Chapter IV: Nature

~The American Partridge.~

Neglected minstrel of the single song,
Piping at twilight through the russet fields,
Thy two soft silver notes, one short, one long,
Rich with the careless joy that nature yields,
Rise from the stubble round the well-stocked fields,
Far from the chattering flock or warbling throng:
Bob White!

American! All hail, my countryman!
Thy treble, sweet or shrill, delights my ear;
A song of freedom ere our race began,
A challenger of conquest loud and clear;
Bespeaking nature pure as God's first plan,
And pride and peace, and quiet ever dear:
Bob White!

_Southern Collegian._

~To a Chrysanthemum.~

Thou beauteous flower, with heart of gold, Bravely defying winter's cold, When dreary north winds shrilly whistle Over the desolate fields of thistle; Thou comest to bless in beauty's ways, With memories of summer days, When at the touch of gentle showers, Decked were the fields in myriad flowers; Yet more than all I praise to-day This blossom bright, Since on her breast it lay Only last night.

JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly_

~My Treasures.~

My jewels are the drops of dew
That sparkle on the grass,
Or break into a thousand bits
When ruthless footsteps pass.

My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud,
Untouched by human hand;
My silver is the sleeping sea,
Unshadowed by the land.

My friend is every wooded hill,
And every singing brook;
For they are always true to me,
And wear a kindly look

And yet how few would ever think
To count these treasures o'er;
But, dreaming oft of Satan's gold,
Would ask kind Heaven for more.

Co-heirs of Nature all may be,
Although of humble birth;
And yet, the miser hugs his gold,
While poor men own the earth.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER. _Dartmouth Literary Monthly,_

~A Pasture.~

Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!-- It bears upon its churlish face No sign of beauty, art or grace; Not here the silvery coverts glow That April and the angler know.

There sleeps no brooklet in this wild, Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek, Like loving lips upon a cheek Soft as the face of maid or child-- Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.

Ungenerous nature but endows These acres with the stumps and stocks Which should be trees, with rude, gray rocks; Over these humps and hollows browse, Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.

Here on the right, a straggling wall Of crazy, granite stones, and there A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare, A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall-- The burning blue sky over all.

And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste! The noisy markets know no such-- So ripe they tumble when you touch; Long, taper--rarer wines they waste Than ever town-bred topers taste.

And tell me! have you looked o'erhead From lawns where lazy hammocks swing And seen such bird-throats lent a wing? Such flames of song that flashed and fled? Well, maybe--_I'm_ not city-bred.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~Skating Song.~

Moon so bright, Stars alight, Clouds adance, adance; Snow of night, Fleecy white, Silver ice agleam, aglance. High, hey, high, hey, Skimming the smooth, bright way, High, hey, high, hey, Over the ice away.

Cheeks so bright, Face alight, Heart adance, adance; Eyes of night, Brow of white, Silver skates agleam, aglance. High, hey, high, hey, Skimming the smooth, bright way, High, hey, high, hey, Over the ice away.

CORA ISABEL WARBURTON. _Smith College Monthly_.

~A Mystery.~

Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and still Down here, in this soft, dark place. Now I feel a thrill Darting through me. Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown, Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down. Ah! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand.

One inch more,--I lift my head above the parted mould, Oh! what rapture! Falling on me something sweet and gold, Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side; High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide,-- And I know 'twas life, that anguish that I could not understand.

MARY E. HOYT. _Bryn Mawr Lantern._

~The Birch-Tree.~

Like a shower, breeze-suspended,
Caught and played with by the air,
April from the sky descended,
Tricked by sunshine unaware,
To a pale green fountain fashioned,
Silver shaft with airy fling,
Tremulous and sun-impassioned
Is the birch-tree in the spring.

Like the spirit of the fountain--
Seen when earth was yet a child--
Leaping, white-armed, from the mountain,
Laughing, beckoning, water-wild,
Sheen of mist her beauty veiling,
Which she only half can hide,
Garments o'er her white feet trailing,
Seems the birch at summer-tide.

E.A.H. _Inlander_.

~My Quest.~

Over the meadow and over the hill,
Over the heath and heather,
I seek for the spot where the dawn-wind sleeps,
And slips from its night-bound tether.
Is it here? Is it there?
Pray tell me where
The morning zephyrs tarry,
That I may bide
Where they crouch and hide,
And sip of the dew they carry.

Over the billow and over the wave,
Over the vales and valleys,
I seek for the spot where the night-wind dreams,
And rests from its twilight rallies.
Is it here? Is it there?
Pray tell me where
The breath of night lies sleeping,
That I may rest
In its downy nest,
With its breath my eyelids steeping.

W.T.O. _Trinity Tablet._

~Lullaby.~

Breezes in the tree-tops high,
Sighing softly as you blow,
Sing a restful lullaby;
Sing the sweetest song you know,
Something slow, something low,--
Lulla-lullaby.

Barley heads and crested wheat,
Swaying gently to and fro,
Sing the music of the heat,
Sing the drowsiest song you know,
Something slow, something low,--
Lulla-lullaby.

Brooklet hidden in the grass,
Murmuring faintly as you flow,
Sing a sleep song while you pass;
Sing the dreamiest song you know,
Something slow, something low,--
Lulla-lullaby.

MABEL A. CARPENTER. _Wellesley Magazine._

~Our Scarlet King.~

He comes along the great highway
In scarlet coat and crown,
And high the shrilling trumpets bray
And fierce his lancers frown.
Bright scarlet is his royal crest;
Bright scarlet shines his royal vest;
Oh! pr'ythee canst thou bring
A knight more nobly known and dressed
Than this, our Scarlet King.

See how he throws his largess gold
Into the bending trees.
He doth the forest walls enfold
In purple tapestries.
He giveth all a majesty;
He holds in fiel the shore, the sea;
Oh! pr'ythee come and sing
A song, and sing it merrily
To him, our Scarlet King.

Past crypt and wayside canopy,
Beyond each bloarny throne,
Full fleetly speed his heralds free
To make his advent known.
His scarlet banners bend and blow;
Our scarlet vintages shall flow;
And pr'ythee with us sing,
That proud October all may know
And hail--"our Scarlet King."

HAROLD M. BOWMAN. _Inlander_.

~Bob White.~

At morn, when first the rosy gleam
Of rising sun proclaimed the day,
There reached me, thro' my last sweet dream,
This oft-repeated lay:
(Too sweet for cry.
Too brief for song,
'Twas borne along
The reddening sky)
_Bob White!
Daylight, Bob White!
Daylight!_

At eve, when first the fading glow
Of setting sun foretold the night,
The same sweet call came, soft and low,
Across the dying light:
(Too sweet for cry,
Too brief for song,
'Twas but a long,
Contented sigh)
_Bob White!
Good Night, Bob White!
Good Night!_

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. _Nassau Literary Monthly._

~An Evening Song.~

O red, red clouds in the westering sky,
That are lit with a lamp of gold,
The hours are faint, they sleep, they die,
The stars are earthward rolled;
Make bright day's burial-place, make bright,
So it crimson-canopied be--
It dies, and Fancy out of the night
Comes down--comes down to me.

O red, red clouds with your glory gone,
That are ghostly shapes of gray.
My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,
Away from me--away;
Go down--go down from the sky, so the gleams
Of the moon shine over the sea,
And bring the thought of my lady's dreams
Over to me--to me.

ROBERT L. HUNGER. _Yale Courant._

~Panacea ~

When life proves disappointing,
And sorrow seems anointing
Brows of care,
Take a brace and go a-sailing,
Either dolphin back or whaling,
Anywhere.

Fling your troubles to the breezes, Where the salted Ocean sneezes Spray your face-- Never mind the moments flying, There'll be left of care and sighing, Not a trace.

ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER. _Wisconsin Aegis._

~The Dive.~

One moment, poised above the flashing blue, The next I'm slipping, sliding through The water, that caresses, yields, resists, Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists. Another moment, my body swirls, I rise, Shaking the water from my blinded eyes, And strike out strong, glad that I am alive, To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.

CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD. _Smith College Monthly._

~The Robin.~

A STUDY.

Abstracted, contemplative air,
A sudden run and stop,
A glance indifferent round about,
Head poised--another hop.

A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,
A well-resisted squirm,
Then calm indifference as before.
But oh, alack, the worm!

KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE, _Vassar Miscellany._

~A Mountain Brook.~

I come from the depths of the mountain, The dark, hidden, head of the fountain, I spring from a nook in the ledges, And bathe the gray granite's rough edges, I rush over wide mossy masses To quench the hot thirst of the grasses. I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle, As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle. I glide through the glens deep in shadow; I flow in the sun-bathed meadow, And seek, with a shake and a quiver, The still steady flow of the river, Then on to the wild rhythmic motion Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.

CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~In the San Joaquin.~

Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly In countless flocks, and as they hasten by The children look up from their merry play To watch them slowly, slowly fade away; And night steals up the corners of the sky.

No silent, trembling star shines there, on high:
The hollow rivers, that were still and dry,
Begin to murmur; falls a gentle spray
Across the hills.

The stubble colors through the fallen hay,
And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;
The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;
And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,
Beholds the summer lose its ending day,
Across the hills.

NORMAN HUTCHINSON. _Cornell Magazine._

~Four-o'clocks.~

It was that they loved the children,
The children used to say,
For there was no doubt
That when school was out,
At the same time every day,
Down by the wall,
Where the grass grew tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
One by one,
At the touch of the sun,
There opened the four-o'clocks.

It was that they loved the children;--
But the children have gone away,
And somebody goes
When nobody knows,
At the same time every day,
To see by the wall,
Where the grass grows tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
How, one by one,
At the touch of the sun,
Still open the four-o'clocks.

LILLIAN B. QUIMBY. _Wellesley Magazine,_

~The Voice of the West Wind.~

The Wind of the East and the Wind of the North From the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth: They wander wide and they wander free, But never a word do they speak to me; I hear but the voice I know the best, Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West, And the word that the West Wind whispers me, Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.

Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low, And all day long the light winds blow, When the South, and the East, and the North, are gray And the soft rain falls through the autumn day, Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hear The voice of the West Wind, soft and clear? "Come," he whispers, and "Come," again, Leave the dull skies and the steady rain, Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea, Heart of my own heart, and come with me.

ROBERT PALFREY UTTER. _Harvard Monthly_

~A Fairy Barcarolle.~

My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree,
A butterfly's wing is my sail,
And twisted grasses my cordage be,
Stretched taut by the favoring gale.

My cushions are pearly gossamers frail,
My mast is a tapering reed,
My rudder a blush-rose petal pale,
My ballast of wild-flower seed.

Through forests old and meads remote
We'll sail on the leaf-arched streams,
Down the silver rivers of Fancy float
To the golden sea of dreams.

WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY. _Brown Magazine._

~A Bird's Cradle-Song.~

Weary, weary loves!
Day is o'er and past;
Every drooping lily bell
Chimes good-night at last.
Softly! nursing winds
Swing them to and fro
With the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.

Even the willow leaves
Brooding silence keep;
All the great, good world is hushed--
Hushed that you may sleep!
But in heaven two wee, wee stars
Dance and whirl and glow
To the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.

EVELYN M. WORTHLEY. _Mount Holyoke._

~The Wood Orchid.~

A butterfly, wing-weary, came to find A sweet seclusion from the amorous wind, Deep in the pine woods, where the dusky trees Shut in the forest's sounding silences With close-twined boughs from which the breeze has blown The fragrance-breathing fragments of the cone. Deeply she drank the nectar of repose. Spreading her downy wings all veined with rose, Upon the gray-green mosses, cool and dank, Languished the sprite, and in a swoon she sank, While a delicious numbness born of death Stilled the soft wings that stirred with each faint breath. One summer morning, while the languid breeze Strayed with a languid murmur thro' the trees, It breathed a kiss upon a folded pair Of pink flushed wings--and found them rooted there.

_College Folio._

~A Song.~

Oh, the hopper grass is clattering and flying all the day
Round the tawny, trembling tassels of the corn,
While the dreamy, drowsy bumblebee goes bumbling on his way,
And the locust in the woodland sounds his horn.

Above the rattling cottonwoods that line the lisping stream,
The crow is proudly calling to the sun,
And the beetles in the bushes make the summer day a dream,
For they hum and cheep until the day is done.

When the lotus-flower closes, and the stars are in the sky, Then the owl awakes and sings a plaintive song, While the crickets in the thickets sing the soothing lullaby, And the katydid is chirping all night long.

S.P. _Kansas University Weekly_.

~The Skaters.~

Above the frozen floods Gay feet keep time, Steel-shod, their measures beat Insistent rhyme. No cares oppress the hearts Glad youth makes light; The winter skies and happy eyes Alike are bright.

Shores where the summer waves Have whispered low, Echo the skaters' song, As to and fro Glide flitting forms, And watch-fire's glow Leaps into frosty air And crimsons snow.

Fly, skaters, with wing'd feet! The night wears on; Be your stroke ne'er so fleet, Night soon is gone.

With morning's dawn, the fires In ashes lie, And mountains keep their ward Silently by.

GRACE W. LEACH _Madisonensis_.

~By the Roadside.~

Shy violets among the tangled grass; Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing, Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging; My love, my true love, down this way will pass.

How shall you know her? By her sunny hair, Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing: Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going; There is no maid in all the land so fair.

Shy violets among the tangled grass, Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet! And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass, Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet; And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her, Whisper to her that I came by and love her.

LOUISE R. LOOMIS. _Wellesley Magazine._

~"A White Morning"~

Many a morning the trees' slim fingers
Lift to the blue their frosted tips;
Winter has paused beside them, passing,
And blown upon them, through icy lips.

After the day has dawned in earnest,
Comes a blaze from the soul of things.
Some small snow-bird, beneath the window,
Beats out life, from his restless wings.

Never trust to the cold and silence;
Suns will rise, and the day climb higher.
Under the snows are resurrections;
Under the frost is hidden fire.

GRACE W. LEACH. _Madisonensis_.