds that never bloom, (While underneath the breathless suns The stream of life forever runs Through arteries of gloom), Look on your stately Parthenons And find so little room!
There is a street, another street, Beyond the city’s wall, Beyond the corridors of heat, Where waters pure and waters sweet In crystal cadence fall-- And to the children’s tiny feet Their liquid measures call!
Its tenements, its tenements, Are neither grim nor gray; And from each verdant eminence Their crimson-throated residents Pour music to the day, Their choristing inhabitants Sing loud a roundelay.
O fairy shores, O merry shores, Away from slime and sin!-- With leafy roofs and grassy floors, Where robin nests and swallow soars When Summer days begin-- Oh, let us open wide the doors And ask the children in!
THE SWAMPER
I am the under dog, I am the low-down cuss, I am the standin’ joke, I am the easy meat. Fellah thet skids the log Gits all the fame an’ fuss-- What of the man who broke Roads fer the hosses’ feet?
Sing of the arm thet’s strong, Sing of the saw thet shines, Sing of the chopper’s might, Sing of the boss’s brain; Who ever sung your song, Swampers among the pines, Fellahs who led the fight Out in the snow an’ rain?
We are the pioneers, We are the great advance, We are the men who break Roads with our horny hands. Ours not the shouts an’ cheers, Ours not the singers’ chants-- Ours but a path to make Straight through the forest lands.
They who shall come shall reap Glory thet we have won, They who shall come shall claim Praise an’ the world’s hooray. Ours but a trust to keep, Ours but a road to run; Others shall walk to fame After we lead the way.
So it shall often be, So it shall be in life, So it shall often seem, Seem in the things men do-- Sung in no history, Heard in no tale of strife, Oft shall the dreamer dream, Fergot when his dream comes true.
ASHES
Your remembrances are like unto ashes.--Job xiii:12.
The light of my camp-fire lingers When its ribbons no more arise, Like the pressure of vanished fingers, An echo of ended sighs. I gaze on the smouldering embers, I look in the heart of the fire, And, somehow, my soul remembers The thrill of an old desire.
There is something in embers gleaming, There is something in coals aglow, That quickens the soul to dreaming A dream of the long ago. The things of the past awaken-- A message, a face, a name; There is balm to the soul forsaken In the light of a dying flame.
Oh, what are our hopes but ashes? Oh, what are our dreams but dust? The jewel shall dim that flashes, The glittering sword shall rust. Yet the faith of the lonely-hearted, The faith of the soul that’s true, On the ashes of days departed Shall kindle the fire anew.
SUNRISE
Some folks run to sunsets, Some folks run to noon, Some folks like the evenin’ best, With its stars an’ moon. Sunsets may be purty, Noontime fair to see, But the mornin’ I like most-- Sunrise time fer me!
Some folks like at twilight Jest to set an’ dream Of the day thet’s dyin’ there In the sunset gleam. What’s the use of cryin’ Fer the day’s mistakes?-- I’m jest lookin’ fer the time When the sunrise breaks!
An’, if all the mornin’s, All the days an’ years, Bring me nothin’ thet I ask, Bring me only tears-- When this life is over, When my soul awakes, I’ll be lookin’ to the east Where the sunrise breaks!
THE WANDERERS
A little church through dusty trees Raised up its wooden spire, One of religion’s purities Amid our mortal mire, And one there came to open door Made timid by his sin, Made timid by the mark he wore, And dared not enter in.
The while he paused he heard a whir-- Beside him trembled down Another outcast wanderer, The swallow of the town. It fluttered through the open place, It mounted to the choir, Within the simple house of grace Poured forth its notes of fire.
And he who lonely lingered heard And something fell away; He followed after singing bird Where sinners kneel to pray. Yea, there the old remembrance died And there the new began; For soon they worshipped side by side-- The swallow and the man.
SYLVIA
It was because the dawn was in her eyes, It was because the night was in her hair, Because I heard the forest in her sighs, I held her fair. She came upon me ’neath the huddled eaves, She walked beside me in the maze of men-- Her sadness sadness of a wood that grieves, Her smile the sun again.
Her voice was like the whispering of trees, Her laughter like the tinkle of a rill; Her cheeks blushed roses, roses such as these Upon the hill. She was a river in a thirsty land, A changeless star in midnight skies to shine-- Her touch, to walk with Nature hand-in-hand-- And she was mine, was mine.
So leave me in the wood a little while; Here where the grass is greenest let me lie. The sun shall bring me once again her smile, The wind her sigh. Here only do we seem no more apart, In verdant ways beneath the skies of blue; The stirring earth will seem a beating heart, The heart, the heart I knew.
Once only she could bring the forest near, In those old days amid the panting crowd, Once only she could make the stars appear Beyond the cloud. So now the forest that her soul expressed To my own soul is her interpreter-- In ev’ry wind that wanders east or west I hear but her, but her!
THE IMITATORS
We build our fronded temples high, With arching roof and bended beam, We rear our artificial sky Where painted constellations gleam; We praise the marble majesty Our earthly artisans create-- Yet walk abroad and do not see The heavens that we imitate.
THE SOUL
I figger the soul of a man is the same underneath of a coat er a shirt, An’ I figger the heart thet pumps life through his frame is the same under di’monds er dirt. Fer his face may be homely an’ tough be his hide an’ busted the bridge of his beak, But the Soul of the cuss is a-settin’ inside an’ awaitin’ its moment to speak.
The Soul of the cuss is a-settin’ ’way back, until maybe the lobster fergits There is any such thing as a Soul in the shack to take note of his devilish fits. But amuck with the gang, on the long mooch alone, then it follows his footsteps to see; God knows thet I tell what I know, fer my own it has risen an’ spoken to me.
It has risen an’ spoken its speech by the light of the flickerin’ flame of the fire, It has come with its voice where the lamps glittered bright on a mob thet was drunk with desire. Fer I know not the hour thet the visitor brings--in the night, in the day, it is near; It has come when no step stirred the stillness of things, it has come when a hundred were here.
An’ it knows all the past, ev’ry step of the road I have traveled the years thet are gone; In the Springtime of youth it was there when I sowed in the fields thet was yellow with dawn. It has followed my trail in the woods an’ the town, it has stood by my side at the bar, It has followed my trail either uphill or down, an’ has judged of my deeds as they are.
So it stood by my side in that old-time affair when the night turned to red in my eyes, An’ it knows jest how much of my story was square an’ it knows jest how much of it lies, Fer it saw the blow fall, an’ it saw the steel shine, an’ it saw the thing leap to its goal-- You can fool all the world with a yarn such as mine, but you can’t tell a lie to your Soul.
I have spit on the doors of their law-makin’ shops, I have spit an’ have laffed at the law; I have drunk with their sheriffs an’ played with their cops, with my life as the stake in the draw. I have traveled their streets in the glare of the sun, while the he-hounds were hot on the track-- I have shaken them all, shaken all but the one, but the one thet will never turn back.