UC-NRLF B 2 fi37 SIS Ari. - Forestry Main Library In Forest Land BY DOUGLAS MALLOCH Third Edition ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY SIDNEY VERNON 8TRIATOR 1910 AMERICAN LUMBERMAN CHICAGO COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY THE AMERICAN LUMBERMAN CHICAGO I INDEX Accessory, The 46 Autumn ... 29 Back to the Land . . . 139 Bar bary Coast, The Ill Basket Weaver, The 17 Big Tree, The 153 BUI 132 Birth of Hope, The . . 24 Birthplace, The 179 Blind, The . . 188 Brotherhood of the Forest, The 43 Bud Green s Hero . 163 Burning, The . 165 Callin of the Pine, The ......... 77 Channel, The ... ..... 148 Confusion of Tongues, The .... ... 79 Connecticut Drive, The . 105 Constancy > . . 19 Departure, The . . . . . . . * . . 144 Deserted Camp, The . . * . . 68 Detroit . 182 Disagreeableness of Infallibility, The . . ... 192 Disappointment . ... 22 Diversity of Nature, The . ... ... 21 Drive, The 104 Druids of the Olden Time, The .... .40 Edelweiss . . .37 Encouragement ... 187 Fair One, The . . 55 Fall of the Champion, The 120 Family Trees .... 30 Filipinos, The 170 a 299051 4 -INDEX Forest Fire, The - -..: ->\ .*. . . ..... 11 Forest, Give Me of Thy Green 49 Forest Morn, The Forest on the Shore, The . . .... 50 Gallant Oak, The . . * 53 Garb of Glory, The ...... .... 54 Give a Boy a Dawg 157 Give Me an Ax 117 Gliders, The 113 Good Night, Mother 184 Here Will Be the End of My Voyage ..... 39 Immortality ... 57 In an Open Place Inland Tar, The ... .135 It s a Mighty Good World to Me . 190 Jean Comes to Mass .... 97 Jefferson . . Land of Christmas Trees, The , . 155 Last Night the Silent Plaza Through . . . . 173 Lew Wallace . . Louisiana Monument, The . .... 169 Louisiana Purchase, The 168 Love of a Botanist, The .... 41 Lover and the Hunter, The Lumber Camp Cat, The . 47 Lumberjack, The .59 McDonald, the Cook .......... 75 Magic of the Moon, The 42 Man Behind the Scrap, The ........ 93 Mary s Mission Furniture 72 Meeting of the Waters, The .-. - . 106 Melody of Leaves Astir, The . 7 Men of Bangor, The 142 Mill in the Forest, The Napoleon - 1 ^2 INDEX 5 Narrative, A , . 149 Night .177 Oak of MacGregor, The 38 Old Accordion, The 66 Old Ohio Levee, The .102 Old Pole Bridge, The J 20 One 33 On the Bluffs of the Little Big Horn 175 Oshkosh 125 Palm, The 15 Platte, The ..... .... 110 Poet and Peasant .... . ; . ..... 95 Poet and Plutocrat 34 Porte des Mortes . . 147 Pyramid Park 181 Rebellious River, The . 108 Revenge of the Good Scow Mary, The 145 Ridin on the Carriage ... 161 Rugged Sons of Maine, The 10 Runnin Lawgs 158 Saginaw, The 129 San Francisco * . 166 Shadow and Sun .52 Silent City, The . . 126 Sleep ......... Song for the Satiated, A 36 Songs the Woodsmen Sing, The 83 Son of Sicily, A 88 Sportsman, The . 51 Spring 44 Stable Boy, The 90 Sunday Afternoon . ... 63 Sympathy 185 Thanksgiving 178 Thanksgiving Turk, The 115 6 INDEX Tommie s House 160 Turkey Taste, The 130 Unconscious Philosopher, The 70 Up in the Woods ; . . . . 65 Upward Trail, The ... 27 Vision in the Wood, The 18 Way Home, The 85 Welcome to the New Year 26 When Patti Sang at 36 60 When the Drive Comes Down . 101 Who Understands 58 Will of the Mighty, The 99 Woman Cook, The . . ..,; 137 Your Son and Mine 14 THE FOREST THE MELODY OF LEAVES ASTIR. Let other bards their harps attune To sing of gold and courts and kings ; But leave to me the hush of June, The music that the forest sings. Let other bards from fields of blood Send up their hymns to mighty Mars ; But leave to me the quiet wood, The tender moonlight and the stars. I ll hang my harp upon a tree, Where ev ry passing breeze may play, And catch the leafy minstrelsy, The music of the shaded way. Yea, I will teach this harp of mine To sing the song the forest sings, To mingle with the sob of pine The silver aspen s whisperings. For I would find that sweetest chord That makes the forest harmony, Would wake at will the music poured To ev ry zephyr by the tree. To know thee more my spirit longs, O melody of leaves astir ; O forest, let me sing thy songs, O, make me thy interpreter. IN FOREST LAND IN AN OPEN PLACE. I step from out the forest vast My feet have wandered through; I leave the forest of the Past To greet a forest new. A year ago like this I stood Before untrodden ways And plunged, as now, within a wood A wilderness of days. A year ago a year new born Stretched out before my feet; Then not a rose concealed a thorn And ev ry fruit was sweet. But, as I walked, the sky grew gray And tangled grew the road ; Then lonely was the forest way And heavy was the load. As thus the year, once new, grew less, Perplexing grew the wood; I knew not if to onward press Or linger where I stood. New hurts and wrongs my path made drear, Old wounds were opened wide; And none there was my heart to cheer And none to walk beside. Now comes the New Year, as it came Before with hope aglow; The way that beckons is the same That called a year ago. THE FOREST I thank Thee, Lord, that, spite of pain And slur and cold offense, I thank Thee, Lord, that, spite of rain And past experience, The New Year ever looks as fair As if all life were new ; The world behind is bleak and bare The sky before is blue. I thank Thee, Lord, the New Year brings A balm for hurt and pain; With feet that run and heart that sings I journey on again. 10 IN FOREST LAND THE RUGGED SONS OF MAINE. Beneath the spruce tree and the pine Were little children reared And something of that regal line In their own blood appeared. For they were mighty, like the tree In form and heart and brain And grew in stately dignity The rugged sons of Maine. Their cradle was the bough that swings, Their lullaby the breeze That strikes the forest s waiting strings And wakes its harmonies. They laved their feet in purling brooks That tumble to the plain, And learned from Nature more than books The rugged sons of Maine. No terrors in the forest dwelt Or through the forest crept It was the altar where they knelt, The chamber where they slept. They walked its solemn aisles secure From want or care or pain, In health and vigor rich, though poor The rugged sons of Maine. The rugged sons of Maine have stamped Their impress on the world, Beneath the battleflag have tramped Where death s tornado whirled. THE FOREST 11 The peacetime s greater victories Have felt the hand and brain Of children of the forest trees The rugged sons of Maine. And some there were who left the wild To other hills to roam, But never does the forest child Forget the forest home. Remembering its tender love In sunshine and in rain, They proudly wear the title of The rugged sons of Maine. 12 IN FOREST LAND THE FOREST FIRE. At first a spark that slumbered in the leaves ; And then a tiny blaze that glowed afar A distant blaze that seemed a fallen star, A single grain from heaven s silver sheaves. The morn a smoke-plume on the hill revealed, That marked the first insidious advance. The night came down, and found the fiery lance Sunk deeper in the mountain s verdant shield. Then came long days that melted into night And left the sky in lurid color dressed ; The sun set slowly in the vapored west, A copper oval of distorted light. The primal blaze threw its increasing line Across the mountain s wooded side until Re-echoed mournfully from hill to hill The thunder of the stricken giant pine. Oft skyward blazed a solitary tree, A vivid instant dimmed all other fire Like souls of mighty men, when they expire Prove greatest, even in adversity. And, when the fury of the fiend was spent, Burned out the fullness of its torrid wrath, It left behind a devastated path To human carelessness a monument. O ye who love the richly verdured hill, Who wander through the tangled woodland ways ; THE FOREST 13 O yc who know the worth of summer days And love the music of the mountain rill ; Ye who convert the tree to purpose new, To final, destined and most proper use, Play ye no part, I pray, in this abuse, Have not the burden of the blame on you. First learn, yourselves, the best considered plan, Then teach the careless what their duties are, And never more the running flame shall scar These timbered hills, God s generous gift to man. 14 IN FOREST LAND TOUR SON AND MINE. They fell, together, at the rifle pit My boy in garb of blue, your son in gray ; And heaven wept its tears at close of day At sight of it. They sleep together in a common grave, Lulled by the murmur of the Georgia pine. Brave was that son of yours in gray ; and mine Was he less brave? If they who fought the fight of life for life And grappled at the frail embankment s crest Have found together in your South sweet rest Where once was strife ; If they, who lived as foes, as brothers died, Then we the gentle balm of peace may know Our friendship by our common loss and woe Resanctified. They sleep together neath your Georgia pine, The neither one more true nor yet more brave. Come, clasp our hands across this common grave Your son and mine, THE FOREST 15 THE PALM. The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree. Psalm XCI:l*. From the sands of the desert unnumbered, Afar from the lily-crowned Nile, Where the world through the ages has slumbered The sleep without vision or smile, It rises in evergreen splendor, Majestic and mighty and calm And the heart of the pilgrim grows tender And sweet with the peace of the palm. The earth is a desert of yellow, The sky is a desert of brass, But the fruit of the palm tree is mellow And its throne is a carpet of grass. On the silence of earth, gray and solemn, It breaks like the tones of a psalm : It lifts to the heavens a column, The evergreen shaft of the palm. And thus, in the desert of living Where the feet of the pilgrims have trod, His heart of its mellow fruit giving, Arises the servant of God A comfort to those who would falter ; To those who are weary, a balm ; By the desolate roadside, an altar; In the desert of living, a palm. be ye the palm tree, my brother, An oasis thus on the way; 16 /AT FOREST LAND O give of your faith to another, A beacon to him who would stray. And the sands shall be cool that are burning, And the heart that is torn shall be calm, And the feet that would fail shall be turning To rest in the peace of the palm. THE FOREST 17 THE BASKET WEAVER. No flashing loom is hers; no shuttle flies To do the bidding of her hands and eyes. No needle glides to designated place, As weave her sisters overseas the lace. Hers is a simpler workshop in the leaves; This is a simpler pattern that she weaves, Her woof the splinter of the forest tree, The ash so white, the elm and hickory, Her dyes the blood of marish weeds and bark With tints as ruddy as her features dark These are her simple implements of toil, The ready products of the woodland soil. Yet who shall say her skill is aught the less Than that of her who weaves the princess dress? For generations women of her race Have woven baskets in this quiet place, And she who weaves beneath the ancient trees Reveals the skill of toilsome centuries. Into the basket weaves she more than wood For weaves she in the romance of her blood, Yea, weaves she in the moonlight and the sun, The westward s burning rays when day is done, The verdant tints of winter s evergreen, The lily s whiteness and the willow s sheen, The regal purple of her honored chief, The simple beauty of her God-belief. So, through its time, the basket that she makes Shall sing to me of brooks and sylvan lakes, Shall sing the glory of the vanished Red, Shall sing a requiem for peoples dead, Shall sing of tree, of flower and of sod Shall sing of Nature and the place of God. 18 IN FOREST LAND THE VISION IN THE WOOD. I heard a voice that sang within the wood, A voice so sweet and so divinely clear That, while it sang its song, I seemed to hear The answering song of angels where I stood. The song I know not some unwritten rune Of summer nights, of warm, enchanted hours, The notes of birds, the whisperings of flowers, Commingled in a melody of June. I saw a figure flitting through the wood A woman s tempting form idealized, A woman s form that shrank from me, surprised, A form as graceful as the face was good. I caught a glimpse of smiling eyes and mouth And to the phantom all my soul went forth; My heart, till now a frozen, barren north, Became a quickened and a torrid south. I came upon the vision in the wood And (such are men and such are women fair) Rejoiced to find no angel waited there But just a woman, half -reluctant, stood. The voice seraphic was a human voice, The vision s most divinely molded form With human blush was animate and warm, And, o er and o er, I heard my heart rejoice. L ENVOI Let poets with the angels dim commune, But give to me no vision from above ; Give but a woman lush with life and love, A forest path, her voice, her touch and June. THE FOREST 19 CONSTANCY. Tall and trim The pine tree grows, Every limb With verdure glows; Winter keen Or autumn sere Finds it green Through all the year. Life hath snow Like winter hath ; Cold winds blow Across my path. Wind and drift Go swirling by; Let me lift My head on high. Boreas, roll Thy thunder car Still my soul Shall seek the star. Winds may sweep Life s woodland through- I will keep My spirit true. 20 IN FOREST LAND THE OLD POLE BRIDGE. The old pole bridge was the road that led To the meadow-lands beyond ; In the evening light twas the way I sped To a girl who was fair and fond. The old pole bridge led to fields of green ; Yea, it led to peaceful farms, The calm of the wood and the rural scene And it led to a woman s arms. O er the quiet stream its far-flung length Was hung like a mighty thread, And great its bulk and sure its strength But it trembled at my tread. As the old pole bridge, my heart was strong With the youth s sufficiency; But a woman sang but a woman s song And I shook like the aspen tree. Here were the marsh and the tangled grass And there was the meadow fair; Here was nothing and there a lass And heaven was over there. At the end of the bridge my heaven lay, At the end of the wooden span ; For such is the charm of a woman s way And such is the heart of a man. The quiet stream still softly sings, The meadow-grass is sweet ; The old pole bridge still gently swings, Awaiting a lover s feet. They are far away, they are far beyond The plain and the mountain ridge ; But I know that a girl who is fair and fond Still waits at the old pole bridge. THE FOREST 21 THE DIVERSITY OF NATURE. We marvel at the beauty of the earth But none the less at its diversity ; In all the forests that the years give birth There is no tree like to another tree. Each has the features that its brother has Yet has some beauty that is all Us own, And so the traveler by woodland paths Finds some sweet splendor in one spot alone. There is a beauty individual In each green nook, in every sylvan scene ; There is a velvet on each generous hill Exactly like no other emerald sheen. Thus we remember tnis dear place or that, A perfect picture, in itself complete; Neath this great oak once one beloved sat, A moment s converse made this meadow sweet. For we shall wander many sylvan ways Yet no strange oak our senses shall deceive, Stroll other meadows in the coming days And no false meadow make our hearts to grieve. One oak shall stand within our hearts enshrined, One meadow linger in our memory still, Until the oldtime paths again we find, The oak, the meadow and the velvet hill. Ah, what a master artist Nature is! Ever the same, yet just the same no more. The poet s rimes are like old rimes of his, The singer sings the songs he sang of yore, But Nature paints each scene a different hue, Models in different forms her million vales; Nature is ever olden, ever new Artist whose inspiration never fails. 22 IN FOREST LAND DISAPPOINTMENT. In September, 1609, while Henry Hudson s ship Half Moon was at anchor in the Hudson River, the commander sent the ship s car penter ashore to secure a new spar from one of the forest trees. Thus pine first was felled in New York. Here Henry Hudson furled his sails, His rusted anchor chains released, And knew the pain of him who fails To find his heart s alluring East. He sought a passage in the sun To Marco Polo s storied land And found, when wanderings were done, But silent forest, whitened sand. Yet was this land a land as fair As that the great explorer sought, This land a greater people bare And here were greater wonders wrought. But asked he not to sense the years Nor wished the veil of Time to raise For they who seek for hemispheres Find small content in quiet bays. He asked but shelter from the sea Within the ancient harbor bar, And, of the forest, but a tree To substitute for broken spar. Unconsciously, of future state He sowed the first and potent seed ; But, than the future, far more great Appeared to him his present need. Thus we on fame and gold intent, Thus we who mighty things aspire, THE FOREST 23 May find extended continent Between us and our heart s desire. And, when within its harbor calm We drop our rusted anchor chain, We, too, will ask no boon but balm To heal our wound and still our pain. Oh, they who falter by the way And never reach the other side, Who never find the quiet bay Where crippled ship of hope may ride, May suffer much yet suffer ne er Like those who reach the distant land And find not jeweled cities fair But silent forest, whitened sand. And yet, perhaps the fates unkind Have borne our bark to fairer shore Than that fair land we hoped to find, Have borne our bark to treasures more. Our pain may render birth to love That fills our souls with holier fire Than that red glow that blazed above The region of our heart s desire. 24 7W FOREST LAND THE BIRTH OF HOPE. Last night the path of life was drear And dead leaves shivered in the breeze. Last night the world was bleak and blear, And want and sorrow, pain and fear, Lurked in the shadows of the trees. Dead leaves, dead leaves of other days, Touched by the frost of fate unkind. Lay clustered deep in woodland ways Or hurried over frozen bays, Urged by an unrelenting wind. But lo ! the new year and the morn Came with the passing of the night. Another life and world were born The sable curtains, rent and torn, Revealed a vista fair and bright. The trees, new-leaved, are filled with bloom The buds of new and happy hours. Gone are the midnight and the gloom, And golden shafts of light illume Hope s fragrant pathway strewn with flowers. THE FOREST 25 SLEEP. I slept last night as the wild wood s guest In the shade of an ancient tree, I sank to rest on the verdured crest Of a hill beside the sea; And the waves sang low to me: Sleep by the waters of the ocean old, Lulled by the song of the deep, For maids give smiles and men give gold But the good God gives you sleep, Yes, the good God gives you sleep. I slept last night in the woodland wild In the shade of an ancient yew ; On the forest child the forest smiled With the love the infant knew ; And it sang the long night through: Sleep neath the branches of the forest tree While the stars their watches keep ; The rover s home and the captive free When the good God gives them sleep, When the good God gives them sleep. Long is the way that my feet must tread, Weary and long the way, The way is red where the feet have bled That have walked in a bygone day ; But I hear the woodland say: Sleep at the end of the tangled path, W T here your soul no more shall weep ; You sow but woe and you reap but wrath But the good God gives you sleep, Yes, the good God gives you sleep. 20 IN FOREST LAND WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR. Bells of the forest, ring all your changes ! Give us your merriest, cheeriest chime ; Now through the woodland a monarch ranges, The new-born prince of the House of Time. Northern cedar and southern lime, Yield of your perfume, your incense olden : Wood nymphs, weave your harmonious rime ! Sunrise, light all your candles golden ! Bells of the forest, ring your cheer! Hail to the monarch, the Glad New Year! THE FOREST THE UPWARD TRAIL. Out in the dark wood all alone, My only candle light a star, I git t thinkin of the things Above the curtain blue an far. They say thet heaven is up there, Thet there the great white angels sing ; I wonder if that misty cloud Is not, perhaps, an angel s wing? They say the gates are made of pearl, They say the streets are paved with gold And thet there ain t no night at all, No winter wind, no rain er cold. Sometimes I think I d like to go A-lookin through that land so fair ; I wonder if they ever let A timber cruiser in up there? I guess a mackinaw won t do Alongside of them angel suits ; Suppose a man d dare to walk On golden streets in cowhide boots? The songs the shanty fellahs sing On Sunday nights, when pipes are low, Won t do up there at all, an them s The only kind of songs I know. But I have heard some preacher tell, Who d seen it in a big black book, That once there was a Cruiser who From earth to heaven made a look. This Cruiser, so the preacher said, Was estimatin for us all 28 IN FOREST LAND For timber cruisers jest as much As some rich fellah in St. Paul. "Believe in God, believe in men, be square, This preacher used to say, "An* you will find the trail for One Has gone ahead an blazed the way." THE FOREST AUTUMN. The time is coming when the leaves Shall put away their garb of green And don the strange, fantastic weaves That color all the autumn scene. The crimson gleam and glow of gold, The regal tints of ancient Tyre, The form of summer shall enfold And set the woodland ways afire. And where the winter s snow shall lie, And where the wind shall whistle shrill, The vale shall burn with autumn s dye, And autumn s splendor light the hill. The summer laughs at winter s breath That comes to lure her soul to rest, And summer hurries forth to death In all her gayest garments dressed. When Death shall come to me, I pray Ye garb me in my gayest gown And I will meet him blithe and gay, And I will laugh away his frown. 30 IN FOREST LAND FAMILY TREES. You boast about your ancient line, But listen, stranger, unto mine: You trace your lineage afar, Back to the heroes of a war Fought that a country might be free ; Yea, farther to a stormy sea Where winter s angry billows tossed, O er which your Pilgrim Fathers crossed. Nay, more through yellow, dusty tomes You trace your name to English homes Before the distant, unknown West Lay open to a world s behest; Yea, back to days of those Crusades When Turk and Christian crossed their blades. You point with pride to ancient names, To powdered sires and painted dames ; You boast of this your family tree ; Now listen, stranger, unto me: When armored knights and gallant squires, Your own beloved, honored sires, Were in their infants blankets rolled, My fathers youngest sons were old ; When they broke forth in infant tears My fathers heads were crowned with years. Yea, ere the mighty Saxon host Of which you sing had touched the coast, My fathers, with time-furrowed brow, Looked back as far as you look now. Yea, when the Druids trod the wood, My venerable fathers stood THE FOREST And gazed through misty centuries As far as even Memory sees. When Britain s eldest first beheld The light, my fathers then were eld You of the splendid ancestry, Who boast about your family tree, Consider, stranger, this of mine Bethink the lineage of a Pine, 32 IN FOREST LAND THE FOREST MORN. I sometimes think that thus was born the world Not like a blinding sun from chaos hurled To blaze and burn for ages that it woke As wakes the forest, wakes the verdant oak, Breathing soft breezes, wreathed in lacy mist Through which there burst the gleam of amethyst. The forest morn ! Across the night profound Steals now the music of harmonious sound The bird s faint twitter, sleepy, sleepy still, The bird s first carol, sweet, all sweet and shrill ; And down through branches, poured in generous streams, Come tints of dawn, the colors of our dreams. THE FOREST 33 ONE. A thousand trees of different leaf, A thousand plants of different bloom, The pathway shade, the earth illume Yet bow they all to one great chief. The modest lily, saintly one, The vivid orchid, gorgeous rose Each tree that breathes, each flower grows, Turns daily to a common sun. Around me rise perplexing creeds, As varied as the forest trees ; And each declares with bended knees This is the dogma for my needs. To stray, they tell me, means the rod ; Yet, as the forest greets the sun, I find them prostrate every one All kneeling to the selfsame God. 34 IN FOREST LAND POET AND PLUTOCRAT. I ask not pity for myself Because I only starve and sing But rather for the slave of pelf Who worships but a single thing. For mine s a soul that lives awing, And his a soul enchained to earth, And I from naught may laughter bring While he, poor man, must buy his mirth. His purchased joy has little worth, His purchased pleasures pale and die ; But slow their death as quick their birth, The joys that come to such as I. The fleecy castles in the sky, The velvet grasses at my feet The love of these he cannot buy Nor live without it life complete. The souls within men make them sweet, The hearts within men are the gold That alchemizes humble street And warms with sunlight rivers cold. The mountain fair, the forest old Before he came these things were here; And, from them, treasures I unfold That all his wealth may not bring near. O heart of mine, make me hold dear These vague, sweet pleasures freely mine, And let no earthly wealth appear Of equal value, heart, with thine. Wouldst take all women for the nine Who sit with thee and play the strings? THE FOREST 35 Wouldst trade for vintage old the wine That comes to thee on zephyr s wings? Wouldst choose the toilsome sculpturings Of human hands o er Nature s art? Or for the song the siren sings Forget thine own sweet song, my heart? Unknown am I in busy mart And in the gilded place unknown, Yet field and forest wealth impart That makes my humble seat a throne; And, seated on life s wayside stone, I value most the thing that seems For I have found, in journeys lone, Our greatest treasures are our dreams. Thus ever on my pathway beams A star of hope to cheer me on ; And ever in my heart there gleams The promise of a coming dawn. IN FOREST LAND A SONG FOR THE SATIATED. When sick of Arabia s spices, When weary of musk-laden room, When senses themselves grow insensate And sweetness monotonous gloom; When weary of orient incense, Of odors distilled on the Rhine Get back to the scent of the forest And breathe you the breath of the pine. When sick of the acids and spirits, When weary of tinctures and oils, When appetite, whetted by drugging, Enfolds you in serpentine coils; When Death and his army of bottles Stand marshalled before you in line Escape to the sheltering forest And breathe you the breath of the pine When tired of the air of the city Deep-laden with grime and disease, Sense-weary, mind-weary, heart-weary Get back to the musical trees. No incense like that of the balsam, No earth-spot so near the divine Come rest on the bosom of Nature And breathe you the breath of the pine. THE FOREST 37 EDELWEISS. I climb the mountain gray with rock, I climb the mountain white with snow, Where gaunt, courageous pine trees mock The verdure of the vale below. I pass above the fringe of pine, I walk amid eternal ice; And, far above the timber line, I find the dainty Edelweiss. O daughter of the heights of cold, You teach me courage with your own As steadfast as the mountain old, Unchanging as unchanging stone. Teach me to live a life as sweet, My soul to bloom through snow and ice, That I life s traveler may greet With cheer like yours, dear Edelweiss. 38 IN FOREST LAND THE OAK OF MAC GREGOR. When the men of MacGregor first breasted the shield They looked for an emblem in loch and in field ; But the bloom in the meadow will wither and die And the hot breath of summer the fountain will dry. Then they looked to the wood Where the forest king stood ; Beheld they the oak, and they said, "It is good." The oak of MacGregor they wore on their breasts Twas a wall to their foes and a roof to their guests. The oak of MacGregor they crossed with the sword, With the sword and the oak they established their word ; And, proud of the blood Of King Alpin the good, On the point of the weapon his diadem stood. MacGregor of Glenstrae at Loch Lomond bore The oak of MacGregor in red ranks of war. There the men of Colquhoun and the Grahams so bold Fell as thick as its leaves at the touch of the cold. For the royal old oak No foeman e er broke To shape for the house of MacGregor a yoke. The oak of MacGregor has stood through the years, Often baptized with blood, often nurtured with tears; O er the men of MacGregor its mantle it flings They were true to themselves and their God and their kings. They may wander the sands Of the faraway lands, But the oak of MacGregor in splendor yet stands. THE FOREST 39 HERE WILL BE THE END OF MY VOYAGE. May 16, 1675, Pere Marquette entered the mouth of a small river on the western shore of Lake Michigan, known on the old maps as "Riviere du P. Marquette." He erected an altar for the purpose of saying mass and asked to be left alone for half an hour. When his companions returned they found him dead. While landing, the good man had said to them, "Here will be the end of my voyage." O Father, when, like thee, I reach The final land, my journey o er, When grates my boat upon the beach, The life eternal s earthly shore; O Father, when the hour shall come That I may quit this fragile bark And enter that celestial home I see but dimly in the dark May I, like thee, my vessel moor In some sequestered harbor still Where all is fair and all is pure And pine trees whisper on the hill. Yea, I would have my journey end In some undesecrated place Where overhanging cedars bend To shield the lily s virgin face. For I would sleep mid Nature s calm In some cathedral in the wood Where every echo is a psalm That singeth, singeth "God is good." And when, like thine, my bark is sent To other lands without me, friend, May I, like thee, lie down content And whisper, "Here will be the end." 40 /A r FOREST LAND THE DRUIDS OF THE OLDEN TIME. Yea, I have heard their solemn chants, Their old, unwritten ritual, Beheld the robed inhabitants Of altared hill and cloistered dell. They gather in the oaken grove When midnight bells have rung their chime, And through their changing circles move The Druids of the olden time. Through marshaled oaks their steps they weave; Their paths are bright with vervain bloom; And, ever as they pass, they leave The scent of hyssop in the gloom. Their hassocks are the springing sods; They speak their faith by rote and rime; They sing the praise of Nature s gods The Druids of the olden time. These shapes are ghosts of men that were, Their old religion, like them, dead. They thought their pagan faith was sure, Yet other gods men love instead. Our faith, at most, is but a dream But, if mistaken, still sublime And that sweet virtue shall redeem The Druids of the olden time. THE FOREST 41 THE LOVE OF A BOTANIST. I long for the land of the pinus palustris Where the liriodendron is bursting to bloom, Where taxodium distichum faithful, industr ous, Is waving in sadness o er Clementine s tomb. Twas under the spreading hicoria pecan We pledged our fond love by the light of the stars ; "If any be faithful," we whispered, "then we can," While leaning at eve o er the fraxinus bars. A flower from the sweet asimina triloba She pinned on my coat as I bade her farewell ; But her love grew as cold as the far Manitoba And my hopes like the frost-bitten autumn leaves fell. They planted catalpa, the fair speciosa, They planted the bush and the tree and the vine, They planted a sprig of robinia viscosa And, underneath these, planted poor Clementine. 42 IN FOREST LAND THE MAGIC OF THE MOON. Sometimes I doubt ; sometimes, when heartstrings ache, I look in vain through all the world for cheer ; The sun s last rays the westward sky forsake, And, east or west, the road is dark and drear. Alone I wander in the starless night ; The clouds of hate and wrong enwrap my soul ; And I am weary of the endless fight And I would seek no more to find the goal. For what is life, that man should break his heart By living it? And what, yea what, is death? What holds the world, that we should dread to part From bread begrudged, from pain and labored breath? Then o er the wood there mounts a perfect orb, A stately queen, the mistress of the night ; And her bright rays the skulking shades absorb And bathe the hidden way in floods of light. The river chill with heaven s glow is warmed And, far ahead, a beacon beckons on ; Across a land new-featured and transformed A path of silver leads to brighter dawn. The way of peace is opened unto me And, on my brow, I feel a tender kiss. Tis not the stern, gray world it seems to be It is the fairy world it really is. THE FOREST 43 THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE FOREST. I love the man who loves the wood, Whate er his creed, whate er his blood. I may not know his native land ; His creed I may not understand ; But, when we meet within the wood, There each is silent understood. We worship then at selfsame shrine ; We see the same celestial shine On lustrous leaf, on petaled flower; We feel the selfsame grace and power ; Yea, kneeling on the selfsame sod, We worship both the selfsame God. I give who loves the wood my hands, For here is one who understands; W T ho loves the wood I give my heart, For there responsive echoes start; We meet in this sweet brotherhood We meet as brothers of the wood. 44 IN FOREST LAND SPRING. You fellahs in the city think you know when spring is here You talk about the "ozone" an the "balmy atmosphere" ; The smoke of busy chimneys takes a diff rent kind of hue, An sometimes you imagine thet the sky is really blue ; The florist sets his posies out upon the sidewalk now ; You kin hear a tugboat chuggin up the river with a scow ; You feel a fresh ambition in your race fer worldly goods But there ain t no spring whatever, though, exceptin in the woods. In the woods the buds are bustin , in the woods the grass is green ; There ain t no iron railin s there, your feet an grass between; In the woods a bird is singin spillin joy to beat the cars An he ain t no sick canary cheepin mournful through the bars. In the woods the sun is shinin , siftin softly through the trees ; In the woods the sweetest perfume travels on the mornin breeze ; In the woods the flowers are peepin from their little velvet hoods Oh, there ain t no spring whatever like the springtime in the woods! You kin have your city springtime, when the band begins to play An* the parks is gittin greener while your hair is gittin gray; You kin have your city springtime, with its mud an soot an noise, Fer up here on the river spring is here with all its joys. Sifl in 1 softly tliroiiRli tlio trees" 1 THE FOREST 45 >r there ain t no bands make music like the robin s throaty trill ; here ain t no park has grasses like the grasses on the hill, he party in the city has more gold, perhaps, an goods- Jut the world belongs, in springtime, to the fellah in the woods, 46 IN FOREST LAND THE ACCESSORY. She went to church in holy zeal, With a dead bird on her hat. She paused, while on the steps, to kneel, With a dead bird on her hat. The parson preached, "Thou shalt not kill, And God she thanked, with conscious thrill That she, good soul, had done no ill With a dead bird on her hat. She loved to hear the birdlings sing, With a dead bird on her hat. She loved to watch them free awing, With a dead bird on her hat. She thought how sad the world would be If ne er their plumage we might see Or hear their warblings in the tree With a dead bird on her hat. She held her home the dearest, best, With a dead bird on her hat. She called her little home her "nest," With a dead bird on her hat. Her brood she circled with her arm To keep each happy child from harm, To still her own strange, vague alarm With a dead bird on her hat. She could not bear death s form to see, With a dead bird on her hat. She could not look on cruelty, With a dead bird on her hat. She wept at others sufferings, She gave her life to holy things, And wore the "loveliest of wings " A dead bird on her hat. THE FOREST 47 THE LUMBER CAMP CAT. O lumber camp cat, I envy your lot how happy, how happy your fate! For you, from the midst of this civilized rot, have gone back to your natural state. No bootjacks for you now go speeding through air, you may love in your passionate way ; With a bosom unruffled by worry or care you may warble your beautiful lay. No boys now pursue you, O fortunate cat, no dogs chase you up street and down ; When you bask in the sun now no woman cries "Scat!" as women once did in the town. No more you dodge autos and bikes in the street, as cats in the city must do For you travel through ways that are shady and sweet, under skies that are sunny and blue. No infantile darling now tugs at your tail, while mother the picture enjoys; You are out of the city, that merciless jail, away from the soot and the noise. lumber camp cat, I envy your lot, a living so joyous and good; 1 wish I might ditch all this civilized rot and join you up there in the wood. We would wander by day through the grove and the plain, we would sleep on a pillow of pine ; We would roll in the sun, we would bathe in the rain, we would live out-of-doors, pussy mine. Out-of-doors! Out-of-doors! As the nightwind came down we would sip from a chalice of dew, If, instead of a man close imprisoned in town, I were only a kitten like you. 48 IN FOREST LAND THE LOVER AND THE HUNTER. A man to woman fondly swore By stars, by moon, by God Himself, He held her dearer, loved her more, Than soul or life or place or pelf. He pledged their troth by all above In sentences the tenderest Yet, when he came to see his love, He wore a dagger in his breast. He told her how he loved declared His faith would evermore endure ; He loved the field o er which she fared Because her feet had made it pure. There came a time when serpent hissed And to his heart a doubting crept ; Her arms he twined, her lips he kissed And then he killed her while she slept. Another was who Nature loved, Who swore as freely by his God ; He loved the leaves where shadows moved, He loved the flowers and the sod. He called the great Creator good Who gave to man the forest land Yet, when he wandered to the wood, Death s instrument was in his hand. He Nature loved he loved the trees In which the birds sang roundelays, He loved to breathe the morning breeze Where gentle deer trod woodland ways. He Nature loved yet came he armed With old, man-made tradition still; He wandered to the region charmed To worship Nature and to kill. THE FOREST 49 FOREST, GIVE ME OF THY GREEN. O forest, give me of thy green ; O morning, give me of thy dew; O lily, give me of thy sheen ; O heaven, give me of thy blue, The turquoise of the summertime ; O wild rose, give me of thy hue And I will weave them into rime. And some poor soul enslaved by wrong, Yea, some poor soul these sweets denied, Mayhap shall hear my humble song, Afar from brook and mountainside, Mayhap shall hear it and shall see Beyond the walls of pain and pride These things that ye reveal to me. 50 IN FOREST LAND THE FOREST ON THE SHORE. O chosen land of liberty, I love, of all, the most The splendor of thy forest tree That waves to him across the sea A welcome to thy coast. Its spreading branches typify The nation s open arms, vVhere heavy-laden soul may lie And know that no oppressor s cry Shall wake it to alarms. Its leaves a-tremble sing the song A mother croons at eve ; They sing triumphant over wrong, They cheer the lagging feet along And soothe the hearts that grieve. For this thy emblem, land of mine, The forest on the shore Thy singing spruce and giant pine And all that grand and regal line That lives forevermore. And he who comes from overseas Shall hear its minstrelsy, Shall hear upon the evening breeze That rustles through the leafy trees The music of the free. And he shall feel the holy calm These altared shores invoke, Behold, mid tones of freedom s psalm A land as peaceful as the palm, Enduring as the oak. THE FOREST 51 THE SPORTSMAN. Above all creatures man was blessed With understanding by the God Who out of chaos and unrest Brought forth the earth an Adam trod. The greater strength God gave the brute, The greater speed to thing afield, Yet gave the less the attribute That made the strong to weaker yield. God gave this weapon for defense, God gave to man the greater brain ; Yet who shall say by God s intents The one shall perish, one remain? Did God make men that they might kill? Did God make brutes that they might die? Did God surrender thus His will And give His sword to such as I? I cannot think the God who gives The breath to any living thing, To any beast in forest lives, To any bird that soars awing Gives living things to men for play To feed men s savage instincts still, Gives living things to men to slay Because they hold it sweet to kill. No man has shed a creature s blood And been the better for the deed ; No God omnipotent and good Esteems to kill a human need. Claim no commission from your God To kill for sport or slay for pelf ; And, when with blood you bathe the sod, Hold none responsible but self. 52 IN FOREST LAND SHADOW AND SUN. The old man s house from the street sets back, down there in his sawmill town. His settin -room s big as this whole darn shack, an the stone on the front is brown. There s a roof on that mansion of his so proud, the roof on mine is the sky; He watches shadows I watch the cloud, the white cloud driftin* by. He watches shadows creep up the wall, he grasps for shadowy things ; I watch the sunlight higher crawl an hear each bird that sings. He watches shadows thet toward him run with fingers long an chill; But the rocks are warm with the morning sun, an the grass is green on the hill. Oh, I ve the sun an the sky so clear an the night wind an the star; An I am done with the things that were, content with the things thet are. THE FOREST 53 THE GALLANT OAK. When ouce the New Year came to earth, To claim his realm by right of birth, A forest knight, the gallant oak, Upon the pathway threw his cloak. The garment green, now turned to brown, Upon the bare earth fluttered down And o er the velvet to his throne The New Year walked unto his own. Then gave the New Year a decree To every bush and forest tree That every growing, blooming thing Should hail the mighty oak as king. Yea, more, he made the king of trees A ruler of the running seas, In ships to bear from shore to shore The earth s discovered treasures o er. Then called he Springtime to his side, Old Winter s pink-limbed, blushing bride, And bade her weave a regal cloak To cover new the gallant oak. And so she wove a gown of green, The richest earth had ever seen, And garbed anew the mighty tree With emblem of his majesty. 64 IN FOREST LAND THE GARB OF GLORY. They wore the gray in the old, old day, And blue was the garb of these ; They felt the press in the Wilderness When thunders shook the trees. They felt the press in the Wilderness When the ramparts burst to flame, They gave their years and their women s tears. With never a thought of fame. Now gun is still and sword in sheath And we weave for both the laurel wreath. They wore the gray in the ended fray, And blue was the garb of these; But the sons of gray wear the blue today And the wood sings harmonies. The sons are they of the men in gray But blue are their mother s eyes, And the skies of gray are blue alway With the blue of southern skies. On the brows of the men in blue appears The silver gray of the vanished years. THE FOREST 55 THE FAIR ONE. One came from the land of Sahara With orient colors ablaze; She was fair with the beauty of Sarah, The Sarah of Abraham s days. The sands of the desert as yellow The trinket she wore on her breast, The fruit of old Egypt as mellow The lips that the sunshine caressed. Her eyes were twin fountains of splendor, Two wells that the starlight revealed, Now melting, appealing and tender, Now bright with a love unconcealed. The sun and the zephyr had brought her The hue of the Levantine clime. Fair, fair, was the Orient s daughter, A dream of an Abraham s time. A child of the forest the other, A daughter of cedar and pine, The bird of the forest her brother, The sister of lily and vine. Black as ravens her glorious tresses, Dark her eyes as a midnight of storm, But the glow that the sunset possesses Made her temples the heavens as warm. Red her lips as the red of the berry When the leaves of the summer are gone, Soft her voice as the song of a fairy, Light her step as the step of a fawn. The sunshine, the zephyr, that kissed her Had crowned her the Occident s queen Fair, fair, as her Orient sister, The child of the forest of green. 56 IN FOREST LAND Yet each wore the heart of a woman And each knew the love of a man ; Thus each did some pathway illumine, Played her part in a God-given plan. Who shall say that the lily is fairest, More fair than the orchid or rose, If each to some bosom is dearest, If each in some solitude glows? For this is the measure of beauty "Tis beauty that loves and that serves; For this is the measure of duty That duty nor alters nor swerves. Yea, gold is all gold the world over, In forest or desert possessed, And a heart that is true, to the lover Is ever the fairest and best. THE FOREST 57 IMMORTALITY. For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sorout again. Job 14.7. There is no end of life. The tree that falls Beneath the ax, or shattered by the storm, Gives up but that which was its show of strength; Its wealth of blossoms and its breathing leaves, The trunk that marked the progress of its years, These only die. The life sap still is there, Still there the soil, still there the bending sky, Still there the sun that warmed its crown of green, Still there the springs that fed its hidden roots. So, from its shattered form, new life shall come, New leave? put forth, new blossoms deck the glen, And where it was the tree again shall be. There is no end of life. The man who falls But dies as dies the trunk of fallen tree, To live again in richer garb and hue. For, in the tree, life s essence still is there, And, in the man, the soul may never die It does but drop the thing that once it was, Its earthly form. Its life it still retains And, mounting upward, lifts its golden bloom Where, in its earthly shape, it might not reach. Yea, mounting upward, casts its petaled shower Upon the footsteps of the mighty throne That gave it life. Trees fall, men die, worlds change, But life lives on and on. For to the soul There comes no death, there is no end of life. 58 IN FOREST LAND WHO UNDERSTANDS. O there is this, unhappy heart, That makes thee like the solemn wood Where many pass: How seldom art Thou understood. Yet cometh one who seems to feel What heart and forest feel in tune, Who loves with heart and wood to kneel And there commune. The heart will give him of its sigh, The wood will clasp him with its hands ; For, see! A stranger draweth nigh Who understands. THE CAMP THE LUMBERJACK. An untamed creature of the forest wilds, He lives to that wild place a soul akin A man whose days are often steeped in sin, And yet whose heart is tender as a child s. His strength is like the strength of mighty pines, His outward form a bark of many scars ; His head he carries proudly in the stars, The while his feet are meshed in tangled vines. Calamities throw viselike tendrils out To seize him in their hindering embrace ; The thorns of wrong whip sharply in his face And poisoned things encompass him about. He braves disease, the storm, the falling tree, The mad, quick water that would hold and drown But all earth s terrors cannot bear him down Or make this man of dangers bend the knee. He breathes the air the sturdy maple breathes, He walks the soil the selfsame maple feeds ; To forest sources looks he for his needs Oh, where are trees and men like unto these? 59 60 IN FOREST LAND WHEN PATTI SANG AT 36. We hadn t seen no petticoat in more n ninety days, We hadn t seen no lady in a year; There wasn t no gazabo but whose eyes was sore to gaze Jest once ag in upon some pretty dear. When he s up there in the timber, then a fellah sorter dreams Of women s smiles an women s lips an eyes; When you re fur enough away from her, then woman sorter seems To be a kind of angel in disguise. We was camped, as you remember, up on Section 28, Where Thompson s strip of timber growed so thick, An was tearin up the forest at a most amazin rate, For the Feb uary thaws was comin quick. We went to work by moonlight an we worked all day like dogs, Fer the boss had said he d do the proper thing By ev ry man among us if six million feet of logs Was gethered on the rollways in the spring. There wudn t been no trouble if the team thet brought supplies Hadn t brought along a notice with the load, Containin an announcement of a sort of a su* prise To happen in a camp jest down the road. It seems a troupe of actors thet was passing by that way (These fellahs thet perform all kinds of tricks) Was hesitatin in our midst jest long enough to play An engagement of one night at 36. One statement on the handbill hit us hard an hit us strong, One name alone stood out above the rest; THE CAMP 61 It said thet Mrs. Patti, the accomplished queen of song, Wud heave a few selections from her chest. Six million feet or nothin , do you think we cud resist The chance to see a woman such as that? We didn t tell the boss, but we determined to assist In greetin Mrs. Patti with eclat. We rummaged through our duffle fer the proper clothes to wear To make the right impression on the queen ; Mike Flannigan got reckless, changed his socks an combed his hair Such fixin s up that camp had never seen. There wasn t not a swamper ner a teamster in the crew But longed with Patti great to make a hit, There wasn t not a fellah in the whole darned camp but knew He could win the dame if he spruced up a bit. We knocked off work at 5 o clock that night instid of 8, In spite of how the boss got up an swore ; We wuldn t take no chances, any man, of bein late, An we had to tramp a good twelve miles er more. We landed at the bunkhouse down on Section 36 Jest when the blanket curtain wafted up; An ev ry man was handsome, even Ole an the Micks, An glad he didn t stop behind to sup. An then the show was started. A fellah made a speech, Another actor played a tambourine ; iBut we was all a-stretchin necks as fur as they wud reach, A-waitin fer the comin of the queen. At last a dude stepped up in front an said he d introduce A feature thet in cities was the rage ; He said, with our permission, he intended to turn loose "The female impersonator of the age." 62 IN FOREST LAND He said that Mr. Somethin ton would now impersonate One Adelina Patti, as announced ; And us poor devils thet had tramped twelve miles from 21 At them remarks of his, we fairly bounced. An* then the "male soprano," the "impersonator" cuss, Got up an started singin er he tried ; But they couldn t ring that kind of Mrs. Patti in on us The "permission" they requested we denied. Them people down at 36 they thought the show was good ; They wanted us to let the singer be ; They tried to tell us fellahs thet we hadn t understood An that s, I guess, what caused the jamboree. We put the show troupe in the snow, the bunkhouse on th bum, We drank up all the forty-rod in sight ; An* some of us got home next day yes, some of us ar some Come trailin in along on Tuesday night. An right on top of all of this there come a sudden thaw, The roads give out, the logs stayed on the skids ; Then Thompson he come up himself an read to us the law An made us all feel like a bunch o* kids. We didn t cut six million feet, we got no extra pay, We never work fer Thompson any more ; But if that "impersonator" ever happens up your way Well, he s the cuss thet I m a-lookin for. THE CAMP 63 SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Woods work isn t any snap guess I needn t tell you tltat We ain t up here fer our health, or no pleasure jaunt er bat; Up before the sun is up, in the timber with the morn Woods work isn t any snap that s as sure as you are born. But there ain t no job on earth thet s a snap, if we could know ; Other jobs look like a cinch just because we think they re so. I ain t no complainin cuss, camp-inspectin , lazy loon; I git grub an I git sleep an there s Sunday afternoon. Sunday afternoon in camp that s the joyful time fer me; Quite as good as well-earnt rest nothing else in life kin be. Dinner underneath your belt, sun a-shinin from the west That s the time to stretch yourself an just set an rest an rest. An , while you re a-settin there, how the sunshine warms you through Drives the winter from your bones, drives away your thoughts o blue. Some folks talk about the stars, some folks sing about the moon; Give to me the westward sun on a Sunday afternoon. On a Sunday afternoon time don t count fer very much; You jest set there dreamin things, dreamin things to beat the Dutch. Seems there ain t no world but this just the snow an sky an sun Seems the lumber camp s your world, an there ain t no other one. You fergit thet there s a town, plumb fergit all care an strife, 64 IN FOREST LAND An you draw long breaths of air an you say "Well, this is life!" Ev ry rustle of the pines, ev ry whisper, seems in tune, An your little world is bright on a Sunday afternoon. On a Sunday afternoon you kin set outside an read How the fellahs in the world down the river way "succeed," How they grapple throat an throat, how they fight the fight fer bread Mighty poor in happiness, but they re "worth a million" dead. Those poor devils think they re rich, people call em wealthy men; But they d give their hoarded wealth just to live life o er again. In December days they long for the sunny days of June, For they never know the peace of a Sunday afternoon. On a Sunday afternoon then the paper thet you hold, While you read an think an dream, like as not is two weeks old. You are rusty on your dates, calendars you never see ; An you measure spring an fall by the sap thet s in the tree. Almanacs an calendars are the handiwork of men, But the men who made the things cannot turn em back again. I don t know who named the month, called it March or called it June; But one thing I know fer sure God made Sunday afternoon. THE CAMl> 65 UP IN THE WOODS. They re cuttin of a tote road through the hemlock on the hill, I kin hear their axes ringin in my dreams ; An I m gittin kind o weary of the work around the mill An I m gittin kind o nervous an it s hard a-settin still, Fer I think I hear the pawin of the teams. Boss was into town last night a-layin in of beans, Of pork an prunes an other kinds o goods; An there s somethin down inside me that s a-tellin what it means, An darned if I ain t wishing now fer other sights an scenes, A-longin to git back up in the woods. Now, why a man should want to go up in the woods at all Is somethin I can t seem to understand. I can t see nothin pleasant in the ordinary haul, An yet I m kind o restless when the leaves begin to fall An spread their fancy carpet on the land. There s surely other methods with a heap sight more o fun Fer men like me to earn their livelihoods; They roll you out at four o clock beneath the jobber s sun, An the stars are all a-shinin when the day s hard work is done An yet I want to git up in the woods. 66 IN FOREST LAND THE OLD ACCORDION. We hadn t no great pipe organ, ner any piano grand; We heard no fancy music that we cudn t understand. There wasn t no Wagner business er Mister Meddlesome; Yet we never lacked fer music as was music, too, by gum! We hadn t no grand piano up there at old Camp Ten, Yet we never lacked fer music that was good enough fer men. We hadn t no Paderewski er long-haired son-of-a-gun, But jest a Swede from Oshkosh an his old accordion. The nights when things was chilly, say twenty er so below, We wud gether around about him as he set in the firelight glow. He didn t play nothin fancy, no high an mighty air, But he made us laugh with "Bill Bailey" an cry with "The Maiden s Prayer." And then we wud shut our eyelids an miles an miles we d roam While that instrument sobbed the music, the song of "Home, Sweet Home." It made us all feel more solemn than a sermon wud have done, Though t was only a Swede from Oshkosh an his old ac cordion. Sometimes we wud move the benches an clear the shanty floor And then wud come stag dancin fer a good long hour er more. We wore no dancin slippers, we wore no broadcloth suits \ The shirts that we wore was flannel, an we danced in cow hide boots. THE CAMP 67 There wasn t no orchestra playin , but we had jest twice the fun, Fer we had that Swede from Oshkosh an his old accordion. The camp up there on the river is dead an lone an chill; The shanty floor creaks no longer, the place an the night are still. The boys that we knew are scattered, are scattered fur an wide The foreman is out in Seattle, the Swede, they say, has died. We sleep on beds of linen, we eat at a real hotel But sometimes I git a-thinkin an I have a homesick spell. An* darned if I ain t a-longin to be back there, jest fer fun, An t hear that Swede from Oshkosh an* his old accordion. 68 IN FOREST LAND THE DESERTED CAMP. In the forest torn and shattered, Where the ax has come and gone, Where the years flow on and on, Silent eve and silent dawn, Where the fallen chips are scattered, Stands a lonely habitation Buried now by winter snows When the raging northwind blows, Mounted now by crimson rose Feeling summer s each pulsation; But it hears no whisper human Only creaking of the frost, Sob of pine tree tempest tossed; For its threshold old is crossed Nevermore by man or woman. Yet, when midnight bells are ringing In the city by the sea, Then a vision comes to me And I hear rise merrily Sturdy tones of manly singing. Oldtime forms I see returning To the cabin on the hill, To the region white and still ; On the battered windowsill Once again the light is burning. There is Louie he who perished When the forest monarch fell, THE CAMP 69 Connors he who heard his knell In the woodland s blazing hell, There is Mary whom I cherished. God, I thank thee for the dreaming Though but dreaming it may be, I give thanks for memory, I give thanks that I may see These that were that now are seeming. Time shall claim the falling rafter, And the elements rude will Alter river, plain and hill; But forever, ever still I shall hear their song and laughter. For the camp beside the river Is rebuilded in my heart Where these midnight visions start; From it none shall e er depart, There its people dwell forever. 70 IN FOREST LAND THE UNCONSCIOUS PHILOSOPHER. I ain t no philosopher, like some people say I am. Philosophy won t fall a tree, an it never broke a jam. I ain t figured out no law fer to run the universe ; I take things jest as they be, be they better, be they worse. Livin up here in the woods with the sky an sun an trees Won t make any fellah wise, make him any Socrates. Be they better, be they worse, I take things jest as they be, An I try to be content thet there s my philosophy. If a tree shud crooked grow, grunts 11 never straighten it. If an ax ain t hung just right, words 11 never make it fit. If it snows when it shud rain, if it rains when it shud snow, Prayers or cussin s never changed any weather thet I know. We kin only hope fer snow jest to keep the roads alive, We kin only hope fer rain when we re ready fer the drive. When the road is gittin bare an* old mother earth you see, Then a shovel beats a prayer thet there s my philosophy. Other folks has worldly goods, I m as poor as Dago s monk ; But I git my thirty bones, git my grub an git a bunk. Other folks ride grunt-machines ; when 7 travel 7 must walk ; But you can t wish money in, no one gives you coin fer talk. I don t cuss because I m broke, I don t holler at the rich. Some is rich an some is poor; what s it matter which is which? I m a reg lar millionaire, I m as rich as any be, If I m only satisfied thet there s my philosophy. Some folks long fer fame an such, long to mingle with the great, THE GAMP 71 Long to hold some fancy job while the public pays the freight. I don t long to be no king, long to be no senator. When the mighty sit to dine, I ain t hangin round the door. I ain t tryin much to teach, I ain t tryin much to learn; I jest try to do what s right then I never give a dern. Be they better, be they worse, I take things jest as they be, An I try to be content thet there s my philosophy. 72 IN FOREST LAND MARY S MISSION FURNITURE. Y see, t was this way: Mary wrote Thet she had learned to fairly dote On mission furnicher. She said She d like to have some chairs, a bed, A table an a sideboard, too, An other kinds of things a few. She said the stuff was all the rage Thet Mrs. Smith an Mrs. Gage Had bought a lot of mission stuff. A woman thinks it cause enough To buy new fixin s such as those If so it happens thet she knows Some other woman in the town Has got that kind of stuff aroun . So Mary lit her evenin lamp An wrote some lines to me in camp A-tellin me she wanted bad Some furnicher like others had. She said our stuff was out of date, But mission stuff was somethin late. I thought about the walnut bed Where my old father knelt an said His pray rs. I felt I d like to keep The couch where Father fell asleep To wake no more where Mother dear Kept lonely watch, year after year, Until that pray r of his come true And they on high was mated new. There s not a table er a chair But some old memory will share, THE CAMP 73 Some tale of boyhood will relate But now it s old an out of date. An so I wrote the company To give a check to her, so she Could buy the mission furnicher. I d rather be a-pleasin her Than keepin any memory green Of days thet was er might have been. An then next week I got a note. "My dearest, darlin Dad," she wrote, "I guess I ve changed the old place some! Why, you won t know it when you come! I ve fired that awful walnut bed; The center table s in the shed Our home s so nice twill make you smile I ve got it furnished mission style." The last log on the bankin groun , We rode the front bobs into town, An I was all excitement then To see the little house again, With Mary standin in the door As stood her mother years before. Twas in the mornin" we drove in. The river ice was black an thin; The sky of gray had turned to blue ; The air was soft, so soft we knew That spring was waitin fer the word To wake the flow r an call the bird. But nothin sweet that picture had As Mary waitin fer her dad. First thing of all I said to her, "Now, where s your mission furnicher?" 74 IN FOREST LAND "O Pa," she said, "it s simply grand!" An then she took me by the hand An* showed the house fixed mission style. An me? Well, I could only smile, Although I felt like I cud cuss To see how they had bunkoed us. Fer all this mission furnicher Thet some smart cuss had sold to her Was jest a lot of hardwood plank Jest thrown together with a yank An called a table or a chair. The stuff thet she had gethered there Was just the same stuff that the men Was used to havin at Camp Ten. A bench marked seven ninety-eight Thet Mary said was simply great Was like the one thet Jack the Red Broke over Jimmie Murphy s head. The bed thet cost some thirty plunks Was just the picture of the bunks They give us fellahs in the woods An so it was with all the goods. Give me a drawshave an a knife An handsaw an I ll bet my life, If I had hardwood plank enough, That I cud make this mission stuff. But I said nothin . Not fer me To cause a tear to Mary. She Kin boss the outfit, an her dad Is glad as long as Mary s glad. I don t like mission furnicher But if it fetches joy to her, If it kin make her lips to smile, I d fix the whole world mission style. THE CAMP 75 MCDONALD, THE COOK. McDonald don t cook from no recipey book, exceptin the book in his head; But McDonald kin shake up a biscuit er cake thet is fit to a king to be fed. McDonald don t mope over cookin -school dope an git up a dinner too late McDonald kin throw Injun meal into dough while a girl wud be findin a plate. And ev rything goes by names ev ryone knows, when Mc Donald a dinner prepares For beans are called beans an sardines are sardines on Mc Donald s well-known bill of fares. The Frenchman s "men-noo" Mac don t parley vous he kin cook in one language, not four; If McDonald you "chef"-ed he wud hand you his left, fer Mac is a cook, an no more. Yet I bet thet his pies wud pry open the eyes of many a Johnny Crapaud ; At fried-cakes an such he beats Frenchman er Dutch, an his bread is as white as the snow. As I mentioned before, he s a cook an* no more, but a cook from his wishbone to back ; And the citified cuss wudn t satisfy us, since we ve tasted the cookin of Mac. Kin the cook in the town git the beans golden brown till they crumble an melt in your mouth? Kin he boil coffee up till it shines in the cup as golden an rich as the South ? 76 IN FOREST LAND Oh, the city hotel may be certainly swell, with its lamps an its music an flow rs; But fer three squares a day I will take no "cafe" jest this dingy, old cook-house of ours. As I mentioned before, Mac s a cook an no more, but a cook from his wishbone to back ; An the citified cuss wudn t satisfy us, since we ve tasted the cookin of Mac. THE CAMP 77 THE CALLIN OF THE PINE. The sailor on the shore hears the rollin ocean roar, an it beckons an it beckons to the deep ; He kin hear the tackle shake when he lays at night awake, he kin feel the deck a-rollin in his sleep. He kin hear the flappin sail, he kin see above the gale the petrel risin skyward brave an free ; An there ain t no sailor man thet is happy on the Ian when he listens to the callin of the sea. When he listens to the callin of the sea, When he hears the breakers roarin on the lee Then his heart is far away where the billows leap an play, When he listens to the callin of the sea. As the sailor hears the sea, so I hear a-callin me a voice thet ever beckons to the wood; I kin hear the pine tree sigh to the wind a-passin by, I ketch a breath of air thet s sweet an good. Yes, the sailor s far away where the billows leap an play, when he listens to the music of the brine ; But my soul is with the trees an the river an the breeze, when I listen to the callin of the pine. When I listen to the callin of the pine, When I drink the brimmin cup of forest wine Then the path of life is sweet to my travel- weary feet, When I listen to the callin of the pine. But I like the pine tree best when the river is at rest an the winter holds the world in its embrace, When the snow gleams fur an white, when the moon is cold an bright, when the pine tree wears its diamonds an its lace. 78 IN FOREST LAND Though the winter winds are keen, still its boughs are ever green, like the love of her who has this heart of mine ; An I know thet she is true as the verdure ever new, when I listen to the callin of the pine. When I listen to the callin of the pine, Then I pledge her in my cup of forest wine An* the stars that shine above all are singin of my love, When I listen to the callin of the pine. THE CAMP 79 THE CONFUSION OF TONGUES. There s a legend they tell ( tis they tell it, my boy) concern ing a certain great tree That grows down at Milltown beside the St. Croix, where it gets its first taste of the sea ; And this legend, or story, concerning the tree has a moral, they say, in it thrown, But I ll tell it to you as they told it to me you can figure the moral alone. On the bank of the stream grew this spruce tree so tall, but this spruce tree was crooked and slim ; On its side grew a bump, or a wart, or a ball, and a bird s nest hung out on a limb. There were branches on one side as thick as the fur that in habits a pussy cat s tail; On the other, such branches at all as there were were feeble and fragile and frail. To the east just a trifle the tree was inclined, it wasn t ex actly in plumb ; It didn t lean out very far, do you mind, and then, yet again, it leaned some. But this spruce tree was doomed to an untimely end because of its lumberly worth The foreman intended some fellers to send to bring the great monarch to earth. So he called a picked crew from the forest near by to chop, saw and skid up the spruce, For he swore that the spruce tree gigantic should die and these were the men he turned loose: There was Sandy McGee, just from Bonnie Dundee, a canny young bit of a lod; 80 IN FOREST LAND There was Michael OToole he was far from a foola son of a son of the sod; There was Alphonse Le Gaul, just from far Montreal, as smooth as the bark on the beech ; And an Englishman stout who had lately come out quite willing to learn or to teach ; And lastly was Jake, who was after a stake and who said, "Um-ha-ha! Vot s der use?" These five were the crew (for a job fit for two) turned loose on that hapless old spruce. But the spruce tree, they tell me, looked quite unafraid when the crew hove in sight at the morn ; In the zephyr that passed it it playfully swayed, as it had since the day it was born. " Tis a wee bit a-crookit," quoth Sandy McGee, as he pulled off his coat with a yank, "I m thinken twere weel, Meester Wobbly Tree, to lay y up here on tha bank." "Perhaps so it were," Michael hastened to state, "but look at the bump on the bark ; You must fall toward the bump side, for there lays the weight it s so aisy, me byes, it s a lark." It then was the turn of the Frenchman Le Gaul, who was green at the work, so they say; He thought that the bird s nest would help it to fall and suggested they fell it that way. The Englishman laughed at traditional foe and showed how the branches were spread; "Where the top is the thickest," he said, "it must go or the thing will come down on your head." But Jake took a squint and he said, "It is lean to the east just a leetle, I foun ; So, if you vill look, it is plain to be seen the which way to chop up him down," THE CAMI 81 In five different ways would five different men have felled that unfortunate tree. They argued till sundown alas! even then these fellers still could not agree. For said Sandy McGee, just from Bonnie Dundee, "It s best by the bank here to lie." Then said Michael O Toole, "You re a bare-legged fool and you re grane in the bargain, sez I." Then Alphonse Le Gaul danced into the ball and swore by the nest on the limb ; And then Mr. Miles, from His Majesty s isles, showed again how the tree looked to him. And lastly came Jake, gave his shoulders a shake and said in a voice that was shrill: "You vas grazy vons all eef a tree vas to fall, is he goin to fall up a hill?" As I say, there s a moral connected with this, though I never have quite made it out; I will tell you the story, though, just as it is you may find what the moral s about. For Sandy and Michael at last came to blows, John Bull and the Frenchman joined in And Jake s doubled fist met with somebody s nose and Jake got a thump on the chin. Twas free for all, go it all, Donnybrook fair, and ev ry man give it and take; In the morning some plaid and a bit of red hair the foreman picked up with a rake. For each one was licked and each licked ev ry one for they fought at the foot of the tree Till all that was left at the rise of the sun was the hair and bit plaidie so wee. There s a moral, they say, in this wonderful tale, though for morals I haven t much use; 82 IN FOREST LAND But I know, in that quaint old Canadian vale, still grows that slim, crooked old spruce. But, alas, Mr. Miles and brave Michael OToole have passed from the knowledge of men ; And Le Gaul and poor Jake, the Jewish man, you ll on earth never meet with again ; No, never again will the bagpiping biz be played by poor Sandy McGee. And the moral s a good one, I m sure that it is-whatever the moral may be, THE CAMP 83 THE SONGS THE WOODSMEN SING. Above the quick, explosive notes of axes in the tree-heart ringing, Above the crash of falling pine, there comes the sound of manly singing. The roof is God s eternal sky. The graceful, swaying forest giant Is not more mighty than the tone, more proud, more sturdy, more defiant: "I love a girl in Saginaw; She lives with her mother. I defy all Michigan To find such another." For men must whistle while they work, or irksome is the lot of labor, For men must mingle voice with voice if each would help and cheer his neighbor; And, when men sing, then men must sing the praises of a gentle woman For she is angel, at the least, and man, at most, is only human: "She s tall and slim; her hair is red; Her face is plump and pretty. She s my daisy Sunday best-day girl, And her front name stands for Kitty." Each holds a sweetheart somewhere dear, each has his meed of song to give her She in a fatherland may dwell, she may have crossed the silent river. Each man has known a clasp of hands, each known a woman s sweet caresses; 84 IN FOREST LAND Each man, though rough and rude without, some tender memory possesses: "I took her to a dance one night, A mossback gave the bidding ; Silver Jack bossed the shebang, And Big Dan played the fiddle." Rude is the song for ever bards feel more than they ca\ give expression, But never song is half so sweet as when a lover makes con> fession. Rude are the joys that come to mind, as rude and reckless as the rhythm, But all are sweet and sanctified by this one joy that she was with him: "We danced and drank the livelong night With fights between the dancing, Till Silver Jack cleaned out the ranch And sent the mossbacks prancing." And when the tree fells some brave heart, and when the river claims a braver, The woodsmen s chant is softened low; with tears the faulty accents waver. They lay him in a shallow grave, the forest o er it shadows flinging, And woods and hills and brook and stars are ever, ever gently singing: "I love a girl in Saginaw; She lives with her mother, I defy all Michigan To find such another." THE CAMP 85 THE WAY HOME. We ain t very strong on right an* on wrong, us fellahs at lumber Camp Ten; If a man wants to cuss er to kick up a fuss, it don t bother the rest o the men. If a man s on the square an inclined to be fair, we like him the better fer that ; But we don t pick a quar l with the man who will snarl, any more n we wud with a cat. If he looks fer a row, we manage as how he don t have to wander about; An a mighty good lick, er a duck in the crick, will gen ally straighten him out. You kin easy surmise we was took by su prise when Scotty, the boss of the barn, Got serious kind an said, to his mind, he cared not a golly gosh darn If a man went to kirk, er in camp had to work where he never heard singing er text He cud be jest as good as any cuss could, in one place as well as the next. This theology biz, or whatever it is, was a new kind of talk around there. We didn t think much on religion an such; we was rusty on preachin an prayer. There wasn t a one, not a son-of-a-gun, but wanted to Heaven to get; 86 IN FOREST LAND But we had the idee that, if Heaven we d see, we must go by the way of Marque tte. When we re up in Camp Ten it is different then, away from the church an the chime; We have our own laws an fight our own cause an eat venison any old time. So when Scotty, the boss of the heifer an* hoss, the other lads started to rake, They gave a ho-ho an told him to go an take a big jump in the lake. Now, isn t it strange, how quickly we change from joy into sorrow an back, How a man seems to know he ll be called soon to go acrost the great river so black? In an hour, by the watch, that bundle of Scotch in a bunk we saw tumble an toss ; Fer a kick on the head by that blamed heifer red had ended it all fer the boss. No preacher was there with a comfortin prayer to make easy the comin of death. There was no one to say a text er to pray fer the poor devil pantin fer breath. Then he opened his eyes, but no pain or su prise in the face of the man we could see ; Twas the face of a child, thet looked upward an smiled, an said, "Fellahs, listen to me: "If a man goes to kirk, er in camp has to work where he never hears singin er text, THE CAMP 87 Remember he can be a God-lovin man in one place as well as the next. "It s all over, I know, but I ain t scared to go, though my heart at the partin is sair; I kin see the white gate where my wee babbies wait an I know thet I m goin straight there." 88 IN FOREST LAND A SON OF SICILY. I leava dat Italia An coma to da land, Da greata, free America, To run banana stand. An when I leava Sicily Da sunna he was shine, Da leaf was on da feega tree An grapa on da vine ; Da baby chasa butterfly, Da woman sing a song; An life it passa sweeta by, Like reever run along. But, in Chicago city, sun He shina not at all; An in Chicago ever one He "dago, dago" call. No hilla stand, no feega grow, No bird sing in a trees; Da weenter coma an da snow Italian he freeze. I dreama den of Sicily, Da woman by da door; Da leetle baby so I see A creepa on da floor. One day padroni come aroun ; He say, "You coma me, To sunny Sout* I send you down Where growa beeg, beeg tree. "The sunny South" THE CAMP 89 You worka on a railaroad, You shovel upa sand, You leefta tie, you carry load I pay you mucha grand." "I cara nota abouta pay," I say, an laff an cry, "I wanta goa far away, I wanta see a sky." I dream of Sicily some more But oh! I feel so diff I sleepa night-time out-a-door, Again, again I lif. The sun he shina in da sky Like sun in Sicily; I see da purty butterfly, Da birda in da tree. Da moona an da stars so shine, So lovely an so bright, I see em higha toppa pine, An cross masel at night. For God He liva in da sky, He liva in da tree, An in da reever runna by Like dat in Sicily. For God He liva out-a-door, Not in a city beeg; For God He maka sea an shore, Da grapa an da feeg. I go not to Chicago back, I sleepa on da sod ; I stay not in a city black, But out-a door wit God. 90 IN FOREST LAND THE STABLE BOY. I don t know the why er the reason (Them things aren t always quite clear), But never comes glad Christinas season, It never gits this time o year, But I m thinkin , both sleepin an wakin , Of a queer little pardner of mine, Of the winter thet we was a-makin* A hole in the Ogemaw pine. He was tiny an tough an a terror, He cud cuss, he cud smoke, he cud chew; But kid never lived thet was squarer, An kid never lived was as true. He walked all the way up the river, With never a sigh er a sob (Though the days wud make polar bears shiver), An struck the head push fer a job. He didn t look hardly quite able To monkey with axes or tools, So the boss give him work in the stable At scrapin the hides o the mules. An he still might be curryin Nero An Caesar up there in the wood If God hadn t discovered a hero An give him a chance to make good. Y see, we had ttiat year a baby In camp with the rest of the crew An we worshiped the youngster well, maybe you ve loved some such kid as that, too, THE CAMP Tain t often you hear a kid squealin In any such country as that, And darned if the men wasn t kneelin Like one to the sealer s young brat. But of all of the folks thet cud handle That kid an not scare it to fits Not one cud hold even a candle To the lad o the bridles an bits. And now, do you know, I suspicion Thet the stable boy, freckled an slim, While he petted that baby, was wishin Fer someone to do it to him. One day we was workin on seven, A clump thet stood close to the camp, An the babe was in kind of a heaven, A-playin around us, the scamp. Fer his mother to see us had brought him (A treat she had promised the tad) An* the foreman with log rule had taught him T "scale just as good as his dad." We never knew jest how it started, But it stabbed ev ry man to the soul Fer somehow the bindin chain parted An the top logs all started to roll. We heard the great log-chain unlinkin , We heard the loud roar of the load ; Then none of the baby was thinkin , Fer ev ry man jumped fer the road. No, not all. One alone stayed an seized him, The baby who laughed at the noise, An the arms thet reached outward an squeezed him, Thet covered his form, was the boy s. 92 IN FOREST LAND We worked then with madmen s endeavor, We lifted the logs from the skids ; But the chore boy was silent forever He had given his life fer the kid s. His name? I can t seem now to mind it, Though I dream an I think an I try ; But I know that all entered you ll find it In the books of the angels on high. To bibles the lad was a stranger, No faith ever filled him with joy, But the Christ that was born in a manger I know will take care of the boy. THE CAMP 93 THE MAN BEHIND THE SCRAP. St. Patrick wuz a paceful saint who druv the snakes from Oireland. He made the goblins in the bogs betake themselves to higher land. Now, who but Timmy Corrigan, a far from ornamintal mon, Would e er disgrace the mimory of sich a paceful gintlemon? Now, who but Timmy do ye hear? an min loike Mickey Flaherty Would e er disthurb St. Patrick s Day wid sich unfit hilar ity? But let me whisper just a word, an this here is the word it is: The Oirish temper s not so quick as yez hev often heard it is. A bit of tow may start a blaze will burn up half the bailiwick; But not till somewan wid a flint has hit a bit of nail a lick. Two Oirishmen may scrap until a crowbar big has parted em, But, tin to wan, whin Oirish fight, some other nation started em. It was thot way at Ould Camp Tin whin Pat an Mickey Flaherty, Tim Corrigan, his brother Bill an Dan an* Harry Garrity Got in an awful jamboree. They tore the bunks an binches loose; The ah* was full o flyin things, wid axes, saws an wrinches loose. An whin, for want of breath an bricks, the scrappers had to pause a bit, The foremen layped among thim all an thried to learn the cause of it. 94 IN FOREST LAND It seems thot Ole Payterson, a harmless kind o lady s mon Had said St. Patrick, blissed saint, wuz just a common Swadish mon. "Now," sez the foreman, "byes, me byes, there is a double moral here Which yez will learn b heart I hope, ye laddybucks who quarrel here: Now, first: Plaze notice, wan an all, thfot whin the Oirish mix up things Some other nationality it is at first thot kicks up things. "An also notice, if ye plaze, some yap that couldn t lick a stamp Is jist the bye that riles ye up an starts yez out to lick a camp; And, lasht of all, ye will obsarve, he s never in the dirt at all For he who s first to start a row is seldom ever hurt at all." THE CAMP 95 POET AND PEASANT. "How wonderful!" the Poet cried, "The pine mounts skyward day by day." "Darned if I see," the Chore-Boy said, "How it could grow the other way." "How beauteous!" the Poet cried, "It spreads its branches to the air." But the prosaic Cliore-Boy asked, "What s to prevent it, way up there?" "How sad its song," the Poet said. "It moans like some poor soul has sinned. "That ain t no song," the Chore-Boy said, "That noise you hear up there is wind." "How wonderful!" the Poet cried, "Long years it s stood in regal pomp." The Chore-Boy smiling said, "I guess That you have never pulled a stump." "A cradle fit for infant king," The poet cried, "its branches are." "But if the kid," the Chore-Boy said, "Should fall twould get an awful jar." "See in its bark deep-furrowed care," The Poet cried in soulful terms. "That isn t care," the Chore-Boy said, "That isn t care I guess it s worms." "How through the winter," said the bard, "It keeps its green garb beauteous." 96 IN FOREST LAND "It keeps its green," the Chore-Boy said, "Of course a pine tree always does." "For centuries," the Poet cried, "It has withstood the storm that racks. 1 "But wait till some one comes along," The Chore-Boy said, "who has an ax." THE CAMP 97 JEAN COMES TO MASS. Tis Christmas Eve ; but from the winter sky No stars shine out. The pine tops sob and sigh. About the camp the night wind sadly moans And, at its touch, the shanty loudly groans Like some old chopper with rheumatic bones Watching the sleepless hours go crawling by. The curling incense, from two score of bowls Jammed with tobacco, slowly upward rolls. Fast fly about the merry woodsmen s jokes The while they talk of home and old home folks; But one among them still in silence smokes And dreams a dream of tiny angel souls. While round the house the chilling night wind grieves, He sits and dreams of other Christmas Eves And sees strange shadows on the shanty wall. He hears the romping noise and merry call Of two small babes, now sleeping neath a pall Of drifting snow and lifeless autumn leaves. But joy is cruel, and wit too merciless Respects but ill a heart s unhappiness; And soon to him the merry sallies pass: "Dream you, Canuck, of some Toronto lass?" Or, "Think you, brother, you have come to mass? Tell us the wicked sins you would confess." "See, Jean has come to mass," the joke goes round "It is not Christmas Eve good Jean has found. Tis not a time to smile, tis time to sigh ; Tis not a lime to laugh, tis time to cry; J IN FOREST LAND Tis not a time to live, tis time to die; For, see, to mass our good friend Jean is bound." Hurt by their jests, pained by their careless wit, Resolved no more in silence to submit, Jean leaves the pleasant warmth and fireside bright And steps without, where now the winter night Gives to the world a newer garb of white, While whirling flakes in hurry earthward flit. Tis Christmas Eve; and still, as in his dream, The voices of his slumbering babies seem To call him upward from a world so chill, The winds that freeze, the colder words that kill, To some far world where peace, peace and good-will From the transfigured skies forever beam. Jean wanders on ; the hours of midnight pass ; The great pines bend before the wind like grass. But, in the morning light, that winter wind, At sunlight s touch, becomes to men more kind, And on a snow-clad mound a form they find For Jean to God s Great Church has come to mass. THE DRIVE THE WILL OF THE MIGHTY. As moved the phalanx of the Greek And left behind no thing alive, By new-formed bayou, swollen creek, Moves now the phalanx of the drive. The Grecians linked their thousand spears And made their long, unbroken line ; Thus on the flowing stream appears The mighty army of the pine. It leaves behind no trail of death, No bloodied battleflag is seen; The balsam scent is on its breath, Its banner is the forest green. It comes not as the men of Greece, When weak must fall and strong must flee ; Its message is a song of peace, Its mission is but industry. As moved the phalanx of the past, As slow, as irresistible, This forest army, great and vast, Moves slowly on to waiting mill. And if, perchance, its millions halt On sandy shoal or rocky shelf, Nor stream nor earth is more at fault The error lies within itself. When leaders falter by the way Or pause to rest on mossy banks 99 100 IN FOREST LAND The stubborn obstacles are they That spread confusion through the ranks. When timid timber hesitates To make the plunge o er foaming dam Or, lured by placid water, waits Then comes the chaos of the jam. The moving phalanx of the pine Is like the people s tardy will, As slow as shield-encumbered line, As slow and irresistible. And, if it pause by rock or shoal, On shifting sand or rolling stone, Yea, if it fail to reach its goal, The fault is all the people s own. THE DRIVE - 101 WHEN THE DRIVE COMES DOWN. Things is quiet in the town Boys is up the stream ; No one ever blows aroun , Life is like a dream. Must be much as twenty days Since I ve seen a fight; People walk in peaceful ways, Go to bed at night. Laws ain t broke or even bent In the good old town; But it will be different When the drive comes down. When the drive comes down Things ll sizzle brown ; Business will be boomin then When the drive comes down. Patsy Ward, from off the Clam, He will head the crew Long with Grah m, who broke the jam At Island Number Two. All the boys from Hotighton Lake Pat will have in tow, With their winter s thirst to slake An their coin to blow. West rn Avenue will boom In the good old town ; Won t be room for grief an gloom When the drive comes down. When the drive comes down Things ll sizzle brown An the dough will circulate When the drive comes down. 102 IN,FOPE$T> LAND THE OLD OHIO LEVEE. This world of laughter, love and song Has promenades in plenty On which, at eve, there stroll along The man and maid of twenty. Great Paris has its boulevards, And fair the streets of Brussels, And some to Broadway send regards, Where silken garment rustles. But, when a-weary is my soul And when my heart is heavy, I light my black cigar and stroll The old Ohio levee. Below me flows the yellow stream Fair Illinois entwining, And far across, as in a dream, Kentucky s shore is shining. A banjo twangs upon the night, The world is filled with singing, And, swimming in its silver light, The gentle moon is swinging. The girls and loves of other days Attend me in a bevy I see them in the filmy haze On old Ohio levee. My feet shall wander other streets Beyond the mighty ocean, But distant river but repeats The loved Ohio s motion. THE DRIVE 103 My lips that warble other tunes And flatter other daughters Shall but recall remembered Junes Beside Ohio s waters. And, when of change I tire and when My vagrant heart is heavy, My feet shall long to stroll again The old Ohio levee. 104 IN FOREST LAND THE DRIVE. You think of death as a thing that stalks Through a famine-stricken land ; You think of death as a thing that walks With a sword held in its hand. I see no flag and I hear no drums And no pestilence I fear, But I know when the drive down the river comes It is death that sacks the rear. Tis the hand of death that the stream would dam With a wall of the mighty pine, Tis the hand of death that the logs would jam Where the waters leap and shine. It is there men fight the fight with death, And their hearts are unafraid; It is there men fight for life and breath, It is there are heroes made. You sing the praise of a Winkelreid Who gathered the foemen s spears, But keep the name of this other sweet, Like his, in the after years. Peavey or sword or pike or gun To the brave they are all the same ; So keep a place for the river s son In your cherished hall of fame. So keep a place for the man who dies When the mighty jam gives way, So keep a place for the man who tries The hand of death to stay. It is death, it is death that sacks the rear While demons dip and dive So remember long and hold most dear The hero of the drive. THE DRIVE 105 THE CONNECTICUT DRIVE. From the home of the towering spruces, By Connecticut s cataracts hurled, We have come over dams and through sluices To knock at the door of the world. We bring you the wealth of the forest That long in her treasure-house stood ; We bring you a gift on the river adrift We bring you the heart of the wood. Like the horse first imprisoned and haltered, The river resisted our will Now stubborn, unmoved and unaltered, Now hot with a passion to kill. It foamed in white fury at Turner s, At Miller s awoke with a roar; Mad the race that we rode while it chafed with its load As it groaned with the burden it bore. But we conquered the turbulent river, And we plunged from the torrent s alarms To a silence that trembles forever O er a valley of plenteous farms. And this is the gift that we bring you, Borne swift on Connecticut s flood From the land of the spruce, for the world s ready use, We bring you the heart of the wood. 106 IN FOREST LAND THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. O ye who stand in cloisters old Where ancient priests have trod Who, from the mystic past, unrolled The story of your God, O ye who stand where kings have stood Who shaped the world s career, ye who stand where martyrs blood Has roused the idle cheer, 1 stand, like ye, in mighty place No less than such as these, The very forum of the race Where mingle centuries. For here the rivers of the land To one great river run, And southland loam and northland sand Are blended into one. For here the great Ohio comes From mountains old and gray; It brings the heartbeat of the drums, The sad beat and the gay. It brings the music of the mills, The song of Industry, It brings the wealth of granite hills, The heartwood of the tree. And here the Mississippi flows From Minnesota s lakes; It bears the northland s melted snows To tepid cypress brakes; THE DRIVE 107 The waters of each prairie state Are mingled in its tide, It comes a groom importunate To ciaim the waiting bride. The giants of the East and North Here thread a common shore, Upon a common altar forth Their sweet libations pour. Here join the mighty rivers and Roll onward to the seas, Here North and South clasp hand and hand For all the centuries. 108 IN FOREST LAND THE REBELLIOUS RIVER. A river flowed through tranquil ways And found its passage to the sea, Its life unchanging summer days, Its course unchallenged, channel free. And so it might have flowed for aye, So might its life forever been Succeeding summers passing by, Had not it ventured into sin. But, foolish river, it was proud And, tempted by its foolish pride, It spurned the forest o er it bowed, It spurned the blossoms at its side. It longed to burst the banks of green That fortified its verdured length, It longed to break the peace serene And demonstrate its mighty strength. One night it rose rebelliously And broke the bounds its form confined, It ran untethered to the sea And left a ruined land behind. The forest trees to earth it beat, It crushed the flowers in its wrath, And where it ran with errant feet It left but havoc in its path. But when its fit of rage was o er And when its mighty strength was spent, There came a cry from shore to shore, A cry demanding punishment. Thr t mvst u t-r ii THE DRIVE 109 The forest wept for slaughtered shade, The ghosts of murdered flowers rose, And all the elements were made To hear the stories of their woes. They sat in judgment on the case, They made the guilty stream confess, And they declared that one so base No longer freedom should possess. Yet, when the time for sentence came, The elements would speak their will, Good Mother Nature, gentle dame, Would show the culprit mercy still. So this the elements decree: That half of each succeeding year Imprisoned must the river be Nor know the joy of summer cheer, That half its life forever more Behind the prison bars be spent, Bars more secure than sandy shore This was the river s punishment. Six months were added to the past, Six months the river traced its course, Then came the elements at last Their chosen judgment to enforce. The jailer Winter seized the stream ; He bound the river, once so free, In chains with diamonds bright agleam And locked them with a silver key. 110 IN FOREST LAND THE PLATTE. You thread Nebraska s peaceful miles, Reflecting sunshine kisses warm, And all your ways are bright with smiles And all your days are peace and charm. You flow by ranch and verdant farm, You nurture fair Nebraska s corn, And timid kine feel no alarm That lap your limpid edge at morn. But I have learned your secret deep And I have read your hidden scroll, And, while your placid waters sleep, I know what torrents stir your soul. For, river, I have seen you roll Through Colorado s rocky vales And, e er you reach the final goal, I know what stress your path assails. And are not men like unto you? Are there not souls that seem as still, Whose inmost springs are boiling, too, Like your own sources in the hill? The river first is leaping rill, From mountain s pentup bosom thrown; And oft the soul unmarked by ill Has all the pains of living known. THE DRIVE 111 "THE BARBARY COAST." Prior to 1850 the lumber district of Philadelphia was along the Delaware, north of the present Callowhill Street. It was sometimes called the "Barbary Coast," perhaps a well deserved title because of the roughness of the characters who brought their lumber up or down the river. Then it s ho! for the Barbary Coast, my boys, it s ho! for Barbary Coast ; We will drink tonight at the old Red Light three fingers to the host ; We will put her aground tonight, my boys, in the good old Delaware For the fresh is strong and the day is long and the morn ing wind is fair, The wind is fair, is fair. Two hundred thousand of new-cut pine and a quick trip is our boast; All hands to the oar and we touch the shore, the shore of Barbary Coast. So, you Salamanca brave, lay hold ; lay hold, you big Canuck ; There are yellow shoals, there are eddy holes and only a raftsman s luck, Only a raftsman s luck, my boys, to land her safe and sound, To run the pier and swing her clear and bring her hulk around, And bring her hulk around. So lay hold, you lads from Hester Street, lay hold, you big Canucks ; A hand to the oar and an eye to the shore, you Salamanca bucks. Let the Susquehanna rage and roar, let the Susquehanna hiss 112 IN FOREST LAND We will cross pull to, we will warp her through, we will ride where the current is. The song of the river is music sweet and warm the springtime sun But better still is Callowhill when the river and we are done, The river and we are done. We will sing a song that is all our own, we will steal a bar maid s kiss So what care we, while the river s free, for the Susquehanna s hiss? It is still tonight on Barbary Coast, it s still on Barbary Coast. The Red Light Inn, the house of sin, has vanished with the host. No raftsman s song breaks the midnight air, the pilot gray is gone; No raft is tied the quay beside, and the years flow on and on, The years flow on and on. Now across the silent Delaware there sweeps a misty ghost ; The moon shines still on Callowhill but dead is Barbary Coast. THE DRIVE 113 THE GLIDERS. It is often declared by the poets long-haired Thet life is a stream we are ridin , Thet to some port below thet no man seems to know Us fellahs are gradjully glidin . Some people I ve spied who seem real glad to glide An never will rustle a paddle, Who float down the stream in a kind of a dream An are satisfied simply to daddle. This loafin along to some folks may seem fine But / // take the good, old quickwater fer mine. They talk about strife an the sweet, simple life An the folly of hustle an worry ; They seem kind o proud thet they ve never allowed Themselves to git into a hurry. They find a green pool thet is shady an cool, Er they monkey around in an eddy, An their boat whirls about an they never git out But they talk about nerves thet is steady. But, as just fer me, in this life-livin biz, I want to git somewhere, wherever it is. Oh, it s hot in the stream with the sunshine agleam An no shade er no shadow thet s coolin , An the quickwater foams, an the white ripple combs, An* there ain t no occasion fer foolin . It s your life in your hand, an your nose in the sand Unless all your muscle you re givin ; But when you git through an you bail your canoe Well, you know, anyhow, you ve been livin . So none of the life thet is simple fer me; I want to be busy, wherever I be. THE MILL THE THANKSGIVING TURK. Thot cock fight at Kelly s wan Saturday night Wuz a thing Oi will niver forgit There wuz Irish an Swades full av whisky an fight An some Dootchmen too already yit. There wuz burrds from Gran Rapids an burrds from St. Paul An burrds from Duluth an New York ; But the cock o the walk an the pride av us all Wuz a rooster belonged to O Rourke. This burrd wuz part Shanghai an part Plymouth Rock, Part Langshan an Indian game; Through his veins coursed the blood av more fancy-brid stock Than Oi kin raymimber the name. He d a comb thot resimbled a rid flannel shirt An a beak like a circular s edge ; An whin he got mad an begun to kick dirt He cud trun it aroun like a dredge. There wasn t a mon from Kilkenney or Cork Who money cud borry or beg But knew thot the burrd thot belonged to O Rourke Cud clane up the boonch on wan leg. The burrds from New York looked like bantams furninst Thot burrd wid the rid flannel comb; An we knew thot the first thot he leaned up aginst Wud wish he wuz safely to home. 115 116 IN FOREST LAND At a signal, two burrds in the circle wuz laid An wan wuz the burrd of O Rourke, The ither a burrd thot belonged to a Swade ; Down heads, an they both wint to work. Thot burrd av O Rourke s gave a jump an* a jab But the ither looked straight in his eye An mit him full tilt wid a stoop an a stab An 1 we kissed a month s wages goodby. Thot burrd wuz part Shanghai an part Plymouth Rock, Part Langshan an Indian game But the Shanghai part mit wid a terrible shock An the Langshan part likewise the same. The Indian part we found niver at all, But other parts scattered aroun Showed the spot where he mit wid thot burrd from St. Paul An the places he lit on the groun . Now here is the sayquil: On T anksgiving day At the boardin house Mr. O Rourke Wuz swately requested by Missus O Shea To carve up the T anksgivin turk. Wid a stabber in wan hand, in the ither a knoife, O Rourke tackled bravely the job; An he cut an he slashed an he jabbed for dear loife But made no imprission, begob. Twaz thin that O Rourke, bein Irish, got mad An he sez to this Missus O Shea: "Oi m anxious to foind this burrd s brother, bedad, If he still is a-livin this day. If the brother Oi foind of this T anksgivin turk" (An the plate at the lady he hurled) "Oi ll take thot same turk, or my name s not O Rourke, An , begorry, Oi ll challenge the wurrld!" THE MILL 117 GIVE ME AN AX. Member when 1 was a kid workin" in the old wood lot Where we used to chop an cut, where our winter s warmth we got Pa on one end of a saw, me upon the other end, Till I thought my body d break like we made the cioss-cut bend. Then, just to encourage me, make my bosom swell with pride, Pa would say, "If you can t pull, don t git on the saw an ride." Sometimes, though, the saw would stick, though we nearly broke our backs; Then pa d yell, "All hands stand by look out fer heads- give me an ax!" That s some twenty years ago; things have changed a heap since then Pa sleeps where the wood lot was, I toil here fer city men. Some I marvel at their ways, some I marvel, some I m mad ; Diff rent sort of chaps are they from my dear, old, cranky dad Nothin here to breathe but smoke, nothin here to hear but noise; Wonder thet I sometimes long fer my childhood pains an joys? An I d like to shut my eyes, shut out reason, shut out facts Hear again, "All hands stand by look out fer heads give me an ax!" City folks ain t country folks, city ways ain t country ways More I come to think these things as I near my final days. 118 IN FOREST LAND When I read of boodlers, read of those who rob the poor, When I see the villain s hand with its touch defile the pure ; When I see the rottenness, see the slowness of reform, See how high a wall it is decency an right must storm, Then I know what ails it all, know jest what it is it lacks Men like pa of old to yell: "Look out fer heads give me an ax!" THE MILL 119 "THE MILL IN THE FOREST." A rendition in words of the musical idyl by Eilenberg. While twittering songsters yet announce the morn And all the wood is wondrous calm and still, Upon the zephyr tremulous is borne The waking rumble of the forest mill. The great wheel moves; the foaming waters pour On waiting sands in crystal melody ; The saw s high treble and the pulley s roar Are mingled in a song of industry. Now through the day the busy millwheel turns; And through the day the saw untiring sings, Nor rests till red and gold the sunset burns And blaze and gilt on all the landscape flings. But, as the orb of day slips down the west, The waters turn to other ways more still ; The weary wheel at last subsides to rest And peace comes down upon the silent mill. A yellow moon arises o er the trees, The little stars, with eyes half-timid, peep ; Night brings her black and somber tapestries And wraps the forest and the mill in sleep. 120 IN FOREST LAND THE FALL OF THE CHAMPION, I don t recall how many twas That Jimmy Smith could pack, But Jimmy all the records held To Manistee an back. No shingle weaver in the world Could hope to equal Jim From Ogemaw to Saginaw They tipped their hats to him. For Jimmy Smith, the packer, was A person known to fame, An other packers traveled far To stand by Jimmy s frame. Some challenged him to combat by The thousand or the day; An then at night they took to flight To regions far away. They d fill his bin with shingle slits No wider than a thumb An give the extras big an fine To some ambitious bum, But Jimmy Smith would only smile Like one who such disdained Twas all the same, for from the frame The bunches simply rained. No fancy apron Jimmy wore Like them at bargain sales; He had his hammer near at hand, His mouth was full of nails; THE MILL 121 An narrow butts or extra butts, The fourteen-inch or four, He d slam em in an nail the tin An holler up for more. Through bins stacked high with shingles odd Great Jimmy simply romped, An never in that shingle mill Was Jimmy ever swamped. There wasn t shingle blocks enough In all the mills about To keep a bin with shingles in That Jimmy wanted out. But Jimmy met his Waterloo (I think her name was Lu) ; She come along in early June From down in old Kazoo. At Riley s boardin house she got A job at slingin hash. He heard her speak, an in a week Great Jim was Lulu s mash. For they were strangers on the first An lovers on the third ; An they were married on the tenth An then the row occurred The shingle- weavin champion, The monarch of the frame, From pinnacle so lofty fell At old, accustomed game. For Lu had heard of Jimmy s skill; So, for their weddin trip, She told him he could pack the trunk An also pack the grip. 122 IN FOREST LAND The trunk was two-by-three-by-four, An this is what she told Poor Jim that day to stow away Within the narrow hold : A summer dress, a winter dress, A dress for spring an fall, Another dress with neck so low Twas scarce a dress at all, An armful too of bows an ties That women like to use, A dozen skirts an Jimmy s shirts An seven pairs of shoes ; A perfume box, a powder puff, Of corsets seven pair, Some businesses with ribbon through That women like to wear. Six pairs of socks, some women s hose, Three pairs of rubbers strong An goodness knows what other clothes She wished to take along. An there was Jimmy s clothes, of course An Jimmy s collars too, A quart of Jimmy s summer ties An Jim s suspenders new. Jim s polish too, an blackiri brush, An extra hat for Jim, Were just a few of fixin s new That Lulu shot at him. An Jim went bravely to the work With old, courageous smile; He shed his coat an shed his vest An tackled Lulu s pile, THE MILL 123 At first he laid a course of gowns An then a course of hose; Then bonnets three an finery He heaped on top of those. A course of trousers followed next, An then a course of shirts, An all the shoes an blackin stuff He wrapped in Lulu s skirts. But when he d reached the utmost top, Had filled the trunk an tray, The stuff that Lu still at him threw In heaps around him lay. An so he took the dresses out To get the collars in, An then decided it was best All over to begin. The socks an salts an other stuff Were tumbled on the floor; There wasn t space for half the lace But Lu kept bringin more. He thought he d put the hats in first An then he d put em last ; He thought he d put the books on top To hold the bonnets fast. An then the liquid blackin broke, The powder got away, The trousers tore, an Jimmy swore On this, his weddin day. There s little need to tell the rest Of all that happened then ; There are some griefs too sacred, friends, For ears of other men. 124 IN FOREST LAND The train that would have borne away The groom an blushin bride Pulled out that day for Traverse Bay While Lulu sat and cried. But Jimmy didn t cry, oh, no; No, Jimmy didn t cry. He kicked the trunk down seven stairs, Then loaded up with rye. It was a naughty thing for him To get upon a drunk ; But then, did you e er try it, too To pack a woman s trunk? THE MILL 125 OSHKOSH. No more the thunder of the falling pine Awakens echoes where the Wolf descends; No more the monarchs of that regal line Collect rebellious at the river bends. The silence that the ultimate portends Already on the woodland sets its sign ; The woodsman s ax to greet the morning sends No more the thunder of the falling pine. Now comes the hemlock prince and claims his own, In tilt or tourney ready to comjxite, And mounts with sudden pomp the empty throne, His title proven and his right complete. The cedar, basswood, gathered at his feet, The oak and maple close beside him grown, His presence whisper and his scepter greet Now comes the hemlock prince and claims his own. The busy murmur of the singing mills Is silenced by a newer, deeper note ; With newer life the chosen city thrills, Her destiny no more a thing remote. No more on Winnebago s bosom float The cargoes garnered from the pine-clad hills ; New industry succeeds with joyous throat The busy murmur of the singing mills. 126 IN FOREST LAND THE SILENT CITY. It rose by magic in the night, A city of the verdant wood, Its founders men of brain and might, Its builders simple men and rude. Where evening fell o er solitude A city in the morning stood. For there is gold in tow ring pine And there is wealth in maple hill More rich than treasures of the mine That make man labor, love and kill. Yea, fortunes stand by forest rill Awaiting men of earnest will. So rose this city by the stream That sang a liquid melody; So rose this city like a dream Of that the poet hopes may be A city white beside the sea, A place of mirth and ministrelsy. With evergreen it was embowered, With sweetest perfume it was scent; Above it piney sentries towered, Above it swaying cedars bent The earth and heaven closely blent In one unending firmament. A city of great actions this, A city of the singing saw; The morning heard the crosscut hiss, THE MILL 127 The forest bowed before a law That filled its mighty heart with awe, That crushed it with relentless paw. All day the pine tree s cloister rang With sturdy axman s steady blows, All day the music of the gang Above the woodland echoes rose, From morning s sun till evening s close The forest held the forest s foes. But when the pine, that centuries Had swayed aloft, no longer swayed, And when its harp among the trees The passing wind no longer played, When burst the sun through forest shade And killed the blossom in the glade, Men turned away, as Amnon turned From Tamar, whom he had despoiled ; The wasted hill and vale they spurned Where once their busy axmen toiled Yea, turned they as the Jew recoiled From that poor sister he had soiled. Now silent is the humming mill, Now motionless the busy wheel; The thresholds of the cottaged hill No longer human footsteps feel. About the stumps the creepers steal And all their jagged wounds conceal. The silent city dully sleeps, A city of the living dead, And watch the gloomy night-owl keeps 128 IN FOREST LAND Above its homes untenanted. The forest creature rests its head In streets once loud with human tread. But in the silent city square The hand of Time is working on, And in the shattered woodland bare The years replacing riches gone. Above this modern Babylon Arises now a fairer dawn. For base intrigue and bloody war Survived have regal families ; And thus to pomp and glory more Shall rise these fallen forest trees. For men of lengthy pedigrees Had never lineage like these. O silent city, o er thy head The pine shall whisper once again, O city of the living dead, The rose shall blossom in the fen. Reblooming dell, reverdured den Shall know once more the feet of men. THE MILL 129 THE SAGINAW. The river now is calm and still that, in its glory, rang With humming of the busy mill, the music of the gang. The forest echoes now no more the shining ax s strokes, No longer, stretching shore to shore, the jam the river chokes. Now silent runs the Saginaw; it knows the peace it knew When first the ruddy Chippewa explored it with canoe. The river flows with little change and melts in azure bay, But all the upland now is strange, transformed the verdant way. Where once a million forest trees gave greeting to the morn I trace the course of summer breeze through gently waving corn. The rugged days of youth are done, the forest echoes cease ; Now all the days are sky and sun and all the nights are peace. Yet, Saginaw, how great a past is sheaved with other years! In what a mighty mold were cast your lumber pioneers! They built their mills the stream beside, their camps upon the hill, Ere yet the red man s fire had died, ere yet his cry was still; And down that pine-embroidered flood, by currents onward whirled, They sent of silver-hearted wood enough to roof the world. 130 IN FOREST LAND THE TURKEY TASTE. We didn t get turkey at Higginsonville ; we didn t shut down the old rumbling mill-why, we never knew twas Thanksgiving until Bill Jones saw the word in an o almanac. That night when the whistle had tooted its toots, and around the old wood-stove we dried out our boots and hung up our socks and hung on to our snoots, then we all got to talking of things that we lack. Bill Jones did some cussing (he s handy at that), while around in a cloud of tobacco we sat, and he said that a man was no more than a rat, up here in this measly old lum bering town. Then he cussed his fool luck and he cussed his fool face that ever was turned toward such a fool place. He said that the grub was a crime and disgrace, and did up the cook and the company brown. Twas then Tim the Tarrier, from Tipperaree, a cheerful old body all Irish and glee, got in his remarks and he said, "D ye see, you re a lot of unthankful, un-Chnstian galoots Thrue, to please you no turkey has suddenly died an been laid out with cranberry sauce on the side. No giblet you have now, all gravied an fried ; you have no perfun* but the smell of your boots. "But you old Bill Jones, you know down in Chi, in a little back flat, with the alley hard-by, there is turkey today an there s sauce an there s pie, an a happy old 1 in the household of Jones, THE MILL 131 With only one sorrow to make em feel blue an that s that their daddy ain t there with em too; but they re prayin an longin an waitin for you, an , thank God, they re not after a-hearin your groans. "An* the rest of yez, too, who have dear ones somewhere if you know they have turkey an somethin to wear, if things here are rough, what the divil you care, so they re happy at home there, the mother an kid? Just close your two eyes an grab onto a fork an , whether they re back in Detroit or New York, twill taste just like turkey, this greasy old pork." And we did as he said, and it did, and it did. 132 IN FOREST LAND BILL, Bill hasn t no accomplishment; He isn t like his brother Jim Of all these fellows thet invent There aren t many up t* him. For Jim has in his blankets hid Machines t run perpetual; Of course none of em ever did, But Jim he says he thinks they will. No, Bill ain t got no special gift Like Alkaholum Peterson, Fer tears an lafter Pete kin sift From jest an old accordion. In fact, I ve often heard it said, By ev ryone but Petie s wife, Thet Pete a brass band might uv led If he had led a diff rent life. But Bill ain t got no talents like The other fellahs on the crick ; He ain t no scrapper such as Mike, Who s beat up half the bailiwick. Mike s got a fist an got a heart Thet s never known a friend to fail, Fer Mike 11 always take your part Unless, of course, he s down in jail. Poor Bill ain t got no special skill Fer instance, such as Henry Flint, Who kept the books at Murphy s mill An wrote a hand as plain as print. THE MILL 133 In all my life I never knew A man as handy with the pen. He signed some checks fer Murphy, too; We haven t seen him much since then. Poor Bill ain t like the rest of us He plugs along from day t day; He s jest an ordinary cuss Who lives the ordinary way. But, though he hasn t any gifts An hasn t any special skill, In all life s changes an its shifts You sorter kin depend on Bill. Yes, Bill s an ordinary man, But then we treat him jest as free As if it had been Nature s plan To make poor Bill like you an me. When Jim needs money to invent Er Pete er Mike mus pay a fine, We know why Bill s among us sent Fer that s the time fer Bill t shine. DECKLOADS THE INLAND TAR. There is bigger ships go trailin In the sunset s westward path Than this ancient tub a-sailin With her load of norway lath ; But a sailin man s a sailor If he sails a sea er pond It s just as near, either there er here, To the sailor s Great Beyond. There is bigger ships go cruisin Than this bark from Manistee, But they ain t no more amusin When we strike a choppy sea. From Liverpool to Frisco, Conneaut to Marinette, It s jest the same when you lose the game, An the water s jest as wet. There is bigger ships a-crossin* Bigger seas on bigger trips, But the place to git a tossin Isn t on the biggest ships. On a cranky little schooner With a lee shore close at hand The simple cuss, just the likes of us, Gits a chance to show his sand. 135 136 IN FOREST LAND So don t waste your precious pity On the heroes of the past ; There is fellows jest as gritty Sailin now before the mast. An when you praise a sailor, Let the mighty ship go by The man who sails the Erie gales Finds it jest as hard to die. In tlip sunset s wos(\v:ir] DECKLOADS 137 THE WOMAN COOK. It has been proposed to bar women from employment as cooks on lumber craft. It mayn t be strictly handsome, It mayn t be jest polite But the woman cook an her menoo book Must disappear from sight. A woman I know s an angel An purty to have aboard ; But weather gits thick an folks git sick, An a woman thet s sick oh, Lord! A woman kin mix a puddin , A woman kin build a pie, A woman kin bake a chocolate cake That s pleasant to the eye. Her face is a sweet religion An her voice a kind of balm But a woman can t cuss like the rest of us When we fall in a dead, dead calm. A woman may save the china, A woman may sweep the floor, Keep chimneys clean an geraniums green An a fresh tow l on the door. A woman kin boil a herrin , A woman kin cook a clam But when the spray knocks the jib away A woman ain t worth a damn. 138 IN FOREST LAND A woman is gold an silver, A man is iron an steel ; A woman shrinks when the lee rail sinks, But a man ll die at the wheel. A woman shud rock the cradle An wait by the cottage door But men belong where the wind is strong An* women belong ashore. UECKLQADS BACK TO THE LAND. He came aboard us at Duluth A namby-pamby kind of youth, Who d have enough, we surely thought, Before we touched at Conneaut. He said he wished to make a trip Upon a reg lar lumber ship, To benefit his failing health; We told him, if he sailed for wealth, He d reason to be happy if He simply made enough to live; And, if his health he journeyed for, He better had remained ashore, For, when the wind and water race, The lakes are not a healthy place. Around the greasy cabin glim We sat and thus encouraged him. But still he said he guessed he d stick; He didn t think he d be real sick. We told him sick he might not get But water was extremely wet At this partic lar time of year, And likewise we expressed a fear, If old Superior got gay, Twould blow his Panama away. That night we stood out in the lake. We felt the slackened tackle shake And in the dark, uncertain west We saw a cloud with purple crest. DECKLOADS 137 THE WOMAN COOK. It has been proposed to bar women from employment as cooks on lumber craft. It mayn t be strictly handsome, It mayn t be jest polite But the woman cook an her menoo book Must disappear from sight. A woman I know s an angel An purty to have aboard ; But weather gits thick an folks git sick, An a woman thet s sick oh, Lord! A woman kin mix a puddin , A woman kin build a pie, A woman kin bake a chocolate cake That s pleasant to the eye. Her face is a sweet religion An her voice a kind of balm But a woman can t cuss like the rest of us When we fall in a dead, dead calm. A woman may save the china, A woman may sweep the floor, Keep chimneys clean an geraniums green An a fresh tow l on the door. A woman kin boil a herrin , A woman kin cook a clam But when the spray knocks the jib away A woman ain t worth a damn. 138 IN FOREST LAND A woman is gold an silver, A man is iron an steel ; A woman shrinks when the lee rail sinks, But a man ll die at the wheel. A woman shud rock the cradle An* wait by the cottage door But men belong where the wind is strong An* women belong ashore. DECKLOADS 139 BACK TO THE LAND. He came aboard us at Duluth A namby-pamby kind of youth, Who d have enough, we surely thought, Before we touched at Conneaut. He said he wished to make a trip Upon a reg lar lumber ship, To benefit his failing health; We told him, if he sailed for wealth, He d reason to be happy if He simply made enough to live; And, if his health he journeyed for, He better had remained ashore, For, when the wind and water race, The lakes are not a healthy place. Around the greasy cabin glim We sat and thus encouraged him. But still he said he guessed he d stick; He didn t think he d be real sick. We told him sick he might not get But water was extremely wet At this partic lar time of year, And likewise we expressed a fear, If old Superior got gay, Twould blow his Panama away. That night we stood out in the lake. We felt the slackened tackle shake And in the dark, uncertain west We saw a cloud with purple crest. 140 IN FOREST LAND It struck us full at half past one A peal of thunder like a gun And then the boards began to slide From windward to the leeward side. If anything can raise the deuce, It is a deckload, once broke loose. Who could forget a night like that? The sky as black as any hat, The foaming green and purple wake We left behind us in the lake, The load that listed side to side And then at three the captain died. We saw him stumble, reel and lunge, We heard a frantic cry, a plunge We saw his white face in the dark Sink quickly, like a steamer spark. I guess we all went crazy then Such things will scare the best of men. Some loosed the dory; some, afraid To go or stay, both cussed and prayed. Twas then we heard another cry Above the storm, "All hands stand by!" It was the namby-pamby youth Had come aboard us at Duluth. From off the larboard came the roar Of combers on a sandy shore. We saw him put her hard a-port, We heard the old tub give a snort DECKLOADS 141 Then toward the rim of shining sand He drove her, bows on, for the land. She struck, she lifted, struck again, Then "Each man for himself, my men!" We heard the stranger yell once more. Well God knows how we got ashore. The stranger said, "I guess you re right- With such a craft on such a night, When death rides every billow s crest, The solid shore is quite the best; A safer place it is, for fair And that is why I put her there." 142 IN FOREST LAND THE MEN OF BANGOR. The wind blows west and the wind blows hard and the wind blows loud and long, But the men of Bangor laugh at gales, for the Bangor men are strong. The sea rolls high and the sea rolls wide and the sea rolls blue and black, To the men of Bangor sings a song and the Bangor men sing back: We are the men of Bangor Who sail the salted sea; We are the men of Bangor Ship ahoy! and who are ye? We sail to the south with the morning light Into the ocean and into the night ; Our decks are heavy, our hearts are light Ship ahoy! and who are ye? The east grows pink, the east grows gray, the east grows green and blue, And the men of Bangor bend the sails, and sings the Ban gor crew. The night comes soon and the night comes dark and the night comes black and chill ; But the men of Bangor feel no fear and the Bangor men sing still: We are the men of Bangor Who sail the salted sea; We are the men of Bangor Ship ahoy! and who are ye? We sail to the south with the new-cut spruce, The northman s pine for the southman s use; The wind is free and the sheet is loose Ship ahoy! and who are ye? DECKLOADS 143 The days go by and the days roll on and the days are bleak and blear; The maids of Bangor kneel and pray, for the Bangor men are dear. The gale breaks loud and the gale breaks strong and a death- song sings the gale, And the men of Bangor look at Death and they call to the ghostly sail: We are the men of Bangor Who sail the salted sea; We are the men of Bangor Ship ahoy! and who are ye? We sailed to the south with the morning light Into the ocean and into the night, But we saw no sail as thine so white Ship ahoy! and who are ye? The river flows to Penobscot Bay and Penobscot Bay to the sea; And the men of Bangor follow on to the ocean s mystery. The women weep and the women wail and the nights are lone and long And the men of Bangor come not back, but the sea wind sings the song: We are the men of Bangor Who sail the salted sea; We are the men of Bangor Ship ahoy! and who are ye? We sailed to the south with the new-cut pine ; We sailed to a port in the foaming brine ; Yet whose the conquest ours or thine? Ship ahoy! Death, who are ye? 144 IN FOREST LAND THE DEPARTURE. The chief sang softly to his birch canoe, "O Swallow-Bird, O skimmer of the bay, Bear me upon its bosom far away, Away from all these sounds and faces new For I would be alone, alone with you. "O Swallow-Bird, when first I shaped your form, The days were still, the nights were only stars, The water lapped the shining, golden bars Or sang defiance to the thunder storm; And nature wooed me with her kisses warm. "But now new sounds re-echo on the hill, Strange beings tread my father s woodland path. O Manitou, are these thy men of wrath? In what, O Manitou, have we done ill? We feel thy rod, and yet thy voice is still." The chief knelt softly in his birch canoe ; He paddled swiftly o er the open bay, He followed westward the expiring day, Calling, still calling on great Manitou, Crooning, "O Swallow-Bird, alone with you." At morn his people gathered on the shore. They found his footprints on the wetted sand ; They found where Swallow-Bird had left the land But he they loved returned to them no more And Swallow-Bird no zephyr homeward bore. So, by the shore of Time s outrunning sea, We find the footprints of his vanished race. Here stood they last here, from this final place, Pushed bravely outward to eternity And joined earth s peoples that have ceased to be. DECK LOADS 145 THE REVENGE OF THE GOOD SCOW MARY. The Mary was only a lumber scow, devoid of rigging or sail or prow, An awkward, gawky, South Milwaukee, bummy, crummy old lumber scow. Two hundred thousand without a groan she could carry of lumber, or tons of stone, But excursion steamers and tug-line screamers passed her, sassed her and left her alone. "For we," they said, "are slim and trim, and over the water like birds we skim; While you are prosy and dull and dozy, so musty and rusty you scarcely swim." So the Gladys luffed when they chanced to meet and the Swallow showed her a pair of feet ; One and all they snubbed her, a "fossil" dubbed her laughed at, chaffed at, throughout the fleet. But the Mary simply held her peace and watched the sky in the nor -nor -eas Grow dead and brassy, glow green and glassy and the hoppy, choppy sea increase. With her hold half full of norway plank, the good scow Mary gave a yank And something parted the Mary started, jamming, ramming from bank to bank. If ever revenge was really sweet, if ever revenge was quite complete, Twas when the Mary got started fairly to square things, tear things with that fleet. 146 IN FOREST LAND If anything ever has raised the deuce, twas the good scow Mary that day broke loose. The Swallow was swallowed, the Gladys followed not a sail or a rail left fit for use. There wasn t a steamer got in the way was left afloat at the close of day. There wasn t a tug left had even a chug left when the Mary contrary had ceased her play. And the Mary said as she wiped her brow, "I guess they ve learned to respect me now Though I m only a gawky, South Milwaukee, bummy, crummy old lumber scow." DECKLOADS 147 PORTE DES MORTES. "Who would the beauties of the Bay explore," The captain said, "must journey through the Door The Door of Death." And, at the name so grim, I trembled. Indian legends old and dim Rose swiftly, like a cloud bank ghostly white, Rose swiftly on the silence of the night. I knew the story knew that on the sands Beneath the billows slept, with clutching hands, The warrior proud, the chieftain gaunt and gray And would the morrow make me such as they? Then came the dawn. Night s shield of iron, released, Fell, molten, in the cauldron of the east, And, far and sweet, the day s first seabird called Across a wide expanse of emerald. The rocks, the pillars of the deathsome door On either side, the swaying pine tree bore. The gentle waves caressed the smiling sands Where earth and water clasped their loving hands, This was the Door of Death a place of peace, A peace like that when bells their tinkling cease. "Who would the beauties of new life explore," The captain said, "Must journey through the Door The Door of Death." Oh, when I, too, consign To swiftly running tide this soul of mine, May then the door of death appear as fair And tints of dawn succeed the shades of care. Oh, may I find the undiscovered land But verdured rocks and smiling, golden sand My soul, as slips the night of life away, Be soothed by glimpses of the quiet bay. 148 IN FOREST LAND THE CHANNEL. The commerce from the northland s shor Finds here a channel deep and sure, And safe in Huron s bosom moor The fleets of great Superior. They bear the fallen forest trees, They bear the heart-blood of the hills They bear the wealth of mines and mills, The treasures of the inland seas. And it is well we celebrate The channel genius here has made, This pulsing artery of trade That links the state and sister state, For in our messengers afloat That bear our commerce east and west The people are most truly blest A busy peace makes war remote. DECKLOADS 149 A NARRATIVE. The British schooner Laconia, which sailed from Bottswoodville, N. B., with a cargo of lumber November 17, 1904, arrived at New York April 13, 1905. It had encountered seven hurricanes and forty gales and had been blown as far as Barbados. Twas on November seventeen, when winds were blowing chill, The good Laconia set sail from out of Bottswoodville. Brave Captain Troop thus wrote his wife before he sailed away : "I ll dine with you in Brooklyn town when comes Thanks giving day." And with the skipper rode John Holm, and Jacobson the mate, And Alexander Henderson to keep her footing straight. Jack Gannon, in the proper time, the lonely dog watch took. Jim Powell was the lookout man and Oscar was the cook. When three days out of Bottswoodville there came a puff of rain And then the schooner plunged her nose deep in a hurri cane. The wind blew east, the wind blew west, the wind blew south and north And all the demons of the deep their anger bellowed forth. They seized the schooner in their hands, they shook her like a rat Until no man knew where she lay, what shore she pointed at. She pointed north, she pointed south, she pointed west and east, Three times around the compass swung before she was released. 150 IN FOREST LAND Then two long weeks and many miles she sailed through ocean gales That sprung her seams and washed her decks and blew away her sails. A staysail soon went overboard, a topmast blew away, Till at the mercy of the seas the lumber schooner lay. Then came another hurricane; five others followed fast; Through two-score gales that tore the sea the lumber schooner passed. And, when the sixty days were done, the mainsail stood alone ; And ev ry seam the water took and ev ry rope made moan. Thanksgiving Day brave Captain Troop in Brooklyn did not dine; He fought to keep his craft afloat, his body from the brine. And Christmas found him on the sea, still far from great New York; He dined on bread of wetted flour and strips of salted pork. That day a tramp from Trinidad, for distant Havre bound, The poor Laconia beheld and slowly came around. "Now leave your ship and come with me," the steamer captain cried; But Captain Troop but shook his head and not a man replied. "Then, if you will not leave the ship, pull but a yawlboat near That I may send across to you a load of Christmas cheer." But, when the yawl had struck the wave, it crumbled like a shell And sadly o er the boiling sea the captains bade farewell. On January seventeen, so strange the sea wind blows, The good Laconia put in at sunny Barbados. The mainsail kept still on her course that water-sodden boat ; Naught but her load of Brunswick pine had kept the craft afloat. DECKLOADS 151 One day in April, like a bird blown far from homeward way, The lumber schooner anchor cast at last in New York Bay. And she who ended there her course and furled her tat tered sails Through seven hurricanes had passed and weathered forty gales. Think not that all our heroes ride behind our frowning guns; When you would praise the nation s brave, think on these humble ones. Think not that men face death alone on cruisers gray and grim; The hero of the lumber scow O, brothers, think on him. He wears no uniform of blue, he wears no silver star, Yet rides he where the waters hiss and where the dangers are. If war shall come and nation call for men to do and die, His voice will be among the first, yea, first to answer "Aye." His life is given up to toil that you may housen be Defender of the tune of peace, reservist of the sea. THE BOY THE BIG TREE. Underneath the old Big Tree, Just a girl and dog and I, Counting not the years of glee, Years of childhood, slipping by. Just a girl and boy and Jack, As the skimming swallows free ; But no magic bringeth back Days beneath the old Big Tree. Underneath the old Big Tree, From its leafy branches hung, There a swing swayed temptingly Where in childhood days we swung. Frayed and shredded now the ropes As the things that cannot be, Buried now the childish hopes Underneath the old Big Tree. Faithful Jack has felt the years, Stilled the bark so small and brave, And we wet with later tears Grasses growing on his grave. Marching time that onward sweeps Brings no man as true as he, Half as true as he who sleeps Underneath the old Big Tree. 153 164 IN FOREST LAND With the reason of the man And the candor of the brute Just a soul in black and tan, Tender, eloquently mute. Dog and girl and dreaming boy, These made up the comrades three Reaping all they might of joy Underneath the old Big Tree. There are trees in other lands Greater, taller, fairer far; But one tree in mem ry stands Binding earth and singing star. In its waving branches high Heaven s golden door I see Let me at the threshold lie Underneath the old Big Tree. THE BOY 155 THE LAND OF CHRISTMAS TREES. My papa works in a lumber camp In the land of Christmas trees, And he wrote to me, "I wish you could see Such Christmas trees as these I In the swamp so cold, in the swamp so damp, There are cedars green and great, There are pines so high That they touch the sky, There are hemlocks slim and straight. "They smile to the moon, they sing to the star, They nod to the passing breeze, And every bough Wears diamonds now, In the land of Christmas trees." O wonderful land in the north woods far, O wonderful, beautiful land! In my cot so white I dream at night Of the forest green and grand. My mama says that the snow that lies In the land where the great trees grow Is like the spread On my little bed Where at night to sleep I go ; That underneath with tight-shut eyes The flowers are slumbering There snug and warm From the winter storm They wait for the call of spring 166 IN FOREST LAND So, when I kneel for the night s amen, I think of the Christmas land, I say a prayer For my papa there In the forest green and grand; And another prayer I whisper then While I kneel on bended knees That the Lord will keep The flowers that sleep In the land of Christmas trees. THE BOY J57 GIVE A BOY A DAWG. Give to Pa a horse to drive, Give to Ma a dress; Give to brother Bill a five, A doll to Baby Bess. Give to sister Mame a beau To sit with on a lawg ; These are dandy things, I know- But give a boy a dawg. Give a boy a dawg an he s Got a faithful pard ; When he hooks from apple trees Rover will stand guard. When he goes the woods to roam Dawg will follow on, Quick to find the way back home When the sun is gone. Give a boy a dawg an he s Safe as by your arm, For two pardners such as these Seldom come to harm. Rain or storm or sudden night, Snow or hail or fog If you d bring him through em right, Give a boy a dawg. 168 IN FOREST LAND RUNNIN LAWGS. Runnin lawgs is dandy fun! Course, you hadn t ought to run Lawgs at all. It s dangerous, An it makes the boom man cuss. "Say, you kids," you ll hear im say, "You ll get drownded all some day." Yep, it s risky lawgs to run Guess it s that that makes it fun Runnin lawgs. If a boom of lawgs you found, Do you think you d go around? No; you d chase away your dawg; Then you d jump down on a lawg; Then you d have to jump agin To another, or git in; For the slipp ry lawg will sink With you quicker n a wink Runnin lawgs. Ma says wickedness and sin s Like runnin lawgs. A boy begins Doin wrong ; an then he keeps Going on by jumps an leaps Till he comes to water black Where he can t go on or back. Then he sinks beneath his sin Just like some folks tumble in Runnin lawgs. THE BOY 159 One time, long about in June, I run lawgs all afternoon. Then I went to Archie s house Cause I d wet my Sunday blouse. Ma got scared an started out Lookin for me all about ; An they told her pretty soon I d been seen that afternoon Runnin lawgs. Then my ma she cried an cried, So they tell me. Well, I dried All my clothes an started back An* I met my ma an Jack Lookin for me. Ma well, say, She just fainted dead away When she seen me once agin. Funny when I d only been Runnin lawgs. 160 IN FOREST LAND TOMMIE S HOUSE. Tommie s house ain t grand or great; Tommie s house is small, like ours; But there s vines that climb the gate An the path is lined with flow rs. Near the street it doesn t stand, Cause there isn t any street Just a footpath in the sand, Made by little children s feet, To Tommie s house. You kin climb up Tommie s trees, You kin walk on Tommie s grass, You kin lay an watch the bees, Buzzin , buzzin as they pass; You kin listen to the mill, You kin hear the birds that sing You kin run an play your fill You kin do most anything At Tommie s house. I expect perhaps some day, When I git to be a man, I ll be livin far away, Far from Tommie an from Nan. I expect some night I ll sit Like my pa does, bended low, Wishin for a sight of it, Wishin , wishin I might go To Tommie s house. THE BOY 161 RIDIN ON THE CARRIAGE. Did your pa ever take you Upstairs inside the mill An let you ride the carriage Along ith English Bill? He says, "Now, don t git frightened Jist stan up stiff like me; Whichever way she s goin , Why, that way bend your knee." An then Bill pulls a lever An sort o lets er shoot ; An , say well, holy beeswax! You ought to see her scoot ! She kind o gives a rumble An kind o gives a hiss An then you hear er singin , "Z z-a-n-g bunk siss!" An when she has no mor n Got good an goin gone, She kind o stops a-sudden But I keep goin on. Then pa he grabs my collar Jist like he had a gaff, An Bill an all the fellers They laff an laff an laff. An then she prances back ard The same way that she come An Bill he pulls the lever An then you hear er hum. Have you rode on a carriage An heard er sing like this: "B boom, boom-boom, b boom-boom, "Z z-a-n-g bunk siss" ? 162 IN FOREST LAND Them fellers on the carriage Are funny kind of men They jist ride this way, that way, An so an back agin. For them it ain t no trouble To keep their places, for I guess perhaps that maybe They re fastened to the floor. An* when it conies to speakin* Them fellers understan If the sawyer nods his fore ead An whispers ith his han . There ain t much use o talkin , The place so noisy is When the carriage gits to singin , "Z z-a-n-g bunk siss!" There s many kinds o business For boys growed up to men A kid kin be a barber Or a kid kin shove a pen. But when I grow to manhood No airships I ll invent; I won t be any lawyer, I won t be president. There s other kinds o business I d like a darn sight more Than bein sent to Congress Or running of a store. I ll just ride on the carriage ; There s nothin fine as this No music like the music, "Z z-a-n-g bunk siss !" THE BOY 163 BUD GREEN S HERO. Bud Green he thinks that he is smart Because he s rode upon a train, But Bud has never rode a cart, Like me, along ith Jimmy Mahon. But what Bud prides himself on most (An 1 no kid ever prided more) He s seen a man, he likes to boast, Who had his laig shot off in war. This man told Bud just how it wuz He lost his laig that awful day; A cannon ball it come ker-buzz The laig it cud no longer stay. He cud ave dodged, the man told Bud, An saved his laig an saved his pants But, if he had, the ball it wud Ave passed his laig an taken Grant s. I never seen, like Smarty Green, A man who lost his laig in war, But I ll bet marbles that I ve seen Of sa wed-off folks a darnsight more; There s Jamie Mack, who lost his hand A-picking splinters from the gang, An Jones on one leg has to stand Because a bandsaw went ker-bang. The man who lost his laig in war, As bragged about by Smarty Green, Had never felt no buzz saw or Stuck fingers in a lath machine. 164 TN FOREST LAND Bud s man who saved the general Who won the battle, held the fort, He lost no arm an* eye as well As other things, as did Old Sport. I guess there s things that s worse than war Or being hit by cannon balls Say, have a cog that s near the floor Take hold ujDon your overhalls. A man to war don t have to go For things that hurt an* things that kill, If he ll just fool a year or so Around a good old-fashioned mill. POEMS FOR OCCASIONS THE BURNING. As a young mother yields herself to death And only sips the joy of motherhood, So now this house that we esteemed so good Lies heaped in ashes by the fire-fiend s breath. The one knew only pain and one soft kiss, The gentle pressure once of infant arms. Yet may one kiss still all of life s alarms And one embrace span even death s abyss. Each was a shelter from the world s affairs, Each was a place of refuge and of rest ; Each to her bosom her own infant pressed And with a gentle hand removed its cares. O angel Mother, still I hear thy voice ; absent Mother, still I see thy face. Across the years, across the years and space, They calm my spirit, make my heart rejoice. O Home of mine amid the gilt and gloss, 1 learned to love thee in a little while ; I learned the welcome of thy gentle smile And now I learn, alas, how great my loss. O Home of mine, from out thy ashes dumb Send me some message, some sweet thought impart- Teach me to build, build here within my heart, A hearth like thine, where weary ones may come. 165 166 IN FOREST LAND SAN FRANCISCO. She stood beside the westward gate And flung it wide to all the world, As angels, by the gate empearled, Earth s weary travelers await. And she was fair as angels are Fair with the mighty mystery Of golden strand and emerald sea And purple mount and shining star. Yea, fair she was, and great, and calm, And proudly reigned o er many a mile; Her every sunrise was a smile, Her every sunset was a psalm. Yea, fair she was and then, unseen, The thunder shook her jeweled throne ; Her palace tumbled, stone on stone, And left unhoused a stricken queen. A tremor ran across the waves And broke in terror on the shore ; And, where a garden bloomed before, New mounds arose o er huddled graves. Bright as her future and her fame The skies were kindled by her pyres ; Insatiate, a thousand fires Wrapped all her splendor in their flame. POEMS FOR OCCASIONS 167 The night came down, and weeping men Saw, in the west, day flicker out ; Yet in no heart arose a doubt That God s white dawn would come again. So, San Francisco, in thy woe Doubt not the day again shall rise ; Come, kiss thy dead and wipe thine eyes And set thy features to the glow That wakens in the yellow east ; For, from thy ashes and thy pyres, Shall rise again thy thousand spires In numbers and in fame increased. 168 IN FOREST LAND THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE. Like men who play at chess, great minds there are That play with nations by a move or chance They make an epoch in the world s advance, They seal sweet peace or loosen bloody war. Yet they who play at chess and play at strife Know not the unrevealed, the ultimate. How much of human life appears as fate ; How much of fate seems human-ordered life. The little things men oft esteem the most, And scorn the greater, vital things they do ; How great is Austerlitz till Waterloo; How small are titles on an exile coast. The one-time bauble of a foreign throne A throne unconscious of fore-doomed defeat Arises now, its destiny complete, A greater empire than Napoleon s own. POEMS FOR OCCASIONS 169 THE LOUISIANA MONUMENT. Look you, O stately monument! How good a thing is God s intent, How man is but His instrument. Look you, as peoples come and go, How men build better than they know See Livingston, Marbois, Monroe. Thus are our acts in God s will blent ; Things men ascribe to accident Oft bear the stamp of God s intent. 170 IN FOREST LAND THE FILIPINOS. As children greet an infant born, All doubt, and fear, and faith, and smiles, O Brothers of ten thousand miles, O Brothers of the later morn, We greet the people of your isles. Onetime we looked across the tide, When first you came within our care, And saw one race, one people, there ; We saw a people unified Alike in work, alike in prayer. But now you come around the earth To teach us what and who you are; You come from regions vague and far And gather at the nation s hearth, Strange fruits of most unselfish war. One race you are not ; for in you We find the soldier, artisan, The Christian, the Mohammedan, The savage, and the aesthete, too No man like to his brother man. O strange composite in the West, The task not only ours to teach ; But you across the way must reach And draw the savage to your breast Must breathe the message each to each. POEMS FOR OCCASIONS 171 O varied people o er the sea, Dream not of eastward exodus; Teach you your brothers thus and thus Until one people you shall be First one yourselves, then one with us. 172 IN FOREST LAND NAPOLEON. He gave to Europe sword and gun, With patriot blood he stained her sod; But to a land he never trod His pen gave more than sabre won. JEFFERSON. Thine not to lead to cannon mouth The fair-haired North, the dark-cheeked South Thine but to win by peaceful ways These hills of iron, these fields of maize. POEMS FOR OCCASIONS 173 LAST NIGHT THE SILENT PLAZA THROUGH. Last night the silent Plaza through There walked a ghostly company Attired in oldtime panoply. Last night across the waters blue There came the sound of muffled oar That Ferdinand De Soto bore. Last night there climbed the marble stair With clinking silver musical, A gentleman Le Sieur la Salle. Last night there came a whispered prayer, A golden moment mid the dross, And Pere Marquette bore high a cross. Last night there marched a maddened crew With Coronado, famed and bold, Who walked on gold and saw no gold. Last night another nearer drew ; And, where he sowed the potent seed, A city rose to greet Laclede. Last night came Livingston and read Upon the world s gigantic toy The name "Monroe," the name "Marbois." Then "It is found," De Soto said. Then said La Salle, " T was not in vain." Said Coronado, "Spain, O Spain!" 174 IN FOREST LAND Then said Laclede, "O heart, well done;" Monroe, "Well written, mighty pen;" Marbois, "0 France, what might have been!" Then Livingston breathed, "Jefferson;" And he in solemn, monk design Whispered, "O God, that all were Thine!" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ON THE BLUFFS OF THE LITTLE BIG HORN. T was the year of our centenary, the wide world was our guest ; We told of the things accomplished and how we had won the West. We sang of the far Montana, the land of gold and grain, The land of the hidden metal, the land of the fertile plain. We said we would send a message to the red man in his hills The hiss of the steel that pierces, the hum of the lead that kills. So Crook rode north from Wyoming with a thousand men and true; Then Gibbon rode east from Bozeman with his dusty ranks of blue; And Terry rode west from Dakota with Ouster knee and knee Custer the pride of the nation, and his Seventh Cavalry. Loved of the army Custer, laureled with battle scars, Knight of the newer knighthood under the Stripes and Stars. At the head of the Rosebud River Crook met with his painted foe And Crook rode back to Wyoming, a painful ride and slow. Then up the Rosebud River, by red man s trail and pass, To the land of the Little Big Horn, to the Valley of Greasy Grass, Rode Custer unhappy victim of bloody and cruel mistake And his men from the great white timber, from the place of the mighty lake. 175 176 IN FOREST LAND Weakened and small their number, yet someone bade "Divide" ; The word was the fatal blunder by which great Ouster died. Ben teen rode down to the southward and Reno rode to the west; McDougall was left with the pack-train to do the thing was best; And upward alone rode Ouster, and his Seventh Cavalry ; Upward alone rode Ouster into eternity. They came with a fiery message the answer was redder fire; They came in avenging anger and met with avenging ire. San Arc and Ogallala, Brule and red Cheyenne, Rode in the circle tightened round Ouster and his men. This was the white man s message, this was the red s reply; And they who came with the missive remained behind to die. This was not war, but murder ; this was the savage way A battle without surrender, that only death could stay. Smith rode down in the gully, Smith and the L troop men, Keogh down in the shallow but neither came back again. Thinner and thinner in number they knelt in a blazing hell Till, fighting and dying and praying, the last of the heroes fell. We send to the red a message, to the red man in the hills Tis the touch of the hand that strengthens, tis the sound of the voice that thrills. We sing of the fair Montana, a land of gold and grain, The land of the precious metal, the land of the fertile plain. And died not these heroes vainly ; they sleep in a land they blessed For they gave of their heart s own lifeblood in the winning of the West. "The great white timber MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 177 NIGHT. The arms of night enfold the tired day, The heavens light their million little lamps, And, where the sun beheld the world s affray, The gentle moon reviews its sleeping camps. Thank God for night; thank God that men must sleep; Thank God that men must pause in toil for gain For, did they not, their eyes must ever weep. For, did they not, their hearts must ever pain. Thank God for sleep; thank God for night and rest ; I take the balm and press it to my eyes. Here I shall slumber, head upon my breast, And here, refreshed, behold the new day rise. 178 IN FOREST LAND THANKSGIVING. When sheaves are stacked in bounteous heaps On summer s fertile plain, When he who gleaned the treasure sleeps And dreams of garnered grain, The air grows warm, the night grows still A memory of June And slowly o er the distant hill Ascends the harvest moon. It bathes the sheaves in silver floods Of light of heavenly birth, It lights anew the fields and woods, It glorifies the earth. Forgotten now the winter s snow, The summer s glaring sun, And heaven above and world below Are mellowed into one. So, when the days of toil are o er And harvest days are here, Thanksgiving comes with bounteous store The moonrise of the year. Its rays reveal the blessings sent To cheer our dreary ways, And heartaches old and discontent Are mellowed into praise. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 179 THE BIRTHPLACE. Not round the palaces of kings Is woven all the song and story; Time s blazing sun as often flings On humble roof the gleam of glory. A flow r may grow from rugged earth As in the garden of a Nero, And simple hut may render birth Like royal house to future hero. One birth men celebrate above The birth of all earth s line of mortals; That night there streamed celestial love Athwart the sky from open portals. But not on purple or on gold First looked the tiny, infant stranger His eyes were opened to behold The sombre wall, the rough-hewn manger. I know not whose this house may be, With sighing cedar bending o er it, Nor know how future history Shall view the tangled grass before it. The chimney built of stick and stone, This place of simple life and barter, May be the pillar of a throne, May be the last thought of a martyr. Yet, if the world shall never know The babe that here awakes to being, If, while he tramps a treadmill slow, The world shall pass him by, unseeing, 180 IN FOREST LAND Still is that humble roof more great To that fond heart than any other, For he will pause, when life is late, To dream of hearthstone and of mother. For castle gate and palace wall, For cabin door and sturdy rafter, With memories our hearts enthrall In those long years that follow after. The busy man, now feeble seer, To some dear place his love is giving , Thus one shall turn again that here Began the mystery of living. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 181 PYRAMID PARK. Here the Creator paused and Time stood still; The burning rock, the throbbing, molten hill, Solidified unfinished, at His will. Eastward there stretched the fertile, rolling plain Ready for tramp of hoof and garb of grain, Ready for morning sun and evening rain. Westward there stretched the mountains to the sea- Rich in the verdant splendor of the tree, Rich in their hidden, golden mystery. Here in this spot, this uncompleted land, The great Creator stayed His mighty hand That man might look and learn and understand. Then heavy Time resumed its slow career; And day on day, succeeding month and year, Slow-moving Time still molds and fashions here. _ . _ . - . : :-. -.:-- i- : i : : ; T . : M -- -------- MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 183 LEW WALLACE. Each man must leave to earth a legacy; Embarking on the waves of mystery Must leave some footprint by the unknown sea. Some leave behind them shining piles of gold ; Some leave behind them lineage of old ; Some leave behind but granite gray and cold. Some leave behind a blood-encrusted sword; Some leave behind love s broken, silken cord ; Some leave behind a monarch s wand and word. What leavest thou in legacy or lore? What leavest thou, to be remembered more? What leavest thou here on the silent shore? Not sword alone, for long thy sword was cold, Ancestral name or heaps of shining gold, But this, the story that thy genius told. Now still thy lips, impotent now thy hand ; But men shall find thy footprint in the sand And many things shall see and understand. For men shall walk with Him of Nazareth ; For men shall breathe faith s everlasting breath And solve the mystery of life and death. This is the treasure that thou leavest, then ; This is the legacy thou leavest men Long sheathed thy sword, but ever speaks thy pen. 184 IN FOREST LAND GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER. Good night, Mother close your eyes, Sleep, the sleep deserving; Finished now life s fabric lies, Done the hours of serving. Good night, Mother though you sleep, Love shall not forsake you; We, who watch alone, shall weep, But we would not wake you. Good night, Mother it is night To the hearts that love you, But the day eternal s light Marks the path above you. Good night, Mother in the dawn, Now the sky adorning, Angel voices beckon on. Singing, "Soul, good morning!" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 185 SYMPATHY. No man so poor but he may give To other men some cheer, No man too low or high may live To help some brother near. The forest that we tread is dark And hidden is the trail; Oh, keep alight the single spark That leads to Holy Grail. Xo gift so cheap to give, and yet No gift so dear to hold ; The eyes that weep when eyes are wet Are mines of rarest gold. No gift so cheap as love is cheap, Yet none so rich may be As they who on their altars keep The lamp of sympathy. A forest dark, bewildering, This life we wander through ; Praise God for those who work and sing, For both we have to do Our greater mission not to win The thing we most desire, But more to keep, through care and sin, Our hearts with love afire. For there are others on the road, The dark and misty trail, And we who bear the lighter load Must help the ones who fail; 186 /AT FOREST LAND And, helping on the weary soul Who stumbles by alone, Thus we, in striving for his goal, Shall come upon our own. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 187 ENCOURAGEMENT. I hold him dearest who aspires To kindle in my heart the fires Of best desires. I hold the man of all most dear Who, when I stumble, draweth near With word of cheer. I hold that man of best intents Who giveth me not paltry pence, But confidence. For there are men who quick caress Will give to laurel-crowned success To nothing less. But, oh, how dearer far are they Who help me on the upward way When skies are gray. If so it be that I attain The mountain peak, and leave the plain And paths of pain, My prayers shall first be upward sent For those dear friends of mine who lent Encouragement. 188 IN FOREST LAND THE BLIND. This world, to other mortals green and gay, To him is dim and misty and unknown. He must explore and re-explore the way, Must feel anew each hurt and bruise of stone. Each path is strange, though often traveled o er, Each hour of all the day an hour of night. At eve he comes half-doubting to his door Nor sees afar his window s waiting light. And yet I sometimes think perhaps he sees The farther as his earthly visions fade, That he has solved some of those mysteries Through which the seeing blunder on afraid. For from his lips I hear no loud complaint And from his heart I hear no cry of woe ; He bows his head as bowed the dying saint, Nor questions God, since God has willed it so. I would that I might learn his sweet content That I might better bear life s petty ills And, when my feet to gloomy vales were sent, Might hear my heart still singing in the hills. O Dan, if you have found the path of peace, You tread the way that many seek in vain ; For you have found the place where sorrows cease, For you have found the balm for every pain. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 189 O Dan, if you have learned to bend the knee, To bow the head, content, and kiss the rod, You look beyond where other men may see, You look above them on the face of God. 190 IN FOREST LAND IT S A MIGHTY GOOD WORLD TO ME, I ve heard folks sigh, I ve heard folks cry That life s not worth the while, That men deceive and women grieve, And none has cause to smile. The road is long, and things go wrong, And folks all disagree; In vain our dreams and yet it seems A mighty good world to me. Yes, folks complain that life is pain, That naught is good or pure, The bad succeed, the wealthy bleed The pockets of the poor. We weep, we sleep, and thus we keep The treadmill endlessly, A way of tears yet it appears A mighty good world to me. Oh, there are those who tell their woes To ev ry willing ear ; To such as they all skies are gray And ev ry path is drear. I sometimes think perhaps they drink The bitter needlessly; Despite their groans, despite their moans, It s a mighty good world to me. If life is fair or life is bare Upon ourselves depends; He who complains has but his pains The merry man has friends. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 191 Oh, look above with eyes of love And see the skies of blue Where sunrays gleam, and it will seem A mighty good world to you. 192 IN FOREST LAND THE DISAGREEABLENESS OF INFALLIBILITY. He owned a mill, he owned a mine, He owned a hundred miles of pine, He owned a horseless carriage fine, He owned as well a coach and four ; He owned a house, he owned a lot, He owned a yawl, he owned a yacht ; Could Lake Superior be bought, He d owned that, too, from shore to shore. He owned a mansion great and brown, He owned at night a couch of down ; He owned a street, he owned a town, In politics he owned a state. He owned a sumptuous palace car; He owned a railroad stretching far, He owned a ship from keel to spar, He owned them both and owned the freight And yet he lived a life alone Because one thing he did not own ; And all his cash was seed was sown Upon a field of arid salt. He had no popularity Because he had not learned to see That what he lacked was this, that he Had never owned a fault. L ENVOI. This life would be one grand, sweet song If other folks would say they re wrong. U C BERKELEY LIBRARIES mi nun HI THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. APR 7 REC. CIR. JWt 201ft JUN *&m- .IBRARY