Part 3
Fer the world may fergit, er the world may not know, er the world it may know an’ not care, But ferever beside me wherever I go still another walks close who was there. Yes, the deed may be done an’ the deed may be hid, may be hid by the snows an’ the sod, But the thing thet I planned an’ the thing thet I did one witness will whisper to God.
They know me back home as a man who is dead an’ who passed in his checks as he should, An’ I answer up here to a new name instead thet in every way is as good. I have shaken the teeth of the hounds of the past, fergotten like all men who die, But I know thet my Soul will be there at the last--fer my Soul knows thet I am still I.
LEISURE
I thank the Lord that I have time For things that pay no dividends, For song and book and sunset gleam And sweet companionship of friends. The song may be some simple theme, The book some poet’s dreamy rime For those who dare to pause and dream-- I thank the Lord that I have time.
I thank the Lord that I have time To stop a moment by the way To kiss the scented lips of flowers And hear the voice of songbirds gay. The lark announces morning hours, Around my door the roses climb, And Nature lures me to her bowers-- I thank the Lord that I have time.
I thank the Lord that I have time To pause beside some other soul Who falters by my poor abode Upon the path to greater goal. If I can help him on his road, Can aid his weary feet to climb, If I can ease him of his load, I thank the Lord that I have time.
I thank the Lord that I have time For humbler joys and humbler things. I thank the Lord for lips that smile, I thank the Lord for heart that sings. If I in life’s uncertain while With word or song or cheery rime Can light some pilgrim’s dreary mile, I thank the Lord that I have time.
THE SKY PILOT
Oh, that I had in the wilderness a lodging place of wayfaring men.--Jeremiah IX:2.
By the wall of the busy city, In the midst of the market place, Ye have lifted on high a temple, Ye have builded a house of grace. Amber and red the windows, Marble and tile the floor-- But I weep for a thousand pilgrims far Who never have seen the door.
Gorgeous the gilded altar, Pleasant the cushioned pew, Thrilling the chorused music Ringing the cloister through, Wonderful thing the sermon, Grilling the creeds absurd-- But I weep for a thousand woodsmen strong Who never have known the Word.
Build me no mighty temple, Build me no jeweled shrine-- Build me a house of worship Under the solemn pine. I’ll speak from a rough-hewn pulpit To men of a rough-hewn race; And, with God’s great help, I will bring them yet With the Master face to face!
THE CALL OF THE WOODS
Talk of your “call of the wild,” “Nature” an’ similar stuff! Talk of “the call Of the forest” an’ all-- Haven’t I heard it enough? Why am I cranky an’ riled? What is it ailin’ of me? What’s my complaint? Jest “the woods!” If it ain’t, What in the world kin it be?
Out of the woods it breaks forth-- Call of the wild in the air. What do I hear With my listenin’ ear? Somethin’ a-coaxin’ me there. Wind has swung ’round to the north, Sky has a promise of snow, Moon on the hill It is silver an’ chill; An’ I am longin’ to go--
Breathin’ the breath of the pine, Walkin’ the hayroad again, Hearin’ old tales An’ trampin’ old trails, Bunkin’ with men thet are men-- Men thet are pardners of mine, Fighters an’ workers an’ kings, Men who have stood By my side in the wood At the beginnin’ of things.
Woods? I have lived, man an’ boy, Up in the woods forty year, Driven their streams Where the quickwater gleams, Fought ’em from store-boom to rear, Tasted their pain an’ their joy, Drunk of their fun an’ their woe, Sorrow an’ song, An’ it’s there I belong-- Lord, but I’m crazy to go!
BROTHERS AND SONS
On a dirty floor at a slimy bar in the ante-room of hell I have seen them stand with a devil’s leer, I have heard the tales they tell-- I have heard them brag of the brutish things, I have heard them boast of shame, Till I longed again for the Jewish God, for the God who smote with flame. And I wondered much if there lingered still not a dream of boyhood land, Not a tender thought of a mother’s kiss or a touch of sister’s hand. For we wander far, and the years go by, and the boyhood vision fades, Yet we are the sons of the mothers of men and brother to all the maids.
And it is not there in the wild alone that the souls of men forget; In the house of pride, on the polished stair, where the gilded ones are met, I have heard the tale that is often told on the dirty bar-room floor While the idle smiled, and the lounger laughed, and the bestial asked for more. For the thing we are is the thing we are, not the thing in garments new; And the coat that fits is the tailor’s coat, but the man inside is you. It is such as I, it is such as you, that have made the jests and jades-- Yet we are the sons of the mothers of men and brother to all the maids.
Yea, the sons we are of a motherhood, of a mother-love, divine, And I can not slander this mother yours--if I do I slander mine; Yea, the brothers are of a sisterhood of the sisters loved or lone, And you can not slander the least and say that the world shall spare your own. For a woman’s name and a woman’s fame they are sweet, and frail, as flowers; But the strength to shield and the arm to wield for the woman’s name are ours. Let the God-made man keep his God-made trust till his life’s last twilight fades-- For we are the sons of the mothers of men and brother to all the maids.
THE SNOW IS HERE
The snow is here. I heard it in the night Upon the roof in marshaled measure tramp. The passing year Has changed the world to white And set the seal of Winter on the camp. But yesterday A footpath down the hill Touched hands with other roads that led afar; But now the way Is hidden ’neath the chill Of diamonded drifts that glisten like the star. We are shut in From ev’ry distant thing, That other life amid the world of men, From dirt and din, Until returning Spring Shall find the road and waken us again.
The chore-boy now His frosted finger blows And makes his path from islanded door to door; Like sturdy prow He parts the billowed snows And heaps his brands of comfort on the floor. The fire he plies With piles of pitchy pine Until the flames roar upward in a gale; And we arise To breathe the wintry wine, To plunge abroad and icy tasks assail. So breaks the day; So comes the arctic dawn In this our little world when snow is here; And so away The months shall follow on Till softer skies shall mark another year.
The horses stamp In clouds of steamy smoke, The teamster’s voice of mastery await; Their bits they champ And shake their leather yoke-- And life breaks forth where life is isolate. Now from the wood, The timber on the hill, Comes stroke of ax and sawyer’s steady swing; The tree that stood Beside the frozen rill In powdered snow to earth comes thundering. Thus passes day With shout and merry call, With echoed blow and crosscut’s swishy sweep, Until the gray Of eve envelopes all And drives us back to shelter and to sleep.
Though this our life, A rugged life and plain, Of sudden danger and of slow reward, The wind a knife, A scimitar of pain, With death to fight and frosty stream to ford, Though chill the way, Laborious the toil, Though rough the fare, the habitation rude, Though skies be gray, Though stubborn be the soil, And even day a night of solitude-- We fondly know, We know, in other years When we shall look again on sunny seas, This land of snow Shall rise from out our tears And dearest seem of all our memories.
THE LETTER
I can’t tell you, girl, how I love you--it is something the woods never teach; I can lie all the night and think of you, but I can’t put the matter in speech-- But it’s love like the blue skies above you that around the whole universe reach.
It is love that is wide as the arches of stars from the east to the west; It is love that is long as the marches of sunrise to sunset and rest; It is love that is strong as the larches that mount to earth’s uttermost crest.
In the woods we are rougher than others you know in the parlors of town; To the wolf and the wild we are brothers, we are kin to the creatures of brown; It is long since we crept to our mothers and slept on our pillows of down.
For we sleep in the huts of the humble and we live on a sturdier fare; And the music we hear is the rumble of thunders of earth and of air Where the pine and the tamarack tumble and the pathway of progress prepare.
Yet this land is the land of the lover, the place for a love such as mine; Oh, sweet is the scent of the clover, but strong is the heart of the pine; Love’s cup in the town bubbles over, but here it is purple as wine.
We live and we love and we labor up here on a mightier scale; To the north and the night we are neighbor, we are kin of the star and the gale; The lightning it threats with its sabre, the northwind it stings with its hail,
And the heart of the man is made stronger with the strength of the thing that he fights, And the love of his heart is made longer by the length of the loneliest nights-- For the lover whose heart is a-hunger longs most for a lover’s delights.
The fellow away from the city the tricks of the city forgets: He can’t say the thing that is witty, he can’t breathe his soul in regrets; He can’t say the thing that is pretty to please the pink ear of coquettes.
For the bigness of life is about him, the bigness of heaven and star; Though the city runs onward without him, forgetting the forest afar, When he speaks let no cleverness doubt him, for he speaks of the things as they are.
And this is the love that I bring you, the love of the man out-of-doors; And this is the song that I sing you, the song that the nightingale pours, The song that the nightingales fling you from eventide’s musical shores.
The shepherd boy carols his meter, and follow the feet of his herds; The song of the skylark is fleeter because of the absence of words; Is the language of mortals the sweeter, more sweet than the music of birds?
My lips they may tremble to say it, however my pulses may beat; The tale that I tell you may weigh it and find it a tale incomplete-- But here is my heart, and I lay it, all voiceless and mute, at your feet.
I can’t tell you, girl, the old story, embellished with city-bred lies, The tale that a planet grown hoary still hears with the olden surprise-- But the night is all starshine and glory because I have looked in your eyes.
The night is all starshine and splendor up here in the tamarack lands; The night is all moonlit and tender because of the touch of your hands-- And your eyes they may widen with wonder, but I know that your heart understands.
SUCCESS
All night the tank conductor goes Along the skidroad through the trees An’ sprinkles on the crispy snows The water thet will fall an’ freeze; Thus, by the aid of his device, Lays down an avenue of ice.
At morn the busy teams will bump Along the way with mighty load An’ find a passage to the dump Along the tank conductor’s road-- Will pile their creakin’ bolsters full An’ brag about the loads they pull.
There are a lot of us, I guess, Who call ourselves “self-made” an’ such, Who talk about our own success, Yet haven’t done so very much. Fer, ten to one, some other cuss Went out an’ iced the road fer us.
MOONRISE
I watch the fair moon climb the sky And walk among the stars, As one who walked a garden by And met me at the bars-- And it was you, dear heart, drew nigh, And he who waited there was I.
And I, ere Spring shall set me free, Shall look on many moons; Yea, I shall look on moon and tree And live my dreamy Junes-- But ev’ry moon that I shall see A memory of you will be.
MY MAN AN’ ME
My man an’ me fer forty year Have hiked it up the hill, An’ side by side, an’ bound an’ tied, As was our youthful will. He come upon me like a dream Of all I hoped to be-- An’ so we stood, fer ill er good Made one, my man an’ me.
It was a rosy way we went When life was in the dawn; I heard the birds, I heard the words A young wife feeds upon. His arm was ’round about my waist, He led me tenderly-- ’Twas long ago we traveled so The road, my man an’ me.
Though still we travel side by side, We travel now apart-- Fer older wives live lonely lives, An’ hungry is the heart. ’Twas long ago I felt the kiss In youth he give so free-- Still side by side, but years divide Us two, my man’ an’ me.
Yet once he held my hand in his: We knelt beside a cross, Together knelt, together felt An’ shared a common loss. An’ there was four instead of two (Er so it seemed to be) Yes, there was four--the babe I bore, My God, my man an’ me.
The river yon is covered now With Winter’s ice an’ snow; Upon its breast no lilies rest Where lilies used to blow. But underneath the Winter’s ice The waters flow as free As in the Spring we heard ’em sing Their song, my man an’ me.
So age may sit upon his lips An’ cool the speech of youth; An’ yet I know he promised so To love, an’ spoke the truth. The Winter days of life may chill The ways of such as we; But ’neath the cold the love of old Still warms my man an’ me.
BACK ON THE JOB
This is the time of the bust-up, This is the end of the trail; Though your icin’ you do, Still the ground will come through An’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail. The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnight An’ out of the south comes a sob; You kin talk about loss All you like, Mister Boss, But Spring has got back on the job.
You kin rave all you like of the timber Thet lays in the woods at the stump, You kin swear you will haul Ev’ry stick of it all To the road an’ the bank an’ the dump, But she’s got all creation ag’in you, The sun an’ the wind an’ all that, An’ she’ll bust ev’ry road An’ she’ll stall ev’ry load An’ your timber will stay where it’s at.
You ought to know somethin, of woman-- You’ve seen her both single an’ wed; You know you can’t stir Any notion in her When once it gits into her head. But, of all of the contrary women, Miss Spring is the worst of the lot; When you want her to freeze She will thaw, if you please, An’ she’ll freeze when you’re wantin’ it hot.
No use to dispute with a heifer Er argue a case with a skirt; If Spring wants to thaw, Neither reason ner law Will keep her from doin’ you dirt. It’s will er it’s won’t with a woman-- She says when she won’t er she will. You kin talk till you’re black In the face, but the shack Will be bossed by the petticoats still.
We think we’re her lord an’ her master, She swears she will love an’ obey. We think we’re the head Of the house, as she said We would be when we bore her away. But a month er so after the weddin’, When honeymoon season is flown, She quits sayin’ “dear” An’ she gits on her ear An’ she kicks us plumb off of the throne.
It’s likewise up here in the timber: We think we are runnin’ the thing; We’re falling the trees An’ we’re makin’ it freeze-- But all of a sudden it’s Spring. Then it’s mix up a walk fer the swampers An’ can the whole mackinaw mob; No use fer the boss Er the crew er the hoss-- Miss Spring has got back on the job.
THE SPORT
My boy, it’s the end of the season-- Your campstake you’ve got in your clo’es; It isn’t much use fer to reason With you, I suppose. I know how the dollars are burnin’ A hole in your pocket right now; You’ll blow ’em--what use to be learnin’ A lumberjack how?
They’re waitin’ down there fer you, brother: The barkeep is loadin’ the gin; Each guy has some game er another Fer takin’ you in. The dames thet are plastered an’ painted Are puttin’ on powder fer fair-- The ladies whose kisses are tainted Are waitin’ you there.
I’ve been through the mill, an’ I know it-- I know jest the fool thet you are; Oh, you’ll be a sport, an’ you’ll throw it In gobs on the bar. It’s “Drinks fer the house!” you’ll be yellin’; The bums will be there to partake. They’ll laugh at the stories you’re tellin’, An’ gobble your stake.
While you have been pullin’ a briar, With beans an’ sow-belly to chew, The grafters have set by the fire A-waitin’ fer you-- The streak up their backs it is yellah, An’ life without work is the rule; They’ll say you’re a prince of a fellah An’ think you’re a fool.
So work like a dog in the winter, An’ act like an ass in the spring; Some guy with a jack-knife an’ splinter Will say you’re a king. It’s blood, an’ it’s bone, an’ it’s muscle, You’re throwin’ up there on the bar; Next week fer a job you kin rustle, The fool thet you are.
Oh, yes, they all think he’s the candy, A sport, a good fellow, who spends; I hope, when they say you’re a dandy, You’re proud of your friends. When you know jest how little there’s in it, Will you hand out your good money still? When you know they’re but friends fer a minute? You proba’ly will.
THE CODE
Your morals down there in the city Are different morals from ours: Both punish, ner pardon ner pity, The serpent thet gits in the flow’rs; Both punish, when punishment’s comin’, An’ yet on a different plan: You gener’ly brand the woman-- We gener’ly shoot the man.
MEMORIES
What is it most that the soul remembers In the long years that come afterwhiles? What are the thoughts of the long Decembers When white and empty lie snowy miles? What is the picture that grows and smiles Deep in the heart of the glowing embers?
We dream no dream of the passing pleasures That held us thralls in an idle hour, We count no riches in heaping measures Nor pulse again with a futile power-- Nay, a verdant tree or a crimson flower Is the jewel then that the memory treasures.
Oh, these are the visions that come long after When face to face with our own sad soul; We see a tree in the smoky rafter, Behold a rose in the glowing coal; The months of Wintertime backward roll And the room is filled with the ghost of laughter.
For here is the tree that we knew together When the ending year was a Springtime young; The northman’s pine and the Scotsman’s heather, The Briton’s oak where the children swung-- Oh, these are the things by the night-wind sung Above the roar of the wintry weather.
For all the year is a time of clover While Memory sits by the ingleside, And Home goes forth with the world-wide rover To ev’ry country o’er ev’ry tide; And when the Autumn has drooped and died We live our Summers, our Summers, over.
Life has its seasons and life its sorrows, When the soul sits dreaming a dream like this, When the hungry heart from the pale past borrows A silenced voice or an ended kiss-- Yea, in our sorrow we find our bliss, And weave of Yesterdays our To-morrows.
TO-DAY
Sure, this world is full of trouble-- I ain’t said it ain’t. Lord! I’ve had enough, an’ double, Reason fer complaint. Rain an’ storm have come to fret me, Skies were often gray; Thorns an’ brambles have beset me On the road--but, say, Ain’t it fine to-day!
What’s the use of always weepin’, Makin’ trouble last? What’s the use of always keepin’ Thinkin’ of the past? Each must have his tribulation, Water with his wine. Life it ain’t no celebration. Trouble? I’ve had mine-- But to-day is fine.
It’s to-day thet I am livin’, Not a month ago, Havin’, losin’, takin’, givin’, As time wills it so. Yesterday a cloud of sorrow Fell across the way; It may rain again to-morrow, It may rain--but, say, Ain’t it fine to-day!
YOU
To each of us must come a day like this one now and then, A day when all the mists of old enwrap the soul again. Last night, a smile upon my lips, I gave myself to rest, To-day awoke by ancient ill, by hurts of old, oppressed.
I know not why these shadows come, these shades of vain desire, I do but know they creeping come to sit beside the fire; And earth is but an empty place, and joy has flickered out, And faith has fallen by the hand, assassin hand, of doubt.
I only ask in such an hour, when such shall come to me, I only ask in such an hour that You are there to see, I only ask in such an hour I need but stretch my hand And know that it shall feel the clasp of You, who understand.
THE CITY
In the land that is silent forever, asleep in the star and the sun, Where noiselessly wanders the river, where voiceless the rivulets run, Where men are not cultured nor clever, where wealth is not wanted nor won,
Where the world moves in musical measure, where aureate daffodils nod, Where Nature gives freely her treasure, her tree and her bloom and her sod, With only an acre of azure to curtain the presence of God,
I have heard in the stillness of slumber, have heard in the nearness of night, When the tasks of the day that encumber lie hard on the sense and the sight, A lorelei singing her number, The City her song of delight.
I have heard, and have come at her calling, have followed her glow in the sky, I have come where in dirt she was sprawling and beckoning men such as I, I have come to her creeping and crawling, her love and her laughter to buy.
She has opened her door at my coming, has opened her arms at my tread; Around her the roses were blooming, the passionate roses of red; Around her mad music was humming, and music the words that she said.
About me went white arms and slender--for such had an Antony died; I gazed on her womanly splendor; I drank of her lips, and she sighed; I looked in her eyes that were tender, I looked in her eyes--and she lied.