LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, "PSV/97 (fyqt Ciipgrigfct ^a UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. iiESwii FOREST RUNES BY GEORGE W. SEARS, (nessmuk). NEW YORK: FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO., c^ COPYRIGHT, 1887., BY THE FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. y DEDICATION. TO MY BROTHER CHARLES. NOT that the gift of poesy is mine, Nor that I claim the poet's meed of praise, But in remembrance of the golden days Of youth, have I inscribed these simple lays To thee, my brother, and to auld lang syne. The rolling years have thinned our locks of brown To a scant fleece of salt-and-pepper gray ; More rapidly the seasons pass away ; With steadier, slower beat our pulses play ; We like the country rather than the town, And have a strong dislike to noise and riot. The fire of youth no longer warms our veins ; And, being subject to rheumatic pains, We grow prophetic as to winds and rains, And like to be well fed, well clothed, and quiet iv DEDICATION. That we are past our youth is all too plain ; And nearing rapidly the Dark Divide. Oh, passing weary is this middle tide Of life, which I would give, with aught beside, To live one year of boyhood o'er again ! It may not be. The wrinkles on each face Are past erasure : and not many years Can glide ere one of us with blinding tears Shall stand beside the marble which uprears Above a friend the world can not replace. NESSMUK It is a sad necessity that compels a man to speak often or much of himself. Most writers come to loathe the first person singular, and to look upon the capital / as a pronominal calam- ity. And yet, how can a man tell aught of himself without the " eternal ego ? " I am led to these remarks by a request of my publishers that I furnish some account of myself in issuing this little volume of verse. Readers who take an interest in the book will, as a rule, wish to know something of the Author's antecedents, they think. It might also be thought that the man who has spent a large share of the summer and autumn months in the deep forests, and mostly alone for fifty years, ought to have a large stock of anecdote and adventure to draw on. It is not so certain, this view of it. The average person is slow to understand how utterly monotonous and lonely is a life in the depths of a primal forest, even to the most incorrigi- ble hunter. Few city sportsmen will believe, without practical observation, that a man may hunt faithfully in an unbroken forest for an entire week without getting a single shot, and one wet week, especially if it be cold and stormy, is usually enough to disgust him who has traveled hundreds of miles for an out- ing at much outlay of time and money. And yet, this is a common experience of the most ardent still hunter. In the gloomy depths of an unbroken forest there is seldom a song bird to be heard. The absence of small game is remark- able ; and the larger animals, deer, bears, and panthers, are scarce and shy. In such a forest I have myself hunted faith- vi "nessmuk." fully from Monday morning till Saturday night, from daylight until dark each day, and at the end of the last day brought the old double-barreled muzzle loader into camp with the same bullets in the gun that I drove home on the first morning. And I crept stealthily through the thickets in still-hunting moc- casins on the evening of the last day with as much courage and enjoyment as on the first morning. For I knew that, sooner or later, the supreme moment would come, when the black, satiny coat of a bear, or the game-looking " short-blue " coat of a buck would, for an instant, offer fair for the deadly bead. And once, in a dry, noisy, Indian summertime, I am ashamed to say, I still-hunted 17 days without getting one shot at a deer. It was the worst luck I ever had, but I enjoyed the weather and the solitary camp-life. At last there came a soft Novem- ber rain, the rustling leaves became like a wet rug, and the nights were pitch dark. Then the deer came forth from swamps and laurel brakes, the walking was almost noiseless, and I could kill all I could take care of. It is only the born woods crank who can enjoy going to the depths of a lonely forest with a heavy rifle and stinted rations, season after season, to camp alone for weeks at a stretch, in a region as dreary and desolate as — Broadway on a summer afternoon in May. It is only the descendants of Ananias who are always meet- ing with hair-breadth escapes and startling adventures on their hunting trips. To the practical, skilled woodsman, their won- derful stories bear the plain imprint of lies. He knows that the deep forest is more safe than the most orderly town ; and that there is more danger in meeting one " bridge gang " than there would be in meeting all the wild animals in New York or Penn- sylvania. These facts will explain why I have so little to relate in the way of adventure, though my aggregate of camp-life, most of it alone, will foot up at least 12 years. I can scarcely recall a dozen adventures from as many years' outings, culled from the cream of fifty seasons. Incidents of " NESSMUK. vll woods life, and interesting ones, are of almost daily occurrence ; and these, to the ardent lover of nature, form the attraction of forest life in a far greater degree than does the brutal love of slaughter for the mere pleasure of killing something just because it is alive. Just here my literary Mentor and Stentor, who has been coolly going through my MSS., remarks sententiously, " Better throw this stuff into the stove and start off with your biography. That is what the Editor wants." I answer vaguely, "Story? Lord bless you ; I have none to tell, sir. Alas ! there is so little in an ordinary, humdrum life that is worth the telling. And there is such a wilderness of biographies and autobiographies that no one cares to read." "Well, you've agreed to do it, you know, and no one is obliged to read it. It will make ' filling ' any how ; and probably that's all the Editor wants." Which is complimentary and encouraging. " I must say it's the toughest job of penwork I ever tackled : I don't know how to begin." " Pooh ! Begin in the usual way. Say you were born in the town of — " " There's where you're out. I wasn't born in any town what- ever, but in what New Englanders call a 'gore ' — a triangu- lar strip of land that gets left out somehow when the towns are surveyed. They reckon it in, however, when it comes to taxes ; but it rather gets left on schools." " Ah, I can believe it. Well, fix it up to suit yourself. I suppose the Editor keeps a ' balaam box.' " Taking his leave and a handful of my Lone-Jack, C. saunters off to the village, and I am left to myself. Perhaps his advice is good. Let's see how it will work on a send-off. For instance, I was born in a sterile part of sterile Massachusetts, on the border of Douglas Woods, within half a mile of Nepmug Pond, and within three miles of Junkamaug Lake. This startling event happened in the " South Gore," about 64 years ago. I did not have a fair average start in life at first. A snuffy old Y1U " NESSMUK. nurse who was present at my birth was fond of telling me in after rears a legend like this : " Ga-a-rge, you on'y weighed fo' pounds when you wuz born, 'n' we put ye inter a quart mug 'n' turned a sasser over ye." I could have killed her, but I didn't. Though I was glad when she died, and assisted at her funeral with immense satis- faction. Junkamaug Lake is six miles long, with many bays, points, and islands, with dense thickets along its shores at the time of which I speak, and a plentiful stock of pickerel, perch and other fish. It was just the sort of country to delight the Indian mind ; and here it was that a remnant of the Nepmug Indians had a reservation, while they also had a camp on the shores of Nepmug Pond, where they spent much time, loafing, fishing, making baskets, and setting snares for rabbits and grouse. They were a disreputable gang of dirty, copper-colored vaga- bonds, with little notion of responsibility or decency, and too lazy even to hunt. There were a few exceptions, however. Old Ja-ha was past 90, and the head man of the gang. He really had a deal of the old-time Indian dignity ; but it was all thrown away on that band of shiftless reprobates. There were two or three young squaws, suspiciously light of complexion, but finely formed and of handsome features. " I won't go bail for any thing beyond." The word Nepmuk, or, as it is sometimes spelled, Nepmug, means Wood-duck. This, in the obsolete lingo of the once powerful Narragansetts. The best Indian of the band was " Injun Levi," as the whites called him. He was known among his tribe as " Nessmuk ;" and I think he exerted a stronger in- fluence on my future than any other man. As a fine physical specimen of the animal man I have seldom seen his equal. As a woodsman and a trusty friend he was good as gold ; but he could not change the Indian nature that throbbed in every vein and filled his entire being. Just here I can not do better than reproduce a sketch of him and his tribe w T hich appeared in the columns of Forest and Stream in December, " NESSMUK. IX 1 88 1. I will add that Junkamaug is only a corruption of the Indian name, and the other names I give as I had them from the Indians themselves : u # # * And I remain yours sincerely, Nessmuk, which means in the Narragansett tongue, or did mean, as long as there were any Narragansetts to give tongue, Wood-duck, or rather, Wood-drake. " Also, it was the name of the athletic young brave, who was wont to steal me away from home before I was five years old, and carry me around Nepmug and Junkamaug lakes, day after day, until I imbibed much of his woodcraft, all his love for forest life, and alas, much of his good-natured shiftlessness. " Even now my blood flows faster as I think of the rides I had on his well-formed shoulders, a little leg on either side of his neck, and a death-grip on his strong, black mane ; or rode, 'belly-bumps,' on his back across old Junkamaug, hugging him tightly around the neck, like a selfish little egotist that I was. He tire ? He drown ? I would as soon have thought to tire a wolf or drown a whale. At first, these excursions were not fairly concluded without a final settlement at home — said settlement consisting of a head-raking with a fine-toothed comb that left my scalp raw, and a subsequent interview, of a private nature, with 'Par,' behind the barn, at which a yearling apple tree sprout was always a leading factor. (My blood tingles a little at that recollection too.) " Gradually they came to understand that I was incorrigible, or, as a maiden aunt of the old school put it, ' given over ; ' and, so that I did not run away from school, I was allowed to ' run with them dirty Injuns,' as the aunt aforesaid expressed it. " But I did run away from school, and books of the dry sort, to study the great book of nature. Did I lose by it ? I can not tell, even now. As the world goes, perhaps yes. No man can transcend his possibilities. " I am no believer in the supernatural : mesmerism, spirit- ualism, and a dozen other 'isms are, to me, but as fetish. But, I sometimes ask myself, did the strong, healthy, magnetic X "NESSMUK. nature of that Indian pass into my boyish life, as I rode on his powerful shoulders, or slept in his strong arms beneath the soft whispering pines of 'Douglas Woods ?' " Poor Nessmuk ! Poor Lo ! Fifty years ago the remnant of that tribe numbered thirty-six, housed, fed and clothed by the state. The same number of Dutchmen, under the same con- ditions, would have over-run the state ere this. " The Indians have passed away forever ; and, when I tried to find the resting place of my old friend, with the view of putting a plain stone above his grave, no one could point out the spot. "And this is how I happen to write over the name by which he was known among his people, and the reason why a favorite dog or canoe is quite likely to be called Nessmuk." The foregoing will partly explain how it came that, ignoring the weary, devious roads by which men attain to w T ealth and position, I became a devotee of nature in her wildest and rough- est aspects — a lover of field sports — a hunter, angler, trapper, and canoeist — an uneducated man, withal, save the education that comes of long and close communion with nature, and a perusal of the best English authors. Endowed by nature with an instinctive love of poetry, I early dropped into the habit of rhyming. Not with any thought or ambition to become a poet ; but because at times a train of ideas would keep waltzing through my head in rhyme and rhythm like a musical nightmare, ixntil I got rid of measure and metre by transferring them to paper, or, as more than once happened, to white birch bark, when paper was not to be had. I never yet sat down with malice .prepense to rack and wrench my light mental machinery for the evolution of a poem through a rabid desire for literary laurel. On the con- trary, much of the best verse I have ever written has gone to loss through being penciled on damp, whitey-brown paper or birch bark, in woodland camps or on canoeing cruises, and " NESSMUK. XI then rammed loosely into a wet pocket or knapsack, to turn up illegible or missing when wanted. When " I looked in unlikely places Where lost things are sure to be found," and found them not, I said, all the better for my readers, if I ever have any. Let them go with the thistle-down, far a-lee. (The rhymes, not the readers.) I trust that the sparrow-hawks of criticism, who delight equally in eulogising laureates and scalping linnets, will deal gently with an illiterate backwoodsman who ventures to plant his moccasins in the realms of rhyme. Maybe they will pass me by altogether, as " A literary tomtit, the chickadee of song." There must be a few graybeards left who remember Ness- muk through the medium of Porter s Spirit of the Times, in the long ago fifties ; and many more who have come to regard him kindly as a contributor to Forest and Stream. If it happens that a thousand or so of these have a curiosity to see what sort of score an old woodsman can make as an off-hand, short-range poet, it will be a complimentary feather in the cap of the author, Wellsboro, Pa., Oct. 9th, 1886. Geo. W. Sears. CONTENTS My Attic, -------- 17 Crags and Pines, ------- 19 Stalking a Buck, - - - - - - - 21 Hunting Song, ------- 23 A Summer Camp, ..-----24 Sunrise in the Forest, ------ 26 October, -------- 27 New Year's Eve in Camp, ..... 29 Lotos Eating, - - - - - - - 3 1 My Forest Camp, ..---- 33 My Hound, -------- 35 Mickle Run Falls, - - - - - - 37 A Fragment, - - - - - - - - ' 3^ Our Camping Ground, ..---- 39 Watching the River, - - - - - • - 4 1 Flight of the Goddess, ------ 42 On the Death of Buffie, ...... 45 Why I Love Hiawatha, ------ 47 That Trout, -------- 54 Breaking Camp, ------- 56 My Neighbor Over the Way, .... - 58 Pauper Plaint, ------- 60 John O' the Smithy, ------- 61 The Doers, ..=.---- 64 Xiv CONTENTS. Surly Joe's Christmas, .... 65 The Genius Loci of 'Wall Street, - - 67 From the Misanthrope, ..... 69 Gleaning After the Fire, - - 81 Lines for the Times, ------- 83 Drawers and Hewers, ------ 86 1 '^heartened, ....... 89 The Smiths, .... - 91 To John Bull on his Christmas, ----- 93 Our Little Prince, ..... 95 It Does not Pay, ..--,-- 97 The Hunter's Lament, .... - 99 Ida May, -------- 102 lone, ..----.- 103 All Things Come Round, - - - - - - 105 My Woodland Princess, - - - 107 Remembered— L. K., - - - - - - 109 Mother and Child, - - - - - - no Bessie Irelan, - - - - - - - 112 A Little Grave, - - - - - - - 114 A Summer Night, - - - - - - - 116 Wreck of the Gloucester, - - - - - 118 Haste, - - - - - - - - 119 A Christmas Entry, - - - - - - 120 Two Lives, - . - - - - - - - 122 Elaine, ------- 124 Anna Fay — on Skates, ..---. 125 Paraphrase on "Brahma," - - 128 The Retired Preacher, - - - - - - 129 Waiting for Her Prince, - - - - - - 132 May, --------- 135 Isabel Nye, ------- 136 Deacon John, ------- 138 Hannah Lee, ------- 141 At Anchor, -------- 143 CONTENTS. XV The Cavan Girl, .-•_... 145 Old Johnny Jones, ...... 146 In the Tropics, ---..... 147 The Mameluco Dance, - - - - - - 151 A Tropical Scrap, - - - . . . -161 Typee, ........ ifo To Gen. T. L. Young, ...... 164 Roses of Imeeo, - - - - . - . 167 A Dream of the Tropics, ...... 168 Desilusano, - - - . . . . jto An Arkansas Idyl, - - - - . . .172 The Scalp Hunter is Interviewed, ~ • • ' - - 177 The Banshee of McBride, - - - . . -181 How Miah Jones got Discouraged, - - - - 1S6 Greeting- to the Dead, ...... 188 New Year's Ode. — 1866, ------ 189 Ballad of ye Leek Hook, - - - . . -191 King Cotton, - - - - - . . 193 Non Respondat, --.... 194 Sixty-five and John Bull, --.... 196 New Year's Ode, --..„.. I gg Crusading the Old Saloon, ..... 202 Temperance Song, ........ 206 O'Leary's Lament, ----... 208 Wellsboro as a Temperance Town, ---... 209 MY ATTIC. I HAVE an attic — not city made, Nor far removed from the fresh green earth, Strewn with the tools of a manly trade, And guns, and fiddles, and books of worth. A narrow window looks toward the town, Where, shown by waves of the summer breeze, Are checkered glimpses of white and brown, Peeping thro' maple and linden trees. A little brook that murmurs and flows, A little garden of well tilled land, And trees, not standing in stiff, straight rows, All planted and pruned by the owner's hand, Lovingly tended, thriftily grown, With many a quaint, odd crook and trend I know their names as I know my own, And every tree is a personal friend. At the first faint glimmer on rock and tree I rise, with the earliest blue-birds' trill. 'Tis a freak of mine ; and I like to see The sunshine break on Losinger Hill ; 1 8 FOREST RUNES. * For I like him best in his morning face, Untired with the daily rare he runs ; And I'm sometimes sad when he yields his place To the winds of night and the lesser suns. I ply the thread and the brightened awl To the runes that the woodland thrushes sing ; And the plash of a tiny waterfall Keeps merry time to the lapstone's ring. And little I reck, as I shape the sole, Of scanty clothing or empty purse, I sing the ballad of old King Cole, Or wear my leisure on simple verse. The man of millions shall pass away, His wealth divided, himself forgot, But better one leaf of deathless bay Than all the riches that rust and rot. And at rare, odd times, in the better moods, Some rustic verses to me are born, That may live, perchance, in their native woods As long as the crows that pull the corn. CRAGS AND PINES. WHO treads the dirty lanes of trade Shall never know the wondrous things Told by the rugged forest kings To him who sleeps beneath their shade. Only to him whose coat of rags Has pressed at night their royal feet Shall come the secrets, strange and sweet, Of regal pines and beetling crags. For him the Wood-nymph shall unlock The mystic treasures which have lain A thousand years, in frost and rain, Deep in the bosom of the rock. For this and these he must lay down The things that worldlings most do prize, Holding his being in her eyes, His fealty to her laurel crown. 20 FOREST RUNES. No greed of gold shall come to him, Nor strong desire of earthly praise ; But he shall love the silent ways Of forest aisles and arches dim. And dearer hold the open page Of nature's book than shrewdest plan Bv which man cheats his fellow man, Or robs the workman of his wage. STALKING A BUCK. RESTING on leaves of feathery pine, Stilling my lurcher's eager whine, Stealthy and watchful I recline. Gray streaks are in the eastern sky : The morning breeze floats gently by, And all alert of hand or eye I watch the mist rise o'er the stream. Slowly athwart the copses gleam Bright streaks of sunlight ; and one beam Dashes against the wrinkled crag Where, mid the ferns and brake and rag- Wort, feeds alone a gallant stag. A hundred rods I needs must pass Through brake, and thorn, and rank wet grass, O'er fallen logs and deep morass. A clump of briars is gained unseen. Cautious, above the leafy screen I raise my head : with royal mien FOREST RUNES. And antlered brow of regal pride, His forefeet in the rippling tide, There stands the stag, his glossy side Turned fairly to me. True and fine The sights range up in deadly line — One sharp report — the stag is mine ! ******** Beneath a rustic roof of bark Idly I course each rising spark, Limned on the hemlocks grim and dark. Red steaks are broiling, sweet and slow, And in the camp-fire's ruddy glow A crystal streamlet sings below. My lurcher, crouching at my side, In very joy and canine pride Keeps watch upon the antlered hide. Oh, for a heaven wherein the deer Shall be more plentiful than here — And brown October all the year ! HUNTING SONG. THE lovers of mammon but treasure up wrath, There's a specter that follows in glory's red path : A curse ever follows the gripers of gold, And the hearts of fame-seekers are callous and cold. I will build me a camp by a cool mountain spring, Where the trout play at eve and the wood thrushes sing ; I will roof it with bark ; and my snug sylvan house Shall be sweet with the fragrance of evergreen boughs. When the shadows of night settle down on the marsh, And the cry of the bittern booms sullen and harsh, The glow of my camp-fire shall glisten and shine Where the beech and the hemlock their branches entwine. When a boy, 'twas my chiefest of pleasures to make A rude camp in the forest, by river or lake, Where the rod and the rifle induced through the day The fatigue that at night passed so sweetly away. There were freshness and joy past the power of words In the crisp morning air and the voices of birds ; And 'twas sweet into slumber at night to decline By the low alto song of the evergreen pine. A SUMMER CAMP. THE sun is savage in sultry hollows, The hillside quivers with pulsing heat. With drooping wings the dusty swallows Are dotting the fence that lines the street. I leave the town with its hundred noises, Its clatter and whir of wheel and steam, For woodland quiet and silvery voices, With a camp of bark by a crystal stream. Oh, shrewd are the ways of town and city, Cunning in commerce and worldly wise, But hearts grow hardened to human pity, And tongues slop over with thrifty lies. Nearer to Him of the lowly manger Is the sun-tanned forester, broad and free, And the rugged hills in their native grandeur Are nearer the hills of Galilee. The feathery arms of firs and spruces Bend over the water that sleeps beneath, Where marish flowers by the quiet sluices Infold their sweets in a golden sheath. A SUMMER CAMP. 25 And a small canoe of airy lightness Floats silently on the limpid stream, Where the norland birch in snowy whiteness O'erhangs the ripples that glance and gleam. Oh, peaceful and sweet are forest slumbers On a fragrant couch with the stars above, As the free soul marches to dulcet numbers Through dreamland valleys of light and love. And ever at night a sylvan goddess Glides into my camp with dance and song : In kirtle of green and snowy bodice She stays by my side the whole night long. She cools my forehead with dainty fingers, And smooths the wrinkles from brow and face With a pitying touch that clings and lingers About my spirit in every place. On emerald banks thick strewn with pansies We loiter away the dreamy days, And she dowers my soul with sylvan fancies That sprout and blossom in rustic lays. Why should I envy the laureate guinea, Or covet the muse that is held in fief ? I sing the ballads she prompts within me, And have no spite for the greener leaf. 26 FOREST RUNES. With luckier bards I have no quarrel, I envy no brow its wreath of bays : 1 know it is mine to miss the laurel, And the golden sheen of the leaf that pays, And I rest in the hope that each good fellow Will some time dwell in another land, Where hearts that are generous, true and mellow Will know each other, and understand. SUNRISE IN THE FOREST. THE zephyrs of morning are stirring the larches, And, lazily lifting, the mist rolls away. A paean of praise thro' the dim forest arches Is ringing, to welcome the advent of day. Is loftily ringing, Exultingly ringing, From the height where a little brown songster is clinging, The top of a hemlock, the uttermost spray. . OCTOBER. BY A STILL-HUNTER. THERE comes a month in the weary year, A month of leisure and peaceful rest, When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear — October, the brown, the crisp, the blest. My lot has little enough of bliss ; I drag the days of the odd eleven — Counting the time that shall lead to this, The month that opens the hunter's heaven. And oh, for the mornings crisp and white, With the sweep of the hounds upon the track The bark-roofed cabins, the camp-fire's light, The break of the deer and the rifle's crack. Do you call this trifling ? I tell you, friend, A life in the forest is past all praise. Give me a dozen such months on end — You may take my balance of years and days. 28 FOREST RUNES. For brick and mortar breed filth and crime, And a pulse of evil that throbs and beats. And men are withered before their prime By the curse paved in with the lanes and streets. And lungs are poisoned, and shoulders bowed, In the smothering reek of mill and mine ; And death stalks in on the struggling crowd — But he shuns the shadow of oak and pine. And of all to which the memory clings, There is naught so dear as the sunny spots Where our shanties stood by the crystal springs, The vanished hounds and the lucky shots. March 16, 1868. NEW YEAR'S EVE IN CAMP. MERCURY IO° BELOW ZERO, NORTHWEST GALE. THE winds are out in force to-night, the clouds, in light brigades, Are charging from the mountain tops across the everglades. There is a fierceness in the air — a dull, unearthly light — The Frost-king in his whitest crown rides on the storm to-night. Far down the gorge of Otter Run I hear the sullen roar Of rifted snows and pattering sleet, among the branches hoar. The giant hemlocks wag their heads against the midnight sky, The melancholy pine trees moan, the cedars make reply. The oaks and sugar maples toss their frozen arms in air, The elms and beeches bow their heads, and shriek as in despair. Scant shield to-night for flesh and blood is feather, hair, or fur : From north to south, for many a mile, there is no life astir. The gaudy jay with painted crest has stowed his plumes away, The sneaking wolf forbears to howl, the mountain cat to prey. The deer has sought the laurel brake, her form the timid hare, The shaggy bear is in his den, the panther in his lair. 30 FOREST RUNES. From east to west, from north to south, for twenty miles around, To-night no track shall dint the shroud that wraps the frozen ground. I sit and listen to the storm that roars and swells aloof, Watching the fitful shadows play against the rustic roof, And as I blow an idle cloud to while the hours away, I croon an old-time ditty, in the minor key of A. And from the embers beams a face most exquisitely fair — The maiden face of one I knew — no matter when or where, A face inscrutable and calm, with dark, reproachful eyes, That gaze on me from limpid depths, or gusty autumn skies. And there may be a reason why I shun the blatant street, To seek a distant mountain glen where three bright waters meet. But why I shun the doors of men, their rooms a-light and warm, To camp in forest depths alone, or face a winter storm, Or why the heart that gnaws itself will find relief in rhyme, I cannot tell : I but abide the footing up of Time. LOTOS EATING. WHEN nor'west winds with sullen roar Swept round the ricks and stables, When winter, beaten off before, Began to turn the tables, When all was snug in barn and byre, When autumn rains were pouring, When bairns were ranting round the fire That up the lug was roaring, Then said our melancholy Jacques, As he his soles was heating, " Let's lay aside the plow and ax — I go for lotos eating." " Oh ho," said Fritz, with smiling phiz, " You've read to your confusion. You ought to know the lotos is An Eastern instituticn. " No doubt its powers are past belief — I'd like to taste the lotos. But you will scarcely find the leaf Among our hardy voters." 32 FOREST RUNES. Jacques hummed the Lass o' Balloch myle : Said he, " It's immaterial, And let us take a friendly smile — Pass round the liquid cereal." (We took our rye in liquid form.) So each drank off his liquor, The while outside the driving storm Grew heavier and thicker. We spread a bearskin on the floor And roused the sparkling fire, Then latched and barred the shaking door, For still the wind rose higher. With coat and overcoat and vest We improvised three couches, Then stretched our lazy limbs in rest, And drew our pipes and pouches. And as we blew an idle cloud The while the storm was beating, Said Jacques, " I'll leave it to the crowd That this is lotos eating. " MY FOREST CAMP. THAVE a camp in Yarnel Glen, A hunter's cabin, roofed with bark, Far from the noisy haunts of men, Where song of thrush or meadow lark Floats never on the somber air. When summer suns are fiercely hot And birds sit mute with drooping wing, Ofttimes I seek this lonely spot, My cabin by the mountain spring, And spend my days of leisure there. Perchance some book of pleasant vein May wile an hour of idle time. Perchance I choose the quaint refrain Of Chaucer or of Spenser's rhyme, Nor heed the failing day's decline. At night my forest bed I make On fragrant boughs, and sweetly dream Of deer or trout that I may take On mountain side or forest stream, With rifle true or silken line. 34 FOREST RUNES. When autumn frosts have clothed the woods In hues of gold and crimson red, Again I seek these solitudes, The moss-grown spring and forest bed. Again I breathe the mountain air. Then give me but my forest home, My rifle, rod, and buoyant health, With freedom where I please to roam ; And take who will the banker's wealth, His sleepless nights of anxious care. MY HOUND. I HAVE wandered far in many a clime, And many a faithful friend have found, But done who better deserves my rhyme Than brave old Nigger, my faithful hound ; For never a man on land or sea Had truer ally or friend than he. His coat is sleek as an Arab steed, He is clean of limb as a yearling deer. A match for the greyhound in his speed, With a voice so loud and silvery clear You would swear, as he sweeps thro' the mountain dells, 'Twas a musical chime of vesper bells. Often, when tired of this strife for bread, Have he and I wandered where gurgling rills In purity spring from their mountain bed In the ice-cold bosoms of distant hills ; And, leaving the world to its wearisome ways, Have built us a shanty and camped for days. 36 FOREST RUNES. And often when night closed over our camp And he was away on the track of deer, Have I breathless listened to catch the tramp Of his pattering feet draw swiftly near. • I have listened till silence became a pain, But never yet did I listen in vain. I have lain by my camp-fire's glowing light And lazily fingered his silken ears, Till meeting his eye, so wistfully bright, My own has silently filled with tears As I thought with shame of some harsh rebuff To my poor dumb friend, when my mood was rough. MICKLE RUN FALLS. FRONT-FACING the east, where the Falls are down pouring, A fairy like rainbow is formed on the spray. Beneath it the waters are rushing and roaring To the pool, where by moonlight the brown otters play, Are rushing and roaring, are dashing and roaring, Away to the vale where the eagle is soaring, And the blue Susquehanna sweeps down to the bay. By the point of the rocks, at the foot of the mountain, Foaming over a boulder moss-covered and gray, Is bubbling and gushing a crystalline fountain Where the red deer are browsing the long summer day. Are daintily browsing, are warily browsing, Above the deep pool where the trout are carousing, And the slide of the otter is moist with the spray. A FRAGMENT. OH, leave this chase for place or gold Through legal quips and tangles, Which makes young eyes grow hard and cold, With crowsfeet at the angles. The miser's hoard but pays his board, With meager clothes and bedding, While oft he finds a golden road Exceedingly hard sledding. Then come, ye dwellers of the town, From shop, and lane, and alley, To where a river sparkles down A hemlock shaded valley. Take from your life one week of strife, And add a week of leisure, That memory may some future day Fall back upon with pleasure. OUR CAMPING GROUND. THERE is a spot where plumy pines O'erhang the sylvan banks of Otter, Where pigeons feed among the vines • That hang above the limpid water. There wood-ducks build in hollow trees, And herns among the matted sedges, While, drifting on the summer breeze, Float satin clouds with silver edges 'Tis there the blue jay hides her nest In thickest shade of drooping beeches, The fish-hawk, statue-like in rest, Stands guard o'er glassy pools and reaches. The trout beneath the grassy brink Looks out for shipwrecked flies and midges, The red deer comes in search of drink, From laurel brake and woodland ridges. And on the stream a birch canoe Floats like a freshly fallen feather — A fairy thing, that will not do For broader seas or stormy weather. 40 FOREST RUNES. The sides no thicker than the shell Of Ole Bull's Cremona fiddle — The man who rides it will do well To part his scalplock in the middle. Beneath a hemlock grim and dark, Where shrub and vine are intertwining, Our shanty stands, well roofed with bark, On which the cheerful blaze is shining. The smoke ascends in spiral wreath^ With upward curve the sparks are trending, The coffee kettle sings beneath Where smoke and sparks and leaves are blending. Upon the whole this life is well : Our lines are cast in pleasant places. And it is better not to dwell On missing forms and vanished faces. They have their rest beyond our bourn ; — We miss the old familiar voices. We will remember — will not mourn : The heart is poor that ne'er rejoices. We had our day of youth and May, We may have grown a trifle sober ; But life may reach a wintry day, And we are onlv in October. WATCHING THE RIVER. 4 1 Then here's a round to every hound That ran his deer by hill or hollow, And every man who watched the ground From Barber Rock to Furman fallow. WATCHING THE RIVER. I WATCH by the river as, long ago, I watched by the waters of Mendon Mere. And what do I see, and what do I hear, As the river goes by in endless flow ? A fishhawk, watching the glassy pools ; A mountain, abutting upon the stream. An eagle, sailing with angry scream, And trout, and minnows, in swarming schools. A rugged vista of mountain spurs That crowd the river to left or right, Rough, granite boulders that crown the height, And a dark green ocean of pines and firs. And now as of old the woods are ripe With mystic murmur of sylvan sounds ; For over the hill are eager hounds, And a red deer running to win his life. FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS. [Answer to T. B. Aldrich's "Flight of the Goddess" in Atlantic Monthly, October, 1867.] I MET your Goddess, a week ago, In the mountains, a mile above Elk Run. Sitting where crystal springs out-flow To ripple away in shade and sun. She sat by the spring, on a fallen log, Sulkily leaning against a pine. And she welcomed me with my gun and dog — This sweetest maiden of all the Nine. I was ragged enough — and so was she — Had we been in the city's streets to beg. Her kirtle was rent above the knee — Shall I ever again see such a leg ? "She was sick of the city," so she said, Where all her lovers had played her false. Leaving her Delphian board and bed, For an earthly maid, who could flirt and waltz. FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS. 43 She had treated her lovers like a queen, Dwelt in their attics through heat and cold ; Cheered them in sickness ; and wasn't it mean To whistle her off for place or gold ? Halleck, her lover in other days, Had used her worse than a heathen Turk. Had hung in a counting room her bays, And taken hire as a merchant's clerk. And as for Aldrich — perhaps he'd find 'Twas something more than the muse would stand, To whistle her coolly down the wind For a Yankee Goddess with house and land. — I leaned the rifle against a tree, And knelt in the pine leaves at her feet. I pressed my cheek to the well turned knee And prayed — "O Goddess, divinely sweet, " Come with me to my hut of linden bark, Well strewn with the fragrant hemlock leaves. I will be thy deer : be thou my park : We will rest while the lonely night bird grieves. " I solemnly swear to never possess A dollar that I can call my own, To go an-hungered and ragged in dress, To love forever but Thee alone." 44 FOREST RUNES. She touched my forehead with finger tips That warmed like a camp-fire's ruddy glow. I pressed the peerless hand to my lips — It melted away like April snow. " Oh stay," I cried, with a feeble gasp, "Touch with thy sacred fire my lines." And I strove her vanishing form to clasp, As she fled and faded among the pines. And thus it comes that I love to dwell Afar from the clamor of busy men. Where the crystal waters sob and swell To sweet, low echoes that haunt the glen. And deep on the night I sometimes hear, In the soft round tops of the pines and firs, A rhythmic cadence so low and clear That I know the song can be only hers. ON THE DEATH OF BUFFIE. A handsome young hound, with a voice like a silver bugle. He made too much noise o' nights; and there be dull souls who prefer sleep to music. Buffie was poisoned by the very man whom he had serenaded for weeks ! PUIR BUFFIE. After the Lallans of Burns. GAE tell to a' the hunters roun' That Geordie's heart is sair cast down ; Wi' hirplin' step he treads the groun', An' hingin' head. Buffie, the wale o' youthfu' houn's, Puir Buffie's dead. Let ilka tod frae Butler's hill To Allen's swamp an' Merrick's rill, For vera joy bark loud an' shrill Wi' muckle glee. Puir Buffie's lyin' stark and still Out owre the lea. Had he been slain in open day By hoof or horn o' stag at bay, I wadna hae the heart to say It did him wrang : 'Tis murd'rous an' unmanly play That gies the pang. 46 FOREST RUNES. Na doubt but he at times might draw Ae sned o' beef wi' thievin' jaw, Or, aiblins on fine nights might blavv About the street, But if that faut's agin' the law, He couldna see't. Perhaps he might in pleasant weather Wi' ither tykes sometime foregather To fyke on grocer's wares. But whether He did or not, In spite o' a' their scauldin' blether's A triflin' faut. He maks the fourth o' lang eared frien's Wha followed me o'er hills an' glens Until they met untimely ends By murder sair. Their fauts were something less than men's, Their virtues mair. But Buffie dog, a long fareweel ! Nae doubt ye were a roguish chiel : — But aiblins there's anither field Where thou an' I Maun chance to fin' a cantie bield Ayont the sky. WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. A TALE. BY CURTUS COMOS. OF all sweet poetic meters That the bards have ever chanted, From the days of old blind Homer To the times of poet Tupper, No one hath more pleasant chiming Than Longfellow's Indian legend When he sings of Hiawatha — Of heroic Hiawatha. Reason good have I to love it, Reason have I to be grateful, And thereby a tale is hanging. THE TALE. 'Twas in frosty bright October . When the lofty sugar maples Don their robes of golden glory, When the graceful drooping birches Put on lemon colored vestments, When the walnuts or the beeches 48 FOREST RUNES. All are garbed in russet yellow, While the gentle, albic maples Dress in royal robes of scarlet, Royal robes of gorgeous scarlet ; 'Twas in brilliant hued October, When the smoky Indian summer Was upon the land in beauty, When the outlines of the mountains Seem like rolls of purple velvet, That with tomahawk and rifle Hied I to the primal forest — To the grand and silent forest. Oh the days of dreamy pleasure That I passed upon the mountain ; And the nights of sleepy leisure In my camp beside the fountain. Resting with my dog beside me Free from earthly botheration, None to question me or chide me — 'Twas contentment's culmination. Summer rainbows are full pleasant With their hues in beauty blending, But they vanish with the present, And all pleasures have an ending. WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. Thus it was on this occasion, That an idle, thoughtless fellow Of Milesian persuasion, Who was fond of getting mellow, Sought me over hill and mountain, Sought me ever till he found me In my camp beside the fountain With my hunting kit around me. Now, adieu to peace and quiet, For he hath a gallon bottle ; And he loveth noise and riot — With his cursed copper throttle. All night long the drouthy creature Howled and sang in his carouse, Of the battle of "Boyne wather," And the "Woman wid three cows." Told me tales of " Ould Killarney," Sang the song of " Norah Kreena," And, when tired of song and blarney Raised the deathly Irish " Keenah.' Yelling wildly, laughing gayly, With most impudent assurance Flourishing a big shelala— It was getting past endurance. 49 50 FOREST RUNES. Kept it up throughout the morrow, Howling like a dozen demons ; And I saw with dread and horror That the fellow had the tremens. Filling me with fear and loathing, Loading me with foul abuse, Seeing snakes upon his clothing, Rats and spiders on his shoes. And he threatened me with murder, Murder in the lonely forest, Thinking that I was a rival For the favors of his Mary : Mary in the isle of Erin, On the verdant banks of Shannon. Mary, who her troth had plighted To this drunken son of Connaught — To this wild, red headed paddy. And he dared me to a duel, Dared me to a deadly duel ! Swore that I should not escape him, But should fight him in the forest, He, with bottle and shelala, I, with tomahawk and rifle. WHY J LOVE HIAWATHA. 5 1 Then to save my soul from murder, From the deadly sin of murder, Drew I forth a pocket volume Of the poem, Hiawatha ! Drew it forth ; and with a steady And determined recitation ; With a mono-tonous droning And undaunted resolution, Fell upon the raving paddy With the cadence of the rhythm. And in vain was all his striving 'Gainst the measure of the poem. Vain was all his fierce invective, As I poured the soothing cadence On his wild and savage spirit. And he wilted at the drowsy And unceasing intonation ; Wilted at the lethean measure That, without remorse or pity, Closed about him like a mantle. And his eye grew calm and quiet ; Calm and quiet, and no longer Saw the rats, or snakes and spiders In his shoes, or on his clothing, And his knees grew weak and shaky ; Dull and heavy grew his eyelids ; 52 FOREST RUNES. Till, his weary legs, jack-knifing, Gave a lurch into the shanty. In the shanty by the fountain, By the fountain in the forest, In the forest old and primal ; Where this wild shock-headed paddy Sank in weariness and weakness On my well-worn Indian blanket. Then I placed the little volume Where it served him for a pillow. Placed it where his head, recumbent, Rested on the blessed poem That had saved my soul from murder - From the fearful crime of murder ; Placed it there and quickly left him To involuntary slumber, While I mizzled for the clearings. Three long months I left him sleeping In the shanty by the fountain ; But at last my spirit smote me For the trick that I had played him, And again I took my rifle, Took my tomahawk and rifle, And my way into the forest, Trusting I might find him sober ! WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. White hands crossed upon his bosom, Livid lips and nose ataunto, Red hair streaming o'er the volume, Sleeping sweetly, snoring softly — Such the state in which I found him. Then his shock-head I uplifted And withdrew the little volume Of the poem, Hiawatha ! Stirred he quickly in his slumber, Then with gasp and snort awakened, Sat on end, with eyes wild glaring, Shook his red mane like a lion, And roared out in tones of thunder : " Holy Mither ! Where's the botthle ? " 53 THAT TROUT. I'VE watched that trout for days and days, I've tried him with all sorts of tackle ; With flies got up in various ways, Red, blue, green, gray, and silver-hackle. I've tempted him with angle-dogs, And grubs, that must have been quite trying, Thrown deftly in betwixt old logs, Where, probably, he might be lying. Sometimes I've had a vicious bite, And as the silk was tautly running, Have been convinced I had him, quite : But 'twasn't him : he was too cunning. I've tried him, when the silver moon Shone on my dew-bespangled trowsers, With dartfish ; but he was " too soon " — Though, sooth to say, I caught some rousers ; THAT TROUT. 55 And sadly viewed the ones I caught, They loomed so small and seemed so poor, 'Twas finding pebbles where one sought A gem of price — a Kohinoor. I've often weighed him (with my eyes), As he with most prodigious flounces Rose to the surface after flies. (He weighs four pounds and seven ounces.) I tried him — Heaven absolve my soul — With some outlandish, heathenish gearing — A pronged machine stuck on a pole — A process that the boys call spearing. I jabbed it at his dorsal fin Six feet beneath the crystal water — 'Twas all too short. I tumbled in, And got half drowned — just as I'd orter. Adieu, O trout of marvelous size, Thou piscatorial speckled wonder. Bright be the waters where you rise, And green the banks you cuddle under. BREAKING CAMP. (old style.) FAREWELL to our camp on the banks of the Eddy, Where we frightened the herons with laughter and song. Our skiff is hauled up and the knapsacks are ready — Our whiskey runs short, and the journey is long. The captain complains That it constantly rains, And swears he prefers a secession attack. For each rheumatic pain Makes it hard to abstain From crooking his elbow — to straighten his back. , Farewell to the spot where the doe came to water, And passed us in camp with the speed of the wind. (If I wanted to lie I would say that we shot her.) Farewell to the hounds that came limping behind. Farewell to the camp With its earwigs and damp, Its mountains and valleys, too rugged for use, Where each tramp after fish Made us ardently wish We had gone in more freely for cereal juice. BREAKING CAMP. 57 Our flies were the finest, our hooks were the Kirby — But trout wouldn't rise with the water so high. And 'tis strange — but 'tis true — that the captain and Derby The more they got wet, were more thoroughly dry ! Farewell to the gnats That could bite through our hats, To savage musquitoes, and punkies and rain ; To the bright-flashing spires That went up from our fires, Till we camp on the banks of the Eddy again. June, 1869, MY -NEIGHBOR OVER THE WAY. 1KNOW where an old philosopher dwells, A bearded cynic, of wit and sense, In a broad white web, with curious cells, On the sunny side of the garden fence. He passes the days in virtuous ease, Watching the world with his many eyes ; And I think he is sorry when he sees How his web entangles the moths and flies. I have a neighbor, a legal man — We meet on the sidewalk every day. (He is shrewd to argue and scheme and plan, Is my legal neighbor over the way.) He talks, perhaps, a trifle too much — But he knows such a vast deal more than I. We have in our village a dozen such, Who do no labor — the Lord knows why. But they eat and drink of the very best, And the cloth that they wear is soft and fine ; And they have more money than all the rest, With handsome houses, and plate, and wine. MY NEIGHBOR OVER THE WAY. 59 And I ponder at times when tired and lame, How strangely the gifts of fortune fall, And wonder if we are not to blame, Who have so little, yet pay for all. Alas for the workmen over the land, Who labor and watch, but wait too long, Who wear the vigor of brain and hand On trifling pleasures, and drink, and song. Alas for the strength too much diffused, And the lights that lure from the better way, For the gifts and riches we have not used, And the true hearts beating to swift decay. Alas for the twig, perversely bent, And the tree of knowledge, to wrong inclined ; Alas that a dollar was ever spent Until the dollar was earned or mined. — But my neighbor is one who understands All social riddles ; and he explains That some must labor with calloused hands, While others may work with tongues and brains. Though he doesn't make it so very clear Why he should fare much better than one Who does more work in a single year Than he in all of his life has done. 60 FOREST RUNES. But he argues me out of all demur With logic that fogs my common sense, And I think of the old philosopher, Whose "shingle " hangs by the garden fence. PAUPER PLAINT. WEAK and weary, tattered and torn, Knees and elbows bare to the blast, - Of all ambition and spirit shorn, Beaten at last. A dreary way is poverty's road, A dreary path was the bitter past. We cry relief from the galling load, Beaten at last. The creeds and dogmas are priestly lies, Into the teeth of the people cast. And thence it comes that the good, the wise, Are beaten at last. We labored while life was in its morn, Now we are old we faint and fast. We have the husks — but out of the corn Are beaten at last. JOHN O' THE SMITHY. DOWN in the vale where the mavis sings And the brook is turning an old-time wheel, From morning till night the anvil rings Where John O' the Smithy is forging steel. My lord rides out at the castle gate, My lady is grand in bower and hall, With men and maidens to cringe and wait, And John O' the Smithy must pay for all. The bishop rides in his coach and four, His grooms and horses are fat and sleek ; He has lackeys behind and lackeys before, He rides at a hundred guineas a week. The anvil is singing its "ten pound ten," The mavis pipes from his birken spray, And this is the song that fills the glen, John O' the Smithy has all to pay. The smith has a daughter, rosy and sweet, My lord has a son with a wicked eye : When she hears the sound of his horses' feet Her heart beats quicker — she knows not why. 6 2 FOREST RUNES. She will know very well before the end ; She will learn to detest their rank and pride, When she has the young lord's babe to tend, While the bishop's daughter becomes his bride. There will be the old, old story to tell Of wrong and sorrow in places high. A bishop glozing the deeds of hell, The Priest and the Levite passing by. And the father may bow his frosted head When he sees the young bride up at the hall, And say 'twere better his child were dead. But John O' the Smithy must pay for all. The smith and his daughter will pass away, And another shall make the anvil ring For his daily bread and the hodden gray ; But the profits shall go to priest and king. And over the wide world, day by day, The smiths shall waken at early morn, Each to his task in the old dull way, To tread a measure of priestly corn. And the smith shall live on the coarsest fare With little that he may call his own, While the idler is free from work or care ; For the best of all must go to the drone. JOHN O' THE SMITHY. 63 And the smith complains of the anvil's song, Complains of the years he has wrought and pined. For priests and rulers are swift to wrong And the mills of God are slow to grind. But a clear strong voice from over the sea Is piercing the murk of the moral night ! Time is, time was ; and time shall be That John O' the Smithy will have his right. And they who have worn the miter and crown, Who have pressed him sore in body and soul, Shall perish from earth when the grist is ground And the mighty miller has claimed his toll. THE DOERS. I SEE them ever before me, in street, in alley or lane. In seething slums of the city, where silent miseries lurk. The faces of grim endurance, the eyes of stoical pain, The stiffened muscles of labor, the rounded shoulders of work. Sweepers away of forests, workers of all that is wrought, Delvers in mine and workshop, Doers of all that is done. Lacking in effort never, all too meager of thought : Builders and winners of all that is built or won. Temple, cathedral or war-ship, pyramid, fortress or town, These have they modeled and molded, then sank to for- gotten graves, Furnishing food for the battles that come of miter and crown, To perish by generations, like serial waves. They form in the early morning, at the shriek of the demon steam, To march in the ranks of labor, with dull, mechanical tread ; They delve in the grimy work-shops like men in a weary dream. Alas, for the lifelong battle, whose bravest slogan is bread ! SURLY JOE'S CHRISTMAS. 65 The earth is teeming with fullness that springs from the Doers' hand, And a little bird is singing, from the roof of a western grange, A strong heart-stirring epic, that rings throughout the land, And the burden of all his song is only change. SURLY JOE'S CHRISTMAS. YOUR holidays are naught to me. I do not care to hear or see Your jangling bells, or Christmas tree. With sad, dull eyes I watch the fire On Yule logs, having no desire For flame or fame that rises higher. A discontented, dull content, Much pain with little pleasure blent : I wonder where the summer went. Creed follows creed, fools follow fools ; Laws break through laws, rules alter rules, Myths breed a myth, schools gender schools. 66 FOREST RUNES. And laws, and myths, and clashing creeds With rules and schools, and all that breeds Discord, what are they to our needs ? Nothing. An empty, weary sound : The howling of a prisoned hound : A mirage, hiding fertile ground. A whistling wind, whose tones escape By cornice, eaves, or gabled cape, — Intoned by architectural shape. THE GENIUS LOCI OF WALL STREET. DOWN in a wonderful city, near to the foulest slums, Where squalor and crime are rife, and the tide flows turgid and green, Where all are greedy and blatant, where peacefulness never comes, There squats a ravening reptile, Arachne, the Spider Queen. After the ways of the spider, her progeny crowd her back, Rest on her bristly thorax, or cling to her mottled sides. Only the wealth of a nation contents the ravenous pack, The fat of the land, with the commerce of all the tides. Her throne is a street in the city, by the senseless name of Wall, Her prey is human muscle, with the products of honest toil. She works in her dark recesses, weaving an iron thrall, To steal the fruits of labor, and rob the gifts of the soil. Her web is a net of iron that covers the plundered land, Entangling the plow and harrow, enthralling the ax and loom. And the well-earned profits of labor, that slip through the workman's hand Are stored at last in the spider's den of gloom. 68 FOREST RUNES. She sends her numerous offspring, with plausible lies to tell, Far out on the Nation's vineyards, while fields are of vivid green. Never were men of Jewry more cunning to buy or sell, — And the corn and oil come back to the Spider Queen. O men of the ocean prairie, with your sea-like fields pf corn, How much are you the richer, for the weary years you have seen ? Some part has gone to the huckster, who looks on your work with scorn, But the better part to the cells of the Spider Queen. Have you sometime thought, O toiler, when the sun was high and hot, That a nation had gone too fast, that a people might die of greed ? That making the land a refuge had wrought a national blot ? That honor and strength were more than numbers or speed ? The iron web is spreading — it comes to your very door, It saps the sinews of labor and draws your grain from the sheaves. It enters never a county but it sends a mortgage before, With an unseen tax that reaches from sill to eaves. FROM THE MISANTHROPE. WOULD that the yellow dirt, the glittering yellow dirt, For which men peril their lives and brave the hinges of hell, Were sunk in the devil's pit where neither profit or hurt Could come of the heavy dross they love so well. I am sick of the garrulous cry, the chattering, parrot cry Of bonds, money, and stock, gold, bonds and exchange, Meeting the ocean's roar, beaten back by the sky, It creaks and rattles throughout a continent's range. Honor is but a myth, integrity goes for naught. Wisdom is knowing how a man may gather the fruit While his neighbor shakes the tree : the noblest use for thought, To know when talking is gain and when to be mute. Doctors from colleges prate, clergymen talk against time, Big with oracular words, cunning with Hebraic lore, Believing labor a curse, the penalty placed on crime, As the grand old Hierarchs held in the days of yore. 7