Chapter VI: Part THREE: Other Verses (2)

And when through the white-toothed combers
The helping hull looms high,
And when the small-boats leap aside
Through the glare of the red-shot sky,
Out, out across the ocean’s dawn
The final flashes flee--
“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back--
“Thank God--and the C.Q.D!”

THE LIGHTS

The fair-weather lights are gleaming
Across a tranquil main,
By beam and beam so bright they seem
A laughing, endless chain.

The foul-weather lights are few and far--
Nor flash nor leap nor fail--
But slowly burn where the billows churn
In the teeth of the driving gale.

_Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bights
Are welcome sights to see--
But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,
Are the Lamps of the Years to be._

THE CHOSEN

And the Guiding One he pointed me
To each and each the deed,
And never a word was ever heard
Of Prophet or Saint or Creed.

And never a word was ever heard
But the path that each had run,
Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed
And said that the work was done.

And there stood he of the iron will
Nor gold could bend or buy:
And there stood she of the Mother Love
That never asketh why.

And there stood he who striving lost,
But striving, gained the Crest:
And there stood she who nursed them back
With bullet-ridden breast.

And there stood he whose right hand gave,
But the left--it never knew:
And there stood she who held him fast
When the Beckoning Whispers blew.

And there stood he who saved a life
By fire, sea or sword:
And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts
And first before the Lord.

But high o’er the great Arch-angels,
Higher than any stand,
I saw the chosen of the King
At the right of the Master’s hand.

And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyes
And the silent face aglow,
Till the Guiding One It answered me
The word that I wished to know--

“Out of the crash of battle,
Where the shrieking bullet sings,
The roaring front lines reel and rock
As a wounded vulture swings.

“As a wounded vulture halting swings
The quivering squadrons break,
Till the shattered herds catch up the words,
‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”

(Back, back to follow after
The light of fearless eyes,
And the sound of a voice that knows no choice
Where the love of a Nation lies.)

And the Guiding One it paused apace,
And then I heard it say--
“And he?--_He died in leading
The charge that won the day._”

THE FAIREST MOON

Oh ye who tell of the harvest moon
Above the waving grain,
Oh ye who tell of the silent moon
That glitters across the plain.

Oh ye who tell of the mountain moon
That lifts each peak and crag,
Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon
Where the long, black shadows drag.

Oh ye who tell of the silver moon
In wanton ecstasy,
Ye never tell of the fairest moon--
The fairest moon to me.

’Tis well the tale of the crescent moon
Above the lake-side pine,
And good is your song of the circling moon
Where snowy meadows shine.

And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moon
Where dazzling rapids leap:
For wondrous bright is the fairy sight
Of the soul of a World asleep.

But a waning moon, just half a moon,
With a rough and ragged rim,
And a mystic light that makes the night
All bright but doubly dim....

Low down, low down in a starry sky,
O’er the shift of a swinging sea
With a mellow fold o’ silver gold,
Reveals my moon to me.

THE STRIVER

The trumpets bore his name afar
By East and West anew,
Where, roaring through the riven tape
The sweeping Conqueror drew.
And East and West they rose and blest
With laurel wreath and cheers,
As they had done ’neath every sun
Adorn the countless years.

The trumpets echoed far ahead--
A faltering footfall trailed,
Till broken flesh that called on flesh
Stumbled and rocked and failed.
A well run dry--a sightless sky--
Where mind and matter part:
A quivering frame--a nameless name--
Wrapped in a lion’s heart.

The nearer stars they winded him--
The farther planets heard;
The outer spheres of all the spheres
Took up the Master’s word.
They lifted him and bouyed him
And bore him gently in
To the Goal of Lost Endeavor--
In the Land of Might-have-been.

THE OLD MEN

Ye sing a song of the young men
In the pride of an early strength,
Ye sing a song of the young men
And ye give it goodly length;
_I_ sing a song of the old men--
Of the men on a homeward tack
And a steady wheel and an even keel
That never a wind may rack.

Ye sing a song of the strong men
In the birth of a splendid youth,
Ye sing a song of the strong men
And ye sing mayhap in truth;
But I--I sing of the old men
Who’ve weathered the outer seas,
And lifting the bark through the growing dark,
Bear back in the sunset breeze.

Ye sing a song of the young men
Ere they reach the second stake,
And a name to choose and a name to lose
In the scruff of the rudder’s wake;
But I--I sing of the old men
In the glow of the tempered days,
Whose chartings show the paths to go
Through the mesh of a million ways.

Ye sing a song of the strong men
In the flush of the first fair blow,
Ye sing a song of the strong men
Or ever the end ye know;
But I--I sing of the old men--
Time-tested--weathered brown--
Who unafraid the port have made,
Where all brave ships go down.

THE FOUR-ROADS POST

They had come at the Spirit’s bidding--
Who bore the right to seek--
And the hungry he brake and gave them bread,
And strength he gave to the weak.

Honor and Gold and Triumph--
Love and Land and Fame--
As they deserved to each he served--
And they left and blessed his name.

And only one was waiting
Before the Giver’s knee,
And He said, “Oh spawn of a troubled Earth--
What may I do for thee?”

And the suppliant cried, “Good Master
I asked nor fame nor gold--
I only seek the bygone peak
Where I saw the lands unfold.

“I only seek the bygone peak
Where every pathway sung,
And every sea had a ship for me,
And all the World was young.

“Oh let me know the place once more,
The parting of the lane--
Oh give me back the Four-Roads Post,
That I may choose again.”

* * * * *

The Spirit gazed across the vale
And his eyes had a tender glow,
And his voice ran mild as ye speak to a child,
Wondrous soft and low:

“Little Waif of a Later Day,
Where the unthought hours flee,
The only treasure I have not.
Is the boon that ye ask of me.

“I can give you balms and riches--
I can ease you of your pain--
But I cannot give the Four-Roads Post--
That ye may choose again.”

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

Sing me a song of Chivalry,
The little Man-child said.
Of days of old when knights were bold
And fields of honor red.
Take me far to a maiden’s tower
And the black traducer slain;
To Honor and Truth and Faith forsooth--
Oh carry me back again.

So the Waif of Chance be wafted him
And set him down apace,
But never a field of tourney,
And never a knight of grace.
He set him down where the whipping flames
Leap red athwart the sky,
And the crashing wall that forms a pall
Where the fire-fighters lie.

The Waif of Chance he wafted him
Across a broken main,
And the great ship’s roll like a foundering soul
Groaned to the depths again:
But over the breast of the ocean’s crest
The plunging life-boats neared,
And the shout that burst was “Women first,”
And the men that were left--they cheered.

Where the staggering brethren dragged their loads
From the mouth of the stricken mine,
Where the hand at the throttle never flinched
At the sight of the open line;
By curb and forge and death-hung gorge--
By river, sea and plain--
The Waif of Chance the Man-child brought,
And bade him gaze again.

Honor and Faith and Sacrifice
In the midst of the city’s roil--
Faith and Honor and Sacrifice
Where the frontier-hewers toil:
And the Man-child slowly knelt and clasped
The Waif about the knee,
And he murmured low, “Oh now I know--
The Days of Chivalry.”

PHANTOM-LAND

_Come board the boat for Phantom-land--
Come join the merry crew;
Come board the boat for Phantom-land
That lies acalling you._

Oh throw away the red-shot day--
The broken, weary night--
And come with me across the sea
To where you lift the light
Of Phantom-land of Phantom-land,
Uprising from the blue,
With mountains green and castles
That stand acalling you.

It doesn’t cost a single cent
To join the joyous band;
You needn’t spend a penny
To reach the sunny land;
So come away at close o’ day
Or in the morning dew,
To Phantom-land to Phantom-land
That lies acalling you.

And they who once have been there--
Who’ve trod the laughing hills,
They’re always going back there--
From roil and toil and ills:
And when they come to Earth again--
(I cross m’ heart, it’s true),
They sing the praise o’ Phantom-land
That lies acalling you.

THE ROSE

He plucked the Rose in anger--
The Rose across his path;
And the thorns they cut and tore him
And scorned him in his wrath.

He plucked the Rose in hauteur
And pride no bond could bind,
And the Rose it tossed its royal head
Nor deigned to look behind.

He plucked the Rose in sadness--
And the red Rose seeing, knew:
And it gave its sweetest incense,
And its petals shone with dew.

He plucked the Rose in gladness--
Nor sorrow’s least alloy--
And the Rose it shook its leaves and laughed
In its tumultuous joy.

By all the devious ways he came--
By every mood and whim;
And as he stooped to gather--
The Rose gave back to him.

PATRIOTISM

_Ends of the riven Nation
I’ve drawn near and near,
Duty and love and honor
I’ve garnered year by year;
Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,
And the Final Brotherhood,
But I call my sons to the signal guns,
And I know that the call is good._

Mongol and Teuton and Slav and Czech--
Saxon and Celt and Gaul--
Out of the mire at my desire
They leapt to the battle-call,
The Mean and the Low and the Goodly--
Murderer, saint and thief--
From city and plow with lofty brow
They rode to My Belief.

The Mean and the Low and the Goodly
O’er the fields of carnage swept,
And for those that returned, the laurel crown--
And for those that stayed--they wept.
And the Mother showed her stripling
The place where the foeman ran,
And he pledged to the skies with yearning eyes--
And the pledge was the pledge of a man.

Over the field of battle
The well aimed arrows flew,
Over a sea of wreckage
The bending galleons blew;
And where the arrow found him,
Or the round-shot rent atwain,
He fell--but turned in the falling
To bless his Land again.

_Ends of the riven Nation
I’ve drawn, near and near,
Duty and love and honor
I’ve garnered year by year;
Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,
And the Final Brotherhood,
But I call my sons to the signal guns--
And I know that the call is good._

KELVIN

Never a mark of Mortal Man
But ye delved to a greater depth--
Never a truth of Mortal Truths
But ye stirred it where it slept.
Never a veil but ye drew aside,
Till ye came where the Wide Ways part,
And ye bowed a head as ye lowly said,
“Oh God, how fair Thou art.”

THE END

NOTES

THE DYAK CHIEF 13.

The Dyaks, a “brown” race, are the savage inhabitants of Central Borneo, and are said to have come originally from the Malay Peninsula, but to have since been gradually driven into the center of the island by the influx of the present Malays, who now inhabit the coasts and often far inland, especially up the rivers.

The Dyaks, though an old, aboriginal Malay stock, differ radically from the Malays in nearly every particular.

They are a dark-skinned, strong, well-knit, square-shouldered and beautifully muscled type of men, neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, but comparable to the typical American cavalryman or football halfback or trained middle-weight boxer or wrestler.

They have small, dark, heady, snake-like eyes, high cheek bones and straight black hair, often “bobbed” at the neck and frequently with a band around it, giving them much the appearance of North American Indians, were it not that their eyes and noses are smaller. They affect a breech-cloth only, excepting for the sake of warmth, when they don a light cloth jacket or a fibre coat, the latter being a simple affair, hanging straight, with a slit at the top through which the head is placed, after the manner of a present-day American Army “poncho.”

A chief is distinguished by having pheasant feathers falling down the back of one of these coats, and in the town or “kampong” of Olong Liko I was the recipient of the unusual privilege of having a friendly Dyak chief take off his cloak-like garment that I had been examining, put it on over my head, and insist on my keeping it--which it is needless to say I was only too glad to do--and which I still have preserved as the most valued treasure of all the many that I brought back from my travels.

The women are of the typical heavy-waisted savage category, frequently wearing something above the waist, but whose usual costume consists merely of a long cloth, resembling a skirt, wrapped around their legs.

Truth compels me to ungallantly state the ladies are not prepossessing.

The chief occupations of the Dyaks are hunting, fishing and tending their little truck-gardens, which mode of life probably accounts for their average splendid physique.

_Moeroeng_ 13.

The Moeroeng (River) is a long stream in Central Borneo that unites with the Djoeloi to form the Barito, the latter being one of the great rivers of Borneo, flowing from its center in a general southerly direction, and emptying into the Java Sea a short distance to the west of the southeastern extremity of the island. Pronunciation: Moeroeng=Mooroong: Djoeloi=Jooloi.

_kampong_ 13.

Kampong is a native Dyak village, and consists of from one to three or four long houses, and sometimes small detached ones. The long house, the characteristic building, is anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred feet in length, elevated, on poles, from eight to twenty feet in the air. The sides of the houses are of rough boards or of bark and the roofs usually of bark shingles. The age of the dwellings can be told by the height they stand above the ground, those on the highest poles being the oldest ones, because of the former greater savagery of, and more frequent warfare between, the natives. Here literally we have a case of the home being the fortress.

Within, the long house is of one of two arrangements; either it consists of a huge hall, often decorated with the skull and horns of the chase, running practically the entire length, and with family rooms opening into it and bake-rooms or kitchens at both ends, or the house consists merely of one very long room without partitions, the different families, with their crude cooking hearths, “squatting” around the sides of the room at intervals of ten or fifteen feet. Occasionally some of the families will hang up cloth divisions. Here, truly, we have the communal scheme of living carried to its ultimate extreme.

_headless waist_ 13.

The Dyaks are the famous “head-hunters” of Borneo, and although their inhuman proclivities of procuring heads for their belts, in order to give them certain distinctions, among them, the prerogative of marrying, have, at the present time been largely suppressed by the Dutch authorities, nevertheless a traveler’s trip through Central Borneo is dangerous owing to the fact that some actual head-hunting bands are still roaming the dense jungles through which he is passing.

Due to pure luck my path was not crossed by any of these outlaw nomad troops, which is possibly why I am writing this to-day, as one white man, even though armed with a long 38 Army Colt revolver could probably make little headway against a whole band of these savages. My three Malay coolies were highly trustworthy and efficient, but I am not positive as to exactly what extent I could have counted on them in the eventuality of an actual attack.

_lianes_ 14.

Long, bare, tropical, vine-like growths that sometimes wrap themselves around the trunk of it tree, and sometimes hang from the branches straight to the ground.

_leeches_ 15.

Little gray leeches, up to half an inch in length that, as a barefooted person walks through the jungle, attach themselves to his feet and ankles and suck the blood, until removed or until, having gotten their fill and swollen to many times their former size, fall back to the ground satiated.

In the case of a white man, they will burrow through the seam at the back of his sock to get the blood they crave.

_proa_ 16.

Pronounced prow, and is any small crude Dyak or Malay Bornese boat, propelled by paddling.

_blow-spear_ 17.

A spear with a hollow shaft through which the Dyaks blow a light, wooden dart or arrow. I have seen these in Java and the Philippines also.

_mandauw_ (_or parang_) 17.

Pronounced mandow, and is the typical Dyak sword with a straight blade broadening gradually until near the end, then abruptly narrowing again to a point. It is sharpened on one edge only.

_chief poles_ 17.

High wooden flag-like poles, carved near the base, and with long tassels falling from the top. Erected in front of the long house in memory of dead kampong (village) chiefs.

_Moeroeng rapids_ 21.

The Moeroeng River has magnificent rapids, which I and my three Malay coolies shot on my return by river from Olong Liko to Poeroek Tjahoe.

_tom-toms_ 24.

Round, drum-like, metal musical instruments, beaten with a stick having a large knob.

(_You know how far it comes_) 28.

Refers to the fact that salt is precious to the Dyaks, and must be gotten from the distant coasts, through traders.

_Sick-man’s Drums_ 28.

The heating of the tom-toms, with the playing of other “musical” instruments, when a Dyak is sick. The nearer death, the louder the beating. Supposed to be very efficacious. In this particular case the “Sick-man’s Drums” were, of course, beaten ironically.

_greasy cakes_ 29.

Thick, round, half-cooked, greasy, Dyak cakes, utterly indigestible and unprepossessing.

ON THE WATER-WAGON 33.

Slang for “not drinking.”

“_the mill_,” 33.

The guard-house or soldier prison.

ARMY OF PACIFICATION 35.

_Islands_ 36.

The Philippine Islands.

SOLITARY 38.

“Solitary confinement” is punishment meted out to particularly obstreperous prisoners or to those under very severe sentence.

_calaboose_ 38.

Guard-house or soldier prison.

_jug_ 38.

Guard-house or soldier prison.

_Ten and a Bob_ 39.

A prisoner’s sentence of ten years and a dishonorable discharge from the Army.

_The Isle_ 39.

Refers to Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, used as a discharge station for time-expired soldiers returning from the Philippines after the Insurrection of 1899-1902. On Angel Island there was also a military convict station for serious offenders, who had to break stone.

_“the makings”_ 39.

The paper and tobacco for cigarettes

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN 40.

_Major Sour_ 41.

The Major’s name was Sour--if we speak in antithesis.

SHAH JEHAN 55.

One of the Great Moguls of India, who at Agra built the lovely, white marble Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, who died in 1629.

Near the city of Aurangabad, in the northwestern part of the state of Hyderabad, is the so-called “Little Taj,” the Mausoleum of Rabi’a Durrani, the wife of a later Great Mogul, Auraugzeb. Though built only of stucco, and not kept in the same immaculate condition as the Taj Mahal, the “Little Taj,” with its inset, pointed arches, viewed at an advantageous distance of several hundred feet, from just within the ground’s entrance, is to me really more beautiful than the splendid Taj Mahal itself, because the height of the “Little Taj,” and, inclusively, of its arches, is greater in proportion to its base than is that of its famous predecessor. The result is a more delicate, lofty and inspiring effect--which effect appears, obviously, to be the most apropos and essential one to obtain in erecting mausoleums of this nature.

Close, detailed inspection of the two tombs would present a diametrically opposite analysis, but in work such as this, it would seem that the most crucial aspect is the ensemble and not the minutiæ or finis.

_Rajputana stars_ 57.

When in Rajputana, a great state of northwestern India, I was impressed by the brilliancy of the stars on a clear night. It may have been due to atmospheric or other conditions, but whatever the cause, in no other part of the World have I seen such magnificent stars.

_tulwar_ 57.

The large, splendid, curved sword of India.

_Flaming Trees_ 57.

The trees that spread out like great umbrellas, covered on top with masses of blood-orange colored blossoms, and called “Flame of the Forest,” though in the Philippines we usually nicknamed them “Fire Trees.”

NIPPON 105.

Let us be charitable, and hope that through contact with outside nations the Japanese will eventually be able to eradicate their traits of character, though the probability, much less the possibility, that the leopard can really change its spots, is remote indeed. Among the poorer classes and in the rural interior of Japan, you will, however, sometimes find at least two mitigating attributes, simplicity and kindliness.

MY LOVES 112.

The loves here referred to are picked at random from among the many of the World Wanderer. The second stanza refers to the breeze of the South Seas; the third stanza, to the North Wind; the fourth stanza, to the Sea; the fifth stanza, to the Sunrise; the sixth stanza, to the Sunset.

C. Q. D. 138.

The old “C. Q. D.,” or present-day “S. O. S.,” the wireless telegraphic signal of ships in distress.

KELVIN 159.

The great British scientist. Born in Belfast, Ireland in 1824. Died near Largs, Scotland in 1907. His name is among those the British Government has honored by carving into the floor of Westminster Abbey.

* * * * *

MY BUNKIE
and Other Ballads

By ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT

=Army and Navy Register:=

“The poems show a keen appreciation of the romantic and picturesque side of the soldier’s life with touches of humor and pathos that make up the comedy and tragedy of the calling. Mr. Garrett’s verses are truly sympathetic and appeal to worthy sentiment. They are among the best of anything which has been written in any form concerning the Army and they deserve appreciation. If the Army has a poet who has shown himself by his verses capable of expressing in this form service traditions and military life, it must be this former soldier. Mr. Garrett has preserved the varying conditions of the soldier’s life and the soldier’s sentiment in verses that are really worth while.***”

=The Philadelphia Record:=

“He has a happy knack of making vivid word-pictures; when he describes something of a battle it all seems clear before our vision; when he tells of camp life, the tented fields are there, and the men, and their tasks. When he draws portraits such as those of ‘The Old Sergeant,’ ‘The ex-Soldier’ and ‘The Rookie’ these men stand strong and life-like before us.***”

=Chicago Inter-Ocean:=

“***‘My Bunkie and Other Ballads,’ by Erwin Clarkson Garrett, are poems straight from the heart of a private soldier, full of freshness and color, swing and melody.***”

“Mr. Garrett’s songs are racy of the soil and of the life they celebrate. They have an appeal for all Americans, but particularly for the thousands of American young men who in war times saw the Philippines over the sights of a Krag-Jorgensen.”

=Philadelphia Press:=

“The American soldier has found his Kipling in Erwin Clarkson Garrett.***”

=The New York Evening Post:=

“***They are the poems of a man who has marched and fought and slept with the Army, and they have the right ring.***”