CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF COMM. ON PaBLICATION Cornell University Library PS 614.W12 W. B. in California :a tribute. 3 1924 022 499 101 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9240224991 01 W. B. IN CALIFORNIA Wo Bo in California zA Tribute BERKELEY T'RIV^ATELY T'RIXTET) I919 "W. ®. in (California" was presented to 'J^Cr. Witter "Bynner by his students, friends and colleagues at a dinner held in the 'Bohemian £lub on 'Tuesday night, i^tCay 2yth, igig. Four hundred copies have been printed for private circulation. PRESS OF THE H. S. CROCKER CO., INC. SAN FRANCISCO FOREWORD HE verses gathered in this volume are an evidence and an expression of friendship. Witter Bynner, whom his students, friends, and colleagues have sought thus unpretentiously to honor, is not only a poet, but one who seeks poetry in others. The poetry he has inspired and the friend- ship he has quickened are as silvery witnesses of him as his own words. But harvesting comes a long time after seeding and even a careful reaper cannot gather what the wind has sown. There will be flower- ing and fruition for many years to come, but written words can never measure what he has sown in un- written inspiration among his students, who, with some of his friends, have here expressed in verses grave and gay their devotion and their faith. It was first planned to offer to the University of California a marble chair to be placed in the Greek Theatre and dedicated to Mr. Bynner, but such a distinction for one who was merely a sojourner in the faculty might not be understood by those who had no opportunity of knowing how he has en- deared himself to his students nor how he has made himself a part of student life in a measure out of all proportion to the time he has been in the uni- versity. The plan was therefore abandoned in favor of the present collection q/carmina votiva more appro- priate, more significant and perhaps more per- marient than a monument of stone. [v] Witter Bynner was called to the University of California at the beginning of the fall term in igi8 to serve as an instructor in the Department of En- glish for the period of one year. He came primarily to assist in the important work of training the members of the Students Army Training Corps. Since January, /p/p, when the government military school at the University was discontinued, he has given a course in verse writing with marked success. His friends are well aware that for him, as a creative artist, the employment of his time in teach- ing rather than in writing has involved no incon- siderable sacrifice. They may commend his wisdom in returning as he soon will to the high calling of poetry, but they cannot but feel that a gain for all is not without a loss for some. We shall always, however, blessedly retain our memories ofW. B. in California, for of him, in truth, might Celia have said: " But he who knows all men to be himself. Part of his own experiment and reach. Humbles and amplifies himself To build and share a tenement of stars." [vi] CONTENTS Foreword . v PART I— FOR By the members of Mr. Bynner's class The Kalin Weaver Hildegarde Planner . 3 The Warriors of Old Stanton A. Cobkntz ... 5 Running Song Sarah Unna 6 What Matters Now Clarence Greenhood 7 Grown Up Genevieve 'taggard 8 On the March Wheaton Hale Brewer 9 A Singer lone Dresden .10 The Birthday Franklin Cummings 11 A Dream and a Dog Harlow Clarke ... 13 The Serenade Idella Purnell 15 The Stranded Hunter Will Garrett . . ... 17 Indian Song Eda Lou Walton . . . ..18 Friendship , Eugenia Buyko .19 The Cathedral of Spaces Robert McKee Hyde . . 20 Look to the Sea George Hugh Banning ... . . . . ai Pride Ruth Hamilton . . ... ... 22 The Coffin's Heritage George Atcheson, Jr 23 [vii] In Hospital Virginia Sanderson The Ocean Liner William Maxwell . PART II-TO I Charles K. Field . . II Ruth Comfort Mitchell III Bruce Porter . IV S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu V S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu VI Stella Benson . VII David Atkins . VIII Moon Kwan IX Porter Garnett X Ernest Walsh XI Elvira Foote XII *Robert McKee Hyde XIII *Franklin Cummings XIV *Hildegarde Planner XV *£^ Hildegarde Planner (In the weaving of the Indian carpet known as the Kah'n, a boy sits in front of the workman and drawls out the number of loops to be made and the colors to be used.) Boy Lift five, use yellow. Lift two, use green. Weaver Yellow, yellow and green Some worship the many-armed banyan-tree Where Rama dwelt. And some adore the kindly bamboo. But I kneel to my art. Boy Lift three, use blue. Lift four, use red. Weaver Blue. . . red. . . Deeper than Persian lapis, Deeper than burnt carnelian Is the soul of my carpet. Is the pathway of my fingers. Only a master Can talk of the signs I weave In wool and silk. Boy Lift four, use black. Weaver Black? It shall be white of goat's hair. If the pattern is done without faults, The Evil Eye will rest upon it. [3] Boy Lift one. . . lift six. . . Weaver Ocean at night and smoke and sun. Heavy shadows in the sand hills, Morvi crystal with wine dried upon it — The colors burst aloud from my heart And settle Divinely muted For feet, like leaves, to whirl across For feet. . . like leaves. . . Look boy — two annas for your day's work. Go. I can finish, alone. . . . For pale amber feet to dance upon. . . There a thread of marigold. . . For eager feet to run upon. . . Here a spark of the jungle flame. [4] THE WARRIORS OF OLD Jk#> Stanton A. Coblentz The warriors that lived in ages past Came slowly trooping back to earth in hordes Countless as locust clouds, their dripping swords Red with the blood of those they slaughtered last. Bold Alexander led those legions vast, Aided by Caesar and the Punic lords. Then followed all the soldiers fame rewards. And all whom time to nameless graves has cast To each of these Life said: "My vital breath I shall inspire in you, if you agree The battle's frenzy once again to brave." The phantoms answered: "We shall stay with death. What fighting men are fortunate as we ?" And all the phantoms trooped back to the grave. [5] RUNNING SONG i^ Sarah Unna My flying feet have left behind The meadow and the hill For the cliff that leaps to greet the sky- leaping heart, be still. 1 cleave the fluttering darkness, while The night-birds, calling, dart In winging circles round my flight — Whither will you, my heart ? And like the night-bird of the hill I skim the cliff to greet The one I love. Be still, my heart — But O, be swift, my feet ! [6] WHAT MATTERS NOW 99f Clarence Greenhood When I first saw you Another day dawned Suddenly within the daylight. You spoke. And I knew you, I thought. Long ago. I touched your hand. Looked into your new-blue eyes, As a man looks into life. And you drooped your eyes In sadness. And when I kissed you, sweet. There went through me A rain of wine Singing. What matters now, that you have gone ? You still are seen and heard, and touched by some. And rain of wine goes singing on — My song. [7] GROWN UP {^ Genevieve Taggard There was a time when Mother Nature made My soul's sun and my soul's shade. A cloud in the sky would take away The song in my heart for all day, And a little lark in a willow-tree Would mean happiness to me. My moods would mirror all her whims, Trees were my strength, their limbs, my limbs. But, oh, my mother tortured me Blowing with storm and sighing with sea. I changed, I withered, I blossomed, I sang. With her I suffered, pang for pang, Until I said, "Let me grow my own tree. Where no natural wind will bother me." And I grew me a willow from my own heart's strength, With my will for its width and my wish for its length ; And I made me a bird from my own heart's fire, That could sing my own sun, and my own desire. And a vast white circle came in the air. And the winds around said, "Don't blow there" I answered, "Blow on, blow, blow, blow, blow, Fill all the sky, above, below. With tempests, and sleet, and silence, and snow! Wherever I go, no matter where. My bird and my willow-tree are there. However you frown, no matter how, I will sing as I am singing now. [8] ON THE MARCH {^ Wheaton Hale Brewer Hour after hour, The brown, dusty ribbon Of men and wagons. Cannon, machine-guns. Horses, And men, men, men. Tramping onward. Hour after hour, The green fields And the spring flowers By the wayside! I remember, last spring. On such a day. How I and my beloved. . [9] A SINGER ?•> lone Dresden A singer in the street below that goes Forgetful of us, head thrown back, and lips That purse for melody — poor harmony that slips And wavers into flats — yet sweet! I close The window, moving off as one who knows The poignant torture of the lonely hour At dusk, chill barren wait for one whose flower Of night blooms near the dawn — a reddening rose Along the pathway of the day — And you Who come, warm lover of the night, what do You know of one who watches, hidden, bright Home-comers shattering shadows of the night With laughter, slender children's silhouette Against the opened door — and dry eyes — wet! [lo] THE BIRTHDAY W Franklin Cummings Roar, sea, the thunder of your boom. Inside there's mother at her loom. And coals upon the hearth. The glow Of coals is something sweet to know. Roar, sea, there's coffee on the boil. For Harry, he's a lad to spoil. And slippers on the worsted rug. Soon he will catch us in his hug. Mother and I. Roar, sea, your boom Is music in the little room. For, ere there bursts another sun, Harry to manhood will have come. To-night the lamp wick flares up higher. We listen with a sweet desire For Darby's hoof. He drove to town. Fun and laughter were in the brown Still eyes, and charm was in his smile — He's coming home in a little while. Hush, sea, and let our hearts be still To listen, fasten firm our will. The moon has come and gone again. And now the wind brings gusts of rain. Drearily falling on the roof. But never a sound of Darby's hoof. The coals are burned, the wick flares low, And only the anxious hours we know. Mother is wrapped in her grey shawl Listening for Harry's yodeling call. And I am looking out. Hush, sea, And let your stillness comfort me. [II] Roar, sea, cry out our wretched doom, The nights are lonely, filled with gloom. There's wind and rain upon the roof, But for the sound of Darby's hoof We do not listen. On the wall The ragged lamp wick casts a pall. The slippers still lie on the rug, But there is no one left to hug — And mother sits in her grey shawl ; They say he died in a drunken brawl. Roar, sea, and drown the heavier roar Within my heart, let more and more My fancy dwell on eyes of brown, Not on the night he went to town. Roar, sea, echo his yodeling call. And drown the flickerings on the wall. [12] A DREAM AND A DOG ^1^ Harlow Clarke A jilted lover was wearily walking Through the green wildwood and wildly talking. And startled the silence, and almost shed tears. And the frightened crows flew with black warning and squawking. And her gay, cruel voice sounded black in his ears: "With your simple expression and flat-footed stride. And you clownish behavior, I'll not be your bride. And love with you, live with you, lie by your side." "I know it! I'll do it next Saturday night: I'll climb in her window and put out the light. ... My dog shall come with me and watch her weep." And the dog sprang to him with a laugh and a leap. And the lad lay down on the grass to sleep. . . . And the maiden came with her golden hair. And her honeyed lips, and saw him there. Oh, never was youth in the woods so fair ! She was soft and relenting and could not pass. And went where he lay stretched out on the grass. And kissed his face till it's red and wet. And covered it quite with her golden net. And the lad woke up, — and the dog was there! [13] The dog barked loud and leaped in the air, And the sun made gold of his yellow hair. The lad wiped the wet of the dog's rough tongue, And brushed the yellow hairs that clustering hung To his Sunday coat, and sweetly swore He'd turn to liquor, and love no more. [h] THE SERENADE 99f Idella Purnell Jasmine-scent through the window, My darkened room. On the high balcony, roses, A riot of bloom. The garden below in flower-drowned Fragrance lay. Holding its breath to hear him, 'Tonio, play. Soft through the star-hushed darkness Came the tune, Singing a song of pleasure. Love, and the moon. "Querida," the last words reached me. Plaintive, low. "Querida, thou wouldst love me Didst thou know How I have pined in silence. Pined for thee. Give me a word of hope For charity." Softly I went in the dark, then, *One white rose Plucked from the mass of blossom (No one knows I dropped a kiss in its flushed heart). And the stars Laughed as I flung the flower Through the bars. Sprang he then from the others (Paused the tune). Holding the rose in triumph Toward the moon. "Hear, companeros," I heard him, "While I sing [15] My song of joy that shall rise Till the glad skies ring ! " — Si, Pablo, I am coming . . . (Long ago. When I was young I loved him- Antonio.) [i6] THE STRANDED HUNTER Jkl> Will Garrett My fingers long to be cut With my own sharp grasses, I love the stink of the wild tiger. To steal the liquor of the sahib Would make my eyes gleam. . . . These cages and these heads without the turban. Ever smiling eyes and soft, protruding chests Make a sickness in my loins. [17] INDIAN SONG ^•^ Eda Lou Walton Why do I walk the white road alone, Playing a lover's flute ? By the road I shall fall as a crumbling stone, And shall wait there as mute. I walk the white road to the blood-red moon Lifting my mourning cry, She who was lost comes here to me soon ; I have willed that I die. [i8] FRIENDSHIP ^•^ Eugenia Buyko Friend, I can see deep, deep back into you. Deep back of your face that is smile-painted. Into a cold, grey tomb willow-shaded, O my friend, I shall make a oneness of that dissonance. Look at me, and let the sun of my smile Pour into that tomb and melt its walls. Filling you with warm golden light, Until your smile shall be its mirror. Friend, I can hear deep, deep back into you. Deep back of your hollow laugh I hear your tears Drop inward from your numb eyes In leaden monotone upon your heart: friend of mine, I shall make a harmony of that discord. Now open the doors of your eyes. And let the tears drop out upon your cheeks. 1 shall breathe a song through them. Whose notes will sing in your heart Until your laughter will be its echo. [19] THE CATHEDRAL OF SPACES ^ Robert McKee Hyde Wake to the darkness of night, With a limitless flowering of stars In oases of brightness ; Clutch the short grass with your feet And hang in the infinite arches Of motionless air; Drink in the light of myriad clusters, The torches of some f^r ethereal altar ; Breathe in the exquisite incense of temples supernal And sing to the glory of night. The cathedral of spaces. [20] LOOK TO THE SEA !^ George Hugh Banning Look to the sea, O dreamer, long have I sought it there; I have felt the spray of the wind-ploughed way in my face and sun-bleached hair. Search the moods of the Doldrum Belt, the langouring chafe of its lull. Where life is only the waving glass of the sea, and a lonely gull. Where out of the streaming nothingness the mad squall comes to birth. To tatter the sails and vanish again to the opposite poles of the earth. There is the life of the lasting love ; the ship, the sea, and the air; Oh, look to the sea, the mad white sea and the wind, you will find it there. [21] PRIDE Jk%> Ruth Hamilton Should I reproach you for a silver hour That quivered with a star-swept ecstasy As cold and high as some celestial tower. And past, made other joy a heresy? Should I reproach you for a boyish god Lying in death on his neglected shrine. Or for a blossom, still-born in her pod? Thus did you slay the white ideals of mine. No, rather when my glances lock with yours Shall the far angels make me brave to smile, As when a leaf, too proud to quail, endures The hungry frost, nor shrinks before his file But dons a frock whose hues shall shame the morn And wounded unto death, proclaims her scorn. [22j THE COFFIN'S HERITAGE Jk%> George Atcheson, Jr. They laid me on a marble slab. They stripped me cold and clean ; Then worked to garb me in a lie As in living I had been. My garments — me — with my stale sweat They hid; and, straightening, took My restful pose and cut my beard And smoothed my tired look. Aye, all of me that was of me They stole and cloaked anew; All things they took save memory — Dead memory of you. [23] IN HOSPITAL Jl# Virginia Sanderson The four tall walls lean over me And sway from side to side I close my eyes and try to find In sleep, some peace for my fevered mind, Escape from the walls that stare me blind. As they stared at those — who died. They neither laugh nor frown — these walls. They only stare at me ; But they shall not listen and hear my cries I will still the moans and the sighs that rise, I shall mock these walls with their waiting eyes, Which will not let me be. But oh, for sleep and forgetfulness. For only a little space, From the piercing knives that cut so deep. From the fears and doubts that o'er me creep, From the walls that, staring, shut out sleep And fix their eyes on my face. [24] THE OCEAN LINER {^ William Maxwell The liner, a draggled leviathan, lies in the stream. Drifting idly, as flood and anchor-chain decide. Along the weathered hull, red-grimed with rust. White, slappy little waves jig joyously up and down, A thin smudge drifts from one funnel and merges with the azure. Half-a-dozen tugs bob about excitedly, in each other's way. Tooting sharply, in admiration of their greater kind. Gulls wheel from stem to stern, in always- moving circles. Now rising slowly into the air, now splashing suddenly into the brine. All about, the bay is little dabs of light and motion. [25] PART 11— TO I. 9^ Charles K. Field (1912) Stockholm people tell the story: When the games were in their glory How a sand-flea bit a winner. Witter Bynner. Though the athlete's finger crost it Quick as lightning, yet he lost it And it made the winner bitter, Witter Bynner. If a wit had thought it cunning To adorn the tale by punning, Would the wit ha ' been a winner. Witter Bynner ? And if I who merely edit. Had aspired to joker's credit. Would I have been a wit or been a what, Witter Bynner ? [^9] II. ^ Ruth Comfort Mitchell So, W. B. is going away, presently. Let us not presume, in our serene western fashion. To pity him ! All we were able to give him He has had always. He carries with him Canons and redwood-trees and high hill roads, Wild blooms (Hound's Tongue and sturdy Indian Warriors), Silence and sun and sweeping valley vistas. Crudely carved cliffs, salt fogs, and mountain ranches. Tea bowls and jade and dim Chinese interiors, Remote and beckoning and satisfying. And the incredible glory of the sunset. Wherefore, finely scorning geography. Without tiresome magic. Without even a Wishing Carpet, Thro' the sovereign alchemy which is himself. It is always California Where he is. [30] III. ^ Bruce Porter Laughter shouts in the wind, On the summits of grassy hills. While, virginal and still in the valley beside the stream. The plum-tree, starred with bloom, Stands in the hush of dream. Infinite passion and ache In the throes of the earth's rebirth. And under the tide of spring, and laughter and bloom and leaf. Anguished with hope — the grief. Song, all jubilant, sweet. Blossoms astir in the wind. And the plum-tree chosen and waked by the flutter and flash of wings; Ache though there be — he sings. [30 IV. 1^ S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu ORIGINAL IN ENGLISH A precious plant produced in a free country Stands high among its fellows and masters its own season. The air is perfumed; the land is beautified; and Heaven and Earth are made harmonious. Winds are its fan; clouds its canopy; and rain and dew its jewels. Bees and butterflies, dancing and questing around and around. Share the sweetness of the flower which yet loses none. Spring stays while the flower lives. Odor remains after the flower has passed A thousand years, ten thousand years. [32] TRANSLATION 5:# ^ a '^ )(^ ijr ^ ;*) ^ A ^ ^ ^ ^•S*. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu ORIGINAL IN CHINESE If ?% % TRANSLATION Poets of the Flowery Land, few as stars toward morning — Poets beyond the seas rise as the moon from mountains. Before my eyes green youth grows old — it can be naught but old; Under your wrist the muddy world speaks anew — but can aught be new? Brown face, brilliant glance; with brave voice you sing. Bowls of China, pots of Japan, pouring the spirit of East and West, you drink. Turning homeward, your saddle is heavily burdened With the silken bag of three hundred pearls lighting the way. [35] VI. 99^ Stella Benson Oh sir, if you must go east, Go scornfully. Despise that poor land, or at least Love always these western hills which were loveliest. Remember that all other hills but wait and await their hour. Dressed In mere prettiness, pent in a purgatory without passion and without rest. They wait the hour when their souls shall go west, When they shall be rewarded and released. And shall go to their promised land, with the beloved and the blessed. To sing and to feast. . . . The hills that fought a good fight. And were ill-fated; The secretly beautiful hills that waited Patiently in an unbecoming light For a reward unstated ; The grey hills, cruelly mated With work-stained valleys ignored by the night And by the daylight hated. . . . These have finished their course and their sad crusading. To their Zion they have come, knee-deep in starry cities wading. They shall never be desolate, never be old; Never again desolate: neither fading By night nor by day. Ah, blessed above all hills are these. [36] They have donned their robes, embroidered at every fold With a jewelled fantasy of trees. They sing Hosanna, they cast down their shadows and their crowns of gold Around glassy seas. [37] VII. JW David Atkins Before the break of day In dreams we hear you singing, That dawn new hope is bringing, Clear sky and sunlit way. Sing while the fearful pray. Sing sweeter still and stronger. For night may well be longer Than anyone dare say. Let still your heartening theme Be dark by dawn o'er taken. Since, if to clouds we waken, God knows we'll need the dream. [38] VIII. 99^ Moon Kwan I, a wanderer; thou a weaver of the petal-speech. In the bridge-land of the East and West have met. Though flowers may bloom and fall. The spring breeze shall not forget. \.39:\ IX. {^ Porter Garnett Some worshipers of beauty find delight In quaint and ancient things that men have made: Gold-crusted carvings, bowls and cups of jade, Strange Asian ivories, vases blue and white, Bronze dreaming Buddhas, fans, a needled flight Of ebon birds, or strokes of magic laid On silk where flowers live but never fade, — The work of hands that now lie still in night. These things you too have taken to your heart, As Poetry has taken you to hers ; So worship beauty humbly, but the ends Of life are deeper than the ends of art. And better than the gift of song that stirs Upon your lips, your friendship for your friends. [40] X. V^ Ernest Walsh It's tea-time at the Carlton now, And room two twenty-one Is filled with ghosts of yesterday And echoes of their fun. Those happy hours in Bynner's room For you and you and me Will ever strum a tender note In days that are to be. I pray that when we each have reached The promised Arcady, He'll open wide the door and say, "Come in and have some tea." [41] XL t>9t Elvira Foote Rich with three things you came. Giving so freely: Laughter like a sudden wind from the sea Blowing freshness into our hearts ; Music woven of words and a lover's dreaming, Echoing infinite sweetness. Leaving us mute a while In the presence of beauty; Love, for where you have been. With a new friendliness men smile at each other, And faith is born in their breasts. And we who were lonely Now walk quiet and content Up the broadening pathway That leads to the New World. [42] XII. V9i Robert McKee Hyde The days through level plains of lowlands Crept across in wide monotony, Until he came. The little hillocks here and there along the trail Could only raise me to a vantage point To see the endless plains: Then he came. And every mole-hill was a starry crest, and at the end Across the sands, he showed me mountains Shining to the skies. . . He has given to my mind A new vocabulary Of ten thousand ideas. He has given to my pen A thirst for fresh expression. And to my heart he has given A sudden knowledge Of the extent of love. [43] XIII. i^ Franklin Cummings I love the stamp of wind and sun and rain upon your face. Where nut-brown shadows chase, I love the tufts of hair which frolic on your head, I love the things you have said, I feel the warmth of friendship in your hand, I know you understand, I love the color and the sport of youth, In you they tell the truth, I love the Chinese bowls around your room, The fragrance of a hidden bloom, I love the Chinese nuts and fruits and spices which you spread Over your floor and bed, I love your laugh, ringing loud, I know you in the crowd, I love your passion and your music as you read, I drink it in with greed, I love your gay abandon as you toast To things you love the most, I love the charm, the courtesy of your ways. When people come to gaze, I love the vigor and the song which makes you, Hal, Youth's best pal. [44] XIV. t^ Hildegarde Planner I came to the great and beautiful door And looked up timidly. The shining knocker gleamed above my head. Could I reach it? I raised my hand, Wondering Suddenly the heavy barrier swung back And in its place. You stood and smiled. [45] XV. 99t Eda Lou Walton Your Chinese den is green and white And red, lit with a golden light. And everyone I know has been Made welcome by your genial grin To pass an hour's pleasant flight. The walls hang oriental silks, bedight With painted figures dimly bright, Who nod at memories within Your Chinese den. An ancient muse has cupped her chin And hid behind your manikin. Although she keeps well out of sight. Yet like the grey moth of the night. She burns her wings for incense in Your Chinese den. [46] XVI. Fidelia Purnell Brown face, brown eyes, brown hair. He smokes a cigarette. The trees are a pagan temple. The floor a mosaic of gold. Inlaid with purple flowers. He sits with his face uplifted. An ear alert to the song Of a sudden bird that whirls Through the dark of the eucalyptus. His face is flecked with the gold That falls frpm the high blue nave. There is a sad little droop to his mouth, A world of fun in his eyes. Mad saint, or weary pagan ? But no! Do you ask of the trees. Do you ask of the sky and the hills Such questions, such meaningless words ? He is kin to the sky and the wind. He is kin to the seas and the woods. [47] XVII. {k#> Clarence Greenhood What is it to have Hal for friend? A sudden holiday, and flame of laughter, A kindly era in one's own winter, And a bitter knowing behind the spring. The busy loiterer, half a sage Laughs and rolls with kick and caper, And then I hear a boyish master Tell a song that burns with pain. Walking with him into every word — China, Russia, Wine, and Hunger I stand with Celia on a hill in Grenstone To look with both on the New World. [48] XVIII. ^ Sarah Unna Humbly we bring to him. Our friend, The gift that he himself has given us, — Marred in the using. Yet more worthy token We cannot find. For we must bring to him Something we value, the thing that we most prize. . . . But then our offering to him should be — Himself. [49] XIX. <^ William Maxwell When you have gone into a strange land, And taught its people to sing new measures; When you have given yourself, and that freely, That they might behold old things as new With a vision that lays bare with scimeter swiftness ; When the day comes when you must return, to your own. Surely you have the right to say, As do we your newly made brothers. Of the too-few days of your sojourn: "Life has been well worth the while!" [50] XX. t>9t Stanton A. Coblentz The truest teacher is the truest friend. And you were friend to us in thought and deed. And in your kindness watched our every need. Zealous to aid when there was aid to lend. In your desire at all times to extend A ready hand of sympathy, you freed Into the heart of each of us a seed Of beauty that may grow without an end. If only there were many such as you. Who unassuming go their daily round. Quietly helpful, aiding whom they can, Seeking no recompense for what they do. Beyond the good of others, we might found The long-sought University of Man. [51] XXI. ft^ lone Dresden The sky is cut by a single silhouette; It is only Because Your shadow is taller Than the sun. [52] XXII. ^^Don Gillies I saw you from afar; you let me know How many things you felt the same as I ; You told me of the whiteness of the snow. The farness of the sky. But I — I could not find the wonder-way To reach the place where they might under- stand. . . . My feet were tired. You came one day And took me by the hand. [53] XXIII. 9t> Will Garrett I stand and face the melancholy wind. Below me ways are reaching to the blue. There is a vibrant chord within my mind, I gaze and dully wonder why it's true. I know that neither of us was a pawn ; He saw I gave to him too much of me, And yet he smiled a moment and was gone. Tall, cool, and lone; I know he's glad and free. And was it wrong to touch his numbing mind ? I stand and face the melancholy wind. [54J XXIV. i^ Harlow Clarke When the trees and the stars tug at my soul. And the grass and the wind tug, too: "Come with us watch these long days roll ! ". . . I can not come — for you. I think of you, and will not go. For you embody poetry — First poet ever dawned to me ! Yet I am sad to answer. No. [.55'\ XXV. 99t Virginia Sanderson You play upon a river reed Plucked with a careless hand. Your piping is both shrill and sweet Tunes we can understand. The notes have vagrant little feet That wander from the music bars. Some lose themselves in flower roots. But some, some reach the stars. Is^^ XXVI. J^ George Hugh Banning TO " EMANUEL MORGAN" He was the foam that broke the rhythmical roll of a glassy sea ; That tottered and tipped the diaphanous dream of the ship of poesy; He sprang from a lull ; broke with a laugh ; but splashed in a flood of tears — He looked to his god; asked to die, but was doomed for a hundred years. He looked to his god, for he was the son of a practical joke and a sin ; He broke with a laugh, but splashed with the cry, " To think what I might have been! " [57] XXVII. ?•> Genevieve Taggard You have a gallant way with you, my friend. But other men are made of gallant stuff And other poets sometimes comprehend The heart behind the poorest poem penned. Perhaps some love you for your lack of bluff, Or like you when your conversation's rough; They all could keep on praising without end And still stop short of praising you enough. But not for these, the things that will endear Your presence and your memory to men Until they hate to see you go, and then they fear That you may never come their way again. Youth never leaves the world, and so I know You are as sure to stay as we to go. [58] XXVIII. !^ Margery Critchlow Can you spin a dream for us, Can you clothe us in scarlet. Can you dissolve all things that are. And build all things that are not ? Can you take away our eyes that we may see. Can you rob us of motion that we may go everywhere. Can you cure us of wishing that we may desire all things? Can you sing a song for us ? O this twisted tangled silence! Can your voice awaken its voices. Can your echoes seek out its echoes. Can your harmony discover its harmony — Your purpose find completion in its purpose ? [59] XXIX. ^•> Wheaton Hale Brewer Oh, you'll come back — The skies of California Summon you. The sunset track Across the ocean's blue, The orient Wavering above the meeting line Of sea and clouds. The eucalyptus tent Above the poppy crowds. The tousled hills. Like small boys in the sun. The Indian's adobe shack. The cedar waxwings' trills Will bring you back. Oh, you'll return To catch the Key Route Several nights a week. The lights will burn Again — again the hours streak. We'll gather in your room one day And dine once more On sandwiches and salad And go away. Made glad. We'll drift across the campus in the rain And mock the owls ; We'll gather, moths about a star. And feel no pain — Pain can't come where you are. Can you forget the wild acacia-trees. The campanile — beauty's ghost — at night, [60] Tamalpais, the enameled bay, The salty breeze. The sunset light? You cannot go away and leave All this behind— The hills, round-breasted, canyoned, tall. Where the fog-drifts weave A pall. Oh, you will see us all, once more. Your heart is Californian after all. And if for just a little while you roam. We've no fears on that score — You will come home. [6i] LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS The members of Mr. Bynaer'a class are marked with an asterisk. Prof, and Mrs. A. J. Anderson *Mr. George Atcheson, Jr. Mr. and Mrs. David Atkins *Mr. George Hugh Banning Mr. Albert M. Bender Miss Stella Benson Miss Grace Van Dyke Bird Mrs. W. B. Bonfils Mr. J. Brendan Brady Miss Anne M. Bremer *Mr. Wheaton H. Brewer Rev. and Mrs. Wm. A. Brewer Mr. William A. Brewer, Jr. Prof, and Mrs. Harold L. Bruce Miss Eleanor Burnham Miss Eugenia Buyko Dr. Harry P. Carlton Mr. W. Chislett, Jr. *Mr. Harlow A. Clarke *Stanton a. Coblentz *Miss Margery W. Critchlow *Mr. Franklin Cummings Mr. and Mrs. Frank P. Deerino Mr. F. a. Denicke *Miss loNE L. Dresden Mr. and Mrs. George Douglas Mr. Charles K. Field Prof. M. C. Flaherty *Miss Hildegarde Planner Miss Elvira Foote Mr. and Mrs. Porter Garnett *Mr. William A. Garrett *Mr. Donald J. Gillies Prof, and Mrs. R. W. Gordon. *Mr. Clarence D. Greenhood [62] *Miss Ruth Hamilton *Mr. R. M. Hotalino Prof, and Mrs. Samuel J. Hume *Mr. Robert McKee Hyde Mr. and Mrs. Will Irwin Dr. S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu Mr. M. Krunich Prof, and Mrs. B. F. Kurtz Mr. Moon Kwan Mr. and Mrs. H. A. Lafler *Miss Mary Lannan Prof, and Mrs. K. C. Leebrick Mr. W. W. Lyman *Mr. William Maxwell Mr. and Mrs. G. Montgomery Mr. and Mrs. Louis C. Mullgardt Mrs. Jessica Davis Nahl Mr. and Mrs. R. C. Newell Mr. and Mrs. Fremont Older Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd Osbourne Mrs. Cornelia S. Parker Mr. and Mrs. L. F. Parton Mrs. Bertha E. Pope Mr. and Mrs. Bruce Porter *Miss Idella Purnell Mr. Jock Rantz Mr. and Mrs. C. H. Raymond Mr. Worth Ryder *Miss Virginia Sanderson Mr. Walter Shaw Mr. and Mrs. William H. Smith, Jr. Mr. Max W. Stern *Miss Genevieve Taggard Mr. and Mrs. Joseph S. Thompson *Miss Sarah Unna Mr. and Mrs. L O. Upham Mr. Ernest Edouard Walsh *Miss Eda Lou Walton Mrs. Stanley Walton Prof, and Mrs. C. W. Wells Mr. and Mrs. Sanborn Young Mr. William R. K. Young I63]