Chapter I: JOURNEYED South to meet the Spring

To feel the soft tide’s gentle rise
That to my heart again should bring,
Foretold by many a whispering wing,
The old, the new, the sweet surprise.

For once, the wonder was not new—
And yet it wore a newer grace:
For all its innocence of hue,
Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew,
I had but left—in Helen’s face.
_Robert Underwood Johnson._

BEFORE THE BLOSSOM

IN the tassel-time of spring
Love’s the only song to sing;
Ere the ranks of solid shade
Hide the bluebird’s flitting wing,
While in open forest glade
No mysterious sound or thing
Haunt of green has found or made,
Love’s the only song to sing.

Though in May each bush be dressed
Like a bride, and every nest
Learn Love’s joyous repetend,
Yet the half-told tale is best
At the budding,—with its end
Much too secret to be guessed,
And its fancies that attend
April’s passion unexpressed.

Love and Nature communing
Gave us Arcady. Still ring—
Vales across and groves among—
Wistful memories, echoing
Pans far-off and fluty song
Poet! nothing harsher sing;
Be, like Love and Nature, young
In the tassel-time of spring.
_Robert Underwood Johnson._

LOVE IN THE CALENDAR

WHEN chinks in April’s windy dome
Let through a day of June,
And foot and thought incline to roam,
And every sound’s a tune;
When Nature fills a fuller cup,
And hides with green the gray,—
Then, lover, pluck your courage up
To try your fate in May.

Though proud she was as sunset clad
In Autumn’s fruity shades,
Love too is proud, and brings (gay lad!)
Humility to maids.
Scorn not from nature’s mood to learn,
Take counsel of the day:
Since haughty skies to tender turn,
Go try your fate in May.

Though cold she seemed as pearly light
Adown December eves,
And stern as night when March winds smite
The beech’s lingering leaves;
Yet Love hath seasons like the year,
And grave will turn to gay,—
Then, lover, hearken not to fear,
But try your fate in May.

And you whose art it is to hide
The constant love you feel:
Beware, lest overmuch of pride
Your happiness shall steal.
No longer pout, for May is here,
And hearts will have their way;
Love’s in the calendar, my dear,
So yield to fate—and May!
_Robert Underwood Johnson._

MY GRANDMOTHER’S TURKEY-TAIL FAN

IT owned not a color that vanity dons
Or slender wits choose for display;
Its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze,
A brown softly blended with gray.
From her waist to her chin, spreading out without break,
’Twas built on a generous plan:
The pride of the forest was slaughtered to make
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

For common occasions it never was meant:
In a chest between two silken cloths
’Twas kept safely hidden with careful intent
In camphor to keep out the moths.
’Twas famed far and wide through the whole country side,
From Beersheba e’en unto Dan;
And often at meeting with envy ’twas eyed,
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

Camp-meetings, indeed, were its chiefest delight.
Like a crook unto sheep gone astray
It beckoned backsliders to re-seek the right,
And exhorted the sinners to pray.
It always beat time when the choir went wrong,
In psalmody leading the van.
Old Hundred, I know, was its favorite song—
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

A fig for the fans that are made nowadays,
Suited only to frivolous mirth!
A different thing was the fan that I praise,
Yet it scorned not the good things of earth.
At bees and at quiltings ’twas aye to be seen;
The best of the gossip began
When in at the doorway had entered serene
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

Tradition relates of it wonderful tales.
Its handle of leather was buff.
Though shorn of its glory, e’en now it exhales
An odor of hymn-books and snuff.
Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace:
’Twas limned for the future to scan,
Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face,
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
_Samuel Minturn Peck._

VALENTINE

IF thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!

If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathed low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring
Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
My state shall be above a king,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
_Edith Matilda Thomas._

A VALENTINE

OH! little loveliest lady mine,
What shall I send for your valentine?
Summer and flowers are far away;
Gloomy old Winter is king to-day;
Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine:
What shall I do for a valentine?

I’ve searched the gardens all through and through
For a bud to tell of my love so true;
But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead,
And the snow beats down on my poor little head:
So, little loveliest lady mine,
Here is my heart for your valentine!
_Laura Elizabeth Richards._

ON A HYMN-BOOK

OLD hymn-book, sure I thought I’d lost you
In the days now long gone by;
I’d forgotten where I tossed you:
Gracious! how I sigh.

In the church a thin partition
Stood between her pew and mine;
And her pious, sweet contrition
Struck me as divine.

Yes, remarkably entrancing
Was she in her sable furs;
And my eyes were always glancing
Up, old book, to hers.

Bless you, very well she knew it,
And I’m sure she liked it too;
Once she whispered, “Please don’t do it,”
But her eyes said, “Do.”

How to speak—to tell my passion?
How to make her think me true?
Love soon found a curious fashion,
For he spoke through you.

How I used to search your pages
For the words I wished to say;
And received my labour’s wages
Every Sabbath day.

Ah, how sweet it was to hand her
You, with lines I’d marked when found!
And how well I’d understand her
When she blushed and frowned.

And one day, old book, you wriggled
From my hand and, rattling fell
Upon the floor; and she—she giggled,
Did Miss Isabel.

Then when next we met out walking,
I was told in fearful tones,
How she’d got a dreadful talking
From the Reverend Jones.

Ah me! No man could resist her
In those sweet and buried years,
So I think—I think I kissed her,
Just to stop her tears.

Jones I gave a good sound chaffing;
Called his sermon dry as bones;
Soon fair Isabel was laughing—
Said she hated Jones.

It was after that I lost you,
For I needed you no more;
Somewhere—anywhere I tossed you
On a closet floor.

Reverend Samuel still preaches;
Isabel her past atones;
In his Sunday-school she teaches—
Mrs. Samuel Jones.
_W. J. Henderson._

THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER

_LET all men living on earth take heed,
For their own soul’s sake, to a rhyme well meant;
Writ so that he who runs may read—
We are the folk that a-summering went,
Who while the year was young were bent—
Yea, bent on doing this self-same thing
Which we have done unto some extent.
This is the end of our summering._

We are the folk who would fain be freed
From wasteful burdens of rate and rent—
From the vampire agents’ ravening breed—
We are the folk that a-summering went.
We hied us forth when the summer was blent
With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,
A-seeking the meadows dew besprent
This is the end of our summering.

For O the waiters that must be fee’d,
And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling “gent”;
And the youth next door with the ophicleide!
We are the folk that a-summering went!
Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,
While birds their way to the southward wing,
Come back, our money for no good spent—
This is the end of our summering.

ENVOY

Citizens! list to our sore lament—
While the landlord’s hands to our raiment cling—
We are the folk that a-summering went:
This is the end of our summering.
_H. C. Bunner._

INTERESTING