Chapter I: Foreword (1)

The great artist is one whose whole body becomes a living soul; whose eye gets glimpses into the heart of Nature, with visions of the Supernatural; whose ear hears their inner music, and whose hand produces ecstatic expression of their central force in some revelation of Beauty. And to make his art more real, more nearly perfect, Beauty more beautiful, such artist by contrast often depicts or suggests the deadly but doomed discords of life.

Any inspiring touch I have with Nature makes me less than half content with the best I can say of her. Beyond my increasing love for the rich, old Mother—yet eternally young and myriad formed—I am deeply indebted to F. Schuyler Mathews and his charming “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” especially in suggestions and some illustrations for the “Birds’ Orchestra.” Other acknowledgements are made elsewhere in this little volume of verse, which chances to be my first, and therefore subject to the severer criticism.

C. J.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
The Birds’ Orchestra 7
My Prayer To Truth 14
A Scene in Washington, N. C. 16
Little Naples by the Sea 17
The Family of My Friend Jones 17
The King’s Marriage 19
The Hermit Thrush 19
My Retreat 23
The Mocking-Bird 24
The Jay and I—A Dialogue 26
Nature’s Heart 27
A Nigger and a Mule 28
Virginia’s Natural Bridge 30
The Might of Matutinal Music 30
A Perpetual King 31
The Cotton Gin 32
The Cotton Mill 32
My Own Little Girl 32
My Butterfly 33
Was That Somebody I? 34
My Sabbath Sermon 35
Pilot Mountain 36
Her Prison Life 37
Aurelius Augustinus 38
O, That Income Tax! 40
In Florida 41
Two Little Orphans 42
Trouble and Play 43
Some Small Surprises 43
The Rhythm Universal 44
The Stone Crosses and the Fairies 45
The Sun Flower 46
Colonel Diamond and Grand-daughter 47
The Wild Wood 48
The Beginning of Things 49
The End of Things 49
When the Junco Comes 50
James Bradley Jackson 51
A Story of Colonial Times 53
“Come on wid yer Money fur Me” 55
Good Out of Evil 56
Christmas 57
Mrs. Josephine F. Hamill 58
A Chick’s Cry 59
The Kid and the Cop 59
The Over Favored and The Chanceless Child 61
The Slanderer 61
The World’s Greatest Egotist 62
Little River Royal 63
Give Me Both 64
Manifold Beauty and the Man 64
Chimney Rock 66
The Elephant Dance 67
Least Yet Greatest 67
Old Ship Church 67
A Little Toast to the Men of the Press 68
Mother Indeed 68
Nathan O’Berry 68
The Bishop’s Garden 69
My Triolet 70
Ye Bonny Boys 71
A Ballade to the Girls 71
A Mountain Top View 72
One Aged John Smith and His Youthful Confessions 73
Ode on Woodrow Wilson and the League of Nations 74
Another Birthday 77
Oh, Baby Mine 77
The Snake That’s King 78
The Heart of France 79
The Red Maple 81
A Sonnet to Mrs. O. C. Bullock 81
The Strikers 81
November Gloom 82
James Mitchell Rogers 83
Erwin Holt 83
Just an Introduction 83
Judge Franklin Chase Hoyt 84
A Little Index of the Coming Day 85
Winged Tourists 86
How My Easter Dawned 86
Helen Keller 88
The Dancing Tassel 89
Walter Malone 91
The Dutiful Flower 92
My Holiday 92
The Aeolian Harp 92
The God-Man and Myself 93
Death’s Doom 94
The Dying Year 96

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
The Author in his Retreat _Frontispiece_
Bob-White in Colors 6
Cat Bird 7
Young Screech Owl 8
Humming Bird 8
White Throated Sparrows 9
Blue-Bird and Family 10
Young Male Cardinal 11
Thrasher’s Admiration 12
Cardinal in Colors 12
A Scene in Washington, N. C. 16
Baby Ambitious to Rise 18
Veery Celebrating the King’s Marriage 19
Hermit Thrush in Colors 21
Dove and Bluebirds, Swan, Zebra and Colt, Macaw,
Chipmunk, Young Pet Thrasher 22
The Author’s Retreat in the Wild Wood 23
Young Green Heron 23
The Mocking-Bird in Colors 25
The Jay Bird and I 26
A Nigger and a Mule 29
Virginia’s Natural Bridge 30
A Perpetual King, Cotton Gin, A Cotton Mill 31
My Own Little Girl 33
My Butterfly 33
A Babe, Later an Imprisoned Boy 34
Feeding Young Mocking-Bird 35
Big Pinnacle on Pilot Mountain 36
Aurelius Augustinus 38
Two Little Orphans 42
Trouble and Play 43
Nature’s Fairy Crosses 46
Col. Diamond and Grand-daughter 47
The Wild Wood 48
A Pre-Revolutionary Stone Mansion,
7 Years Being Built 53
“Rock Ribbed Pen” in which Miss Martin
was placed by the Tories 54
Blind Negro 56
Mistletoe 57
The Kid and the Cop 59-60
New River, Fort Lauderdale, Fla. 63
Water Fall Near Tories’ Den, and Beach Scene 64
Chimney Rock in North Carolina 66
The Elephant Dance and Old Ship Church 67
The Bishop’s Garden 69
My Triolet 70
Lookout Mountain 72
Woodrow Wilson 75
O Baby Mine 77
The Snake That’s King 78
Notre Dame 79
Miss Cameron and Billy 83
Judge Franklin Chase Hoyt 84
Ann Gray and Pet Macaw 85
The Tots That Turned the Tide 87
Walter Malone 90

By F. Schuyler Matthews.]

_The Birds’ Orchestra_

THE DAWN

“Start-right, you-hob-bright!” ’Twas fluted so clear,
It wakened the songsters and startled my ear,

As the King of the morning repelled the dark night,
And the reveille sounded, “All-right! Bob-Bob-White!”

The Mocking-bird earliest answered the call,
And gladly his echoes were welcomed by all,

As each took his place in the Nature-trained choir,
And bird after bird began tuning his lyre.

The songsters had started a sweet roundelay,
When suddenly up bounced a meddlesome Jay.

He wanted to sing,
This feathered thing;
Or brilliant colors to impress,
With spontaneous wantonness;
With spirit too to over-rule,
Like the self-important fashion fool.

In soft monotone crooned the Black-billed Cuckoo,
“Tho not much at singing, I’ll surely beat you.”

And Flicker to Jay proclaimed,
“_No-cheer_ from me, _no-cheer_!”
While the Hooded Warbler, “You-have-no-business-here”!

“I’m a blooming Jay,
I’ll have my way,
Dj-a-y! dj-a-y! dj-a-y!”

Then spoke that brave bird, the yellow-breast Chat:
“Cop! Cop! Shut-him-in-prison-and-send-for-the-cat.”

And King bird commanded with spirit irate,
“Away with you, Blue Jay—or I’ll pounce on your pate.”

And the Jay slipped away,
With a sure word of peace,
For such glad release:
“Ge-rul-lup!
Jig’s-all-up!”

Then Wisdom’s proud bird, that old mystical fake,
While breakfasting late on a daring young snake,

Cried “Boo to y-o-u, hoot for y-o-u! Who-whoo—are-y-o-u?”
Till down in my heart I felt humbled anew.

But hope was revived by an echo of Night—
For Night has her echoes and pledges of Light—

“You can, if you will, a high mission fulfill.”
Insistently whistled the lone Whip-poor-will.

Then all grew still
O’er vale and hill
And the echo came back:
“You can, if you will.”

The sun poured forth his flood of pure gold
On Nature’s great chorister birdlings of old,

When wide circling throngs made the welkin resound
With the liveliest chatter, “Let joy go round.”

Then flashed through the air a ruby tinged light,
Like an arrow of glory soon lost to my sight.

When lo! it returned—a bird that ne’er sings,
Though his music is borne in the hum of his wings:

“I fly, yet rest,
In swiftest quest,
Of flowers best,
With their sweetest, nectared off’rings.”

And my heart sang out with a jubilant cry,
“O for poise and feasting in tension so high.”

While the Humming bird sipped his choicest wine,
The musicians came to a sudden pause;
Each singer’s eye was a-gaze like mine—
And the wonder of bird-land received their applause.

The fun-makers followed, the gay Bobolinks,
With comical solo and musical kinks!

“You’d better think,
Flippant Chewink,
’Tis the finest of sport,”
Sang Bobolink.

And said Bob, “Be true to me, be true to me;
Kick your slipper, kick your slipper;[2]
Be true to me—old Nick’s the whipper!”

And over the pond, on bending cat-tails,
The red-shouldered Black-birds were piping their gales,

As they swung to and fro with a blithe “Con-quer-ee,”
And their mates made reply—“O’er-the-lea, come-to-me!”

From the Meadow-lark’s throat came a livelier strain,
“All hail to the bridegroom and those in his train;

“And greet the fair bride in her gay-feathered veil,
She’ll build a snug nest for the babies—all hail!”

From Oriole there, like a glad whistling boy,
Came fragments of melody thrilling with joy:

“I sing as I work—
This vantage men shirk—
And music I blend
With care of the children and house that I tend.”

Then on came the Finches in rollicking glee,
With Grosbeak and Chippy and plaintive Pewee;

And every one’s note rang as clear as a bell,
With the swing of love’s passion and deep growing spell.

“Per-chick-o-ree!
Now, don’t you see
The song in me
Is ecstasy?”

Thus jingled the Goldfinch in musical run,
As he dipped up and down in the waves of the sun;

Like golden-robed, sable winged fairy he flew
Across his wide world of cerulean blue.

[2] As heard by John Burroughs.

The White throated Sparrow, a provident bird,
Revealed deepest wisdom in simplest word;

“Sow wheat and sow plenty—oh yes, sow a plenty,
Though Peverly’s small he has hunger of twenty.”

“When the granary’s full, and reapers go feastin’,
I’ll cheer you ag’in, with my fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’,
The long hours through, a-fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’.”[3]

A versatile singer, an artist o’er shy,
Now uplifted his voice to his Maker on high.

No pause in the rhythm of the Song Sparrow’s lay;
And I pondered and wondered as on flew the day:
“Is this high Art’s way?”

While still rolled his “swee-e-t, swee-e-t, bitter”—[4]
The philosophy of life, from a plain, little flitter.

Pond’ring I lingered and forgot me to eat,
A captive held fast in fair Nature’s retreat.

[3] This repeated paraphrase is from F. Schuyler Mathews, ornithologist and musician.

[4] The words suggested to John Burroughs by the variations of the Song Sparrow.

The Oven-bird graceful, misnamed “the preacher,”
Proudly sang out, “I’m-a-teacher, a TEACHER;”

And Maryland Yellow-throat piped, “What a pity,
You can’t sing a sweet, old-fashioned ditty!
What a pity!”

From the wayside just then came a mocking “meow;”
“If the rest of you follow, I’ll join in the row;

“And why not now?
A fuss somehow—
Meow, meow!”

But lo! the voice softened and turned to a tune,
Repeating the bird’s notes that glad day in June.

With soft-flowing accent the good Chickadee
Said “dear me,” and added a sweet “amity.”

And Blue-Bird’s grave “purity,” Robin’s gay “cheer”
Were songs as delightful as lovers may hear;

While Red-headed Woodpecker, ever after his rum,
Kept beating and beating his sweet tree drum.

The Cardinal came with his bright crimson crest,
And sang for his bride as she fashioned her nest;

But Toxaway’s[5] rival gave forth the echo,
“Kid-dów, Kid-dów, Kid-dów!”

Now list to the out-flow from the topmost tree,
Coming down from the Thrasher in perfect frenzy;

The birds and I marvelled as he swept on alone,
Now high, and now low, now a thrilled overtone.

And lo! just then,
A voice—a Wren,
From a fern-lit glen,

Burst forth like a rippling fountain of life,
Rebuking old Mars with his death-dealing strife;

And it seemed that I caught for the sons of men,
The lost chord of an angel in the song of the Wren.

Discord now from birds as black as night:
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Screamed a full score,
Or even more,

Till stones by me hurled put them all to flight.

Again was felt a pause, a silence deep,
When four of the feathered friends who copy song,
Were planning fain their secret, potent word,
Worthy of the wisest of mankind;
The proud quartette then took the airy stage:

[5] Toxaway, the Indian’s name for the Cardinal.

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and P. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”]

“They call us imitators evermore,
And this forever be our life and joy,
For master angels whispered unto us,
‘Follow song and God, and rise to life,
Aye, ever, ever more.’”

HIGH NOON

The sun had climbed high and as birdlings should feast,
My morsel I finished and fell fast asleep;
And dreamed a sweet dream, so rich and so deep,
Till arches of gold reached the rose-portaled east,
Aye! West wedded East and their glories increased—

A dream so sweet,
And marvelous meet;
My soul took wings,
Though captive my feet,
And uplifted high midst eternal springs,
My heart again heard an old, new word:
“Prophetic and incomplete
All earthly things.”

In bright, celestial realm they sweeter sang,
The happy birds that blessed my spell-bound soul,
Upraised to that high world, without a pang.
I saw a shining One with mystic scroll,
The which He, smiling, waved, in full control
Of birds and beings, translated from the earth,
From every land to a great, inviting Goal.
Enthralled by the mighty throng in sacred mirth—
Ah now, me-thought, has come with joy my highest birth!

Angels were rising, many and swift and sheen;
While others, likewise moving with rhythmic grace,
Descending in sweetest song, were heard and seen—
All clothed in the beauteous light of the Father’s face.
Those downward-going bore, in charming case,
The melodies which men and birds might make.
The rising throng made perfect the chords apace
Produced below, ecstatic in their wide wake;
I longed to tarry ever there, without a break.

TWILIGHT

But ho! Presto-“Bob-White! Bob, Bob-White!”
“I announced the morn and now the night.”

Bestirred in the gloaming by Bob-White’s last call,
I awakened to music the sweetest of all.

The flutelike peals of the Thrush of the wood
Still bound me to the world of angelhood.

But the depths of my soul had the holiest hush,
As the organ note rose of the Hermit Thrush.

He climbed to the heights where I too would arise,
But no one may soar with that pride of the skies.

I then asked my heart, “Pray, what is all this?
Why experience birds such wonderful bliss?”

My soul was on fire,
From Nature’s great choir,
As the glad mounting symphony
Climbed higher and higher.

“Is it all of this world, or is it of Heaven?
To birds and to me is this paradise given?”

I longed to understand,
If ’twas place or state,
For all so harmonious and elate;
When responded a three-fold, wondrous band:

The birds replied,
“Life, Life be our earth-celestial theme;”
The angels cried,
“Love and Beauty make any place a-gleam;”
The great who’d died,
“In every state, our song and service to redeem.”

Lo, the shining One waved high his mystic scroll,
And many joined in a sweet but thunderous whole:
“Music flows from a vaster, purer Stream—
Know now, O longing soul,
The vital, eternal scheme
Of Heaven and earth,
From their far off birth,
Is to reach on after the deeper, perfect Goal.”

And, like the voice of ten thousand trumpeters,
“Alleluia to Him Supreme,
The all-embracing, all-out giving Soul!”
To this from creatures numberless rang out a great “Amen”
And again from every heart that sings
In creation’s vast domain:
“On, forever on, in Heaven’s aureole,
Let praise and power roll—
Alleluia, Amen!”

MY PRAYER TO TRUTH

Take thou my soul, O Truth, and make me whole,
And gently lead me on eternally.
My eager fancy flies from pole to pole,
To singing star and the ever surging sea—
O stay thou me!

Thru ages past the search has been for thee;
The sage and prophet, vacillating King
And statesmen call aloud for liberty
And light and all beneath thy gracious wing;
To thee the poets sing.

Yet of inquirers many, whoso finds?
Where hidest thou? Point me thy high abode.
Art thou in books? Ah, no! In these there winds
The dusty road of men. Sing me thy ode,
Thy perfect code.

Thou art I know; and sweet and pure thy balm,
Which solaced oft my sorrow-burdened soul;
But leavest not the biding, crowning palm,
Nor faultless portion, pointing to thy goal;
While troubles roll.

Why, when a-thirst and hungry, should I wander,
Some while in want; anon, a feast most fine?
Yet never full; some pressing, ravenous pander
Prepared to steal from me earth’s passing wine;
Pray give me thine.

Some secrets sweet are mine, but oh how few,
Compared to richest bounty which must be
In thy pure heart and home—why not my due?
Will I some day find hid thy mystic key?
Lead on thou me.

My youthful joys and heights of yester-year,
Were bright and buoyant, satisfying then;
But they have gone for aye. More calls I hear;
They charm me onward to some larger ken;
But, O Truth, when?

If all I may not know, then serve will I,
Submissive to each load and yoke thou givest,
Like the plaintless, faithful ox, without a sigh;
But soon I plead: “I poorly live; thou richly livest,
And oft receivest

“Me for some higher service still—but where?
For whom? Why serve and not be satisfied?
Why toil on land and sea, and burdens bear,
Without thy joy? O be my willing bride!”
My poor heart cried.

And lo, I saw encaged a joy-filled bird,
And one a-wing in song, as blithe as free;
A cooing babe I caught, in love preferred—
Knowledge, service, song, O Truth, found me;
And I found Thee.

A SCENE IN WASHINGTON, N. C.

A modern coach and four,
A kitchen and a store,
With wieners evermore,
In Washington.

The billies have no speed,
But much of grit and greed,
And goats show grace indeed,
In Washington.

They pull and butt for Jim,
And else they do for him,
From heart to outer rim,
Of Washington.

The goats have feet and horns,
And Jim no painful corns;
’Tis peace and no forlorns,
In Washington.

No man can get Jim’s “goat,”
For bonds he’ll buy and float—
A scheme not far remote,
In Washington.

LITTLE NAPLES BY THE SEA

In little Naples by the sea
The birds join in their jubilee,
Where long-leaved pine and royal palm
Exhale the breath of their fragrant balm,
In little Naples by the sea.

The sea responds by day and night,
With a stately choral of life and might;
And when his storms arise and rage,
He spares the hamlet of winsome age,
The modest Naples by the sea.

And many an eve the sun will make
His matchless glories till men awake
To find the sea, the land, the sky
Reset with gems for the artist’s eye;
In lovely Naples by the sea.

And so there come to this favored spot
The young and old to cast their lot,
Near Nature’s healing heart, and rest,
Like a child on his loving mother’s breast—
In quiet Naples by the sea.

Here roamed the happy Seminole,
And peacefully here possessed his soul,
Till thrust away by men of skill,
The conquering whites, with greedy will—
In unborn Naples by the sea.

E’er Indian came, the troglodyte
Reigned in his cave by a primal right;
And ages and ages remoter still,
Flew monsters of hideous claw and bill
O’er charming Naples yet to be.

A long ascent from warring snakes,
From reptilian waters and slimy lakes,
To singing birds and mirthful men,
To smiling mothers and sportive children,
In balmy Naples by the sea.

But higher still to the coming man,
To great sons of Art in her perfect plan;
To the glorious day when hulking clods,
Transmuted to men, are ranked with gods,
In little Naples by the sea!

THE FAMILY OF MY FRIEND JONES

The seven[6] children of my friend Jones,
Have each of them a lot of bones,
To grow and strengthen, or else to break
Beneath life’s burdens or sudden quake,
Mid the wide and varied warring zones,
Of the seven children of my friend Jones.

But seven, you know, is the perfect plan;
It stands for all that’s the best in man—
In his youthful days and ripest years,
In his joys and sorrows, high hopes and fears;
’Tis God’s own number—away with groans!
For seven times blessed is my friend Jones.

In logical order the eighth arrived,
And, take it from me, they all revived;
With one accord and high hearted aim,
They gave to the eighth the greatest name;
They all prepared with love’s sweet loans,
To make him the most famous of my friend Jones.

But youth is still his, and his good wife’s too,
His only sweetheart forever true;
And the Father’ll be pleased their quiver to fill,
For a heritage large is his manifest will,
If here and hereafter no dullards and drones,
But all active and cheerful like my friend Jones.

On the fifteenth month, and one August morn
The ninth leaps to life, another boy is born.
What the Lord commanded, my friend hath willed,
“Increase” is the law, and the law’s fulfilled;
Yet not ceaseless order, with nine vying tones
In the growing family of my friend Jones.

Such a happy man, for to all a friend;
Not a Hottentot would Jones offend;
And chiming in church or turning the sod,
My friend is ever the friend of God.
May the buoyant family all mount thrones—
Then eternally blessed, my friend Jones.

My mind sweeps on to a Kingdom vast,
To numberless children who’ll come at last,
As sons of the Highest on a shining shore,
There to play and sing forever more—
In the temple of God great living stones,
And some from the family of my friend Jones.

[6] There were only seven children in this family when the first two stanzas were written three years ago.—C. J.

The original, with male and female Veery, furnished by courtesy National Association Audubon Societies, with changes by the Author’s Artist.]

THE KING’S MARRIAGE

Look, look, look!
My soul,
At that high favored Sun;
With smiling face,
And matchless grace,
The King hath Beauty won.

Look, look, look!
My longing soul,
My hungry, ravished heart—
Most gorgeous role
In Nature’s whole,
Surpassing man’s high art!

Look, look, look!
Every open eye and mind,
Every yearning soul of mortal—
The Master’s acme for mankind;
Ye stars, look down and glory find.
Look!
Beauty glides toward the portal.

With parting day,
I watch the twain as they go;
I watched and sighed,
As heaven and sorrowing earth below,
And hosts of both were heard to say,
“O why may Beauty not abide?
The King and Queen made one at eventide,
And then in secret chambers hide!”

“Stay, stay, stay!”
My soul out-cries,
“For Beauty fleeth fast,
Nor nuptials last,
And darkening skies”—
And lo, the royal pair had passed;
But left their image in my eyes,
And in my living soul.

THE HERMIT THRUSH[7]

(Published in the Methodist Review, July, 1919).

O little artist, of rarest modesty,
Why hide thyself and sing?
Thy music fills my soul with ecstasy,
And makes the woodland ring.

Draw near, draw near, thou shy, yet happy one;
I plead with thee—draw near;
I’d share thy rapture; ’twould be heaven begun;
O Hermit sweet, appear.

Still thou wilt not, and while I long and dream
Of all that’s best for us—
The King, His primal ministers—what gleam
Of highest genius?

Sing on, elusive bird, in thy retreat,
Songs to my waiting soul;
Some day inviting rounds will be complete,
Some day, the promised goal.

And then some disappearing portion high,
Some joy just out of reach;
The more immortals yield to devotion’s tie,
The more must they beseech.

Sing on, blest bird, beyond my poor purview,
But near my home and heart:
“I love, I _love_, I LOVE; yes I love YOU!”[8]
This, thy crescendo art.

I find myself quite charmed, yet almost lost,
At the modern opera grand;
What stirs my soul so deep, what I love most,
Thy song—and I understand.

But O that I could see thy beaming eye—
Mine eye on thee, all song!
Why so secretive, yet seductive—why?
My suit, renewed, so strong.

That tree, those leaves around thee—if they knew
Their day and honored hour,
Each leaf and branch would homage pay, thy due,
Aflame with joy that bower.

Such rich and rounded notes proceed from thee,
Enchanting naiveté:
From sleep thou wakest me with highborn glee,
When comes the King of day.

At eventide thou callest me to prayer,
More clear than churchly chime,
In wood and sky, in pure, perfumed air—
His temple, thine and mine.

No passing wonder, sing Nightingales
In Russ or Tuscan clime;
No hope have they in these Columbic vales
To match thy tones and time.

[7] If anyone thinks the author has overdrawn the artistic merits of the bird, he is referred to the expert opinion of F. Schuyler Mathews in his “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” pages 234-246, wherein this musician and lover of birds convincingly compares and contrasts, by musical scales and other data, the powers of the Hermit and Nightingale in favor of the former.—C. J.

[8] With slight change the interpretation by Mathews of the song of the Olive Back Thrush.

Like cooling streams in a parched, desert land,
To thirsting souls and worn;
Like evening’s changing charms, no artist’s hand
Can set in painted bourn;

Like sweetest dreams to troubled hearts in slumbers,
Uplift to heaven’s heights—
Just so thy symphonies, heard in rolling numbers,
Thy high and holy flights.

O anchoret, near Nature’s heart, again
I pray, come forth and sing.
Ah, there—O joy! I glimpsed thee, Hermit fain—
Now gone on gentle wing.

My eye too piercing, and my quest too keen,
Unfathomable bird.
Once more contented I—remain unseen,
And yet thy harmony heard.

This I have found, as fast thou holdeth me:
Thou startest full, and risest;
And all doth thrill—sweet, moving melody,
Climbing to the highest.

No pipe, no flute, organ or organist,
Can reach thine allegro,
And thy cadenza, thou transcendentalist—
’Tis music with naught of woe.

Whence come from singers proud their hard-won notes?
In truth from the music master,
By repetition oft and untrained throats—
To hearers, near disaster.

The master’s whence, the singing pioneer,
Great Haydn or Beethoven?
Sing on, my thrilling thrush, but wilt thou hear?
From thee, and thou from Heaven!

Long hours I’ve listened lone, in deep delight,
To thy glad musicals;
And when I breathe my last, O anchorite,
Sing soft angelicals.

Photos by the Author.

MY RETREAT

Photos by the author.]

To my retreat now come with me,
And love the place that’s wild and free,
Where Chipmunks play and Wood Thrush sings;
Where a lucid lake invites and brings
The proud offspring of Liberty.

The Wren is there, the Chickadee,
And many more that come in glee,
On nimble feet or shining wings,
To my retreat—

The birds of sky and fish of the sea,
The cunning things that charming be;
And there the Cardinal often rings
His notes of joy to songster-lings—
All these and I have bidden thee
To my retreat.

THE MOCKING-BIRD

Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul,
Now here, now there
In tree and air,
So free and fair?
Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole,
Inviting the heart to some sweet goal,
Like poet rare,
Beyond compare.

Hast thou a mind, a musical mind?
Who answers “nay”?
Or night or day,
Thy tuneful lay
Brings joy and grief; myself I find
In my inmost soul left far behind;
Yet I essay
The wondrous way.

“Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation;
Nor is that all
In thy charmed call;
I rise, though small,
To laud thy rhythmic re-creation,
Thy prompt and hearty liberation
Of life notes new which me enthrall,
Without man’s pride, and fall.

I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9]
Thy kindred sweet;
Palm Warbler meet
Thou dost repeat,
And modest, tawny Veery of the vale;
Thy music upward leads, and I inhale
Incense replete,
In thy retreat.

As in a dream I hear all tones combine
In Love’s embrace;
And there I see thy topmost place,
O Psyche of thy race!

[9] After the author had written this line he was glad to learn that the late John Burroughs in his “Birds and Poets,” page 17, spoke of the Mocking-bird as “both Lark and Nightingale in one.”

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.” Sketched originally for this volume.]

Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine;
For this my soul must alway pine,
With upturned face,
For lyric grace.

Quintessence of event is thine and life;
What soul hath more
On sea or shore,
Now or afore?
Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife
With music, as no magic flute or fife—
Tis varied lore,
Forever more.

Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man,
Brave bird and bright;
Harmonic flight
Is thy delight.
Whenever was it thou did’st plan
Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can?
Without foresight
Thy runic rite.

Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour,
Produce thy chart,
Feel thrills of heart
Of thine, nor part
With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower,
Returning quick, possessing all thy power,
With no life mart
But music art;

Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken,
And glad bestow
Rich magic flow
On all below.
Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen?
But daring flight, until the poet pen
With thee shall glow
Like a sun-lit bow.

More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine,
As thou dost give,
As I love and live,
Is mine; thy nature is forever thine,
But by mutation mystic, yet benign,
As I with joy receive
Thy varied amative,
Is also mine,
In God’s own shrine.

THE JAY AND I—A DIALOGUE

“What’s that you say, you funny Jay?
I like your beauty, but not your way,
Though fond of all the winged tribe.
Is it hoo-ray,
Or some hey-day?”
Then Jay began his varied gibe:

“I’m a Blue Jay;
That’s what I say;
Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”
(How will he myself describe,
With naught from me that he’ll imbibe?)

“I’ve more display,
More in my yea,
More in my nay,
Than you convey;
Dja-ay! dja-ay!”
“’Tis true, Blue Jay, but too much pride;
You shout and rouse the country side;

Nor can I see
The fun or glee,
For birds or me
In your vanity.
Whoever is it such can bide?
You dashing Jay, you want my hide?”

“Never a day;
I’m a Blue-ming Jay
With top-knot gay,
And mine to stay—
Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“More pomp you have than all your fellows;
All who see you,
All who hear you—
‘I’m _the_ Jay Blue
With a top-knot too—’
All wonder why you strain your bellows.”

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!—back to the wall!
When I’m stirred up, I always squall,
Retreat, I say,
You bunch of clay,
Away; away!
I’m King Blue Jay,
A monarch here and lord of all;
Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“But listen, Jay, just stop a spell—
On Friday, luckless day, they tell,
That you will dare to visit hell;
’Tis only Friday,
But always Friday—
If there you stray.
Then why I pray?”

“It’s not your business, know you well,
Why I on Friday go to hell.[10]
Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“My final word you may forestall;
But I tell you plainly pride must fall;
Old Pride is evil, born of the devil.”

While flouncing so free
In a white oak tree,
Quite noisily,
He answered me,
With piercing eye, and look of evil:

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!
I’m a blooming Jay—
The devil, you say?
It’s all my way—
Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

[10] A tradition with some says that the Jay goes to the lower regions every Friday, and carries a grain of sand.

NATURE’S HEART

I search for Nature’s heart beneath her dome,
All free from jarring sounds;
Out there my hungry spirit seeks a home,
Out there, my feasting grounds.

I love the giant oak, the poplar and the pine,
Aye, balmful to my soul;
I greet my feathered friends, and they combine
To make me captive whole.

I find no ghoul-like demon of the wood,
Nor siren from the sea;
A spirit high begets my ardent mood,
But yields not me the key.

And dreaming in the vale, or on a mountain height,
Awed by the great abyss,
My soul doth plead an everlasting right,
“_The secret of all this?_”

Both wild and winning are Mother Nature’s ways,
Many, varied, one;
In all she sings my soul her mystic lays,
From flower to rolling sun.

But oh to understand the purpose of her heart,
Her princely, hidden life;
Just what or who unfolds the vital part,
Despite dark death and strife.

O Faunus tell—return to earth and speak
The word that satisfies;
Or haughty mountain give, or valley meek,
The answer to my cries.

The gods are silent all! But drink may I
Of Nature’s founts o’er flowing;
I feel her throbs of heart in earth and sky,
And loving leads to knowing.

Henceforth, of all the wines of gods and men,
To me give Nature’s nectar;
Of all the feeble songs of tongue and pen
From every dull director—

Oh give me Nature’s rich and ripest lore,
Her palaces and poses;
Her peaceful ways and rest, her fullest store
Of pure Pierian roses.

Ah, this I know—’tis all I need to know—
The great Mother has her plan;
With God she labors long, at last to show
Her perfect child and man.

A NIGGER AND A MULE

I’ve lived in the city, I’ve sailed the wide sea;
I’ve studied in many and many a school;
I’ve sat at the feet of the bond and free,
And a lot has come to a fellow like me,
Since a new ground I plowed with a balky mule,
But I’ve lived to see balky and a nigger fool.

No deep-seated scorn of the African fool—
There’s plenty like him from the hills to the sea;
’Tis the union of nigger and a stubborn mule,
That surpasses the sport of an all-round school,
If not for professor for fun-loving me,
And as long as I’m playful, my play shall be free.

Aye friend, ’tis a wonderful thing to be free,
Though many a free man I’d call a fool,
And no doubt some of them would thus entitle me,
Though tutored in the city, the college and the sea
Yet the nigger and hybrid, I’d take for a school;
For ’tis hard to beat a pure nigger and a mule.

But a “coon” in new ground, with a kicking mule!
Just so I am far from his heels and am free
To look, and to listen like a pupil in school;
Though frankly I admit, I at times played the fool,
Till the lessons of life had widened my sea,
And harder experience had deepened me.

Ye fates, do not bring the worst unto me,
That of trying to handle a nondescript mule,
In a rooty new ground—O the depths of the sea
I’d choose, in the hope with the fish to be free;
However, such choosing would prove me a fool—
No applicant I for a sea-bottom school.

Since I’ve come to think, ’twas a German-tried school;
And a submarine ship was never for me;
And the proudest old Hun thus out-reached the fool.
But behold, you elect, a nigger and a mule,
In new ground in August—thank God I am free!
I’m only a witness on a smoother sea.

God bless his wide sea, and the nigger in school;
And all men make free—’twould be heaven for me—
And God bless the poor mule, and the mule-headed fool.

VIRGINIA’S NATURAL BRIDGE

How pleasing the wonders of Nature—how varied and how vast,
And the mystery of all the unknown doth hold me firm and fast;
For so the Creator ordained that men should seek and know;
That the heart of man may ever rise and forever flow,
From pebble small in singing brook to yonder neighboring star;
From star to a wider system and on to worlds afar.

’Tis only infinite mind can bridge the space between,
Our planet and greater sun and constellations seen,
Beyond which are stars yet farther, the living and the dead,
And they tell us there are millions larger in the boundless spread.
Imagination wearies of so vast an evolution,
But glories in the love of Him who planned such contribution.

The spider doth weave and swing his tiny, fragile bridge,
And man in his nobler work doth span from ridge to ridge;
But when men become as gods, and angels as such men,
With dominion of Jehovah and his transcendent ken,
Ah many a mansion shall we visit in our Father’s home,
As we fly beneath his banner, with ages and ages to roam.

’Tis a fathomless universe, but the plan eternal is one,
On which good men and angels may forever run,
O’er many a threatening torrent here, chasm, wide and great;
And ever man and gods shall their new links create—
Some for service and for song, and some for wonder and delight;
And some time, somewhere the Bridge—to everlasting light.

THE MIGHT OF MATUTINAL MUSIC

When awaking from dreams completely refresht,
My body reclining still;
With a soul alive and a heart at rest,
And master too of my will—

When the sun doth cast ambitious rays,
Foretelling afar his race;
And my heart is clothed with the garment of praise
By an all pervading grace—

When I hear the psalm of the gifted Thrush,
With a song of a mountain stream,
And a child’s sweet laugh, while the morn’s a-flush,
When Nature is all a-gleam—

Ah, then my soul is thrilled with delight
And my mind sweeps every sea,
’Tis then I possess my musical might,
And the angels visit me.

A PERPETUAL KING

In a King on a throne and a King there to stay,
You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright.
There are blessings for you and the men far away,
In a King on a throne and a King there to stay.
His robe is pure white, but the proud make it gay;
Ah, what mercy, what power and amazing foresight
In a King on a throne and a King there to stay—
You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright!

THE COTTON GIN

At a cotton gin the King’s made thin,
Yet never shows the least chagrin,
In his sunny home in Dixie’s land,
That rich and poor may live and win.

He’s trifled with, but will not sin
Amongst his subjects, nor his kin,
Although he feels the iron band
At a cotton gin.

More just the King than a mandarin,
And I often think the cherubin
Would like themselves to understand
His long, rich round, and then command
At a cotton gin.

THE COTTON MILL

In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill
Weave many a spindle and loom;
And lake and lawn, with art’s own skill,
In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill;
Yes, church and school and much to fill
The mind with hope and buoyant bloom—
In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill,
Weave many a spindle and loom.

MY OWN LITTLE GIRL

I’ve covered many and many a mile;
I’ve seen the setting of many a sun;
I have oft been charmed by the infant’s smile,
Pondering gladly life’s journey begun.

I’ve met with the great and small not a few;
I’ve sat at the feet of the learned knight,
I’ve stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew,
Addressing the throng by day and by night.

I’ve witnessed the way of the meek and wise,
Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy;
And more has come under my eager eyes,
Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.

But never a joy I’ve felt was my own—
Which bachelor old and maiden know not—
Is equal to that when I return home,
My humble home, yet delectable spot,

And take to my heart my own little girl,
All laughter and love—the joy of my life.
Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl,
And feast on pure love, free from all strife.

My own little girl,
My priceless pearl,
With dance of delight,
A musical sprite—
My Artena.

With hair of pure gold,
With heart never cold,
Who learns with a zest,
And strives for the best—
My Artena.

Ten years old today—
And never to decay—
May she aye be sweet,
And at length complete,
My Artena.

MY BUTTERFLY[11]

My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly,
Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me,
When form and burnished wings arrive—I see
With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh.
We journey through the city, thou and I,
In store and street with joined hearts and free,
While men admire thy trust and amity,
But wonder not in thee, nor question why.

At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art,
Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east
Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart
Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast
On nectar such as men have never wrought;
In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?

[11] This particular butterfly was first seen clinging, about three feet above the pavement, to the large masonic temple in Charlotte, N. C., and was gently enticed by the author into his hand, later crawling up his arm and remaining with his new companion for over an hour.

Was That Somebody I?

O child of hope, why left to go astray,
And rend this heart of mine?
Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way
You wend—once babe benign—
Was that somebody I?

If God, with perfect heart, loved you, my child,
And to Jesus likened thee—
Why so favored first, now sad and wild?
Who failed to love? Ah me!
Was that somebody I?

One said he loved the Christ and all of his;
He read the Word and prayed;
Believed that one the cruel creed, “What is,
Is best?” And so you strayed—
Was that somebody I?

At home neglected, nowhere a faithful friend,
You listless wandered on;
Till fool or knave declared: “You’re bad, your end
Looms dark—a criminal born!”
Was that somebody I?

Despised yet more—the Christ and thee—then crime!
You bore with shame the chains!
Your training and your arts, in Hell’s own clime,
Went on with damning drains—
Great Heaven! was it I?

Did I neglect you, child, my Father’s child,
I judge, and send you down?
Myself at ease, while you were curst, reviled—
No aid gave I, no crown?
Then Christ must pass me by!

MY SABBATH SERMON

A growing mocker in a maple tree,
Poured forth first notes with youthful glee;
Like an untried poet born to sing,
He’s proving gifts which fame will bring.

And musing on that Sabbath morn,
With body weary, heart forlorn,
The music of the blithesome bird
Inspired my mind itself to gird

With faith and courage, hope and love,
Beguiling my heart to leap above.
’Tis ever thus, some primal song
Doth make us gentle, brave and strong;

And trustful too, till we can see
With eyes of Him of Galilee—
Sweet Sabbath notes from the amateur,
Which filled my soul with a speedy cure.

The bird will better sing, and I
Shall carol sweetly by and by;
After earth’s songs on vernal sod,
Then high above in the choir of God.

What wondrous choir—how vast, how bright,
With suns and stars, and yet greater Light.
They also sing, as ever they shine,
With a strength of love that is divine.

Yon rolling plain and mountain peak,
Or surging sea and bounding creek;
Or budding rose and lustrous star—
All bid us rise to an avatar,

Above rich valley, and hill’s proud crest,
Above things seen to heaven’s best—
To perfect ones, with the angel throng,
O’er topless hills in endless song!

PILOT MOUNTAIN

O Jomeokee, thou everlasting guide,
Lifting high thyself, a tower strong
For passing men, and deathless hills around;
For Yadkin and on-flowing Ararat,
Bathing thy feet in humblest gratitude;
Thy lofty head, embraced by cooling clouds,
Gives something forth that’s rich, and unto all—
O Pilot old, thy secret bare to me.

Tell me when thy origin and where;
What hidden womb ambitious gave thee birth;
Bear witness thou to all both seen and heard
By thee from first to last; from primal man,
To Renfro Indian tribe, who spake thy praise
In by-gone years, and poet last who sang
Thy glory—O eternal Pilot speak!

As mute thou art as mighty and sublime,
Like unto all that’s great and strong and good—
Forever still midst Surrey’s joyful hills;
Yet to men thou bringest a message deep;
To Indian, symbol of the Spirit Great;
To me, the varied, potent word of God.

Majestic lord of all, to thee on high,
The struggling towns appear as vying dwarfs;
The rivers like to circling, creeping snakes;
Valleys, rich and broad, thy gardens are
Imperial—and all thine honors sing.

Sons of chiefs long vanquished played and danced
Before thy face; again the fathers prayed,
Their plea ascending, swift as thought, to Him
Who guided Abram ’mongst Judean hills.

What heart-breaks knowest thou of sire and son?
Of lover and beloved, of hate and hope?
Deepest depths and uplift to the heights?
I hear the music of thy hidden heart,
Sorrow’s song, in-wrought with joy that’s pure,
The process endless of the urging Cross—
A lofty peak of virtue and of peace
Art thou, O Jomeokee!

HER PRISON LIFE[12]

Her prison life was long and lone
Her kindred buried or unknown;
Of naught had she kept any score,
In truth her mind deprived of lore,
But knew her grief to be her own.

Another heart had better grown,
Confessing murder had he sown;
“I did the deed, and I deplore
Her prison life.”

But hope and heart and health had flown;
Why cares she now what winds are blown?
“I guess I’ll stay here as before,
My all is gone and evermore”—
Her living death, one long-drawn moan,
Her prison life.

[12] Based on a newspaper story of “Aunt” Sarah Wycoff in the North Carolina Penitentiary.

AURELIUS AUGUSTINUS

O thou, immortal father,
Permit my spirit poor to rise with thine.
Thou didst ascend, high Heaven’s hero,
From thy soft bed of prayer at Hippo,
Centuries agone,
Very Vandals storming thy gates the while.

Victor art thou still, and higher,
More mighty, honored more.
Amongst men thou didst eat
Of the tree of knowledge, good and evil—
How human as boy and man!
Yet thou didst name thy first born,
In youth begotten of thine unlawful union,
Adeodatus, “a gift from God.”
Again and again thou didst strike
For freedom from thy fetters and thy foes,
Till thou hadst conquered,
Later painting thy life of lust
In color like unto darkest night.

With hungry heart and spirit high,
Thou oft didst delve into Cicero’s Hortentius,
And give thy faith to Manichaeus,
Seeking to know evil and its source—
The ever pressing problem, eternally inscrutable.

After God all things good had made,
Yea very good,
A fearless fool hath said,
“He turned Himself into the tempting serpent—”
Shocking diabolism!

Creators two?
Incredible, impossible.
Then it follows,
One evil became.
But when and where; by whom and why?
With all this thou didst wrestle,
And more bitterly with thyself.

Yet thou didst give to God
And all the ages
Thy “Confession,” thine and mine;
Thy “De Natura et Gratia”—
The everlasting conflict;
Books fifteen on a single theme,
At once the highest and holiest,
The redeeming Trinity.
Many a tractate and treatise
Thou didst leave to men.
We bless thee for all this,
Thy holy heritage, O Augustine,
More brilliant than Ambrose,
Of truth more jealous than Jerome,
More profound than Gregory the Great;
The super-man of thy day and many,
Thou enthroned son of the Highest.

Beholding now thy form and face—
Master work of Herera’s hands,
Done a millennium after thy ascent,
A worshipful face toward the Holy Father’s,
With quill in thy skillful hand,
“The City of God”[13] before thee,
My soul astir doth soar
Toward thine and His.
Oft have I gazed and gloried,
Imaging thy topless, hallowed heights,
From deepest, darkest depths—
I too may rise; I will, O God, I will!

[13] The title of one of his works.

O THAT INCOME TAX!

I struggled with mine till the midnight hour;
My head was that of a fool;
My losses and gains, they’re beyond my power,
And never the like was, in school.

That minus sign was ever my foe
From earliest years until now;
My modest income, and varied out-go—
O they must be figured somehow!

I’ll tell you the truth, in the fear of the Lord,
I worried and went “sick abed;”
Six pages of puzzles and all a sworn word—
“O where,” I sighed, “is my head?”

“If married,” or “single”—I failed to know:
Nor dependent children could tell;
For never my mind received such a blow,
From such unexpected hell.

I always have cherished my Uncle Sam,
And thought he was oftenest right;
But flooded I was, nor a single dam
To check my downward flight.

Exhausted I slept, nor just or unjust,
Resolving the next day to seek aid;
For when I awoke ’twas still, “you must
Or penalty dire be paid.”

To the revenue clerk I took me straight,
And behold, as I looked, I heard
A lot of fond fools at Uncle Sam’s gate,
Despairing like a caged bird.

The officer smiled, and I smiled out loud,
For misery loves company;
And the smiles were like beams that broke the cloud
Of impending, rank perjury.

The blanks I filled in from A to O,
But omitted the “profits from sale”—
I once grew rich with a plow and hoe,
When a whistling boy and hale.

In those olden days no kind of a tax
For City or State revenue
Was imposed on boys except a few whacks,
But now they forever are due.

I swore and I signed and in full I paid
That puzzling tax return;
Once more I laughed, and again I said,
“’Tis always do, and you learn.”

And now it is done, and thoroughly done,
Halleluia, I’ll get there yet;
But by all that’s good and true ’neath the sun,
I swear that folly to forget.

IN FLORIDA

They come from everywhere,
By land, by sea and air,
The old, the young and fair—
And all without a care,
In Florida.

Just pause, my friend, and see
The multitudes that be
O’er lovely shore and lea;
They reach from sea to sea,
In Florida.

Look at the aged one,
Who shines like a little sun,
And feels himself undone,
If he played not golf and won,
In Florida.

His gouty feet must dance,
His eye will look askance,
And his mind make glad advance,
To reach five score, perchance,
In Florida.

Yes, let him have his wish
To feel the line’s quick swish,
And catch his finest fish
For his epicurean dish,
In Florida.

’Tis here he makes the stride;
There’s nothing he can’t ride,
With a maiden by his side—
Yet a few things must he hide,
In Florida.

The birds and trees here sing;
The prigs and plants upspring,
And each gets in the swing,
With Nature all a-wing,
In Florida.

Behold, my friend, the youth,
The forward, the uncouth;
The gentle and their ruth,
The beauty and the truth,
In Florida.

It’s like a moving stage,
The folk of every age;
No place nor cause for rage—
Even workless have their wage—
In Florida.

Then see the females all;
Alack! you rise or fall,
Or else your heart forestall,
In this moving, magic ball,
In Florida.

One great kaleidoscope,
From silk to dirt and dope,
From puppet to a pope,
This passing throng of hope,
In Florida.

TWO LITTLE ORPHANS

Two orphans in the world are left,
A brother and sister sighing;
Two Vireos aggrieved, bereft,
Two little orphans crying.

Close clinging to their cheerless nest,
Two little birds are trying
To call back joys of mother’s breast,
A mother, lifeless lying.

God’s two-fold plan for making song—
Some fiend the while defying—
And man’s two friends their whole life long;
Two little orphans crying.

No answer comes, save from the King,
A King who’s aye supplying
The needs of the great and smallest thing—
His little orphans crying.

TROUBLE AND PLAY

It’s trouble and gladness from first to the last,
Ere joy is quite vanquished some sorrow comes fast;
Yet while old Calamity’s having his way,
For one that’s in trouble, there are others at play.

What is play to the pup is grief to the child;
What is fun for the boy makes mother go wild;
Some deeds of the mother cause angels to weep;
While God smiles over all, and all He doth keep.

SOME SMALL SURPRISES

We never foreknow, but our hearts were a-glow,
The hearts of Artena and I,
As we walked to and fro by the waters a-flow,
The waters in “the land of the sky.”

The children see true—they generally do—
The charming things all around;
I followed her view, and I presently knew
A Tanager’s nest was found.

The boys advanced, as soon as they glanced,
And down came the limb of a tree;
Thus fortune chanced, while little hearts danced,
With four wee fledglings to see.

With noisy protest, and tumult and zest,
The camera captured all four.
’Twas the parents’ sure test—they forsook the nest,
Though birdlings a-weeping sore!

I began to weep, in my heart quite deep,
When the babes kept up their cry;
I ran up the steep like a deer in a leap,
For the best bird food supply.