full o’ pink;
So saddle up, my sonny—it’s time to ride, I think!
We’ll ford er swim the river, becos there ain’t no bridge;
We’ll foot the gulches careful, an’ lope along the ridge;
We’ll take the trail to Nowhere, an’ travel till we tire,
An’ camp beneath a pine-tree, an’ sleep beside the fire.
We’ll see the blue-quail chickens, an’ hear ’em pipin’ clear;
An’ p’raps we’ll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o’ deer;
But nary a heathen goddess or god ’ill meet our eyes;
For why? There isn’t any! They’re jest a pack o’ lies!
Oh, wot’s the use o’ “red gods,” an’ “Pan,” an’ all that stuff?
The natcheral facts o’ Springtime is wonderful enuff!
An’ if there’s Someone made ’em, I guess He understood,
To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.
Angler’s Fireside Song
Oh, the angler’s path is a very merry way,
And his road through the world is bright;
For he lives with the laughing stream all day,
And he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
The angler’s life is a very jolly life
And that’s what the anglers say!
Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game,
And his creel may be full or light,
But the tale that he tells will be just the same
When he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
We love the fire and the music of the lyre,
And that’s what the anglers say!
A Bunch of Trout-Flies
For Archie Rutledge
Here’s a half-a-dozen flies,
Just about the proper size
For the trout of Dickey’s Run—
Luck go with them every one!
Dainty little feathered beauties,
Listen now, and learn your duties:
Not to tangle in the box;
Not to catch on logs or rocks,
Boughs that wave or weeds that float,
Nor in the angler’s “pants” or coat!
Not to lure the glutton frog
From his banquet in the bog;
Nor the lazy chub to fool,
Splashing idly round the pool;
Nor the sullen hornèd pout
From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew,
Dainty flies, is game for you.
Darting swiftly through the air
Guided by the angler’s care,
Light upon the flowing stream
Like a wingèd fairy dream;
Float upon the water dancing,
Through the lights and shadows glancing,
Till the rippling current brings you,
And with quiet motion swings you,
Where a speckled beauty lies
Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here’s your game and here’s your prize!
Hover near him, lure him, tease him,
Do your very best to please him,
Dancing on the water foamy,
Like the frail and fair Salome,
Till the monarch yields at last;
Rises, and you have him fast!
Then remember well your duty—
Do not lose, but land, your booty;
For the finest fish of all is
Salvelinus Fontinalis.
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I’ll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook’s contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon—
Then’s the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
A Ballad of Santa Claus
For the St. Nicholas Society of New York
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira,
I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra:
The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature—
The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.
A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian,
He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan:
But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble,
He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.
Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married;
But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried.
St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking,
And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.
Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded;
The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked “We’ll all be drownded!”
St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo;
He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.
The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken,
And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon.
St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together—
They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, “St. Nicholas forever!”
And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel,
And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle,
And every man that’s fatherly, and every kindly matron,
In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.
He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving;
He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living;
He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation;
He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.
Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December,
And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember.
Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features,
And said, “Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!
”
The Little-Neck Clam
A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art’s-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers’ Association, in Washington, April, 1904.
I
The Anti-Trust Clam
For McClure’s Magazine
The clam that once, on Jersey’s banks,
Was like the man who dug it, free,
Now slave-like thro’ the market clanks
In chains of corporate tyranny.
The Standard Fish-Trust of New York
Holds every clam-bank in control;
And like base Beef and menial Pork,
The free-born Clam has lost its soul.
No more the bivalve treads the sands
In freedom’s rapture, free from guilt:
It follows now the harsh commands
Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.
Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just!
Call on the Sherman Act to dam
The floods of this devouring Trust,
And liberate the fettered Clam.
