THE CAVES OF JOSEPHINE
I’msure if one could probeBut deep enough, he’d find this globeJust tunneled through with catacombsAnd resonant with hollow domesAnd yawning gulfs, abysmal spacesAnd divers dark, unfathomed placesWhere echoes die through mere excessOf nothingness.There’s mystery in holes—a solid thingIs never half so interesting;It’s fun to poke around in them—to draw the screenAway from things long hidden and unseen,Like those in Josephine.Ten miles of thickest Douglas greenThe little trail winds through,That leads you toOld Gray Back with his half-closed,Crooked eye. How long he’s dosedThat way—without a blink,Who knows? Until Elijah found the chinkThat day he shot the bear—Just crippled her enough to tearDown through the rocks—a bloody trackInto the big, black crack;And that was backAlong there in the seventies.Dick Rawly tells the story—he’sThe guide,And how he beams with prideTo see outsiders raveAbout the marvels of his cave,As proud of every chamber, niche and shelfAs if he’d chiseled it himself.And Lord! The more you snoopAround down there, and scrape and stoopTo see the things you see,The more you think he has a right to be.Dick’s different too—he says his sayAs if he’d learned it yesterdayInstead of when he did.With all the ardor of a kidHe rambles on—it’s always newTo him, just as it is to you.He tells you how the place was formedIn glacial days, when waters stormedAnd roared and cut their channels throughThe very spot where youStand marveling. Then comes the change.The glaciers pass, along the rangeThey ride no more, the streams are dried,The conflict stops. On every sideLime-laden drops beginTo percolate and filter in—The long, cold sweat appears.For several hundred thousand years,Away from light, away from time,Those little drops have oozed their lime.Relentless patience must have playedIts part when all this underworld was made,And infinite variety took handWhen it was planned—Or was it planned? Was it intent—Or some sublimely perfect accidentThat caused to beThat marble-fluted canopyAbove the many-pillowed throneThat’s shownIn brilliant, bold relief against our lightIn this Lost Paradise of night.And see—Upflocking toward the canopy,A-scurrying,Those baffling forms that clingAnd swarms of pudgy shapes that rideIn half-lights, side by side.And was it chance that madeThe Coral Garden’s gray arcadeAnd pillared it and set in placeEach tiny statuette and grotesque face;And petrified the water-falls;And hung the wallsAnd roofs of all the hallsWith rows of frescoes—pendant, bright,And gleaming like a starry night;And made the sweetest chimes to ring—We heard their clear notes echoing.If it was chance, I didn’t findIt so. To me it seemed a master-mindWas lurking there—some spirit born of endless night,Transfusing each slow-dropping miteInto a wonder-thingBy deft, fantastic fashioning.Dick saidThe place was uninhabited,Except for a few batsAt times and some pack-ratsThat nested near the mouth—but how could heTell whathadbeen? To meThe place was justdeserted—that was all!Because we heard no laughter fall,Nor voices ring,Proved not a thing.And whenThe first intrusion came of mortal men,There must have been a merry mussAnd universal exodusDown through those dark recesses thereAnd on to undiscovered regions whereNo man may hope to go.I would have witnessed such a show!Those trooping little refugeesOf divers personalitiesIn babbling groups, by twos and threes,With all their household goods—they must have movedThem all—the fact is provedConclusively, as there’s no traceOf such effects in any place.Perhaps the Pix went first—They’re fearsome, so I’ve heard, and cursedWith nerves. And then the Nixie crew,The Pix’s shapely cousins whoAre beautiful—as Nixies go,And no less slowTo move when trouble stirs the air.Now comes a flareOf lurid light—the rhythmic trampsOf Gwelfs who bear their swinging lampsOf cocobol;A rollOf music like bassoons—The beating wings of Dragleloons,Their patterned pinions show their sheenAnd glow with iridescent green—Out trails the light—a glint of scalesGives hint of flashing, rainbow tails.Now Master Goblin falls in line,The chills are jumping in his spine,His eyeballs bulge with speechless fear,His mouth’s a slit from ear to ear.He goes galumping in his boots;Behind him thump the Dormizoots,And then the Elves.From all the crannies, nooks and shelvesThe Wiffles come, and scrambling Wools,And Blurbs and jibbering Gabools—They stumble, tumble—now they run,Each fumbles for the other one,Mate calls for mate—A seething flux conglomerateOf cave-born entities.They pant and grunt and squeak and wheeze,They stampede, yell,And chase pell-mell.Through tortuous tunnels walled with lightThe pigmy pageant makes its flight,The last far turn is made,The swinging flicker-flashes fade,The clamor and the criesAre dimmed—the babbling tumult dies.The palace rooms are dark, the halls of state,The Coral Gardens—all are desolate.No music falls—The conclaves and the carnivals,The mystic rites,The colors bathed in mellow lights,The throbbing life and mirthOf all this chambered, nether-earthAre gone. Nor will one Elf returnTo ring the crystal chimes or burnStrange incense at the pillowed throne,Because no Elf was ever knownTo tread again where mortal manHas been—nor any of the hybrid clanWho must have scampered out of thereThat day Elijah shot the bear.
I’msure if one could probeBut deep enough, he’d find this globeJust tunneled through with catacombsAnd resonant with hollow domesAnd yawning gulfs, abysmal spacesAnd divers dark, unfathomed placesWhere echoes die through mere excessOf nothingness.There’s mystery in holes—a solid thingIs never half so interesting;It’s fun to poke around in them—to draw the screenAway from things long hidden and unseen,Like those in Josephine.Ten miles of thickest Douglas greenThe little trail winds through,That leads you toOld Gray Back with his half-closed,Crooked eye. How long he’s dosedThat way—without a blink,Who knows? Until Elijah found the chinkThat day he shot the bear—Just crippled her enough to tearDown through the rocks—a bloody trackInto the big, black crack;And that was backAlong there in the seventies.Dick Rawly tells the story—he’sThe guide,And how he beams with prideTo see outsiders raveAbout the marvels of his cave,As proud of every chamber, niche and shelfAs if he’d chiseled it himself.And Lord! The more you snoopAround down there, and scrape and stoopTo see the things you see,The more you think he has a right to be.Dick’s different too—he says his sayAs if he’d learned it yesterdayInstead of when he did.With all the ardor of a kidHe rambles on—it’s always newTo him, just as it is to you.He tells you how the place was formedIn glacial days, when waters stormedAnd roared and cut their channels throughThe very spot where youStand marveling. Then comes the change.The glaciers pass, along the rangeThey ride no more, the streams are dried,The conflict stops. On every sideLime-laden drops beginTo percolate and filter in—The long, cold sweat appears.For several hundred thousand years,Away from light, away from time,Those little drops have oozed their lime.Relentless patience must have playedIts part when all this underworld was made,And infinite variety took handWhen it was planned—Or was it planned? Was it intent—Or some sublimely perfect accidentThat caused to beThat marble-fluted canopyAbove the many-pillowed throneThat’s shownIn brilliant, bold relief against our lightIn this Lost Paradise of night.And see—Upflocking toward the canopy,A-scurrying,Those baffling forms that clingAnd swarms of pudgy shapes that rideIn half-lights, side by side.And was it chance that madeThe Coral Garden’s gray arcadeAnd pillared it and set in placeEach tiny statuette and grotesque face;And petrified the water-falls;And hung the wallsAnd roofs of all the hallsWith rows of frescoes—pendant, bright,And gleaming like a starry night;And made the sweetest chimes to ring—We heard their clear notes echoing.If it was chance, I didn’t findIt so. To me it seemed a master-mindWas lurking there—some spirit born of endless night,Transfusing each slow-dropping miteInto a wonder-thingBy deft, fantastic fashioning.Dick saidThe place was uninhabited,Except for a few batsAt times and some pack-ratsThat nested near the mouth—but how could heTell whathadbeen? To meThe place was justdeserted—that was all!Because we heard no laughter fall,Nor voices ring,Proved not a thing.And whenThe first intrusion came of mortal men,There must have been a merry mussAnd universal exodusDown through those dark recesses thereAnd on to undiscovered regions whereNo man may hope to go.I would have witnessed such a show!Those trooping little refugeesOf divers personalitiesIn babbling groups, by twos and threes,With all their household goods—they must have movedThem all—the fact is provedConclusively, as there’s no traceOf such effects in any place.Perhaps the Pix went first—They’re fearsome, so I’ve heard, and cursedWith nerves. And then the Nixie crew,The Pix’s shapely cousins whoAre beautiful—as Nixies go,And no less slowTo move when trouble stirs the air.Now comes a flareOf lurid light—the rhythmic trampsOf Gwelfs who bear their swinging lampsOf cocobol;A rollOf music like bassoons—The beating wings of Dragleloons,Their patterned pinions show their sheenAnd glow with iridescent green—Out trails the light—a glint of scalesGives hint of flashing, rainbow tails.Now Master Goblin falls in line,The chills are jumping in his spine,His eyeballs bulge with speechless fear,His mouth’s a slit from ear to ear.He goes galumping in his boots;Behind him thump the Dormizoots,And then the Elves.From all the crannies, nooks and shelvesThe Wiffles come, and scrambling Wools,And Blurbs and jibbering Gabools—They stumble, tumble—now they run,Each fumbles for the other one,Mate calls for mate—A seething flux conglomerateOf cave-born entities.They pant and grunt and squeak and wheeze,They stampede, yell,And chase pell-mell.Through tortuous tunnels walled with lightThe pigmy pageant makes its flight,The last far turn is made,The swinging flicker-flashes fade,The clamor and the criesAre dimmed—the babbling tumult dies.The palace rooms are dark, the halls of state,The Coral Gardens—all are desolate.No music falls—The conclaves and the carnivals,The mystic rites,The colors bathed in mellow lights,The throbbing life and mirthOf all this chambered, nether-earthAre gone. Nor will one Elf returnTo ring the crystal chimes or burnStrange incense at the pillowed throne,Because no Elf was ever knownTo tread again where mortal manHas been—nor any of the hybrid clanWho must have scampered out of thereThat day Elijah shot the bear.
I’msure if one could probeBut deep enough, he’d find this globeJust tunneled through with catacombsAnd resonant with hollow domesAnd yawning gulfs, abysmal spacesAnd divers dark, unfathomed placesWhere echoes die through mere excessOf nothingness.
There’s mystery in holes—a solid thingIs never half so interesting;It’s fun to poke around in them—to draw the screenAway from things long hidden and unseen,Like those in Josephine.Ten miles of thickest Douglas greenThe little trail winds through,That leads you toOld Gray Back with his half-closed,Crooked eye. How long he’s dosedThat way—without a blink,Who knows? Until Elijah found the chinkThat day he shot the bear—Just crippled her enough to tearDown through the rocks—a bloody trackInto the big, black crack;And that was backAlong there in the seventies.Dick Rawly tells the story—he’sThe guide,And how he beams with prideTo see outsiders raveAbout the marvels of his cave,As proud of every chamber, niche and shelfAs if he’d chiseled it himself.
And Lord! The more you snoopAround down there, and scrape and stoopTo see the things you see,The more you think he has a right to be.Dick’s different too—he says his sayAs if he’d learned it yesterdayInstead of when he did.With all the ardor of a kidHe rambles on—it’s always newTo him, just as it is to you.
He tells you how the place was formedIn glacial days, when waters stormedAnd roared and cut their channels throughThe very spot where youStand marveling. Then comes the change.The glaciers pass, along the rangeThey ride no more, the streams are dried,The conflict stops. On every sideLime-laden drops beginTo percolate and filter in—The long, cold sweat appears.For several hundred thousand years,Away from light, away from time,Those little drops have oozed their lime.
Relentless patience must have playedIts part when all this underworld was made,And infinite variety took handWhen it was planned—Or was it planned? Was it intent—Or some sublimely perfect accidentThat caused to beThat marble-fluted canopyAbove the many-pillowed throneThat’s shownIn brilliant, bold relief against our lightIn this Lost Paradise of night.And see—Upflocking toward the canopy,A-scurrying,Those baffling forms that clingAnd swarms of pudgy shapes that rideIn half-lights, side by side.And was it chance that madeThe Coral Garden’s gray arcadeAnd pillared it and set in placeEach tiny statuette and grotesque face;And petrified the water-falls;And hung the wallsAnd roofs of all the hallsWith rows of frescoes—pendant, bright,And gleaming like a starry night;And made the sweetest chimes to ring—We heard their clear notes echoing.If it was chance, I didn’t findIt so. To me it seemed a master-mindWas lurking there—some spirit born of endless night,Transfusing each slow-dropping miteInto a wonder-thingBy deft, fantastic fashioning.
Dick saidThe place was uninhabited,Except for a few batsAt times and some pack-ratsThat nested near the mouth—but how could heTell whathadbeen? To meThe place was justdeserted—that was all!Because we heard no laughter fall,Nor voices ring,Proved not a thing.
And whenThe first intrusion came of mortal men,There must have been a merry mussAnd universal exodusDown through those dark recesses thereAnd on to undiscovered regions whereNo man may hope to go.I would have witnessed such a show!Those trooping little refugeesOf divers personalitiesIn babbling groups, by twos and threes,With all their household goods—they must have movedThem all—the fact is provedConclusively, as there’s no traceOf such effects in any place.
Perhaps the Pix went first—They’re fearsome, so I’ve heard, and cursedWith nerves. And then the Nixie crew,The Pix’s shapely cousins whoAre beautiful—as Nixies go,And no less slowTo move when trouble stirs the air.Now comes a flareOf lurid light—the rhythmic trampsOf Gwelfs who bear their swinging lampsOf cocobol;A rollOf music like bassoons—The beating wings of Dragleloons,Their patterned pinions show their sheenAnd glow with iridescent green—Out trails the light—a glint of scalesGives hint of flashing, rainbow tails.
Now Master Goblin falls in line,The chills are jumping in his spine,His eyeballs bulge with speechless fear,His mouth’s a slit from ear to ear.He goes galumping in his boots;Behind him thump the Dormizoots,And then the Elves.From all the crannies, nooks and shelvesThe Wiffles come, and scrambling Wools,And Blurbs and jibbering Gabools—They stumble, tumble—now they run,Each fumbles for the other one,Mate calls for mate—A seething flux conglomerateOf cave-born entities.They pant and grunt and squeak and wheeze,They stampede, yell,And chase pell-mell.Through tortuous tunnels walled with lightThe pigmy pageant makes its flight,The last far turn is made,The swinging flicker-flashes fade,The clamor and the criesAre dimmed—the babbling tumult dies.
The palace rooms are dark, the halls of state,The Coral Gardens—all are desolate.No music falls—The conclaves and the carnivals,The mystic rites,The colors bathed in mellow lights,The throbbing life and mirthOf all this chambered, nether-earthAre gone. Nor will one Elf returnTo ring the crystal chimes or burnStrange incense at the pillowed throne,Because no Elf was ever knownTo tread again where mortal manHas been—nor any of the hybrid clanWho must have scampered out of thereThat day Elijah shot the bear.