One Wreath of Rue
By Cynthia Westover Alden
The brawny lad in khaki clad,We rightly cheer. Alas,My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,The boyWho failedTo pass.A heart more brave no man could have,His soul as clear as glass.He faced with zest the doctor-test—The boyWho failedTo pass.And now the blow is hurting so,He sees the legions mass.They go to war. Be sorry forThe boyWho failedTo pass.The future grim is flouting himAs in the weakling class.Though fine and true, his years are few—The boyWho failedTo pass.For warriors proud blow bugles loud,Of silver or of brass;One wreath of rue is due untoThe boyWho failedTo pass.
The brawny lad in khaki clad,We rightly cheer. Alas,My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,The boyWho failedTo pass.
The brawny lad in khaki clad,
We rightly cheer. Alas,
My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,
The boy
Who failed
To pass.
A heart more brave no man could have,His soul as clear as glass.He faced with zest the doctor-test—The boyWho failedTo pass.
A heart more brave no man could have,
His soul as clear as glass.
He faced with zest the doctor-test—
The boy
Who failed
To pass.
And now the blow is hurting so,He sees the legions mass.They go to war. Be sorry forThe boyWho failedTo pass.
And now the blow is hurting so,
He sees the legions mass.
They go to war. Be sorry for
The boy
Who failed
To pass.
The future grim is flouting himAs in the weakling class.Though fine and true, his years are few—The boyWho failedTo pass.
The future grim is flouting him
As in the weakling class.
Though fine and true, his years are few—
The boy
Who failed
To pass.
For warriors proud blow bugles loud,Of silver or of brass;One wreath of rue is due untoThe boyWho failedTo pass.
For warriors proud blow bugles loud,
Of silver or of brass;
One wreath of rue is due unto
The boy
Who failed
To pass.
Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors
An Interview with Honoré Willsie
"The war has thus far produced two great pieces of literature. One of these is H. G. Wells' 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through.' The other is President Wilson's War Message. I was curiously moved by 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through.' The effect of that novel on me was to move me away from the war, to let me get a picture of the war as a great procession against the horizon.
"Every code that I had—in government, in religion, in ethics—had been obliterated by the events of the last three years. But this novel showed me that there could be a code—that something coherent and true must come out of the chaos. Reading as many manuscripts as I do, I grow stale on ideas. I want to read out-and-out trash or else something that will give me a new philosophy of life. And Wells, at any rate, showed me that there could be a new philosophy.
"The great task before our writers to-day is to do for the individual what President Wilson's Declaration of War did for the nations of the world. This is the most important thing a writer can do—to make a new code for mankind. I can't think of any American writer able to do it. But did any of us expect Wells to write such a book as 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through'?
"One significant thing about President Wilson's message is that its author is absolutely sure of the hereafter. He is convinced that God is Eternal Goodness. All his utterances are the utterances of a man with a deep faith that never has been disturbed. And that sort of man is essentially the man for statesmanship.
"Religious fervor was the driving force of the fathers of our country. For an agnostic like myself to witness an exhibition of this force is to look wistfully at a power that cannot be understood. It is the spirit of the little red schoolhouse, of the meeting-house, of the town meeting—the spirit of American statesmanship and of American democracy.
"Human beings aren't big enough to get along without religion. Somehow or other we moderns have got to have some faith—as Lincoln had it, and Adams, and Washington—as Wilson has it. We need a new religion. For Wilson won't happen again very often.
"President Wilson's message formulates a new philosophy of government. His message came on Europe like a flash of light in the darkness of battle.
"President Wilson seems to have started his message with a definite conviction as to the existence of God. Mr. Wells must have started his novel with the hope of finding God through it. I size Wells up as a modern with the modern craving for God. Wells does not lead you to God, but he gives you the idea that God exists, and is just over beyond.
"But then religion is a favorite theme of the novelist. Winston Churchill's 'The Inside of the Cup' indicated that social service would take the place of religion. Well, maybe it would for some people. But nowadays most people need a religion that says that there is a hereafter.
"I think that I am the only human being in captivity who has read all of Holt's book on the cosmic relations. And what I got out of it was not a belief in spiritualism, but a realization of the fact that every one, high and low, rich and poor, educated and illiterate, has a craving for knowledge of life after death, has a craving for belief in life after death. And the war has raised this feeling to the nth power. We feel that we shall go mad if there is no hereafter. Mr. Wells leads us to believe that he will find that there is a hereafter. President Wilson shows us that he is sure there is one.
"This craving for conviction of the hereafter, increased by the war, inevitably makes our literature more spiritual. So we are seeing the last for awhile of the sex novel and of sordid realism. We no longer find people who believe that since you are an artist you should describe the contents of a garbage can. The soul of man as well as the body of man is coming into its own as the theme of the novelist.
"And the war is responsible. You can't stick out your tongue and make a face at God when a shell may momentarily hurl you from the earth. And who cares to read a sex novel now? What do the little bedroom scandals of the flimsy novels matter when the womanhood of Belgium has been despoiled?
"I am asked if our writers have deteriorated of late years. I think that the rank and file of our serial writers are way below those of forty or fifty years ago. Then our novelists were fewer and better. Look at the files of the old magazines and you will find that the novels that appeared serially in those days were much better than those that are appearing to-day. But one or two of our best novelists are just as fine as any of our writers of a bygone generation—Margaret Deland and Gertrude Atherton, for instance.
"And in other branches of literature I think we have improved on our forefathers. American poets have never before done such exquisite things as they are doing to-day, and one or two short story writers are doing better things than were ever done before in this country. If you compare the short stories in old issues of the magazines with those in the current issues you will find that the old short stories are as much inferior to the new short stories as the old novels—the serialized novels—are superior to the new ones."
A Field
By Minnie Stichter
Sometime I expect to turn a sharp corner and come face to face with myself, according to the ancient maxim, "extremes meet." For, did I not vow to the Four Great Walls that had imprisoned me for nine months, that I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth so soon as vacation should open the doors? And did I not spend almost my entire summer within sight of my home, and in a field of a few acres dimension?
I caught sight of some flowers, just inside the barbed wire fencing the track, that were fairer than any I had yet gathered for my vases. As the old song has it, "O, brighter the flowers on the other side seem!" No one saw me get under that six-stranded barbed-wire fence, and I am not going to tell how I did it. But when I got through I felt as well guarded as though attended by a retinue of soldiers. And I found myself in another world—a dream-world!
It was a large field rosy with red clover and waving with tall timothy. A single tree glistened and rustled invitingly. In its shade I rested, refreshing myself with the field sights and sounds and fragrances. It was delightful to be the center of so much beauty as circled round about me. Then I had only to rest on the rosy clover-carpet at the foot of the tree, and the tall grass eclipsed all things earthly save the tree, and the sky overhead, and the round mat of clover under the tree which the grass ringed about. I had often wished for Siegfried's magic cloak. Well, here was something quite as good, which, if it did not render me invisible to the world, made the world invisible to me. Who of you would not be glad to have the old world with its "everyday endeavors and desires," its folly, its pride and its tears, drop out of sight for a while, leaving you in a flowery zone of perfect quiet and beauty, hedged in by a wall of grass!
There were many "afterwards." And the marvel of it all was that, for all I could do, the field retained its virgin splendor and kept the secret of my goings-in and comings-out most completely.
After the daisies, there came a season of black-eyed Susans. That was when the grasses were tallest and the feeling of mystery did most abound. I know I had been there many days before I discovered the myriads of wild roses near the crabtree thicket—those fairies' flowers so exquisite in their pink frailty that mortal breath is rude. Only when I reached the hedge, bounding the remote side of the field, did I enter into my full inheritance. Along a barbed-wire fence had grown up sumac, elderberry, crabtrees and nameless brambles, while over all trailed the wild grapevine, bearing the most perfect miniature clusters, fit to be sculptured by Trentanove into immortal beauty. And this hedge was the source of ever increasing wonder the whole summer long. I depended on it alone for sensational denouements after the grass was cut for hay. When the field lay shorn, like other fields about it far and wide, I could not have been lured hitherward but for the hedge. There the hard green berries of a peculiar bramble ripened into wax-white pellet-sized drops clustered together on a woody stem by the most coral-pink pedicles ever designed by sea-sprites.
In its time came the elderberry bloom, and its purple fruit; the garnet fruit of the sumach and its flaming foliage; the lengths of vines and their purple clusters—all these and more also ministered to my delight.
About goldenrod time, the school-bell rang me in from the field, but I managed to take recesses long enough to behold the kaleidoscopic views brought before me by the turning of nature's hand. The smooth velvety green of the field with its border of gold and lavender—great widths of thistle and goldenrod following the line of fence—was like the broidered mantle of some celestial Sir Walter Raleigh, spread for the queens of earth. I was no queen; but I did not envy royalty, since I doubted if it had any such cherished possessions as my field in its various phases.
In the November days, the brightness of the fields seemed to be inverted and to be seen in the opalescent tints of the sky. Then, the clearness of the atmosphere, the wider horizon, the less hidden homes and doings of men, had this message for the children of men: "If there is any secret in your life, leave it out."
When it is December and the fields are too snowy and wind-swept for pleasure-grounds, where the only bits of brightness are the embroideries of the scarlet pips of the wild-rose, it is good to nestle by the cozy fireside and conjure it all up again, and nourish a feeling of expectancy for the spring and summer that shall come. Again, the flowers and waving grass and drowsy warmth of the summer day; again, the songs of flitting birds, the scented sweets of the new-mown hay. Again the work of the fields goes on before me like a play in pantomime! Again, with my eyes, I follow home the boys with their cows, to the purple rim of the hill beyond which only my fancy has ever gone. Again I quit work with the tired laborer. Again I dream of the open, free, unfettered song that life might be if it were lived more simply, with less of artificiality. And again, for the sake of one patient toiler in the town, whose life-task admits of no holiday, I have the grace to return thither and begin where I left off—the life common to you and to me, the life ordained for us from the beginning.
Your Lad, and My Lad
By Randall Parrish
Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;The same old Flag, the same old Faith—the Freedom of the World—Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.
Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,
From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;
The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,
While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.
With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;
And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,
Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;
The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,
With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.
Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;
For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;The same old Flag, the same old Faith—the Freedom of the World—Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.
Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,
Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;
The same old Flag, the same old Faith—the Freedom of the World—
Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.
Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,
As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.
Peace and Then—?
By Detlev Fredrik Tillisch
Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace. Time: Noon.CASTMrs. Claire Hamilton—about 35 years of age—portly—simply dressed.Master Hal Hamilton—her son—about 10 years of age—full of life—dressed in Boy Scout uniform.Mr. John Hamilton—soldier—botanist—about 39 years of age—tall—well built.Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and endeavoring to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three futile attempts she becomes tired of standing and takes seat on wooden bench in front of her stand. Takes letter from pocket—sighs and begins to read letter aloud.
Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace. Time: Noon.
CAST
Mrs. Claire Hamilton—about 35 years of age—portly—simply dressed.
Master Hal Hamilton—her son—about 10 years of age—full of life—dressed in Boy Scout uniform.
Mr. John Hamilton—soldier—botanist—about 39 years of age—tall—well built.
Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.
Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and endeavoring to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three futile attempts she becomes tired of standing and takes seat on wooden bench in front of her stand. Takes letter from pocket—sighs and begins to read letter aloud.
Mrs. Hamilton (reading)."Dearest Love and Hal Boy—We are still in the bowels of hell—but even this would be nothing if I but knew my loved ones were well and happy. (She wipes away a tear and continues reading.) Nothing but a miracle can end this terrible war. Give my own dear Hallie boy a kiss from his longing papa." (She lays letter on her lap and meditates.) Peace (shakes her head—looks at date of letter.) February 16th—six months past and now it's all over—three months ago—Oh, God, bring him back to me and my boy. (She goes back of flower stand and brings out box of mignonettes. Hal comes running in with bundle of newspapers and very much excited—his sleeve is torn. He stands still and looks at mother rather proudly and defiantly.)
Mrs. Hamilton.Hal Boy—what's the trouble?
Hal.I licked Fritz.
Mrs. Hamilton.What for?
Hal.He said it took the whole world to lick the Germans.
Mrs. Hamilton.But, Hal, my boy—the war is over—you mustn't be hateful—be kind and forgiving.
Hal.Make them bring back my daddy then.
Mrs. Hamilton.You still have your mother—(Hal runs to mother and embraces her tenderly.)
Mrs. Hamilton.Whose birthday is it to-day? (He thinks—pause.) This is the 20th of August—now think hard. (She awaits answer—silence—then takes box of mignonettes.) Whose favorite flower is the mignonette?
Hal.Papa's! Papa's! (Claps his hands boyishly.)
Mrs. Hamilton.Yes, Hal—it's papa's birthday and mother is remembering the day by decorating our little stand with the flowers your papa has grown. (He caresses the mignonettes tenderly.)
Hal.Dear daddy—dear flowers—aren't they lovely, mother?
Mrs. Hamilton.Yes, Hal. (She wipes away a tear, trying to conceal her emotions from her son.)
Hal.Maybe some day I'll be a famous botanist like papa and then you'll have two boxes. (Mother is silent trying to keep back the tears and Hal notices it.) Papa is coming home soon, isn't he, mother? (She just shakes her head.)
Mrs. Hamilton.We must be brave.
Hal.When I get big I'm going to be a soldier and be brave like daddy.
Mrs. Hamilton.That won't be necessary any more—it isn't the people who want to fight.
Hal.But daddy did and you bet if anybody makes me sore I'll fight too.
Mrs. Hamilton.No, my boy—daddy didn't want to fight——
Hal.Then why did he go?
Mrs. Hamilton.Hal, you're a little boy and wouldn't understand—but just remember what your mother tells you: Don't be selfish—be tolerant, honest and charitable to all the peoples of the world, the big and the small alike. (Enter passer-by who stops to look over plants. After Mrs. Hamilton has shown several and given him prices, he picks up the box of mignonettes.)
Man.I'll take this box.
Mrs. Hamilton (confused, not knowing whether to tell stranger about that particular box of flowers or sell it, as she sorely needs money. Then she picks up another plant to show it.)Here's a very sturdy plant, sir.
Man.But I want this one. (Pointing to box of mignonettes.) How much is it? I'm in a hurry.
Hal (goes to stranger and takes box from his hands).You can't have them—they're daddy's.
Man (pushing him to one side).Get away from here, you little ruffian.
Mrs. Hamilton.That's my son, sir—he's not a ruffian. His father has not returned from the front and that——
Man (interrupting).Oh, yes—yes—we hear those stories every day now on every corner—it's the beggar's capital. (He walks away hurriedly, but Hal starts after with clenched fist.)
Mrs. Hamilton.Hal! Hal! What did mother tell you a few moments ago?
Hal (coming back).But he made me sore.
Mrs. Hamilton.What's the news—(Hal hands her a paper, kisses her and starts up street.)
Hal.Paper—extra—paper! (He disappears.)
Mrs. Hamilton (is attracted by headlines in paper and begins to read aloud)."Fifty men return to-day from the front to be placed in the asylum." (She buries her face in her hands.) Better that he were dead. (Sound of footsteps is heard. Enter detachment of ten men in uniform in charge of a sergeant. They swing corner of flower stand and Mrs. Hamilton watches every man and there is a tense silence. Suddenly Mrs. Hamilton rushes toward them.)
Mrs. Hamilton.John! John! My boy! (They halt. Mrs. Hamilton swoons. Sergeant goes to her and assists her to bench in front of stand. She becomes calm and goes toward husband with out-stretched arms.) Don't you know me? Claire, your wife! (He stares at her, but shows no signs of recognition.) You remember Hal—Hal, your own boy—our little boy—John! (He just looks at her and smiles foolishly. Sergeant takes her gently by the arm to lead her away, thinking her hysterically mistaken as many others have been.)
Sergeant.Are you quite sure, madam, that he is your husband?
Mrs. Hamilton.Yes—John Hamilton—have you no record——
Sergeant.Not yet. But time will clear away any doubts——
Mrs. Hamilton.Time—time! I've waited long enough on time. He's mine and I want him. (Turns toward husband.) You want to stay here with me and our boy—don't you, John? (Pause.) Sergeant, let me have him.
Sergeant (trying to hide his emotion).You're quite sure, madam—(Mrs. Hamilton nods and sergeant takes John from ranks. John just stares. Mrs. Hamilton leads him tenderly to seat. Sergeant starts others to march.)
Sergeant.I'll return for him after delivering these men. (Mrs. Hamilton takes no notice of his remarks and they march off.)
Mrs. Hamilton (kissing his hands tenderly and giving him all signs of love and affection).Doesn't it seem good to be with us again? (He smiles foolishly.) And our boy Hal—He is so large now—You'll see him soon. Think of it—he's ten years old. (Hal enters and without noticing father rushes toward his mother, holding a package in his hand. His father sees him and notices his uniform—rises quickly and rushes toward him but mother grabs his arm and holds him back. Hal remains standing.)
Mrs. Hamilton.That's Hal—your own boy. Hal—your son.
Mr. Hamilton (looks at Hal fiercely).Attention! (Hal looks perplexed.)
Mrs. Hamilton.This is your own papa—my boy. (Hal runs toward him but stops.)
Mr. Hamilton.Attention! (His hands grab his pocket for revolver but finds none.) You scullion—this is my girl! (Turns and puts arms around Mrs. Hamilton.) Aren't you, Sissy? (Mrs. Hamilton realizes situation and plays her part—leads him to seat—strokes his hair and caresses him.)
Mrs. Hamilton.What have you, Hal?
Hal.I sold all my papers and brought you a little cake for daddy's birthday.
Mrs. Hamilton (smiles and shakes her head. She takes box of mignonettes and shows them to Mr. Hamilton.).You surely remember these—your own mignonettes—your prize? (She is silent. He smells flowers—she anxiously awaits any signs of recognition—long pause—a slight spark of intelligence comes over him as he fondles the flowers—Mrs. Hamilton very tense but says nothing. Hal remains standing as if rooted to the spot. Enter sergeant.)
Sergeant.I must deliver him with the others, madam. (No reply.) It's my duty. (He goes to take Mr. Hamilton by the arm, but Mrs. Hamilton interferes.)
Mrs. Hamilton.Duty! Duty! It has been my duty to slave and starve—my husband has done his duty—he volunteered his services—I willingly let him go—for what? For whom? (Pause.) Now it's all over. This is the result to me—to thousands, but now—(stands between Mr. Hamilton and sergeant)—God has brought him back to me and God will keep him with me!
Mr. Hamilton (in a whisper).God—(rubs hands over eyes)—God—— (Smells fragrance of the mignonettes. He takes Mrs. Hamilton's hand and Hal runs to him and kneels beside him.) My mignonette. (Smiles to Mrs. Hamilton and Hal.) My mignonettes.
Semper Fidelis
By Addie B. Billington
When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,Time's transient guest,One large of heart and finely quick of brainFound early rest.Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,Bedecked with flowers,His last Romance should lie, forever hidFrom sight of ours.Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,Where his had wrought,Nor Fancy weave strange threads—to match by guessThe strands he sought.The motives worthy and the action grand,In faithful trust,To bury what they could not understand,With fleeting dust.And if within the years there treasured lies,'Neath Memory's trance,Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize—A life's Romance—Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,When I am gone,Striving its inmost meaning to discern;'Tis mine alone.
When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,Time's transient guest,One large of heart and finely quick of brainFound early rest.Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,Bedecked with flowers,His last Romance should lie, forever hidFrom sight of ours.Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,Where his had wrought,Nor Fancy weave strange threads—to match by guessThe strands he sought.The motives worthy and the action grand,In faithful trust,To bury what they could not understand,With fleeting dust.And if within the years there treasured lies,'Neath Memory's trance,Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize—A life's Romance—Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,When I am gone,Striving its inmost meaning to discern;'Tis mine alone.
When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,
Time's transient guest,
One large of heart and finely quick of brain
Found early rest.
Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,
Bedecked with flowers,
His last Romance should lie, forever hid
From sight of ours.
Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,
Where his had wrought,
Nor Fancy weave strange threads—to match by guess
The strands he sought.
The motives worthy and the action grand,
In faithful trust,
To bury what they could not understand,
With fleeting dust.
And if within the years there treasured lies,
'Neath Memory's trance,
Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize—
A life's Romance—
Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,
When I am gone,
Striving its inmost meaning to discern;
'Tis mine alone.
Our Bird Friends
By Margaret Coulson Walker
Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it will broaden our sympathies as well.
Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees, represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them, as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a punishment for their crimes.
In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born, once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly shares with them the fruit of his toil.
While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest of earth—beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of vital national importance.
Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous, and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.
In ancient times the chief birds of portent were the raven or crow, the owl and the woodpecker, though there were a number of others on the prophetic list.
As an example of interest let us consider our friend the raven and his congener the crow, who are so confused in literature, as well as in the minds of those not familiar with ornithological classification, that it is almost impossible to treat them separately. The raven is a larger bird and not quite so widely distributed as the crow, but in general appearance and habits they are practically the same.
If tradition is to be credited, we are more indebted to this bird of ancient family than to any other feathered creature, for he has played an important part in history, sacred and profane, in literature, and in art.
On the authority of the Koran we know that it was he who first taught man to bury his dead. When Cain did not know what disposition to make of the body of his slain brother, "God sent a raven, who killed another raven in his presence and then dug a pit with his beak and claws and buried him therein." It was the raven whom Noah sent forth to learn whether the waters had abated—one of the rare instances wherein he ever proved faithless to his trust—and it was he who gave sustenance to the prophet Elijah.
In Norse mythology, Odin, the greatest of all the gods, the raven's God, had for his chief advisers two ravens, Hugin and Munin (Mind and Memory), who were sent out by him each morning on newsgathering journeys, and who returned to him at nightfall to perch on his shoulders and whisper into his ears intelligence of the day. When news of unusual importance was desired, Odin himself in raven guise went forth to seek it, and when the Norse armies went into battle they followed the raven standard, a banner under which William the Conqueror fought. When bellied by the breezes it betokened success, but when it hung limp, only defeat was expected.
Norse navigators took with them a pair of ravens to be liberated and followed as guides; if the bird returned it was known that land did not lie in that direction; if they did not, they were followed. The discoveries of both Iceland and Greenland are attributed to their leadership.
To the Romans and Greeks the raven was the chief bird of omen, whose effigy was borne on their banners, and whose auguries were followed with greatest confidence, while to the German mind he was his satanic majesty made manifest in feathers. In some parts of Germany these birds are believed to hold the souls of the damned, while in other European sections priests only are believed to be so reincarnated.
In Sweden the ravens croaking at night in the swamps are said to be the ghosts of murdered persons who have been denied Christian burial, and whom on this account Charon has refused ferriage across the River Styx.
As a companion of saints this bird has had too many experiences to mention.
By some nations he was regarded as the bearer of propitious news from the gods—and sacrosanct, to others he was the precursor of evil and an object of dread. With divining power, which enabled him for ages to tell the farmer of coming rain, the maiden of the coming of her lover and the invalid of the coming of death, he was received with joy or sadness, according to the messages he bore.
In England he was looked upon with greater favor; there the mere presence of the home of a raven in a tree-top was enough to insure the continuance in power of the family owning the estate.
The wealth of raven literature bears indubitable testimony to the interest people of all times and all localities have felt in this remarkable bird—an interest certain to increase with acquaintance.
To one with mind open to rural charm, this picturesque bird, solemnly stalking about the fields, or majestically flapping his way to the treetops, is as much a part of the landscape as the fields themselves, or the trees upon their borders; it possesses an interest different from that of any other creature of the feathered race. Though he no longer pursues the craft of the augur, his superior intelligence, great dignity and general air of mystery inspire confidence in his abilities in that line.
What powers were his in the old days! Foolish maidens and ignorant sailors might put their faith in the divining powers of the flighty wren; others might consult the swallow and the kingfisher; but it was to the "many-wintered crow" that kings and the great ones of earth applied for advice, and it was he who never failed them. According to Pliny, he was the only bird capable of realizing the meaning of his portents.
In the early morning light the worthy successors of the ancient Hugin and Munin go forth to-day in quest of news of interest to their clan, just as those historic messengers did in the days when the mighty Norse gods awaited their return, that they might act on the intelligence gathered by them during the daylight hours; and when slanting beams call forth the vesper songs of more tuneful birds, they return, followed by long lines of other crows, to their usual haunts on the borders of the marshes. Singly or in long lines, never in loose flocks like blackbirds, they arrive from all directions, till what must be the whole tribe is gathered together—a united family—for the night's repose.
As there in the treetops in the early evening, in convention assembled, they discuss important affairs, who can doubt that certain ones of their number are recognized as leaders, and that they have some form of government among themselves? One after another delivers himself of a harangue, then the whole assemblage joins in noisy applause—or is it disapproval? At other times sociability seems to be the sole object of the gathering.
As one old crow, more meditative than the rest, at the close of the conclave always betakes himself to the same perch, the lonely, up-thrust shaft of a lightning-shattered tree on the hillside, we decide that here is old Munin, who has selected this perch as one favorable to meditation—a place where he may ponder undisturbed over the occurrences of the day.
Others among the group have habits as fixed and noticeable. Even though approaching his perch from the opposite direction, one will be seen to circle and draw near it from the accustomed side; some of the more decided ones will invariably remain just where they alight; others will turn around and arrange themselves on their perches indefinitely. In the fields it will be noticed that some are socially inclined and forage in groups, while others, either from personal choice or that of their neighbors, are more solitary. Like members of the human family, each has his own individual characteristic.
While the chief charm of the crow is his intelligence, his dignity also claims our attention. Who ever saw one of his tribe do anything foolish or unbecoming to the funeral director he has been ever since the birth of time, and that he must ever be while time endures? The ancients believed him to be able to scent a funeral several days before death occurred, so sensitive was he to mortuary influences, and there is little doubt he still possesses the power to discern approaching death in many creatures smaller than himself—and to whom he expects to extend the rite of sepulchre. Inside and out he is clothed in deepest black; even his tongue and the inside of his mouth are in mourning. Seeming to think it incumbent on him to live up to his funeral garb and occupation, faithful to his trust, with clerical solemnity he goes about his everyday duties.
Gazing on them from his watchtower in the tree tops, what does this grave creature think of the gayer birds that dwell in the meadows and groves round about? What thinks he of the clownish bobolink, in motley nuptial livery, pouring out his silly soul in gurgling, rollicking song, in his efforts to please a possible mate, then quarreling with both her and his rivals, who also have donned cap and bell to win her favor? What of the unpretentious home—a mere hollow in the ground—where the care-free pair go to housekeeping? What of the redwings building their nests among the reeds in the midst of the marsh—so low as almost to touch the water? Of the fitful wren, incessantly singing of love to his mate, yet who fails to assist her in nest-building, and who proves but an indifferent provider for his young family? Of the lonely phoebe, calling in plaintive, mysterious tones to a mate unresponsive to his sorrowful beseechings? Of the robin, who makes of the grove a sanctuary? He doubtless has his opinions concerning every one of them, for he views them all with interest. Hearing all the other birds singing their love and seeing them winning favor with their brilliant colors, does he envy them?
On the theory of compensation, his sterling qualities render accomplishments and decorative raiment unnecessary. With no song in which to tell his story, and no garments gay to captivate the eye, the crow must needs live his love—and he does—to the end. Seriously he wins the mate to whom he remains true forever. To him the marital bond is not the mere tie of a season, but one that holds through life. He assists the dusky bride of his choice in establishing a commodious home in the most commanding situation available—the top of the tallest tree in the edge of the wood, and which may have been planted by one of his ancestors. He assists her in giving warmth to their eggs in the nest. He carries food to her while she broods over them. He braves every danger in protecting both her and them against predatory hawks and owls and frolicking squirrels, to whom he is known as the "warrior crow." With tenderest solicitude he relieves his mate as far as he can in ministering to their nestlings.
And what of the young crows in the nest? When their elders are away on commissary tours, the young ones, bewailing the absence of parents almost constantly, are always found, on the return, in attitudes of expectancy. To them the approach of older crows, even though it be from the left, is never ominous of anything but good. And when after many excursions baby appetites have been satisfied, in their lofty cradles in the tree tops, the infant crows are rocked by the breezes, and though the tuneless throats of the parents yield no songs they are not without music, for soft æolian lullabies soothe them to sleep.
On hearing farmers talk, one would think that the diet of the crow is entirely granivorous, while no bird has a more adaptable appetite; everything eatable is perfectly acceptable—harmful grubs, beetles, worms, young rats, mice, snakes and moles, as well as mollusks, acorns, nuts, wild fruit and berries are among his staple articles of diet. And, though it is no longer believed that "he shakes contagion from his ominous wing," he occasions a lamentable amount of infant mortality among rabbits, and squirrels, and even among weak-limbed lambs, depriving them of health, strength and happiness—but not through magic. These last he attacks in the eye, as the most vulnerable point. In the old days he is reputed to have met with great success as an oculist; in these his patients never recover.
In winter, when cereal stores and acorns which supply the season's want lie buried in the snow, and when such animals as in youth were ready prey have grown to a more formidable majority, crows frequently suffer and perish from hunger, and when snows lie long on the ground many of them are found dead beneath their roosting places.
The voice of the crow when heard distinctly has in it something of the winter's harshness and seems to harmonize best with winter sounds—creaking boughs and shrieking winds—but when modulated by distance it is not unmusical. In the twilight, when calling to his belated brethren across the marshes, his uncanny call might well be taken for the cry of a lost soul craving Christian burial. Yet this might depend on one's mood. To each he seems to speak a different language. To St. Athanasius he said: "Cras, cras!" (To-morrow, to-morrow). To the sympathetic Tennyson he always called, in tenderest accents, the name "Maud."
Though this bird is said to have no tongue for expressing the happier emotions, the voice of the mother crow when soothing her nestlings, with gurgling notes of endearment, is tender as the robin's; and the head of the family, though croaking savagely when his mate is molested, and though able to send an exultant "caw" after a retreating enemy, never lowers himself by scolding as the jay does.
Whatever his faults may be—and they are many—to anyone taking the trouble to study the crow, either in captivity or in his native environment, he will prove the most interesting example of his race, an agreeable companion, an ideal home-maker, a thrifty being, a liberal provider, an able defender of his family, a destroyer of harmful insect and animal life, a burier of the dead, a creature of dignity, a keen observer, and the intellectual marvel of the bird world.
A Load of Hay
By James B. Weaver
Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,Bound for the office I speed away,When my auto brushes—a load of hay!Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,For things I loved as a boy seem near:Scent of meadows at early morn,Miles of waving fields of corn,Lowing cattle and colts at play—Far have I drifted another way!Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,Answering nicker at toss of hay—Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.There, my driver stops with a jerk;Then far aloft to the scene of my work;But all day long midst the city's roarMy heart is the heart of a boy once more,My feet in old-time fields astray,Lured—by the scent from a load of hay!
Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,Bound for the office I speed away,When my auto brushes—a load of hay!
Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,
Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,
Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,
Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,
Bound for the office I speed away,
When my auto brushes—a load of hay!
Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,For things I loved as a boy seem near:Scent of meadows at early morn,Miles of waving fields of corn,Lowing cattle and colts at play—Far have I drifted another way!
Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,
For things I loved as a boy seem near:
Scent of meadows at early morn,
Miles of waving fields of corn,
Lowing cattle and colts at play—
Far have I drifted another way!
Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,Answering nicker at toss of hay—Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.
Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!
Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!
Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,
Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,
Answering nicker at toss of hay—
Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.
There, my driver stops with a jerk;Then far aloft to the scene of my work;But all day long midst the city's roarMy heart is the heart of a boy once more,My feet in old-time fields astray,Lured—by the scent from a load of hay!
There, my driver stops with a jerk;
Then far aloft to the scene of my work;
But all day long midst the city's roar
My heart is the heart of a boy once more,
My feet in old-time fields astray,
Lured—by the scent from a load of hay!
Iowa as a Literary Field
By Johnson Brigham[1]
Literary Iowa in the Nineteenth Century
Late in the last century readers of books awoke to the fact that the world-including, world-inviting prairies of the Mississippi Valley were no longer inarticulate; that in this great "Heart of the World's Heart," among the millions who have been drawn to these prairie states, there are lives as rich—in all that really enriches—as those immortalized in the literature of New England, or of the Pacific slope. It was not to be expected that the westward-moving impulse to create would cease on reaching the Mississippi River.
In Iowa's pioneer days but little original matter found its way into print except contributions to the rough and ready journalism of the period. A few pioneer writers, possessed of the historiographer's instinct, performed a rare service to the young commonwealth by passing on to future generations their first-hand knowledge of the prominent men and events of the first half of the century. Chief among these are Theodore S. Parvin, William Salter, Alexander R. Fulton, Samuel S. Howe and Charles Aldrich. The two last named published several series of "The Annals of Iowa" which remain unfailing reservoirs of information to later historians and students of Iowa history. Iowa Masonry is specially indebted to Professor Parvin for his invaluable contributions to the history of the order in Iowa. Dr. Salter wrote the first notable Iowa biography, that of James W. Grimes, published in 1876. Fulton's "Red Men of Iowa" is as valuable as it is rare, for, though written as late as 1882, it is the first exhaustive attempt to describe the tribes originally inhabiting Iowa.
The war period—1861-5—developed "Iowa in War Times," by S. H. M. Byers, and "Iowa Colonels and Regiments," by A. A. Stuart, also many valuable personal sketches and regimental histories.
Long before the close of the century, the name of Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers had grown familiar to the people of Iowa, because of the popularity of his song entitled "Sherman's March to the Sea," and because contemporary historians, attracted by its suggestive title, adapted it as especially appropriate for the most dramatic event in the history of the war for the Union.
Major Byers' most lasting contribution to literature is his poem "The March to the Sea," epic in character and interspersed with lyrics of the war. Reading this, one can hear the thrilling bugle call, and "see once again the bivouacs in the wood."
Looking again, one can see the army in motion—