ISD)/ IM ill l± m IS /f~*v m L> I <^=: «*£ BY c3" ,:; W' >T M? G APPE^f %>»- ILLUSTRATED -*<*- rf O I0T1 PL. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, TS.:cLE« %p — ®m*W ?*♦ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. POEMS OF GUN AND ROD t i POEMS OF GUN AND ROD BY ERNEST v McGAFFEY * * ILLUSTRATED BY HERBERT E. BUTLER CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK, 1892 , , * Hit*' 1 ** Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons GREETING Dear comrades of my happy out-door days, These halting rhymes, that from my heart I send, With midnight stars and flakes of dawning blend With morning's gray and sunset's steady blaze ; And up through marshy flats and wooded ways Where tall oaks rise, and rustling rushes bend, Passes the form of many an old-time friend Who trod with me the field and forest maze From dawn to dusk ; I count them as they pass, And leaps my blood again as one by one The old days rise, while Nature's Circe-strain, That lures men on 'mid sun and wind and rain, Comes back to me o'er harps of tangled grass And sets me dreaming of the rod and gun. CONTENTS PAGE Greeting, v The Gun, . . . . * 3 As the Day Breaks, 5 " Mark," 9 Spring, 11 Morning in the Hills, 12 " Over the Decoys," 14 Twilight, - . 16 A Swallow, 18 Jack-snipe, 21 Summer, 23 Daybreak on the Marsh, ... . . .24 The Call of the Upland Plover, . . .26 Flushed, , . 29 The Yellow-Hammer, 31 Old Grip, 35 The Wind in the Trees, 37 Gone Away, 41 viii CONTENTS PAGE At the Threshold, . . . ■ . . -43 Quail, ... 47 In the Tamaracks, . . . . . . .49 My Ancient Hunting-coat, 53 The Blue-Jay, 55 A "Point," 59 In Autumn Woods, 61 A Prairie Rover, 65 Sumach, 67 "Hard Hit," 71 Autumn, 72 Red and Brown, 73 The Twelve-tined Buck, 77 Pan, 81 ^Eolian Echoes, 83 Sunrise, 86 A "Double," .89 Sunset, 91 The Gray Goose Ouill, 92 Cobwebs, 93 The Last Buffalo, 97 Winter, 101 Hunters, 102 The Rod, .105 CONTENTS IX PAGE A " Rise," ......... 106 Out-doors, 107 Spearing, . . in Marsh Echoes, . 113 Fishing, . . . 117 The Brook Trout, 119 "Broke Away," 123 Diana, 125 Minnows, 127 The Deserted Boat, 128 The Redwing, 131 A " Strike," 135 The Death of the Muskalunge, .... 136 Vale, 139 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Gun, " Mark," Morning in the Hills, Over the Decoys, . Jack-snipe, Daybreak on the Marsh, Flushed, . Old Grip, Gone Away, Quail, My Ancient Hunting-coat, A " Point," . A Prairie Rover, "Hard Hit," . The Twelve-tined Buck. "A Deer-hound Whined,' 12 14 20 24 28 34 40 46 52 58 64 70 76 80 Xll LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE ^Eolian Echoes, ........ 83 Through the Trees a Partridge Flies, .... 85 A "Double," ........ 88 The Gray Goose Quill, ...... 92 The Last Buffalo, ........ 96 The Rod, . . . . • . . . . . 104 Spearing, . . . . . . . . .110 Fishing, . . . . . . . . .116 "Broke Away," . . . . . . . .122 The Redwing, . . 130 A " Strike," 134 Pine-sheltered Shores, . . . . . . .136 The Death, ......... 138 Vale, ........... 140 **a» StfR " : J0* ■ i: * ■ . ' &y* * * : raC**Sf ....... r ,? i "" ' lie Qua THE GUN With perfect lines from butt to sight, Damascus barrels, twelve in gauge That shine within like mirrors bright, A triumph of this latter age ; Gnarled walnut wood the solid stock, And smoother than your fmger-nail Extension rib, rebounding lock, And balanced like a truthful scale. No fine engraving tracery shown On locks or barrels for the vain, A weapon for its worth alone, A beauty, yet severely plain ; Top-snap the action, as you see, And corrugated buck-horn tip, As finished as an arm should be From muzzle through to pistol-grip. A trusty comrade, this old gun, And certain, if you hold it right, THE GUN To drop the jack-snipe one by one Or stop a partridge in his flight — To bring to earth the woodcock where In lowland covert out he springs, Or send far up in crispy air The death-hail, where the wild-goose wings. Let Folly's votaries fill her train, And chirping poets feebly rhyme ; In dingy holes for worldly gain Let stooping dullards spend their prime ; Let hermits prose in doleful moods, And book-worms in dry volumes delve, Give me the rivers, lakes, and woods, My freedom and the ' ' Number Twelve. ' ' AS THE DAY BREAKS I pray you, what's' asleep ? The lily-pads, and riffles, and the reeds ; No longer inward do the waters creep No longer outwardly their force recedes, And widowed night, in blackness wide and deep, Resumes her weeds. I pray you, what's awake ? A host of stars, the long, long milky way That stretches out, a glistening silver flake, All glorious beneath the moon's cold ray, And myriad reflections on the lake Where star-gleams lay. I pray you, what's astir ? Why, naught but rustling leaves, dry, sere, and brown The East's broad gates are yet a dusky blur And star-gems twinkle in fair Luna's crown, And minor chords of wailing winds that were Die slowly down. AS THE DA Y BREAKS I pray you, what's o'clock.? Nay ! who shall answer that but gray-stoled dawn ? See, how from out the shadows looms yon rock Like some great figure on a canvas drawn ; And heard you not the crowing of the cock ? The night is gone. "MARK" The heavy mists have crept away, Heavily swims the sun, And dim in mystic cloudlands gray, The stars fade one by one ; Out of the dusk enveloping Come marsh and sky and tree, Where erst has rested night's dark ring Over the Kankakee. " Mark right ! " Afar and faint outlined A flock of mallards fly, We crouch within the reedy blind Instantly at the cry. " Mark left ! " We peer through wild rice-blades And distant shadows see, A wedge-shaped phalanx from the shades Of far-off Kankakee. " Mark overhead ! " A canvasback ! "Mark! Mark!" A bunch of teal ! IO "MARK" And swiftly on each flying track Follows the shot-gun's peal ; Thus rings that call, till twilight's tide Rolls in like some gray sea, And whippoorwills complain beside The lonely Kankakee. SPRING Somewhat of broken clouds edge-tipped with blue, Scattered and listless in the ashen sky, A sound of happy waters flowing by, And little blades of grass shy peeping through The old earth's crevices; and starting new Are swelling buds upon the many boughs ; Long wakes of black behind advancing ploughs, And plough-shares misty with the morning dew. * Soon, soon, indeed, the couriers will bring Swift tidings of the joyous days to come, When Nature's heart, but yet so lately numb, Shall beat again, and birds will once more sing ; No more shall wintry arrows pierce and sting For far from where the chiding north- wind frets, Here in a nook are dainty violets, The meek and blue-eyed harbingers of spring. MoRtfltfG ItfTHE-HlLLJ Faint streaks of light m the far-down east Outlined by an unseen pencil, The artist hand of the dawn's high priest Who spreads o'er a shadowed stencil The silver hues of the morning's wings, The dusk and the darkness flaking, While the did earth sighs, and the pine-top sings, " Awake ! for the day is breaking." The gray squir'l barks, for the woods are still, And the silence makes him braver, And he sees the sun behind the hill Where the shadows twist and waver ; MORNING IN THE HILLS 1 3 The gray squir'l watches the dead leaves whirl, That the sun no more shall nourish, High on a branch with his tail a-curl Like a writing-master's flourish. The partridge drums on an old dry log A haunt of worm and cricket, Down near the edge of a cranberry bog, Close by a white birch thicket ; And at times the reverberation floats Through the air so round and mellow, That it sounds as sweet as the basso notes Of a maestro's violoncello. The gray squir'l barks, and the partridge drums, And the sunlight follows faster, And over the pines the wind-god comes With the touch of an untaught master, And he strikes the chords from a maze of limbs That glitter with frost-lace hoary, While eastward now as the darkness dims Is the sun in a sea of glory. 0\?er me Decoys Lone lies the tawny marsh, and lily pads, All crisped and wrinkled by the autumn sun, Swim lazily along the sighing reeds ; The strident reeds, that bar the passage-way, Where wanders past the lost and wailing breeze Over the gray, wan deserts of the dawn, Striking the frets of intertwining stems That rustle into weirdest music there. And ruddily against the rising sun The ever-restless waters ripple up, Prying amid the rushes, and again, Upon the roots of dwarfish willow stubs, Lapping and lapping like a thirsty hound ; "OVER THE DECOYS" 15 And in an open space beyond the reeds, Riding like corks the little ruffled waves, Decoys are seen, those fateful wooden lures That draw the passing ducks from cloudy heights Down, down, and down, until the sportsman's aim Sends consternation to their scattered ranks. And at the edges of the cat-tails tall, Among the rushes and the spatter-dock, A hunter waits, all watchful, in the " blind," Whose rough, artistic tracing seems to be, With all its tangled drapery of reeds, Wild rice, and grass, and leaning willow-branch, Like elfin work of nature and the winds. Mark ! far adown the distant line of trees A narrow dusky ribbon is revealed, That nearer comes, and as it comes unfolds, And shows in all their symmetry of form A flock of ducks outlined upon the sky, Curving and wheeling in the morning light. And as they near the hunter's ambuscade They turn, they stoop, while he with muscles set, And tense as steel, and eager-shining eyes Sits like a stone, his gun within his hands ; The winds are hushed. Ah ! what a picture that — The blue-bills settling to the still decoys. TWILIGHT Down in the edge of a tamarack swamp A rabbit lay in his burrow, And he heard the elves of Boreas romp Through the woods and field and furrow ; And out in the dusk the glow-worm lit His lamp in the misty gloaming, And the night-hawks over the trees would flit And out through the night go roaming. A cricket chirped on a sassafras limb, A tree-toad piped on a willow, And the full moon's circle lay all dim Reclined on a cloudy pillow ; A whippoorwill in the distance cried, And a few lone star-gleams twinkled, While drifting over the meadow wide The cow-bells clanged and tinkled. Like the changing folds of an ancient loom That the eye and mind perplexes, TWILIGHT 1/ A bat criss-crossed in the deepening gloom And marked aerial X's ; While up from the edge of a shallow bog, With its moss-banks soft and porous, Came the sound of minstrels all agog — The bull-frogs' opening chorus. The mist grew clear, and the clouds grew bright, And the silence crisp and crisper, And the trailing folds of the robe of night Came soft as a ghostly whisper ; And out in the skies the full moon sailed With the stars to all attend her, And the pearl-gray tints of the twilight failed In night's Cimmerian splendor. A SWALLOW I sing you a song of a swallow With a purple breast and buoyant wings, Curving down where the south wind springs From out of a grassy hollow. From out of a sylvan hollow — And the swift wings swerve where water sleeps, And up from the depths a ripple leaps At the dip of a darting swallow. At the touch of a mad-cap swallow — And his rhythmic sweep of motion brings The sudden sense of a soul on wings, That leads where I long to follow. JACK-SNIPE The wild rice dips, the wild rice bends And rustles in the breeze, As down the marsh the west wind sends Its message from the trees ; The wild rice stalks together mass As overhead the jack-snipe pass, And higher still the shining moon Sails on through night's deep noon. The wild rice bends, the wild rice dips And whispers soft and low ; Like greyhounds loosed from straining slips, O'erhead the jack-snipe go ; Above dead limbs, gaunt, naked spars, And underneath a sea of stars, Pale, pallid stars and argent moon That make of midnight noon. The wild rice dips, the wild rice bends, As through the starry night 22 JACK-SNIPE With sharp-set wing the jack-snipe trends His migratory flight ; The wild rice shivers, as with cold. And in the heavens, old, so old, Dims down the heights the waning moon And fades the night's fair noon. SUMMER A languorous, heavy air, with bees a-tune O'er basswood-blossoms and the clover-tops ; A drowsy atmosphere that reels and drops Steeped to the core in this red wine of June, The breathless splendor of a mellow noon, Where grasses droop beneath the fervent heat And sun-flakes come, on golden-sandalled feet, To kiss the flowers till they fall a-swoon. Naught but the stillness of the amber air, No song of bird, no echo of a song. The slothful river slowly dreams along Where lily-cups are floating lily fair j A strange and balmy muteness everywhere. Filling the universe with silence deep, For Summer's hand has rocked the world to sleep And smoothed the wrinkles in her brow of care. j)A/P> R f\'\ B 7