A Troop of the GuardHermann HagedornHow They Brought the Good News from Ghent to AixRobert BrowningThrough the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr" "ReveilleBret HarteA Song of the RoadRichard Watson GilderThe House and the RoadJ.P. PeabodyThe MysticCale Young Rice(InThe Little Book of Modern Verse, Ed. by J.B. Rittenhouse.)A Winter RideAmy Lowell(InThe Little Book of Modern Verse.)The RideClinton Scollard(InSongs of Sunrise Lands.)
On the night before this particular Christmas every creature of the woods that could stir was up and stirring; for over the old snow was falling swiftly, silently, a soft, fresh covering that might mean a hungry Christmas unless the dinner were had before morning.
But when the morning dawned, a cheery Christmas sun broke across the great gum swamp, lighting the snowy boles and soft-piled limbs of the giant trees with indescribable glory, and pouring, a golden flood, into the deep spongy bottoms below. It would be a perfect Christmas in the woods, clear, mild, stirless, with silent footing for me, and everywhere the telltale snow.
And everywhere the Christmas spirit, too. As I paused among the pointed cedars of the pasture, looking down into the cripple at the head of the swamp, a clear wild whistle rang in the thicket, followed by a flash through the alders like a tongue of fire, as a cardinal grosbeak shot down to the tangle of greenbrier and magnolia under the slope. It was a fleck of flaming summer. As warm as summer, too, the staghorn sumac burned on the crest of the ridge against the group of holly trees,—trees as fresh as April, and all aglow with berries. The woods were decorated for the holy day. The gentleness of the soft new snow touched everything; cheer and good-will lighted theunclouded sky and warmed the thick depths of the evergreens, and blazed in the crimson-berried bushes of the ilex and alder. The Christmas woods were glad.
Nor was the gladness all show, mere decoration. There was real cheer in abundance; for I was back in the old home woods, back along the Cohansey, back where you can pick persimmons off the trees at Christmas. There are persons who say the Lord might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but He didn't. Perhaps He didn't make the strawberry at all. But He did make the Cohansey Creek persimmon, and He made it as good as He could. Nowhere else under the sun can you find such persimmons as these along the creek, such richness of flavor, such gummy, candied quality, woodsy, wild, crude,—especially the fruit of two particular trees on the west bank, near Lupton's Pond. But they never come to this perfection, never quite lose their pucker, until midwinter,—as if they had been intended for the Christmas table of the woods.
It had been nearly twenty years since I crossed this pasture of the cedars on my way to the persimmon trees. The cows had been crossing every year, yet not a single new crook had they worn in the old paths. But I was half afraid as I came to the fence where I could look down upon the pond and over to the persimmon trees. Not one of the Luptons, who owned pasture and pond and trees, had ever been a boy, so far as I could remember, or had ever eaten of those persimmons. Would they have left the trees through all these years?
I pushed through the hedge of cedars and stopped for an instant, confused. The very pond was gone! and the trees! No, there was the pond,—but howsmall the patch of water! and the two persimmon trees? The bush and undergrowth had grown these twenty years. Which way—Ah, there they stand, only their leafless tops showing; but see the hard angular limbs, how closely globed with fruit! how softly etched upon the sky!
I hurried around to the trees and climbed the one with the two broken branches, up, clear up to the top, into the thick of the persimmons.
Did I say it had been twenty years? That could not be. Twenty years would have made me a man, and this sweet, real taste in my mouth only aboycould know. But there was college, and marriage, a Massachusetts farm, four boys of my own, and—no matter! it could not have beenyears—twenty years—since. It was only yesterday that I last climbed this tree and ate the rich rimy fruit frosted with a Christmas snow.
And yet, could it have been yesterday? It was storming, and I clung here in the swirling snow and heard the wild ducks go over in their hurry toward the bay. Yesterday, and all this change in the vast treetop world, this huddled pond, those narrowed meadows, that shrunken creek! I should have eaten the persimmons and climbed straight down, not stopped to gaze out upon the pond, and away over the dark ditches to the creek. But reaching out quickly I gathered another handful,—and all was yesterday again.
I filled both pockets of my coat and climbed down. I kept those persimmons and am tasting them to-night. Lupton's Pond may fill to a puddle, the meadows may shrivel, the creek dry up and disappear, and old Time may even try his wiles on me. But I shall foil him to the end; for I am carrying still in my pocket some ofyesterday's persimmons,—persimmons that ripened in the rime of a winter when I was a boy.
High and alone in a bare persimmon tree for one's dinner hardly sounds like a merry Christmas. But I was not alone. I had noted the fresh tracks beneath the tree before I climbed up, and now I saw that the snow had been partly brushed from several of the large limbs as the 'possum had moved about in the tree for his Christmas dinner. We were guests at the same festive board, and both of us at Nature's invitation. It mattered not that the 'possum had eaten and gone this hour or more. Such is good form in the woods. He was expecting me, so he came early, out of modesty; and, that I too might be entirely at my ease, he departed early, leaving his greetings for me in the snow.
Thus I was not alone; here was good company and plenty of it. I never lack a companion in the woods when I can pick up a trail. The 'possum and I ate together. And this was just the fellowship I needed, this sharing the persimmons with the 'possum. I had broken bread, not with the 'possum only, but with all the out-of-doors. I was now fit to enter the woods, for I was filled with good-will and persimmons, as full as the 'possum; and putting myself under his gentle guidance, I got down upon the ground, took up his clumsy trail, and descended toward the swamp. Such an entry is one of the particular joys of the winter. To go in with a fox, a mink, or a 'possum through the door of the woods is to find yourself at home. Any one can get inside the out-of-doors, as the grocery boy or the census man gets inside our houses. You can bolt in at any time on business. A trail, however, is Nature's invitation. There may be other, better beaten pathsfor mere feet. But go softly with the 'possum, and at the threshold you are met by the spirit of the wood, you are made the guest of the open, silent, secret out-of-doors.
I went down with the 'possum. He had traveled home in leisurely fashion and without fear, as his tracks plainly showed. He was full of persimmons. A good happy world this, where such fare could be had for the picking! What need to hurry home, except one were in danger of falling asleep by the way? So I thought, too, as I followed his winding path; and if I was tracking him to his den, it was only to wake him for a moment with the compliments of the season. But it was not even a momentary disturbance; for when I finally found him in his hollow gum, he was sound asleep, and only half realized that some one was poking him gently in the ribs and wishing him a merry Christmas.
The 'possum had led me to the center of the empty, hollow swamp, where the great-boled gums lifted their branches like a timbered, unshingled roof between me and the wide sky. Far away through the spaces of the rafters I saw a pair of wheeling buzzards and, under them, in lesser circles, a broad-winged hawk. Here, at the feet of the tall, clean trees, looking up through the leafless limbs, I had something of a measure for the flight of the birds. The majesty and the mystery of the distant buoyant wings were singularly impressive.
I have seen the turkey-buzzard sailing the skies on the bitterest winter days. To-day, however, could hardly be called winter. Indeed, nothing yet had felt the pinch of the cold. There was no hunger yet in the swamp, though this new snow had scared the raccoons out, and their half-human tracks along the marginof the swamp stream showed that, if not hungry, they at least feared that they might be.
For a coon hates snow. He will invariably sleep off the first light snowfalls, and even in the late winter he will not venture forth in fresh snow unless driven by hunger or some other dire need. Perhaps, like a cat or a hen, he dislikes the wetting of his feet. Or it may be that the soft snow makes bad hunting—for him. The truth is, T believe, that such a snow makes too good hunting for the dogs and the gunner. The new snow tells too clear a story. His home is no inaccessible den among the ledges; only a hollow in some ancient oak or tupelo. Once within, he is safe from the dogs; but the long fierce fight for life taught him generations ago that the nest-tree is a fatal trap when behind the dogs come the axe and the gun. So he has grown wary and enduring. He waits until the snow grows crusty, when, without sign, and almost without scent, he can slip forth among the long shadows and prowl to the edge of dawn.
Skirting the stream out toward the higher back woods, I chanced to spy a bunch of snow in one of the great sour gums, that I thought was an old nest. A second look showed me tiny green leaves, then white berries, then mistletoe.
It was not a surprise, for I had found it here before,—a long, long time before. It was back in my school-boy days, back beyond those twenty years, that I first stood here under the mistletoe and had my first romance. There was no chandelier, no pretty girl, in that romance,—only a boy, the mistletoe, the giant trees, and the somber, silent swamp. Then there was his discovery, the thrill of deep delight, and the wonder of his knowledge of the strange unnatural plant!All plants had been plants to him until, one day, he read the life of the mistletoe. But that was English mistletoe; so the boy's wonder world of plant life was still as far away as Mars, when, rambling alone through the swamp along the creek, he stopped under a big curious bunch of green, high up in one of the gums, and—made his first discovery.
So the boy climbed up again this Christmas Day at the peril of his precious neck, and brought down a bit of that old romance.
I followed the stream along through the swamp to the open meadows, and then on under the steep wooded hillside that ran up to the higher land of corn and melon fields. Here at the foot of the slope the winter sun lay warm, and here in the sheltered briery border I came upon the Christmas birds.
There was a great variety of them, feeding and preening and chirping in the vines. The tangle was a-twitter with their quiet, cheery talk. Such a medley of notes you could not hear at any other season outside a city bird store. How far the different species understood one another I should like to know, and whether the hum of voices meant sociability to them, as it certainly meant to me. Doubtless the first cause of their flocking here was the sheltered warmth and the great numbers of berry-laden bushes, for there was no lack either of abundance or variety on the Christmas table.
In sight from where I stood hung bunches of withering chicken or frost grapes, plump clusters of blue-black berries of the greenbrier, and limbs of the smooth winterberry bending with their flaming fruit. There were bushes of crimson ilex, too, trees of fruiting dogwood and holly, cedars in berry, dwarf sumacand seedy sedges, while patches on the wood slopes uncovered by the sun were spread with trailing partridge berry and the coral-fruited wintergreen. I had eaten part of my dinner with the 'possum; I picked a quantity of these wintergreen berries, and continued my meal with the birds. And they also had enough and to spare.
Among the birds in the tangle was a large flock of northern fox sparrows, whose vigorous and continuous scratching in the bared spots made a most lively and cheery commotion. Many of them were splashing about in tiny pools of snow-water, melted partly by the sun and partly by the warmth of their bodies as they bathed. One would hop to a softening bit of snow at the base of a tussock keel over and begin to flop, soon sending up a shower of sparkling drops from his rather chilly tub. A winter snow-water bath seemed a necessity, a luxury indeed; for they all indulged, splashing with the same purpose and zest that they put into their scratching among the leaves.
A much bigger splashing drew me quietly through the bushes to find a marsh hawk giving himself a Christmas souse. The scratching, washing, and talking of the birds; the masses of green in the cedars, holly, and laurels; the glowing colors of the berries against the snow; the blue of the sky, and the golden warmth of the light made Christmas in the heart of the noon that the very swamp seemed to feel.
Three months later there was to be scant picking here, for this was the beginning of the severest winter I ever knew. From this very ridge, in February, I had reports of berries gone, of birds starving, of whole coveys of quail frozen dead in the snow; but neither the birds nor I dreamed to-day of any such hunger anddeath. A flock of robins whirled into the cedars above me; a pair of cardinals whistled back and forth; tree sparrows, juncos, nuthatches, chickadees, and cedar-birds cheeped among the trees and bushes; and from the farm lands at the top of the slope rang the calls of meadowlarks.
Halfway up the hill I stopped under a blackjack oak where, in the thin snow, there were signs of something like a Christmas revel. The ground was sprinkled with acorn shells and trampled over with feet of several kinds and sizes,—quail, jay, and partridge feet; rabbit, squirrel, and mice feet, all over the snow as the feast of acorns had gone on. Hundreds of the acorns were lying about, gnawed away at the cup end, where the shell was thinnest, many of them further broken and cleaned out by the birds.
As I sat studying the signs in the snow, my eye caught a tiny trail leading out from the others straight away toward a broken pile of cord wood. The tracks were planted one after the other, so directly in line as to seem like the prints of a single foot. "That's a weasel's trail," I said, "the death's-head at this feast," and followed it slowly to the wood. A shiver crept over me as I felt, even sooner than I saw, a pair of small sinister eyes fixed upon mine. The evil pointed head, heavy but alert, and with a suggestion of fierce strength out of all relation to the slender body, was watching me from between the sticks of cordwood. And so he had been watching the mice and birds and rabbits feasting under the tree!
I packed a ball of snow round and hard, slipped forward upon my knees, and hurled it. "Spat!" it struck the end of a stick within an inch of the ugly head, filling the crevice with snow. Instantly the headappeared at another crack, and another ball struck viciously beside it. Now it was back where it first appeared, and did not flinch for the next, or the next ball. The third went true, striking with a "chug" and packing the crack. But the black, hating eyes were still watching me a foot lower down.
It is not all peace and good-will in the Christmas woods. But there is more of peace and good-will than of any other spirit. The weasels are few. More friendly and timid eyes were watching me than bold and murderous. It was foolish to want to kill—even the weasel. For one's woods are what one makes them; and so I let the man with the gun, who chanced along, think that I had turned boy again, and was snowballing the woodpile, just for the fun of trying to hit the end of the biggest stick.
I was glad he had come. As he strode off with his stained bag, I felt kindlier toward the weasel. There were worse in the woods than he,—worse, because all of their killing was pastime. The weasel must kill to live, and if he gloated over the kill, why, what fault of his? But the other weasel, the one with the blood-stained bag, he killed for the love of killing. I was glad he was gone.
The crows were winging over toward their great roost in the pines when I turned toward the town. They, too, had had good picking along the creek flats and ditches of the meadows. Their powerful wing-beats and constant play told of full crops and no fear for the night, already softly gray across the white silent fields. The air was crisper; the snow began to crackle under foot; the twigs creaked and rattled as I brushed along; a brown beech leaf wavered down and skated with a thin scratch over the crust; and pure asthe snow-wrapped crystal world, and sweet as the soft gray twilight, came the call of a quail.
The voices, colors, odors, and forms of summer were gone. The very face of things had changed; all had been reduced, made plain, simple, single, pure! There was less for the senses, but how much keener now their joy! The wide landscape, the frosty air, the tinkle of tiny icicles, and, out of the quiet of the falling twilight, the voice of the quail!
There is no day but is beautiful in the woods; and none more beautiful than one like this Christmas Day,—warm and still and wrapped, to the round red berries of the holly, in the magic of the snow.
cripple:—A dense thicket in swampy land.
good-will:—See the Bible, Luke 2:13, 14.
Cohansey:—A creek in southern New Jersey.
Read the selection through once without stopping. Afterward, go through it with these questions:—
Why might the snow mean a "hungry Christmas"? Note the color words in paragraph three: Of what value are they? Why does the pond seem small to the visitor? Does the author mean anything more than persimmons in the last part of the paragraph beginning "I filled both pockets"? What sort of man do you think he is? What is the meaning of "broken bread"? What is meant by entering the woods "at Nature's invitation"? What do you understand by "the long fierce fight for life"? What was it that the coon learned "generations ago"? What does the author mean here? Do you know anything of the Darwinian theory of life? What has it to do with what is said here about the coon? How does the author make you feel the variety and liveliness of the bird life which he observes? What shows his keenness of sight? What do you know about weasels? Is it,true that "one's woods are what one makes them"? Do you think the author judges the hunter too harshly? How does the author make you feel the charm of the late afternoon? Go through the selection and see how many different subjects are discussed! How is the unity of the piece preserved? Notice the pictures in the piece. What feeling prevails in the selection? How can you tell whether the author really loves nature? Could you write a sketch somewhat like this, telling what you saw during a walk in the woods?
A Walk in the Winter WoodsAn Outdoor Christmas TreeA Lumber Camp at ChristmasThe Winter BirdsTracking a RabbitHunting Deer in WinterA Winter LandscapeHome Decorations from the Winter FieldsWild ApplesFishing through the IceA Winter CampA Strange ChristmasPlaying Santa ClausA Snow PicnicMaking Christmas GiftsFeeding the BirdsThe Christmas GuestTurkey and Plum PuddingThe Children's Christmas PartyChristmas on the FarmThe Christmas Tree at the SchoolhouseWhat he Found in his StockingBringing Home the Christmas TreeChristmas in the SouthChristmas away from HomeA "Sensible" ChristmasChristmas at our House
A Walk in the Winter Woods:—Tell of a real or imaginary stroll in the woods when the snow is on the ground. If possible, plan the theme some time before you write, and obtain your material through actual and recent observation. In everything you say, be careful and accurate. You might speak first of the time of day at which your walk was taken; the weather; the condition of the snow. Speak of the trees: the kinds; how they looked. Were any of the trees weighted with snow? Describe the bushes, and the berries and grasses; use color words, if possible, as Mr. Sharp does. What sounds did you hear in the woods? Did you see any tracks of animals? Ifso, tell about these tracks, and show what they indicated. Describe the animals that you saw, and tell what they were doing. What did you gather regarding the way in which the animals live in winter? Speak in the same way of the birds. Re-read what Mr. Sharp says about the birds he saw, and try to make your own account clear and full of action. Did you see any signs of human inhabitants or visitors? If so, tell about them. Did you find anything to eat in the woods? Speak briefly of your return home. Had the weather changed since your entering the woods? Was there any alteration in the landscape? How did you feel after your walk?
The Winter Birds:—For several days before writing this theme, prepare material for it by observation and reading. Watch the birds, and see what they are doing and how they live. Use a field glass if you can get one, and take careful notes on what you see. Make especial use of any interesting incidents that come under your observation.
When you write, take up each kind of bird separately, and tell what you have found out about its winter life: how it looks; where you have seen it; what it was doing. Speak also of its food and shelter; the perils it endures; its intelligence; anecdotes about it. Make your theme simple and lively, as if you were talking to some one about the birds. Try to use good color words and sound words, and expressions that give a vivid idea of the activities and behavior of the birds.
When you have finished, lay the theme aside for a time; then read it again and see how you can touch it up to make it clearer and more straightforward.
Christmas at our House:—Write as if you were telling of some particular occasion, although you may perhaps be combining the events of several Christmas days. Tell of the preparations for Christmas: the planning; the cooking; the whispering of secrets. Make as much use of conversation as possible, and do not hesitate to use even very small details and little anecdotes. Perhaps you will wish to tell of the hanging of the stockings on Christmas Eve; if there are children in the family, tell what they did and said. Write as vividly as possible of Christmas morning, and the finding of the gifts; try to bring out the confusion and the happiness of opening the parcels anddisplaying the presents. Quote some of the remarks directly, and speak of particularly pleasing or absurd gifts. Go on and tell of the sports and pleasures of the day. Speak of the guests, describing some of them, and telling what they said and did. Try to bring out contrasts here. Put as much emphasis as you wish upon the dinner, and the quantities of good things consumed. Try to quote the remarks of some of the people at the table. If your theme has become rather long, you might close it by a brief account of the dispersing of the family after dinner. You might, however, complete your account of the day by telling of the evening, with its enjoyments and its weariness.
Wild Life Near HomeD.L. SharpA Watcher in the Woods" "The Lay of the Land" "Winter" "The Face of the Fields" "The Fall of the Year" "Roof and Meadow" "Wild Life in the RockiesEnos A. MillsKindred of the WildC.G.D. RobertsWatchers of the Trail" "Haunters of the Silences" "The Ways of Wood FolkW.J. LongEye SpyW.H. GibsonSharp Eyes" "Birds in the BushBradford TorreyEveryday Birds" "Nature's Invitation" "Bird Stories from Burroughs (selections)John BurroughsWinter Sunshine" "Pepacton" "Riverby" "Wake-Robin" "Signs and Seasons" "How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's BarBret HarteSanta Claus's PartnerT.N. PageThe First Christmas TreeHenry Van DykeThe Other Wise Man" "The Old Peabody PewK.D. WigginMiss Santa Claus of the PullmanAnnie F. JohnsonChristmasZona GaleA Christmas MysteryW.J. LockeChristmas Eve on LonesomeJohn Fox, Jr.By the Christmas FireS.M. CrothersColonel Carter's ChristmasF.H. SmithChristmas Jenny (inA New England Nun)Mary E. WilkinsA Christmas SermonR.L. StevensonThe Boy who Brought ChristmasAlice MorganChristmas StoriesCharles DickensThe Christmas GuestSelma LagerlöfThe Legend of the Christmas Rose" "
A mile behind is Gloucester townWhere the fishing fleets put in,A mile ahead the land dips downAnd the woods and farms begin.Here, where the moors stretch freeIn the high blue afternoon,Are the marching sun and talking sea,And the racing winds that wheel and fleeOn the flying heels of June.Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The wild geranium holds its dewLong in the boulder's shade.Wax-red hangs the cupFrom the huckleberry boughs,In barberry bells the grey moths sup,Or where the choke-cherry lifts high upSweet bowls for their carouse.Over the shelf of the sandy coveBeach-peas blossom late.By copse and cliff the swallows roveEach calling to his mate.Seaward the sea-gulls go,And the land birds all are here;That green-gold flash was a vireo,And yonder flame where the marsh-flags growWas a scarlet tanager.This earth is not the steadfast placeWe landsmen build upon;From deep to deep she varies pace,And while she comes is gone.Beneath my feet I feelHer smooth bulk heave and dip;With velvet plunge and soft upreelShe swings and steadies to her keelLike a gallant, gallant ship.These summer clouds she sets for sail,The sun is her masthead light,She tows the moon like a pinnace frailWhere her phospher wake churns bright,Now hid, now looming clear,On the face of the dangerous blueThe star fleets tack and wheel and veer,But on, but on does the old earth steerAs if her port she knew.God, dear God! Does she know her port,Though she goes so far about?Or blind astray, does she make her sportTo brazen and chance it out?I watched where her captains passed:She were better captainless.Men in the cabin, before the mast,But some were reckless and some aghast,And some sat gorged at mess.By her battered hatch I leaned and caughtSounds from the noisome hold,—Cursing and sighing of souls distraughtAnd cries too sad to be told.Then I strove to go down and see;But they said, "Thou art not of us!"I turned to those on the deck with meAnd cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:Our ship sails faster thus."Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The alder clump where the brook comes throughBreeds cresses in its shade.To be out of the moiling streetWith its swelter and its sin!Who has given to me this sweet,And given my brother dust to eat?And when will his wage come in?Scattering wide or blown in ranks,Yellow and white and brown,Boats and boats from the fishing banksCome home to Gloucester town.There is cash to purse and spend,There are wives to be embraced,Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,And hearts to take and keep to the end,—O little sails, make haste!But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,What harbor town for thee?What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,Shall crowd the banks to see?Shall all the happy shipmates thenStand singing brotherly?Or shall a haggard ruthless fewWarp her over and bring her to,While the many broken souls of menFester down in the slaver's pen,And nothing to say or do?
A mile behind is Gloucester townWhere the fishing fleets put in,A mile ahead the land dips downAnd the woods and farms begin.Here, where the moors stretch freeIn the high blue afternoon,Are the marching sun and talking sea,And the racing winds that wheel and fleeOn the flying heels of June.
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The wild geranium holds its dewLong in the boulder's shade.Wax-red hangs the cupFrom the huckleberry boughs,In barberry bells the grey moths sup,Or where the choke-cherry lifts high upSweet bowls for their carouse.
Over the shelf of the sandy coveBeach-peas blossom late.By copse and cliff the swallows roveEach calling to his mate.Seaward the sea-gulls go,And the land birds all are here;That green-gold flash was a vireo,And yonder flame where the marsh-flags growWas a scarlet tanager.
This earth is not the steadfast placeWe landsmen build upon;From deep to deep she varies pace,And while she comes is gone.Beneath my feet I feelHer smooth bulk heave and dip;With velvet plunge and soft upreelShe swings and steadies to her keelLike a gallant, gallant ship.
These summer clouds she sets for sail,The sun is her masthead light,She tows the moon like a pinnace frailWhere her phospher wake churns bright,Now hid, now looming clear,On the face of the dangerous blueThe star fleets tack and wheel and veer,But on, but on does the old earth steerAs if her port she knew.
God, dear God! Does she know her port,Though she goes so far about?Or blind astray, does she make her sportTo brazen and chance it out?I watched where her captains passed:She were better captainless.Men in the cabin, before the mast,But some were reckless and some aghast,And some sat gorged at mess.
By her battered hatch I leaned and caughtSounds from the noisome hold,—Cursing and sighing of souls distraughtAnd cries too sad to be told.Then I strove to go down and see;But they said, "Thou art not of us!"I turned to those on the deck with meAnd cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:Our ship sails faster thus."
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The alder clump where the brook comes throughBreeds cresses in its shade.To be out of the moiling streetWith its swelter and its sin!Who has given to me this sweet,And given my brother dust to eat?And when will his wage come in?
Scattering wide or blown in ranks,Yellow and white and brown,Boats and boats from the fishing banksCome home to Gloucester town.There is cash to purse and spend,There are wives to be embraced,Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,And hearts to take and keep to the end,—O little sails, make haste!
But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,What harbor town for thee?What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,Shall crowd the banks to see?Shall all the happy shipmates thenStand singing brotherly?Or shall a haggard ruthless fewWarp her over and bring her to,While the many broken souls of menFester down in the slaver's pen,And nothing to say or do?
Gloucester town: Gloucester is a seaport town in Massachusetts, the chief seat of the cod and mackerel fisheries of the coast.
Jill-o'er-the-ground: Ground ivy; usually writtenGill-over-the-ground.
Quaker-maid: Quaker ladies; small blue flowers growing low on the ground.
wax-red: The huckleberry blossom is red and waxy.
Read the poem slowly through to yourself, getting what you can out of it, without trying too hard. Note that after the third stanza the earth is compared to a ship. After you have read the poem through, go back and study it with the help of the following questions and suggestions:—
The author is out on the moors not far from the sea: What details does he select to make you feel the beauty of the afternoon? What words in the first stanza suggest movement and freedom? Why does the author stop to tell about the flowers, when he has so many important things to say? Note a change of tone at the beginning of the fourth stanza. What suggests to the author that the earth is like a ship? Why does he say that it is not a steadfast place? How does the fifth stanza remind you ofThe Ancient Mariner? Why does the author speak so passionately at the beginning of the sixth stanza? Here he wonders whether there is really any plan in the universe, or whether things all go by chance. Who are the captains of whom he speaks? What different types of people are represented in the last two lines of stanza six? What is the "noisome hold"of the Earth ship? Who are those cursing and sighing? Who aretheyin the line, "But they said, 'Thou art not of us!'"? Who aretheyin the next line but one? Why does the author turn back to the flowers in the next few lines? What is omitted from the line beginning "To be out"? Explain the last three lines of stanza eight. How do the ships of Gloucester differ from the shipEarth? What is the "arriving" spoken of in the last stanza? What two possibilities does the author suggest as to the fate of the ship? Why does he end his poem with a question? What is the purpose of the poem? Why is it considered good? What do you think was the author's feeling about the way the poor and helpless are treated? Read the poem through aloud, thinking what each line means.
Leave the early bells at chime,Leave the kindled hearth to blaze,Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time,Leave the forms of sons and fathers trudging through the misty ways,Leave the sounds of mothers taking up their sweet laborious days.Pass them by! even while our soulYearns to them with keen distress.Unto them a part is given; we will strive to see the whole.Dear shall be the banquet table where their singing spirits press;Dearer be our sacred hunger, and our pilgrim loneliness.We have felt the ancient swayingOf the earth before the sun,On the darkened marge of midnight heard sidereal rivers playing;Rash it was to bathe our souls there, but we plunged and all was done.That is lives and lives behind us—lo, our journey is begun!Careless where our face is set,Let us take the open way.What we are no tongue has told us: Errand-goers who forget?Soldiers heedless of their harry? Pilgrim people gone astray?We have heard a voice cry "Wander!" That was all we heard it say.Ask no more: 'tis much, 'tis much!Down the road the day-star calls;Touched with change in the wide heavens, like a leaf the frost winds touch,Flames the failing moon a moment, ere it shrivels white and falls;Hid aloft, a wild throat holdeth sweet and sweeter intervals.Leave him still to ease in songHalf his little heart's unrest:Speech is his, but we may journey toward the life for which we long.God, who gives the bird its anguish, maketh nothing manifest,But upon our lifted foreheads pours the boon of endless quest.
Leave the early bells at chime,Leave the kindled hearth to blaze,Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time,Leave the forms of sons and fathers trudging through the misty ways,Leave the sounds of mothers taking up their sweet laborious days.
Pass them by! even while our soulYearns to them with keen distress.Unto them a part is given; we will strive to see the whole.Dear shall be the banquet table where their singing spirits press;Dearer be our sacred hunger, and our pilgrim loneliness.
We have felt the ancient swayingOf the earth before the sun,On the darkened marge of midnight heard sidereal rivers playing;Rash it was to bathe our souls there, but we plunged and all was done.That is lives and lives behind us—lo, our journey is begun!
Careless where our face is set,Let us take the open way.What we are no tongue has told us: Errand-goers who forget?Soldiers heedless of their harry? Pilgrim people gone astray?We have heard a voice cry "Wander!" That was all we heard it say.
Ask no more: 'tis much, 'tis much!Down the road the day-star calls;Touched with change in the wide heavens, like a leaf the frost winds touch,Flames the failing moon a moment, ere it shrivels white and falls;Hid aloft, a wild throat holdeth sweet and sweeter intervals.
Leave him still to ease in songHalf his little heart's unrest:Speech is his, but we may journey toward the life for which we long.God, who gives the bird its anguish, maketh nothing manifest,But upon our lifted foreheads pours the boon of endless quest.
Do not be alarmed if you find this a little hard to understand. It is expressed in rather figurative language, and one has to study it to get its meaning. The poem is about those people who look forward constantly to something better, and feel that they must always be pressing forward at any cost. Who is represented as speaking? What sort of life are the travelers leaving behind them? Why do they feel a keen distress? What is the"whole" that they are striving to see? What is their "sacred hunger"? Why is it "dearer" than the feasting of those who stay at home? Notice how the third stanza reminds one ofGloucester Moors. Look up the wordsidereal: Can you tell what it means here? "Lives and lives behind us" meansa long time ago; you will perhaps have to ask your teacher for its deeper meaning. Do the travelers know where they are going? Why do they set forth? Note the description of the dawn in the fifth stanza. What is the boon of "endless quest"? Why is it spoken of as a gift (boon)? Compare the last line of this poem with the last line ofThe Wild Ride, on page161. Perhaps you will be interested to compare theRoad-Hymnwith Whitman'sThe Song of the Open Road.
Do the meter and verse-form seem appropriate here? Is anything gained by the difference in the length of the lines?
Streets of the roaring town,Hush for him, hush, be still!He comes, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will.Hush! Let him have his state,Give him his soldier's crown.The grists of trade can waitTheir grinding at the mill,But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown;Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.Toll! Let the great bells tollTill the clashing air is dim.Did we wrong this parted soul?We will make it up to him.Toll! Let him never guessWhat work we set him to.Laurel, laurel, yes;He did what we bade him do.Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood.A flag for the soldier's bierWho dies that his land may live;O, banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor misgive!That he heed not from the tombThe evil days draw nearWhen the nation, robed in gloom,With its faithless past shall strive.Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.
Streets of the roaring town,Hush for him, hush, be still!He comes, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will.Hush! Let him have his state,Give him his soldier's crown.The grists of trade can waitTheir grinding at the mill,But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown;Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.
Toll! Let the great bells tollTill the clashing air is dim.Did we wrong this parted soul?We will make it up to him.Toll! Let him never guessWhat work we set him to.Laurel, laurel, yes;He did what we bade him do.Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood.
A flag for the soldier's bierWho dies that his land may live;O, banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor misgive!That he heed not from the tombThe evil days draw nearWhen the nation, robed in gloom,With its faithless past shall strive.Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.
What is "his state," in line five? How has the soldier been "wronged"? Does the author think that the fight in the Philippines has not been "good"? Why? What does he mean by the last line of stanza two? What "evil days" are those mentioned in stanza three? Have they come yet? What "faithless past" is meant? Do you think that the United States has treated the Philippines unfairly?[14]