OUT 
 
 of the. 
 
 NORTH 
 
 HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND 
 
Class 
 
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 Copyright N 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Idylls of Greece Series One 
 Idylls of Gree.ce Series Ttvo 
 The Woman Who Could 
 The Legend of Love 
 Idas and Marpessa 
 
OUT OF THE 3^'BJH 
 
JoACiuiN Miller 
 
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To Frederick H. Randall 
 
C 3%TE 3^TS 
 
 Frontispiece^ 'Joaquin Miller^ Dawson^ 
 
 Foreword by Joaqutn Miller 
 
 The Northern Light 
 
 In Winter 
 
 Lyric 
 
 Darl^ Days 
 
 The Unanswerable 
 
 Vain Dreams 
 
 December .... 
 
 The Unassuageable. 
 
 Father Judge S. J. , 
 
 The Light-o'-Love . 
 
 Two ^hiests 
 
 The Return of the Sun 
 
 Klondyke Roses 
 
 A Song for the Return of Birds 
 
 The Forest Cotillion 
 
 The Spruces of the Forest . 
 
 The JVild Lover 
 
 Homeward Bound . , 
 
 Approaching Night 
 
 Tag* 
 
 r.T. 
 I 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 4- 
 5 
 6 
 
 7 
 8 
 
 9 
 
 JO-II 
 12 
 
 16 
 
 17 
 18 
 
 '9 
 20 
 
FO%EW 0%p 
 
 'iS'?1f1&'!ft"ift'ONGS from a far-away world; a cry 
 C '^ from another sphere. To those of us 
 ^ i3 ^ who once experienced the still and 
 AA^Aifi? P't'l^ss cold, a cry terribly suggestive 
 of the horror-charged gloom, of the icy silence 
 as unbroken as that of unfathomable deeps, of the 
 stern and uncompromising individuality of a dis- 
 turbed and vengeful North. 
 
 Yet one is also reminded that, even in the 
 Klondyke, in due season the brooding spruces are 
 awakened from slumber by the songs of happv- 
 throated songsters, that the melancholy of the 
 forest is brightened by gay flowers. The weight 
 is then lifted from men's hearts; singing is heard 
 in the cabin, and the sound of laughter on the 
 trail. When the mighty Yukon is open to the 
 Behring Sea, the far North is in touch with the 
 world and men are glad. 
 
 But the Arftic summer is short-lived. The 
 days of the bird and the flower and the rippling 
 creeks are numbered. Soon the sky turns grey, 
 the wind chants the sun's requiem, the snow falls; 
 and then returns the cold, the gloom, the feeling 
 of isolation, the indescribable terror. 
 
 I heard these songs sung in the Arftic, the 
 singer at mv side — these songs of nature, songs of 
 hope, home, heart. They seem a part of my life. 
 I heard them as the cry of a lore bird in the vast 
 silence of eternal snows. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 The Heights, Cal. 
 
 Nov. j^th "" gg 
 
The Northern Light 
 
 WHO drapes that mystic veil across 
 that everbrooding sky? 
 Who hues it with a soul of pearl? Who 
 draws it to and fro? 
 Who breathes upon it with the breath that 
 makes it glow and die, 
 Lighting that crystal river, those mount- 
 ains cowl'd with snow? 
 
 W 
 
In Winter 
 
 BENEATH the snow the mosses sleep 
 Amid the forest's silence; 
 Above, the stately birches keep 
 Unbroken vigils. 
 
 The spruce trees dream of summer hours 
 
 And birds that carrolled sweetly, 
 Of gentle winds and smiling flowers 
 That died too quickly. 
 
 \.A 
 
Lyric 
 
 TELL me, tell me, gentle stars, 
 Ever watchful, ever bright. 
 From your stations in the sky 
 Do you see my love to-night? 
 
 White the snow beneath my feet, 
 Whiter far her holy breast; 
 
 Peaceful are the mighty woods. 
 But her eyes are soft with rest. 
 
 Sweet the scent of spruce and pine, 
 Sweeter, though, her fragrant breath; 
 
 Tell her, tell her, gentle stars, 
 I am hers alone till death. 
 
 [3] 
 
Dark Days 
 
 THE sun has left his throne, 
 The sky is leaden-hued; 
 The hopeless winds bemoan, 
 In icy aisles, their fate. 
 
 All day the shadows press 
 
 About the forest's nuns. 
 That dream in loneliness 
 
 Their dreams of birds and spring. 
 
 [4] 
 
The Unanswerable 
 
 O SOMBRE skies that ever mourn, 
 O silent skies so grey and stern, 
 Are ye the curtains of that bourne 
 
 Where we at last our fate must learn ? 
 
 Is it behind your gloomy veil 
 
 The Judge u'ith Book of Judgment stands? 
 Where we must pass, with faces pale, 
 
 Awaiting judgment at His hands? 
 
 O sombre skies that frown all day 
 Upon us hopeless, hapless men. 
 
 When Death shall beckon us away 
 
 What happens then? What happens then? 
 
 [5] 
 
Vain Dreams 
 
 THE trees, my sisters, robed in white, 
 Now dream of spring; 
 Of sun-lit day and fragrant night. 
 Of birds that sing. 
 
 They little think that I can tell 
 
 About their pain; 
 They do not know I dream as well 
 
 A dream most vain. 
 
 [6] 
 
December 
 
 BENEATH a shroud of unpolluted white, 
 The frozen hills lie silent and asleep; 
 And moveless spruce and ghostly birches 
 keep 
 Their silent vigils through the endless night. 
 The frozen creeks, long voiceless, partly 
 veiled 
 'Neath drifting snow, dream fondly of 
 
 the trees; 
 Within the woods no bird's song and no 
 breeze 
 Make wondrous music when the skies have 
 
 paled. 
 The kingly sun ne'er sends his laughing rays 
 To wake the hills and warm the trees 
 
 and streams; 
 His face is hid, and hid are now the beams 
 That woke the world on long-dead summer 
 
 days. 
 The patient moon with all her silent train 
 Of maiden stars patrols the roads on high. 
 And watches well all things that sleep- 
 ing lie 
 Till Spring's first song shall waken themagain. 
 The white world sleeps, and all is very still, 
 Except when rises on the frosted air 
 From out its chilly and forbidding lair 
 A lone wolf's howl, long-drawn and terrible. 
 
 [7] 
 
The Unassuageable 
 
 I SOMETIMES hear among the snow- 
 clad trees 
 The lone wind chanting solemn symphonies. 
 
 I sometimes smell, while yet the woods 
 
 are bare, 
 The breath of unborn blossoms in the air. 
 
 I am at times aware of gentle sighs 
 There where the creek, ice-fettered, dream- 
 ing lies. 
 
 I sometimes witness when the air is still 
 Unearthly splendors on the white-robed hill. 
 
 I sometimes read m flashing stars at night 
 Mysterious promises of future light. 
 
 But what can make a spirit's anguish less, 
 Or ease a heart's eternal loneliness? 
 
 [8] 
 
Father yudge, S. y, 
 
 HERE was a man, a humble minister 
 Beloved of all in northern latitudes 
 Who knew the value of the kingly heart 
 That beat beneath his worn and priestly coat. 
 
 A soldier he, who ne'er forsook his post; 
 Whose a6lions were more numerous than 
 
 words; 
 His soul was God's; his heart and body 
 
 man's — 
 Nothing his own except our gratitude. 
 
 Worn e'er his time by hardship none may 
 
 know 
 Who shirked the bitter schooling of the 
 
 North, 
 He passed away, and now forever stands 
 As close to God as gentle Damien. 
 
 [9] 
 
The L.ight-0 -L,ove 
 
 THE dogs were whining; they sensed 
 too well 
 The load upon the sled; 
 The rough-hewn box with the light-o'-love — 
 A girl, 'twas said. 
 
 A week ago, at the Palace Bar, 
 
 She sang the songs of France; 
 But many a heart is lead the while 
 The feet must dance. 
 
 Kisses she gave and kisses she took. 
 
 Sinned for her daily bread; 
 But all we knew as we eyed the box 
 Was: she was dead. 
 
 We placed upon it (How much it hurt 
 
 Only the good God knows !) 
 A gaud she had worn in her dusky hair — 
 A paper rose. 
 
 A crumpled thing that seemed beautiful 
 
 To lonely, broken men, 
 Hinting of fairer flowers and things 
 Beyond our ken. 
 
 We thought of her as we closed her door 
 
 As somebody's little child; 
 As somebody's darling, lost, long lost. 
 But undefiled. 
 
 [10] 
 
The grey above us, the white beneath; 
 
 Chill silence everywhere; 
 Yet deep in our hearts we knew that God 
 Was also there. 
 
 We knew, far better than others know 
 
 Whose ways are bright and glad. 
 His judgments are very merciful 
 On good and bad. 
 
 Our little sister was now at peace. 
 
 The snow began to fall. 
 The flakes soon hid that gift of ours 
 Beneath their pall. 
 
 Under the white, white flakes the rose, 
 
 Crumpled, tawdry and red; 
 Hinting the pity which all men need 
 When they are dead. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The dogs still whined as they dragged the 
 sled 
 To where the spruces dream; 
 And there we left her, a wayward child. 
 At rest in Him. 
 
 ["] 
 
Two ^^ests 
 
 EVERY day I watch men go 
 Up the trail 
 Seeking gold. It is a show 
 Worth the watching; much I know 
 About the game. 
 
 In the dead of night they creep 
 
 Past my door; 
 But I hear them in my sleep, 
 And I pity. Very steep 
 
 The road to Fame. 
 
 [12] 
 
The Return of the Sun 
 
 WINTER is passing. The inconstant 
 sun — 
 Negle6lful lover, therefore doubly dear — 
 Kisses the stern, white faces of the hills. 
 Melting their hearts to tenderness again; ' 
 Kisses the earth, still shiv'ring 'neath its 
 
 shroud. 
 And whispers it of blossoms to be born. 
 Kisses the boughs and lures the fresh young 
 
 leaves. 
 Spring's verdant heralds, from their hiding 
 
 place; 
 Kisses the trees and tells them of bright 
 
 birds 
 Seeking new homes for merry families. 
 
 Winter is passing. The inconstant sun — 
 Negledlful lover, therefore doubly dear — 
 Enters the hearts of long despondent men. 
 Bidding them smile and be consoled again; 
 Enters their souls and whispers them of God, 
 Of distant homes and friends that pray for 
 
 them; 
 Enters our cabins and dispels the gloom 
 Of soundless days and never-ending nights; 
 Enters our eyes and bids us rise and see 
 Winter's interment, mourn'd by laughing 
 
 Spring. 
 
 ['3] 
 
Klondyke Roses 
 
 WHEN melts at last the lingering snow 
 In sunny days of May or June, 
 Amid the velvet mosses grow 
 
 Shy roses, fragrant-smelling. 
 A fated sisterhood is theirs. 
 
 They sigh their souls out wistfully ; 
 No bee makes love to them or hears 
 Their tender love a-telling. 
 
 They dream, perhaps, of distant lands, 
 
 (O lands, that seem as far-off spheres ■■) 
 Of love-lit eyes and tender hands 
 That pluck far happier roses. 
 But while they dream the days pass by 
 
 And August comes with ebon nights. 
 And sombre is September's sky — 
 And then their sad life closes. 
 
 [h] 
 
tA Song for the Return of Birds 
 
 HASTE, little songsters, and return 
 To your nests in the silent wood; 
 The birches are lonely and they yearn 
 
 For your twittering brotherhood. 
 The leaves are green on the wakened trees 
 And the snow has left the moss; 
 The sighing breeze 
 With its symphonies 
 Suggests our greatest loss — 
 Haste, little birds, haste home ! 
 
 Haste little songsters, for the Spring 
 
 Has come with her laughing train 
 Of radiant blossoms; and now the King 
 
 Is here, and the pattering rain. 
 The nights are warm and the days are long. 
 
 There is no more ice or frost; 
 And oh! we long 
 For a songbird's song. 
 
 For a music the woods have lost — 
 Haste, little birds, haste home! 
 
 [^5] 
 
The Forest Cotillion 
 
 WHEN the wind is joyous-hearted it 
 stirs the graceful spruces, 
 And they nod at one another and toss their 
 
 arms in abandon; 
 Then they sway their supple bodies in won- 
 derful undulations, 
 Keeping a perfe(Sl time with the wind's 
 mysterious music. 
 
 Then the watchmen of the forest, the solemn 
 
 and silent birches, 
 Bend stifly their stately heads, saluting their 
 
 laughing sisters; 
 And the alders wake from slumber, and the 
 
 willows grieve no longer 
 When the wild wind woos the stream and 
 
 sets the trees a-dancing. 
 
 [i6] 
 
The Spruces of the Forest 
 
 UNHAPPY trees, beneath whose grace- 
 ful branches 
 No lovers walk, no children ever play; 
 Who never hear the sound of girlish laughter. 
 But pass in gloom your silent lives away; 
 I wonder if ye heed me as I press 
 My heart to yours in utter loneliness. 
 
 I wonder if ye see me as I wander 
 
 Along the trail no feet but mine e'er tread; 
 
 I wonder if ye hear me when I murmur 
 The name of one who might as well be dead 
 
 So far away, so very far is she — 
 
 I wonder if ye heed and pity me ? 
 
 [17] 
 
The Wild Lover 
 
 SWAY your lithe arms, ye graceful trees, 
 The wind is out a-wooing ! 
 Ye may be many, yet he sees 
 A way to your undoing. 
 
 Ye need not fear, 
 Though birds may hear 
 
 Your whispers or your sighs; 
 Or tell the night 
 Of your delight — 
 
 Nay, Nay, the birds are wise. 
 
 Your vestiture of maiden green 
 
 Doth very well adorn ye; 
 The wind will deem each one a queen. 
 
 And woo. He dare not scorn ye! 
 
 [i8] 
 
Homeward Bound 
 
 I HAVE ventured on many a journey, 
 By land and sea ; 
 And whether success or failure 
 
 Was granted me, 
 It mattered but very little — 
 It is good to be Homeward Bound. 
 
 When thou bravest the final voyage. 
 
 And thou must steer 
 Across the mysterious ocean, 
 
 Friend, have no fear; 
 There is only one port for the sailors 
 When once they are Homeward Bound ! 
 
 [^9] 
 
^approaching ^ight 
 
 THE lower'd skies are grey; the trees 
 are bare. 
 A week ago they gleam'd in splendid 
 rows 
 Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair 
 They stand like ghosts above new-fallen 
 snows. 
 
 The world seems even greyer than the skies. 
 'Twas yesterday the homeward-honking 
 geese 
 Fled as from death. They know too well 
 what lies 
 Behind this sinister, foreboding peace! 
 
 [20] 
 
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